Weight-Less

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There is this jamaa I pass by everyday on my way to the office. He has tried futilely I might add to befriend me but I think he gave up. It’s not that I have a cold heart despite what several of my exes’ might make you believe, but Njoro, that’s my nemesis, was trying to woo me to be a beneficiary of his business. Despite my hostilities, I still get to mutter a lowly grunt as a kind of greeting when I run into him or a simple nod to his direction as when I casually pass on.
I have no personal vendetta with Njoro, quite the contrary. You see, he owns one of this weight thingys all over town. No, not the ones that are set on the ground like landmines or bobby traps on a busy footpath with the owner hoping a passerby will lose his/her footing and step on it for him to charge them. For those, those I can condone.
The one that Njoro owns is one of those with a robotic feminine seductive voice that mensurates ones height and weight before announcing it to anyone caring enough to be listening.
Any person trying to get me to measure my own height is no friend of mine. I know I’m down-to-earth, I don’t necessarily see why we have to make it official. And for another to even try to convince to accompany that with quantifying my weight, I couldn’t possibly feel more insulted. Those are the two things that I lack in abundance. Not that I’m complaining, God did atone me in other places. Hehe, your guess is as good as mine. But it has something to do with sleeping nude…..but I digress, back to my situationship with man Njoro.
As I have already said, am not the most endowed man in this vast jungle unless of-course we are talking of hearts. I read somewhere that being ugly makes one appreciate the importance of being well-behaved/having a kind heart. That’s where I am.
There are a few people allowed to be horizontally challenged. Married men to nagging wives and broke ‘playas’-who can’t offer anything other than a bust of their nuts. I happen to fall in neither. That’s why my case is baffling.
I knew my lack of gain in weight is no easy feat when some time back, as I was helping out my dad with some manual work around home, did I mention benefits of having a good heart, that he asked me how much I weigh. I won’t say how much I weighed, but his reply was enough as he immediately shot back with asking if kwani I was ‘hen’-which in kiuk sounds worse, before he burst off laughing leaving myself dazzled by myself. Greetings also moved from the usual niceties to being asked ‘kai utariaga’ (don’t you eat) even before someone gets to enquire about my well-being.

That’s when I knew, until I get enough money to grow one of those beer pot-bellies as a result of downing a one-to-many for the road and nyama choma, I won’t be giving no one the pleasure of seeing how weightless I am. This exempts doctors’ visits of-course, as I believe hapo I’m kinda secured by the patient doctor confidentiality. Aargh! I digress again….where was I, yes..
Can you imagine even if I managed to grow a pair and climbed atop the robotic-lady weigher upon her directives only for her to preach to the available mass that it was unfortunate that her weighing scale didn’t stretch to the negatives. I have seen quite a few people taken aback when the heartless lady shouts how much less they thought they weighed. Especially men, quite a number of gonards have been shrunk by her proclamation. And even the owners are usually in on the act, before stepping on the chopping board, they make sure that you don’t have anything else on you. Apart from the clothes you wearing lest you hear how much you weigh that results in you sleeping well at night and abort future plans of having to go to have your weight meted again in a desperate measure trying to warrant the big decision you made of skipping the lift and using the stairs.
So until people are allowed to weigh in with stones in their pockets, am well off not knowing how light I am, thank you very much.