SEMANTICS AND THE NAIROBI SLAY QUEEN
There is one thing you need to understand about the average Nairobi girl, SEMANTICS is her middle name.
Who they are versus who the portray themselves to be are worlds apart. Literally everything about her should you examine closely can be read differently from what the obvious meaning. Her standards are kite high while her reality is well… semantics. She swears by Uber but if you were to check her receipts it probably cost her 200 from Roysambu to Hurlinghum or Westlands because she took a Jav until just about 500m close to the agreed location and then switched into a serviced cab so that she arrived looking calm and composed. Unless you drop her off at home, she might just take that cab round the corner to the stage and keep the rest of the cab fare you gave her, for when she next wants to assert her independence online.
Her choice of alcohol is determined by the location, crowd and number of zeroes on the price or whatever Drake sings about in his latest track, never mind she can barely swallow what is served. She calls out to the waiter the name of the man on the bottle like Jack is paying her double shot: never mind that when you first met her at that nondescript joint and she was downing a 200 bob brown bottle. Yet when you ask her to meet up for drinks she now only goes to that upmarket club on a rooftop with sweeping views of Nairobi at night. She will not turn up at ChickenInn on a first date because who the hell takes anyone to ChickenInn on a first date. If she does turn up and and you don’t order food and she has to eat while you watch, then it is a cardinal sin, only broke guys do that.
Being broke is not sexy, who wants the struggle?
The Nairobi girl is like a chameleon, should you turn up at her house unannounced you might inquire from the girl that opens the door if her madam is home, only for her to break out into that familiar laughter and respond, “Aki Kevo stop, I don’t look thaaaaaaat different without make up!” Woe unto you if she wears glasses, you literally date three different girls. Do not be surprised at how well she can stretch a thousand bob to look like a million dollars. The way she rummages through mitumba for original Levi jeans and Steve Madden heels and gets her manicure at those dingy bus station shops for under 500. You cannot hate on her original designer shoes straight out of China or her Gucci gang style copped up from the streets in Eastleigh
Our damsel in this dress (see what I did there) probably has 5 birthdays in year; whose celebration is funded by an older gentleman in his 50’s who is willing to send money for “cake” a new dress and a few drinks for Girls’ Night Out in return for photos of the girl, face beat in full Dubois make up posing next to 4 or 5 other scantily dressed females. This same man probably has barely sent his own daughter in University 100 bob airtime in a month, and is starting another vicious Sponsor cycle under his own roof. These barely out of the crib girls are here to set standards at those upmarket clubs with Sponsor money leaving other revellers questioning their own life decisions.
You love the Nairobi girl even if she’s made you drop her off at another date without your knowledge or faked a pregnancy and made you cough up cash for a non-existent abortion. (Don’t give me that look these post-Sharon Otieno times, we must stop burying our heads in the sand these things are happening.) “Life isn’t fair, he should know I have needs,” she will say after she receives that Mpesa and laugh into the night with her friends. And the next day, our darling Nairobi girl will give her peers words of wisdom from her all girls vacation about working hard, being independent and rewarding yourself. Because acting rich is such hard work.
And why not after all it pays to a business woman or a model in these streets. Even when you cannot tell exactly what the commodity on sale is and how much returns you make. All your life’s work is in the number of posts on your Instagram if and when you share it on your online diary.
This my friend is the real Nairobi Diaries…