When I joined campus a couple of years back, I was of the idea that I had arrived at this magical place where hot girls would constantly throw themselves at me. I envisioned being surrounded by the hottest of them all, in all shapes, colours and sizes. Like those in Rick Ross’s music videos. Until half a semester later when reality started sinking in. My pot was deficient of one vital ingredient. Affluence. Apparently, my averagely pretty smile and roasted coffee complexion were not enough to entertain these hot girls. Now, these hot girls are just ordinary girls but with some cheap make-up, a wig that has seen better days, fake nails and a high-pitched twang. They are the Pro Max version of your ordinary girl. Similar features, just well packaged. Like Panadol Extra. Megan Thee Stallion wannabes. They call themselves bad bitches. Because of all these ‘premium’ features, these wannabes cannot bring themselves to spend a weekend in a bedbug-infested hostel room watching ‘Three Idiots’ on a fourteen-inch overheating laptop. What is Imax for? Their not-so-flat tummies cannot digest ugali mayai sukuma served on a faded melamine plate. Haven’t you heard of Pizza? They can not drink Chrome Gin or go to dingy clubs along Riverroad. You have not been to 1824 and it shows.
On days they are not craving for kuku porno and fries, they crave some Dairyland ice cream and chocolate. Their wardrobes are filled with Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Calvin Klein. Yeah, the fake kind, but still relatively expensive. They can only go to uptown joints where the photos they will take will be Instagram-worthy. They can only lay their heads in a self-contained crib, fully equipped with WiFi and DSTV. Basically, these wannabes were way out of my league. The meagre upkeep I would receive from my folks was only enough for me. So I forgot about these wannabes and just vibed with whoever vibed back.
Fast forward, life takes shape and I get my own place, a job and some little chumz. I think to myself, this is it. I finally have some of that affluence I lacked a couple of years back. These wannabes watanitambua! I holla at one of them. To my shock, the bad bitch is now vacationing out of the country. The cost of her return ticket is equivalent to the cost of my yearly rent. She drives a German machine and lives in a fully furnished apartment in Kileleshwa. Near that Francis Atwoli roadsign. She has the latest iPhone and her closet now has the original versions of what she used to rock back in campus. Her Mpesa balance resembles my huduma number. How the goal posts keep shifting! Somehow, it feels like the closer I get to finally be in the bad bitch’s league, the more this league mutates. Like the fucking COVID 19!
I still couldn’t get it. She is fresh from campus, just like I am. We are in the same industry. Same job scale. Same age. These numbers weren’t making sense. What was I missing? The more I tried to figure it out, the more it bugged me, and the more I wanted to prove to myself that I could still join this runaway league. Until I met people who had all that these wannabes had, and even more. They told me I was worried about the wrong numbers. They said I was not in their league because I was thinking with my little head. They quoted Nas, “you lose money chasing women, but never lose women chasing money”. I don’t know about you, but when a man driving an automobile with butterfly doors speaks, you listen. Now, unless you have an automobile with butterfly doors of your own, put that phone down and let’s get back to chasing that paper. The wannabes will bring themselves. And your little head will thank you for it.
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