Forget BBI, has anyone noticed how coronavirus has halted the ‘doba’ for your so called socialites, sponsored women and slay queens?
It is a cinch that the pathogen tilted the economic tidings of many but lord, it is exhilarating to see how it has punctured the business of flesh paddlers. Oh, I wasn’t clear enough? Kenya has no socialites; those are just high-end wet-crack vendors who use social media as their brothels. The word socialite in Kenyan parlance is meant to deodorise sluts just because they are differently packaged in bodies sculpted by the surgical scalpel. Sponsored women and slay queens are equally just hoes.
Well, whatever a woman does with her cookie jar is her business, but if you are a cobbler, why call yourself a shoe designer? Okay, I will admit it, I have nada regard for damsels who flaunt what is on the waist downwards more than what is lodged between their ears. I find them an affront to women empowerment and femininity. I said femininity not feminism.
When a woman spends her youthful days preening like a peacock and vaunts nothing but a fake lifestyle she cannot personally sustain without riding a wrinkled shaft; when people cannot marvel at your cerebral wherewith or service to humanity, that is when you will resort to eliciting lust, awes and likes by flaunting what your mama or surgeon gave ya.
Where were we? Ah, yes-if there is a breed socially and psychologically ravished by the Corona epidemic- it is the slay queens and socialites. You see, slay queens and socialites are what my pseudo-revolutionary uncle exiled in Toronto by ‘despots and dictators’ (his words) refer to as Bimbos. Basically, women who wear heads as ornaments and get migraines if they think. They would rather exhaust their jaws on fellatio just to afford Peruvian hair and their conversions start and end with ‘aww, woishe, kwenda huko, and oh my gaad (god).
These are the young women who only months ago would choke everyone else with selfies taken at exotic places nibbling on foreign cuisine they cannot spell all that to elicit envy from co-fickle minded followers and admirers. Gosh, even our timelines have lately been cleansed of the amusing if not annoying verve with which they share their blond sentiments.
Given that their dashboards and boots are their tools of trade; investors are these liquid husbands whose wives morphed into goblins after birthing a few rascals. But unless the sponsor was these ‘Covid-19 millionaires’, a politician or drug peddler, times are hard even for the men who used to splash ‘pesa otas’ on them and set up them in flats, take them on trips abroad and give them generous allowances.
The invokers of lust are hitherto digging fries, sukuma na avocado, indomie and drinking cheap liquor because thanks to the quarantine and curfew rules necessitated by the Coronavirus pandemic.
Sponsors are now hurdled in the house by 7pm, helping their kids with CBC homework, all clad in masks, sanitising every other minute and having sweaty afternoon s3x with their fat wives who still go to bed with “Akuba Tano Tena’ campaign T-shirts. And they might not come back having realized that the stretch-marked ass of mama Boi is still palatable.
With the economy taking a bludgeoning, the Blessers are not thinking about the perky boobs and fat bums of the lasses who satisfied their egos and gonads months before Rona bared its fangs. Their thoughts are now on their families, their wallets and assets and sadly their ‘slay queen investments’ are not their top most priorities.
Oh my, the damsels are consequently in distress. With their sources of income blurred, they no longer go for their facials, manicures and pedicures. In fact, they have all defaulted to factory settings and now don the happily married cornrows. They cannot bless our timelines with their faces because their make-up budgets have been cudgelled. Without their exaggerated make-up and the help of filters, you’d mistake them for Lwanda Magere, the legend of the Luo. They shudder every time they look in the mirror
They now quote Bible verses and ask for favours from the same men they called average because his shoes do not match belt, never mind that her own face looks like it was photoshopped on a different neck.
Last I checked, their queen, Sidika was reportedly cash crunched and had taken to accepting twerking challenges on Instagram for peanuts. Far much less than she would charge for club appearances. If this pathogen could continue its hold, some ‘professions’ would go extinct.
My grandy thinks Corona is a punishment from God to the hardheaded, sinning creatures he carved from clay. I think it is nature’s way of teaching slay queens that a woman should invest more in her brain and less in her booty. Mind over matter. One can sustain you even in the midst of pandemic, put you on national pedestal and annals of history. The other will stop serving you the moment a mere curfew is imposed.
DISCLAIMER: VIEWS EXPRESSED IN THIS ARTICLE ARE THE WRITER’S. THEY DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT VIEWS OF VIUSASA.