#veinsonherbreasts

I see her from across the road. Tight black t-shirt with a Barbie doll face on the front. She has stuffed herself into tight purple “jeans” (those ones mass-produced in China’s made-for-the third- world markets). Her body is slight. Petite in other words. Her lips are painted a vicious blood red and her hair is braided in a mix of black and purple.

But something does not fit. 

What is a mzungu doing, coming from that part of the village, where houses have no addresses and the only way you direct a visitor to your home is by telling them “pass here, pass there, then you meet a fat woman frying cassava", or "pass the tree with two branches where bodabodas repair their machines from”?

Then I get it. Gosh! This is not a mzungu. This is a little black African girl bleaching the black African out of her.

At this moment an empty taxi arrives, and I hop on and into the back corner seat. “Kampala nkumi bbiri”, the conductor announces menacingly. I ignore him though I am aware I am being fleeced because this journey usually costs 1,500/=.

I throw open the window and turn my head to return my stare at the Black Girl- turned - Mzungu who is still across the road waiting for the many cars to pass so that she can cross. She waves agitatedly at the taxi driver. Luckily for her, he is also mesmerized by this “fair-looking” maiden.

Ho! As fate will have it, she plops herself right next to me. I pretend to be looking the other way. From the corner of my eye, I see her pull her phone out of her big bag and the earphones are pushed into her ears.

As she busies herself with this ritual which I have seen several young ladies do the minute they board a taxi (that is, if they are not on Whatsapp), I steal a furtive glance at the creature sitting next to me. The traces of white powder near her hairline are apparent.

Bannange! I can have a heart attack right now. Her complexion is so light and her skin so thin that I can see veins criss-crossing under the skin on her tiny hands.

“Ohsssshhh!” I mutter under my breath, “What the hell is this?”

My mind starts running, all sorts of ideas going through my head. Does she have friends? Does she have parents? Why can't one of them be kind enough to advise her? Is it a boyfriend she is trying so hard to impress? What creams do these Chinese manufacture, and from what? Hasn’t she heard that bleaching causes irreversible damage to your skin? That this so- called “beauty” is only momentary and then she will become this scarred, scary- looking beast that no-one will even want to look at? Does she know that she has effectively turned herself into a tourist attraction? I mean...

Another sly peep lands behind her right ear. On an area that she has “forgotten” to bleach, so it still has her original color. Over on her cheek there's a red blotch. The unnatural color makes her eyes look big.  Frog-like actually.
Another discreete “Bannange!” escapes my lips.

Our journey goes on and as we approach the city, I chance upon her chest. She is wearing a push-up bra and yet her breasts are really small. Now I nearly scream. Because there are two very visible black, pulsing veins on her cleavage!!!

“Woiii!” I turn my head away.

“Nvaamu ku KPC” she announces to the conductor.

As she makes to alight, she pulls her t-shirt down to cover her behind, like these shameless women with ample behinds stuffed into tight jeans, “jeggings” or “leggers” automatically do when they are jumping off taxis, or when they are on boda-boda.

But my quick eye has already seen the red splotches on her back.