I found myself awake at 4:15 am, after almost staring holes into the shoes of my friend, in my dream. She had really nice sneakers on, and I just thought it wasn’t fair. I didn’t bother hiding my irritation, I told her I didn’t like her again cos she had no right having varieties to chose from. In fact, you know what I wish for right now? I wish that y’all with small feet, would wake up one day and not find the left foot of each of your shoes. Only then would I be pacified.
I believe shoe designers/manufacturers treat us— ‘big feeted’ women— as after thoughts. That has got to be the reason why most times, we’re left with god-forbid designs. They probably feel we don’t deserve happiness cos we take up space on the path leading to greatness with our big feet. Or maybe they think we’re aliens and wouldn’t love to look good.
I love shoes, but you can’t tell since I’m always wearing slippers and sandals, most of which look borrowed, cos my toes or soles are always poking out of the edges like they are trying to run away from me. As a result, I unconsciously fold my toes sometimes, in an attempt to make them appear smaller.
My feet grew so fast, growing up. There could have been a thing such as feet fertilizer cos how else would a human being’s feet grow so fast? Y’all remember that trick our parents did back in the days—buying shoes one or two sizes larger so we’d be able to wear them for long? Well, it never worked for me. At eight, I was already sharing shoes with my mum. I wore a size 38. At ten, I wore a size 42; it was at this point I took my cross to the altar and told God to burn it. Cos what business did a short chubby girl like me, have with big feet and long fingers? The fingers, I could live with, but the feet? Hell no! I had had enough of walking about in shoes that looked borrowed when in fact they were sucking oxygen out of my feet.
You know the painful part about this whole story? My mom and the rest of the world, including me, had hopes that I would turn into a tall young lady, cos why not? All that bigness in the feet and palms couldn’t be for nothing. To our greatest shock, I stopped growing tall, but my feet kept growing ahead of me. Tragic, huh? I know.
So yes, I went to my dad—God— and cried out my eyes and bared my soul to him. I told him “I know I’ll be great and wealthy enough to afford specially made Italian shoes in this life, but I don’t want.” I forgot to mention how my mum would tease me and say I’d wear pam slippers specially designed by a shoemaker, on my wedding day, if my feet didn’t stop at 42, cos I wouldn’t be able to find my shoe size. My only other option would be to ask for custom made Italian shoes, which would be ridiculously expensive. That was her hinting I had to work towards being rich, else I end up wearing only handmade slippers everywhere. Our fear was that these feet would reach a 45.
This wasn’t a joke, I took that prayer point seriously. With tears in my eyes and voice, “God, make my feet stop growing, I beg you! Please,” I said. I prayed my rosary, wrote petitions, and went to the blessed sacrament. I wasn’t taking any chance. I believed in miracles.
If only my breast grew with so much vigour. I started growing them at eight, the impatient things really gave signs of being in people’s faces, but you should see them now—very humble. I must confess, at that time, I also didn’t want big breasts. I prayed against it cos the two little puffs were restricting my easy movement. They made life tuff, and I honestly wanted them gone at ten, especially when ‘they’ were forcing bras down my throat.
I thought I had seen it all, but it only got worse. Nobody warned me about the acne and stretchmarks that hit me like a tornado, afterwards. I honestly felt cursed. Why else would a child like me be going through so much trauma?!
Let’s get back to big-feet problems. I guess it’s safe to say my request was granted and my feet stopped growing. Did I just hear an Alleluia? That’s right, go ahead and scream it on my behalf, as you should. But I still hate y’all with the options of wearing the finest and cutest shoes. You are definitely not going to heaven, so enjoy life and your shoes while you can. In the end, nobody would take shoes to wherever souls go, after death.
To my fellow girls with big-feet problems, especially short ones like me who do not have the height to complement the big feet; we have a very big mansion in my Father’s estate (he told me that himself). We’ve suffered too much in this life—blisters, sore feet, ugly options— to now suffer in the other life again.
The short girls would get the VVIP mansions (for the extra suffering—going about in shoes that look bigger than us). The girls with height would get the ones without the VV (it’s not too late to trade your height now).
Now, here’s the summary of my story: I’m judging y’all in the fashion industry, designers particularly. Y’all can do better, plus size (boobs, ass, body, feet) folks deserve to look good too.
I’m also judging you if you have nice collection of shoes (I know it’s not your fault, but I’m judging you anyways, cos I can!).
#AllFeetMatter #SayNoToBigFeetDiscrimination #BigFeetGirlsDeserveHappiness too… I think we should start an Aluta. What do you think?