The first day of the rest of your life....

It all started with the stain of a single drop of blood in a half-empty bathtub.

You know what? I’m getting way ahead of myself; let me back up a few short years so as to give you the whole, unadulterated picture.

Its 1985, Nelson Mandela rejects an offer of freedom from the ‘South African’ ‘government’; blood tests for AIDS are approved; a volcanic eruption in Columbia kills 25,000 people; VH-1 makes its broadcasting debut; 59 people die as Egyptian forces storm a plane on Malta; and, Live Aid, a 17 hour rock concert broadcasts worldwide from London and Philadelphia, raising $70 million for starving Africans.

You know what? I don’t really need to go that far back, let me fast forward to the juicy parts.

I had never thought I’d ever be in this position, in this place, in this moment in time – I mean thinking about it is one thing, but the sobering reality of the cold slice of the blade, the warmth of the oozing blood, the staining of the clear cold water in the half-filled bathtub, is a magical sight; it’s something to behold as it is both mesmerising and captivating, and, in the right light, it adds the colour otherwise missing from most mundane lives.

In that moment, in that instance, everything was clear and everything made sense – I realised why each drop is life itself.

To fully appreciate this moment, you need to realise that I was never keen on living, but do not mistake this as to mean that the eternal release into the hereafter was an option either. Being raised a Catholic by loving parents who went far and beyond their civil service paychecks to provide a lap of luxury that left me needing for nothing but wanting for more, instilled in me a strong sense of the foreboding as I was reminded on a daily basis that my actions, whose consequences apparently yielded the comfort and luxury I’d enjoy beyond the things that my hands can touch, were being closely watched by an ever present Omniscience and a multitude of witnesses with nothing to do with their eternal bliss but watch little boys take baths – and people judge the Catholic Priests, and to them I say, “cast the first fucking stone!”

Therefore, this wholeness I feel in my heart – this transcending peace – was not arrived at lightly.

However, if you understood my birth, you’d understand that I never wanted this life that I’m living but made the best out of the many great opportunities handed to me on a silver platter. Even Nature itself could not force this life on me and, therefore, Science had to intervene and prevail where Nature failed.

Ah that Science, the stain that has polluted and raped my land long before lubricant was ever invented; our saviour, our messiah, our very own personal Jesus.

But who said we needed saving? Maybe, just maybe, we were fine before You showed up.

But, alas, Science saved me where Nature failed me. Nature, what a fucking joke. You give us everything but You gave us nothing. Because for ten months You tried to push me out and for ten months I refused to be moved. For ten months my parents joyfully waited my arrival but for ten I was the disappointment that I would become. For ten months, for ten whole months, I stood my ground. Because in those ten months, I was a man and as a man I stood firm. For the first ten months before my life started, I was a man. Even before I took my first breath I knew how it felt to smoke a cigarette next to a spent beautiful woman whose name I will never remember.

Now that you know the context, let’s proceed with the story.

Getting out of the bathtub felt effortless. Maybe it was because I was being carried out of it. Or maybe it was because for the first time in my life I had allowed someone else to be strong for me, to help me where I had failed to succeed, to lead me beyond the path that I saw before me.

Standing besides the empty bathtub I realised that even the toughest stain can be removed with time.

Standing besides the empty bathtub, I realised that she wasn’t breathing anymore. She had died before I could help her, before I could reach her, before I could tell her that I loved her, and now all I have is time but she isn’t here to hear all the things I have hidden from this world in our special place. Living feels like an eternity without someone to love you.

So I let her go.

THE END

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On Twitter @Bibo316

The theory behind why fat midgets can't fly

What is an awkward moment boys and girls? 

That question has always plagued my mind. I have always been of the opinion that it was staring at the most beautiful girl for what seems like an eternity and when she finally stares back at you, you realise that you are scratching your nose, which from her vantage, looks like you are picking your nose whilst ogling her.

It would be funny if it wasn't true... and if it didn't happen today!

But as painful as that experience was for me, that wasn't an awkward moment, no, coz for a moment to truly be awkward it has to jolt you to the core, to your very being and consciousness, to what makes you function... coz I mean, who among can say that they don't enjoy the occasional scratching-your-nose-whilst-admiring-a-truly-flawless-being? 

Then to you I say, cast the first stone, Judas!

Well, to be honest, you'll be glad to know that my awkward moment was as brutal as they come, if not more so. My awkward moment happened today at the gym... and bear in mind that I loooved clinging to the fact that the fatter, more weird and utterly aloof I make myself, the better the writer I will eventually flourish into.. I know what you are thinking, but I can squash that with one answer: I'm not dead YET - at least physically - so don't judge me just yet, I just might surprise you - but if we are being honest, surprisingly I won't!

Wait, were was I? Ok, so the awkward-gym experience. So I went to the gym for the first time EVER coz I thought I was grossly overweight and, thus, needed to lose a couple of kilos - 15 kilos, if we are being precise. As I mounted the scale, a smile broke the corners of my mouth. In that moment I realised that fuck it, I live in Africa and there are people starving and dying and I should be so lucky to have put on the weight that I have, to have been granted the privilege to indulge without fear of not having anything to eat the next day... Coz, in that fleeting moment of self indulgence and haughty introspection, all was right, and I had made peace with whatever weight this mountain of a scale would so rudely shout at me.

So on with the awkward moment... as soon as I stepped on the scale, it read 85kilos... and I was like awkward! 

Let me explain... the moment was awkward because the 85kilos reading meant that I had only gained, count this, 2 Kilogrammes in 3years! And the awkwardness was bolstered because it immediately hit me that I wasn't a fat, disgusting, demented, midget-mud-wrestling loving genius scribe trapped in a weirdo's body, no! I wasn't overweight - ok, let me clarify, I mean by my standards that is, coz technically the BMI of someone my height, 1.70m, indicates that I'm as overweight as heck! 

The truth is I had just given up on everything to such an extent that my body was shutting down on me... Imagine giving up on yourself to such an extent that you can't carry your own weight anymore... that you always feel weak, tired, depressed, and unworthy of a 2dollar whore!

The obvious question would be, how much shit am I full of that I feel heavier than I can stomach to drag around in this world? 

But I guess in the stillness of this night, with Icona Pop's I love It playing in the background, I have come to realise that the most important question that I will try to uncover and face on this journey I have embarked on is, what kinda sins have I committed that anchor my soul so heavily that even 2kilos feels like a burden that will be the end of my existence? 

This journey, my friends, is more than that of one man's desire to lose 15kilos and become as sexy as Taye Diggs but one that will lead to him admitting to himself the vilain he has become... because, boys and girls, not all of us grow up to be the hero. 

So I hope you come with me on this journey and that you will enjoy the unraveling of The Psychitzophrenic Fat Black Man.

The 6minute Mile

Ok I have to confess, I haven't been running! *spoiler alert*

Five days ago I started off running with a bang! And like a star that burns too bright, I burned too fast... puking my guts and having the worst muscle pain since I realised that I'm no different from my father, also helped my decision to take a "break" - which we all know is code for "I give up!"

I know quitting is bad and bla bla bla - plant a tree.

But before you rightly label me a "quitter," one good thing did emerge out of all this. And that is I got to think, and as most people that know me will attest I rarely, if ever, do! So see you judgmental person you, something good did come out of my quitting - so quitting aint so bad! *at least thats what I tell myself to avoid the shame of slitting my wrists*

Ok back to the thinking. Well, it got me thinking of the many things that I have given up on halfway through because, at the time, I thought they were just too bloody hard. In retrospect though, calling myself horrible names because I gave up on my goals is really really... the only sensible thing to do *sad frowny face*

Ok so going down this list of my life's regrets, and at 27 thats one long ass list, I noticed my biggest regret. And it wasn't even what I thought it would, but like all regrets worth having it was a cliche in that it was about a girl - let me say, it was about THE girl (more on that later), the one I called my Cinnamon Buns.

Signs from God #1: You know you are fat when you name the most beautiful girl you've never seen after food!

So it is decided! I am going to run again! *yeah*

I have picked my sorry ass up, and if it wasn't for the rains outside I'd be running up a storm right now, pissed off as hell for quitting in the first place and proving my father's uncle right. In short, I'm back to running, back on track and before the end of the year I, Birbal "Fatass" Boniface Musoba, will run the 6minute mile *queue Vangelis' Chariots of Fire*

Ps tomorrow I will unashamedly post the first in the series of "before pictures" so don't eat breakfast before you read this blog, viewer disgust is guaranteed!

In my quest to ran the 6min mile, I ran today for the first time in ages. After going round the block, my muscles were burning and my heart was racing and I felt the same high I feel after sex, so I was in a good mood. "Sexy Birbal, here I come."

I actually felt so good that I made myself breakfast for the first time in three years - I'm not a big fan of having breakfast; something about sitting at the table all alone depresses me to bits (more on that later). After my first breakfast in years, I felt good and happy and emboldened by this new lease on life.

Then I puked my guts out! Ah-ha! There it was, the kicker! Now my bones ache, my muscles are doing this weird spasm thingy, and I feel like I just fell six feet under - and this is just day 1!

Shit!