Balance the scale.

It’s a big deal! While I might dust off compliments, lightly smile when I get the congratulatory pats and
fist bumps. Deep down I’m smug, ‘Yeeeey, I did 21.1 Km AGAIN’ and yes that that point one is a necessary part of this story.

How it started …
Back in campus, during my second semester, I lied to my mother that in-campus food was crap, housing
was cramped and that I was considering moving to off-campus so I can better take care of myself. Lie
because by then I had already moved and was struggling to balance my pocket money since most was in
my landlord’s account. Rent in Nairobi can do that to you, especially when you are a student who likes
good, tasty food.

My neighbor next door, a sweet soul who went to be one of my closest friends to date took one look at
my destitute situation and offered meals whenever I was stranded which was often. Food cooked with
love, hefty portions and a variety even on a student budget made our bond stronger, that and the self-
honesty that our weight needed pruning.

Together we ventured on the wee hours of 5am running as though our ancestors were coming for us,
panting all along, dripping sweat from the get go, and already planning on breakfast and lunch because
at 5am I was already craving some chapo smokie (chapati and funny but tasty mini-sausage); off we’d go
along the dirt road that went parallel our university campus until we met the tarmac. 3-4 km away.

Let’s go waaaay back …
My mother still detest the memories of me under the age of five- i was not only a slow eater but also
non-swallower. (get your mind out the gutter, not that swallowing!) I would move food around in my
mouth until it went cold, went stale and she would have to ask me to spit out in a dish. At times I just
threw up. None of my aunts and cousins chose to feed me because it would be a never ending errand.
Oh, and sleep was my best ticket out. I would sleep with food in my mouth while seated on a kigoda or
on the mat. Water would be sprinkled on my face. Still I’d sleep on, not swallow my food. Someone would tell an interesting story to get me to stay awake and cooperate. Still I’d sleep with my
mouth full. I shudder to think how much I pushed people’s patience. Me who now food loves and vice versa being true.

Then I joined boarding school and my hormones found that my DNA was destined for greater scales.
Each kilo began inviting its friends, cousins, neighbors and even enemies. By grade four I weighed past
sixty kilos; by form three I was a good eighty two kilos. It showed in my joint waist and tummy locale;
adorning sports bras was normal, and sweating even after imagining climbing, let alone actual climbing
of stairs. Beginning of school year usually started with a visit to see the general practitioner- do parents still do this where they check your blood sugar, pressure, eye sight and blood infection as if you are reporting for duty on an important mission? – and my school card would be marked well for everything and an additional comment on weight as, ‘obese- needs to lose some weight’

My mother- God, bless her- would not bat an eye. She would send me to school with that very hospital
card as though it was a certificate of authentication- All is well, go do them books justice! Her
confidence gave me confidence not to think that that comment meant for me to take action. Her
confidence meant that I went to school and did those books justice. My new found confidence super charged my hormones such that even with a strict lifestyle that comes with nun-ran schools: a menu of Double Makande Wednesdays, frequent Ugali and Beans, burnt Rice and non-existent vegetables; early waking up hours to morning chores in the piggery unit or cow shed; morning preps; daily morning mass- all these happening in the wee hours before breakfast at 6:30 am- I kept hitting new notes on the scale, hahah!

To date …
The Kilimanjaro marathon started a s joke between friends. We wanted to go to Moshi, get a good hotel,
party with other out of towners, then trudge along the next day to win a medal. Yes, small goals for young gals like ourselves!

Reality check- Moshi was packed, we had to cram into a hotel manager’s private quarters just to rest our
heads for a couple of hours only to wake up and don our cute pink running shoes for the cold morning
run. Running while nursing a hangover is no fun. That was my first time running kilimarathon, winning a medal and swearing to do better each time.

Now I run a couple of times a week, 2-3 km a day. Painful to get up on some mornings, especially when
it is dry and dusty out there. The perks of living in bushy out of town- mornings tend to be quiet, foggy
and bit chilly. Other days I sleep in. And these days can be more that the latter. But when the spirit of
running comes calling, i happily answer.

Some say it takes discipline. Some do it for the adrenaline. Others go to clear their heads. And some to
get clear thoughts. Mine is to keep a constant scale at where it is now. Where it has been for a while now… maintaining my version of a healthy weight.

Bisous,

Betty