Your life is all about playing hide and seek with STIs. Contraceptive pills are more like your breakfast. You spend few nights and more days in your house. What this means is that nights bring you to life while days are meant to nurse your hangovers. You cannot quantify the millions of litres of alcohol you’ve been bought for by strangers (read married men). Twice or thrice in a week you wake up in a stranger’s digs. Your longest dress manages to only cover your waistline. Your entire bosom in many occasions is barely covered. At times you shave one side of your head as the rest deals with drooping braids. This perhaps depict the confusion galore in your empty life. Virtually everything in your apartment is bought for. (Well, directly or indirectly.) From your humongous plasma tv to your cosy leather seats. Your house breathes extravagance, opulence and the finest of things in life. You drive a beautiful, red in colour, Mazda CX-5 whose engine sound is rarely noticeable. You swap boyfriends like under garments. You salivate over married men like men would do to a good piece of land in the outskirts of the city. You purport to be a socialite kumbe you are nothing but a sophisticated w****.
Your ex boyfriends include your erstwhile lecturers, club bouncers, politicians and their chauffeurs. A night out is never complete without shisha escapades. Here you smoke away your self pity and the injured conscious. Your biggest investment is buying scanty clothes and high heels taller than you. In your bucket list; you crave for this sponsor who’ll fly you to his alluring bungalow , somewhere in the outskirts of Lagos, Nigeria. His mansion will be sandwiched by a thick bamboo forest, and life breathed to it by beautiful bird chirpings. You’ll rest in this spacious restroom as you eyes get lost to this fascinating wilderness in your front view via the glass walls. Pulling duvet in the bourgeois sofas will be your other business, dressed in a bikini and sipping red wine. You’ll take selfies and post them on IG to be smothered by envy from your poor and broke chaps.
Growing up in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, women were the epitome of a dignified life. Ladies, were not to be found in trenches and ditches directly opposite a pub at 7 am. In fact to spot a lady drinking, was a rare thing. They didn’t wear things that just covered their waste lines. Being a virgin was something to be proud of. Fast forward now, everything is upside down. That ladies have crossed the infamous red line is something we have to put up with. Opening up your legs to guys you’ve just met is never a bad idea. The other day a lady on tv who seemed barely 21 was like “If you can make more money in a nightclub (where you go to be pried by men) than in the office, why should you then oscillate in uncomfortable sit, for 8 hours.” It makes sense to make money in things you enjoy doing and activities that are actually like a hobby. So this lady, is paid for appearances in clubs. She is a socialite and proud of it. I wasn’t surprised that her role model is Kim Kardashian who came to the fore out of a sex tape. Arguably, Kim is the mother of all socialites.
As far as I’m concerned, strippers, whores and socialites are one and the same thing. You can easily evolve or slip to the other once in this league. Yes, thou shall not judge! You are about to say. I’m not suggesting am anywhere near righteous. I’m just echoing what lies between my disturbed consciousness. Especially when we try to define socialites as a good career for teenagers to hold thoughts for. They say all that is needed for the forces of evil to triumph is for enough good men to do nothing. We have every responsibility to protect and uphold values. When you show so much skin, it’s a confirmation that you are crying for validation. You are just but an empty shell. You are equating yourself to a walking sex object. In other words, when tongues wag at you, you feel good about yourself. That’s a problem that so many ladies are struggling with. The whole idea of auctioning your body on Instagram and Facebook for ‘sponsors’ passing by is the saddest thing ever and the worst injustice you can ever do to yourself.