By October 25, 2017 In the 20’s

You must have crossed lines in the streets of `mtandao’ otherwise; you do not belong to slay age and slayage. Her tall thin heels remind you of Science workbook and the page that showed types of beaks. She clarified they are called stilettos and heaven, you could not forget to update your vocabulary book; you almost made it a celebration before the economy betrayed you. Her skirts are mini, her nails are manicured, and her face is painted (hallo Marangi). There is something creepy about her; it might be how she stares at you, like a lioness staring at its prey. Everything she is translates into two modern words, ‘slay queen’. Today Issa slay queen day.

Her hairstyles change every week. This week one side is shaven, next week she has purple and green braids, on Sunday she is on blow-dry, and the following week she is on….is it wig or weave? (It will take you 1367 nights and days to get the difference).

Makeup. Seeing her every day is confusing, like you may not know if you’re driving an NZE, or a Q7, or a Beetle. You have to ride anyway because scores; scoring a slay queen is important. How else do you get a standing ovation amongst your boys? And while at it, don’t matatu. Matatu, what are matatus. I mean, you called her out for a night out? Expect to be told she needs a new dress and a pair of inches to look ceremonial. The ones she has cannot fit the day out. You are hopes up to hit the nunu so you send her 3,500. Now she is attired and you expect her to take what? A matatu? Come on boy, I am dressed in a micromini and a 12inch shoe. When I walk the vibration on my ass shakes the world. Are you in collaboration with the bus cashiers so they harass me?


Ignore the fact that she was brought out watering sukumawiki every evening and milking the cows before going to school. Now, her fingers are not meant for menial work like washing and cooking, rather they are crafted and adapted for typing on her iPhone and taking selfies. If they are not busy doing queenly tasks then they are busy being taken care of, they are her greatest assets. When she is mad she points at you with them, when she is happy she raises them in jubilation, when she is with the girls she flaunts them majestically and when she is bored she admires their intricate layers and artistic outlines; they are sacred.


The words beautiful and sexy are not able to capture the extent of her beauty and describe the essence of her sexiness. She is a world of beauty, a rare flower, and a ball of sexiness, Aphrodite’s descendant with black radiant skin. Her attire is punctuated with sex appeal and the way she walks uuuh, balancing delicately on those heels, arouses the men who ogle at her behind as she struts by and she adores the attention; no, she looooooooves it.


Work, she doesn’t need to work. All the products she advertises and promotes online mean she is her own boss, the purveyor of her livelihood and destiny and that she decides what she makes. Academia was not her thing and calculus and kinetic energy were like Kiswahili to Muhoho. In fact, she considered them gibberish while in school. As her mates were busy book warming and wrestling with Fluid Flow and Human Anatomy, she was working on her beauty and fashion career, practicing her flow in movement and investing in her anatomy so that she can slay (for the umpteenth time). Perhaps the only vocabulary she knew from Biology class was gluteus maximus because she had a big one, the thought made her giggle.




Now that all her hard work had paid and she was miss something, in hindsight it was all worth it, the long hours in the gym getting that hourglass shape, and the numerous gels and oils she had to apply, not forgetting the diets and the cleanses she forced herself to take but finally she had arrived. Her friends who are all average in looks idolized her and though most of them were career ladies in the most promising fields in this male-dominated job market, none could claim the success she had. She has her own house in Runda, be cursed if you think some fat-bellied politician bought her that massive Maisonette, and let’s just say her holidays are not limited to The Mara or Serengeti: the world is her oyster. The cherry on the cake though is her working hours. She earns the salary of a seasoned top surgeon while her working hours are that of a stay-at-home mum.

Did you just say mum? She dreads that word, ‘SHETANI ASHINDWE!!!’ (May the devil be defeated). Kids are like vampires to her, those little life sucking devils. A picture of her crestfallen tits flashes in her mind, with three little Lucifers running around the house causing mayhem and wreaking havoc, one kicking the other and the little one cheering (their own version of WWE Wrestling): eeeew! She cannot fathom the thought. Her freedom will be her progeny, and her troubles will be limited to a broken nail, Ouuucccchhh!!!!

Marriage; should we pick her magnificent drug-crazed mind on the subject? To her it’s a contract; she stays with you, parades her beauty when need be and you, in turn, provide what she wants. If the status quo remains and the precarious balance is maintained then maybe the arrangement will last; for as long as you pick her interest, hold her intrigue and quench her thirst for adventure and attention. But as soon as the next mystic gentleman winks at her and she dials her number into his iPhone seven plus, she is gone, and you will know on her whatsapp status page, that is if she liked you and she has an iota of guilt for leaving a good guy. Anyway, good guys finish last, and she is always first, always.

The final chapter of her long life will come when she hits thirty-something or rather thirty-something hits her. When her skin can no longer handle the weight of the layers of makeup she feeds it without getting bloated. If the biological clock can dare nudge her then it does without notice or civility, but it doesn’t bother her Mr. Right will come. Then again she doesn’t need a man, what for? If its money, she has her own in plenty, children she needs none, and oh sex, she has her toys and the occasional guy for a fling. Her resolve to stay single and keep slaying lasts as her last friend Beth gets hitched to an oil tycoon. Even ugly Beth who had her hair natural and looked like a grandma with those long baggy designless dresses, no it was time to step up or change, or just do something, anything!!!!!

There are no girlfriends to worship her anymore. Jealousy, anger, bitterness and low self-esteem tear into her heart and a profound bitterness grips her. Sundays are now not for a girls-day-out but are reserved for binge watching Game of Thrones, and for those lonely hours she forgets her world as she delves into the ancient world of Khaleesi where plots and murder are the norm. And then Khaleesi finds love and she is left wondering why not her, she could even settle for an imp.

Soon she starts going to church as salvation is the only true path to happiness and perhaps a man, any man. The choir boys fear her and the elderly women gossip of her past escapades; her pride and patience are tried and tested, she has to walk alone, she is alone, and she is the modern woman. As her Land Rover Discovery Sport leaves the church parking, on its rear bumper can be seen a sticker pronouncing “I am married to Christ”. She found a worthy husband, finally. Now she wears her dresses long, her nails short and has no make-up and her journey to where she is only The Lord knows. She is truly the modern woman, a product of her past but not a subject to it.






Joel Agwera

About Joel Agwera

Writing! I love writing.

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