I see you there. On Facebook and Instagram; with your 5000 friends and 30 000 followers. Feeling like a couple billion bucks; feeling like a renewed Vera Sidika getting off the surgery table.
You come from one of these struggling towns in Nairobi, probably Githurai or Jericho; towns where you have to always be on the move, your shoes could be auctioned off while still at your feet, when you stand. Towns where – during migwatos – the mamis there don’t go ati sijui “Yeah, Baby. Just like that. Harder. Harder. Yeaah, Baby, I like it!” [And not that I’ve been watching blue movies of late or anything] Their screams and moans go within the lines of, “Iende buda. Kanuke kabisa. Brathe acha katambe. Kazidi!”
Your folks are struggling peasants living off their pension. They’re determined to see their only child through school, so they put together the little they could after possibly selling their favorite goat and now you’re a proud student at ‘The’ UoN. Or K.U [Has to be either of these two, blondes have established breeding grounds there.] They probably have no idea that you’ve been failing your exams, because you know a guy who edits your result slips for you, and it’s not like you care anyway.
Your good looks have made it easier for you to wade through life. You have a sweet face with gorgeous dimples; the kind you can’t say NO to. The kind corporates use to woo rich folk in their commercials. You have an outstanding hip that draws itself only too nicely above that glowing ass; An ass worthy of the name; An ass with its own zip code; An ass that commands a standing ovation from the Guinness Book of Records board. The kind of ass my friend Irvin Jalang’o says you run into and you get confused so bad you start randomly apologizing for things that are not even inches within your control; Like “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to refuse to pay the teachers.” Or “Jaber, will you ever forgive me? Martial missed an open goal against Arsenal.”
So you’ve carved out a niche for yourself on social media. You post ‘Good morning world’ and ‘Off to bed, love you fam’ selfies; pouty duck-faced, and in your white pyjamas, looking like a warm glass of milk. You post pictures of your lunch plate, stuff a regular guy like me pronounces with two fingers holding onto the nose, with captions of ‘Who is here? #KempinskyTings’.
You post pictures of your escapades at Aqua Lounge, holding onto a half-full bottle of Jameson Whiskey with a trillion hashtags of “#NightLife #BoutThatLife #JamesonTings #HavingFun #LivingLarge #WeDemGalz #IloveMyLife #WorkHardPlayHarder #KeepHating #Outchea” By the way, if I may digress here kidogo, what is it with Jameson? Everyone takes pictures when drinking that shit, no one can ever just drink Jameson and keep it to themselves. There will always be pictorial evidence. Does it come with a separate flyer that says, “Boss, if they don’t see it, it never happened.” Or do the waiters just threaten to pull your nose if you don’t snap a selfie? I’m just asking, I have no idea. I don’t drink Jameson. Konyagi eeh? No? Okay.
You’re always up to date on what events are happening where during the weekend. You hang out with the ‘flyest’ celebrities. Gossip blogs have begun calling you Prezzo’s girlfriend; you’ve put him up for MCM twice and there’s a picture of him grabbing your butt at Blankets N’ Wine.
Your pictures garner a gazillion likes and a million more comments. Comments of ‘Gal u soo sweet, DM ur no.’ or probably something like ‘I looove you gal, pls follow back’. Men are always lurking around somewhere on your timeline, looking for something to quench their thirst. Or just something to fap to. Maybe that picture of the one time you were by the swimming pool in a revealing bikini, with your thighs looking all soft and your boobs almost falling off their bra. Or that other time you were all faded at a night out, slumped out on the couch, and your short dress just went a little further.
So you think you’re a bigwig now. That you’re influential. Famous, even.
It’s all starting to get to your head. All of a sudden you start addressing a new breed of people; people of an imaginary kind. People you feel are a nuisance in your life. People you feel don’t want to see you prosper. People you feel only want to see posting a picture of Jameson Whiskey. People like myself. People that scroll through your pictures without hitting that ‘Like’ icon twice. Haters, you call them.
Now, Jaber, stay with me here, Does everyone in your village know you? Has Larry Madowo ever invited you over for a cuppa Cappuccino and small banter on #theTrend? Do you play golf with Chris Kirubi? Does Wikipedia have your profile? Or, quite simply, have the homeboys over at Ghafla and Mpasho taken naked pictures and twerk videos of you for their socialite contests yet?
You have no ‘haters’. Relax, keep your eyebrows ‘on fleek’, go shopping, do your nails, gossip with your girls, drink Guarana, have fun, live life, be yourself.
Haters [if they even exist, I always think ‘Haters’ are just Critics who know their job but what do I know?] are for people who have really made it in life – Beyoncé has haters, Davido and Wizkid have haters, Octopizzo has haters.
You? You just have a bunch of people that know you for who you really are; a nobody – a worthless attention-thirsty nobody. Stay within those lanes.