Once upon a time, I met a boy, and he was as fine as he was foreign.
He stood at about 6’4 and had me at, “Hello.” Well, there might have been a few more words in there, but I said all that to say this – he had me.
We were together for about five months and things were progressing beautifully until one dreadful, shade-filled, summer day. Now, we’ve talked about shade before on the show, but this might be one of the shadiest experiences EVER.
Said foreign boy (who shall remain nameless) had a relatively well-known family. His father owned a technical university and his mother was a seamstress for some of the area’s most well-off women (supposedly, anyway — more on this later). One day, I was complaining about the various seamstresses in the area effing up my dresses, then hitting me with, “You are growing fat oo!” when I tried them on and they didn’t fit. (Funny story, though: I was actually losing weight; they just didn’t know what the fuck they were doing.)
Anyway, in response to my complaints, he told me he’d ask his mom if she’d make me a few dresses before I returned back to California – to which she agreed. I was ecstatic. There I was, all American and simultaneously trifling, getting ready to slide my thickness into some dope dresses handcrafted by a local sewing legend (obvious exaggeration). Woodin fabric and all, I was reh-tuh-go.
So, let’s fast-forward quite a bit. I had already visited said boy’s mother, gotten my measurements taken, etcetera. Three weeks had passed, and I began to wonder why my Woodin dresses had yet to be returned to me. So, I asked bae.
His response has never left me.
Our conversation went something like this:
Me: Baby, do you know when your mom will be done with my dresses? I don’t want to rush, but I’m so excited.
Him: It’s probably going to be a lot longer.
Me: Oh, no. Is your mom super busy?
Him: No. She’s just having a hard time.
Me: Is everything okay? Did I not buy enough fabric?
Him: No, you bought enough, but it’s just you.
Me: ME? *insert confused ass side-eye here*
Him: Well, I mean … your body.
Me: *preparing to fucking pounce* I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean?
Him: Well, she said she can’t figure out how to sew for your shape.
Me: Are you fucking serious? Half the women in your family are my size or bigger. I’m confused.
Him: Well, I looked through her book of sizes and measurements, and yours are definitely the biggest?
Me: *blank stare* Oh, okay, well, if it’s that hard for such an “amazing seamstress” (yes, air quotes were used), then maybe I should just cancel my “order” (air quotes incorrectly used here, but whatever).
Him: No, it’s just…
End of Story
Y’all. That man was deadass wrong; as was his ill-equipped mother. I was a solid 210 at the time, and she was bigger than me! So were several other members of their family.
I didn’t even let him finish. He had been sitting on that shit. He had obviously just been waiting to call me wide as all outside, and once that shady conversation took place, I knew what was up.
See, he had made little snide remarks before. Like…
“Wow, you ate a lot.”
“It’s cute that you eat so much.”
“It felt fluffier this time.”
Shit that I ignored in the moment, but ultimately shouldn’t have. This man clearly had issues with my body. And I had issues with his shade.
But it’s cool. Because per one of our Twitter listeners, I own the throne of shade. And that, my friends, is why I agreed to marry him after he proposed, then ignored his ass for two years after I returned to the U.S.
Ghana is shady. His mama is shady. And he is shady. But no one is shadier than me.