Once upon a time—like, less than a year ago—I was a bona fide resident of Lazyland. If being lazy was a job, I’d be CEO. Okay, maybe second in command, I have a close friend who takes top spot. My idea of exercise was rolling out of bed, stumbling to the shower, and maybe stretching my arm to grab the TV remote. Walking? Why, when there are motos and cabs? If you had told me I would become one of those people who genuinely feel bad about missing a workout, I would have laughed so hard my soda would have shot out my nose. However, the universe loves a plot twist. Nine months back, I had a scare that flipped my life upside down faster than you can say “extra cheese”. One night, I was chilling, probably mid-Netflix binge, when suddenly, my body started to react in ways that were not normal. Long story short, I was convinced I was having a stroke. I dragged myself to the clinic, expecting the worst. Turns out it was not a stroke, but my blood pressure was nosediving into hypertension. Doc did not sugar-coat it: “You’re a ‘walking’ disaster.” Fix it, please Doc said, cut the salt (goodbye, my one true love), drop some weight (okay, rude), move your body (excuse me?), and—oh, Lord—eat veggies. VEGGIES!!! Sitting there, listening to this laundry list of “do better,” it hit me: my body was a mess, and I was surviving solely on God’s mercy. First step? I marched home and put my house manager on notice. “Umva, no more salt, even if I beg for it.” She stared, probably thinking I was testing her. “Won’t you fire me for saying no?” she asked. “Nope, I’ll fire you for giving it to me—and call the cops to report attempted murder.” Then I dropped the real bomb: “And start adding veggies onto my plate.” Me—the girl who would rather eat a sock than spinach? Wild. If sadness had a taste, it would be vegetables— they are bitter, boring, and sometimes, straight-up abusive. But fruit alone was not going to cut it—doc said those leafy ‘demons’ had to crash my food party. Next thing I know, my nine-year-old turns into the health police. I am eyeing a plate of crispy chips, and she goes, “Mummy, that’s not good for the waist!” What the—where did she even learn that? She is right, though (major eye roll). Her well-meant warning doesn’t always get me to behave, though. Some days, my brain switches to “if I die, I die” mode, chugging soda like it is my last day on Earth. And it could be, so what the heck? But other days, I do behave, opting for things like tuna, lettuce, tomatoes, boiled eggs, and onions— while feeling like a dejected member of society being punished for something. One time, a co-worker offered me mandazi, I snapped and told her I would unfriend her for being an enemy of progress! Mid-last year, my “exercise” was shuffling from bed to car—maybe a quick twirl under the shower. Stairs? Why, when elevators are right there? I tried the stairs once—second floor, mind you—and rolled into the office panting like I’d just wrestled a lion. It reminded me of high school, when I signed up for a cross-village race because teenage me was delusional. Made it 100 metres—barely—before collapsing near some shops. They had to scoop me up in the “faint truck” that trails the quitters. So, when a co-worker bragged about taking stairs to the seventh floor—no prize, no blackmail—I gawked. “Wait, you CHOOSE to suffer? For free?” He nodded. Unfamiliar territory The gym—a place I had only seen in movies and Instagram, where slay queens seem to do more picture-taking than workout. Day one, I stepped on the treadmill, and my body was like, “Are we under attack?” I could feel my muscles in total confusion. I started slow—no way I was going to be the newbie who trips and becomes a viral meme. No plan, just winging it—treadmill, bike, whatever—until my legs went numb and I wobbled off. First time I stepped off; I swear the floor was moving and I was tempted to try and hold it still. I avoided the other machines—those things looked like death traps, straight out of a ‘Saw’ movie (hello, Jigsaw fans *insert happy face*). After sweating it out, I would get into the pool—swimming’s my happy place, the one thing I’m not poor at. The coach, also something of a ‘terrorist’ So, I got a coach (let’s call her A) because I was wandering the gym like a lost puppy. She is this great girl, no doubt, but with a hidden ‘evil’ agenda—some workouts, I am convinced my imaginary haters paid her to finish me off. One session, she had me gasping, thinking, “This is it—this is how I die. She’s going to call it an accident. And I don’t even have a will.” “Okay, it is leg day,” she informs me. The dreaded leg day, only thing worse is full body day. “Give me 30 air squats,” she adds, casually. “Jesus, can we at least start with five?” I ask, sheepishly. She gives me that look, the one where only actual death can get me out of whatever she is asking me to do. “Was that so hard?” she asks when I am done, completely ignoring the hideous panting going on my side, while adding weights to whatever monstrous equipment she is putting me on next. By the 15th attempt of the next exercise, I am ready to call on my ancestors to intervene, but this girl is not having it, “let’s goooooo,” she continues. “But if I don’t finish the last two sit-ups, will the world end?” I ask. “It just might. Let’s goooooo,” she says. At this point, I am resisting the urge to fake an injury, but the girl must be a witch because somehow, I start feeling guilty about it and continue. A, I love you but I also don’t. I am not sure how to explain that. Some days, a little devil pops up in my head: “Just quit and be fat in peace—good health is overrated because you’ll die anyway, and not being obese is not what will get you into heaven!” But A’s sorcery is real; I smack that nuisance away like an annoying fly. But really, she’s a gem, and she is getting me there one strenuous step at a time. Doctor would be proud! Dieting; please miss me with that A friend hit me with, “Have you tried intermittent fasting?” I’ve heard of it but don’t ask me to explain it. Another one, God bless her, recommended what sounded like a fad diet, something so extreme, I’d have to hate myself to try it. Because, tell me, why exactly would I be eating raw food? “It is not raw, per se, it’s slightly cooked,” she said. But that to me just sounded like she cooks her food with a warm hug, and not actual fire. I grilled her: “What’s the goal? To be skinny? Healthy? Or just go medieval on your taste buds?” She mumbled something vague—girl was as clueless as I was pre-coach. I told her I appreciated the ‘tip’ but being a foodie, anything that requires me to starve or overly restrict myself is not an option. I don’t know what the afterlife has to offer, if there is even one, so I can’t deprive myself in this life. I will—without shame— bite into a ham-and-cheese sandwich and tell myself I am “fiercely and wonderfully made.” Better and grateful This journey includes tonnes of gratitude, for example, to my employer—they enabled this, and of course, the place where it all happens, Fitnesspoint, located at the former Sports View Hotel in Remera, right across from Amahoro Stadium—where couch potatoes like myself turn into sweaty, sassy gym goblins. Think good vibes, killer workouts, and a pool to pretend you are at the Olympics. And ladies, if you feel shy, there is a women’s only section where you can fumble around comfortably. I am thankful for my ‘hype squad’ who keep me going, and—get this—thankful that I even managed to inspire a friend into doing the same. If they hand out a “Best Fitness Newbie” award, and she wins, she had better acknowledge me—right after God and her parents. There is one person who has been instrumental in all this, I would drop a name but the person prefers to be the unsung hero in this story. To that person, let me just say, thank you! Word from the not-so-wise It doesn’t matter where you go, or what you do, as long as you do something. I’d love to give some sound advice but I don’t want to be one of those people who start something and suddenly become experts. I’d also like to share what I have achieved so far, but there’s always some random Karen ready to say “just that? I know so and so who lost 20kgs in two months.” That’s great, Karen, but for me, it is a marathon, not a sprint. It’s about getting my body to say, “wow, so you don’t hate me after all!” I will prosper at my own pace. Want in on the action? Come, let us do it together.
