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The first slimming pill I ever took was nameless, one of several green capsules filled with powder and filled into a packer bottle.
A bottle whose label revealed only one ingredient, a best-before, and a faint blue ink mark that read “1 x 3.”
This pill, disguised and sold to me as a supplement, promised many things: a slimmer waistline, increased metabolism, stronger muscles, detoxification, peace of mind, agency, and a decent boyfriend.
That day, I walk into the chemist’s shop only intending to buy Vitamin C, but upon seeing me, the chemist sighs, goes to the showcase shelf, brings out this weirdly packaged bottle and hands it to me, saying, “You need it. Many people like you are buying it.”
I am tempted to ask what kinds of people he thinks are like me, but I don’t. I already know. Instead, I ask why the name of the pill is not on the bottle, and why the label is torn and haphazardly so.
“I tear out the label because patients abuse it,” he says. “But once you take it, you will see results in seven days.”
Seven days. I mark my calendar. Seven days before I start to see my love handles disappear. Seven days before I can buckle my sandals with ease. Seven days before I can see and shave my pubes without a hand mirror. Seven days before this boy I like can officially lift me up. Seven days before everyone can stop asking my mother, “What are you feeding her?”
These green pills were going to do in seven days what exercise and stringent dieting hadn’t done in many months. I pay the full price and return to my hostel.
I take one pill. The next morning, my insides are upturned. Everything comes out of me: water, blood, oil, and my will to live. For two hours, I wipe beads of sweat from between my breasts and forehead and endure a burning sensation around my genitalia. I grab the bottle to look closely and see that the only visible ingredient is “senna.”
A simple Google search reveals the source of my misery to be an oblong-shaped leaflet, dark green with a midrib ending in a short bristle. Senna, a plant belonging to the legume family, is commonly identified through its distinctive yellow flowers, roundish fruit, and tamarind-shaped seed pockets.
The photos of the senna tree that I see are very familiar. I had shockingly seen it many times, smelled it, and even plucked it. I had seen it on my university campus and driven past it at office complexes and sides of the street. It was everywhere. I had known Senna subconsciously as one of the many beauties of nature: an ornamental plant used in landscaping.
In the United States, it is used as a laxative, used to treat constipation in the short term, but it originates from the tropical and subtropical regions of the world like Africa, India, and the Middle East. When taken, extracts from Senna produce bowel movements in 6 to 12 hours. While many take it for weight loss, there is no scientific evidence out there to prove it.
At this point, the sane thing to do would have been to trash the pills. But in my mind, what does not kill you is supposed to help you lose weight.
At the gym, I almost passed out from walking on an incline of 12% on the treadmill at a speed of 3 miles per hour for 30 minutes. The gym instructor asked me, “But did you die?” while urging me to go another 30 minutes.
A family friend recommended green tea to me as a better solution to fast track my weight loss. I ordered it online and when it came, I looked at the ingredients: lemon, lime, mint, basil and senna. Was senna the magic ingredient? This thing that went to war with body fat?
Over the years, I had internalized that a big and voluptuous body like mine should not have breaking points, that anything that threatened the order in which it existed was a good thing. Excruciating pain led to gain, sore muscles were a win, and headaches and dizziness after workouts was a thing to celebrate. When I held up that pill bottle, I concluded that if 1 x 3 did not kill me, I could do 2 x 3. But this plant, with the bright yellow flowers that belong in a bouquet but was now processed into a pill, nearly purged me to death.
The mere fact that I did not see the gates of heaven afterwards is one of the many reasons I still believe in God. Perhaps it’s because of God’s timing that it was simply not my time to die.
I became a champion at pointing out senna leaves wherever I went and to all who cared to listen to me. It was the first time that I looked at leaves — a beautiful, essential part of nature — and thoroughly despised them. Senna made me hypervigilant because of the trauma it has unleashed on my body and I started to look at everything green more keenly, more suspiciously. Green used to be my favorite color, but now I’ve fallen in love with black, because it is a color without form and encompassing void, just like how I feel in my body. When I wear black, it is difficult for my mind to conjure deprecating images. But I want to go back to loving greens for the bright and tranquil optimism they once brought me.
I am aware senna has some very positive uses. It can counteract fungal infections, is used to clean out the bowels before a colonoscopy or surgery, is effective for treating constipation, etc. But casual consumption, especially when prolonged, can lead to electrolyte imbalance, liver damage, and even heart problems in severe cases.
Every waking day, I fight to love my body and not leave it at the mercy of people like that chemist. Learning to be comfortable with my extra flesh is the hardest, most courageous thing I have had to do in my adult life. To avoid being influenced by ads promoting weight loss products like unregulated senna-based pills and teas, I have to cultivate such a strong sense of comfort and confidence in my body that no matter how persuasive the advertisement is, I do not feel targeted.
Slimming pills and teas are often marketed with a kind of urgency, a notion that is a wolf camouflaged in sheepskin, saying they will cleanse your gut, detoxify, give you a flat belly, and cause weight loss all in one sitting. To sell out, those marketing them hinge on that desperation that people who desire to lose weight have: they are drawn to the quick fixes, the idea of the now, the now without the process.
