According to the Nairobi urban dictionary, I am a socialite: a young beautiful woman with tantalizing titties (anterior), big ass (posterior) and no brains. Thanks to the (upcoming wannabe) celeb gossip columnists and paparazzi, I am the newest invention of the woman in town. I call it sexpreneurship.
I am the definition of beauty according to men’s dictionary: booty and boobies. Who could blame for my blessed butt and bust, my greatest assets. I am a goddess: venerated by the women for my prowess, worshipped by men in private and in public.
I have had my share of vitriol: I have a bright future behind (my forever twerking ass) and my twins (boobs) are cosmetic; I am the epitome of slothfulness for young girls and I symbolize women as sex objects. Do I give a darn? Hell, no!
Wherever I go, heads turn. Men and women can’t get their eyes off me. The women envy me. The men get wait to be all over me. I am the new breed of a daughter of Eve. Being sexpreneurial pays for my bills.
Blue Chip Company honchos. Politicians. Musicians. They all have a share of me. They pay, just for my face, bust and rear. Diplomats too. I lend my body to them. I love it. The attention I mean.
But I am not as conceited as you may think. I have morals. I have a boyfriend. One at a time. I’m faithful to him. He knows what I do. He’s supportive.
My current boyfie is an ambassador. The Ambassador of Uganda to Kenya. My ex was a Cabinet Secretary. CS for Defence. My first love was a minister. Minister of State for Internal Security. That is long before the dawn of the new constitution. I have also had my time with bad boys, from Nigerian drug lords to criminal masterminds and gangster wannabe musicians who earned me what I am famous for – Video Vixen.
You see the guys I sleep with? That’s why I am a spy. And how old am I? You won’t believe it. I am twenty-four. I haven’t seen better days yet. And before you start doing the math, I have only slept with three men, as all women do – my current boyfriend, my ex and my first love.
The National Intelligence Service guys picked me up on the day the minister for internal security dumped me. The fool had come to his senses and decided to go back to his family, a post-menopausal old hag and a bunch of intellectually challenged excuses of human beings he called children.
I was drowning in my own sorrow when he (the spy) approached me. He was TDH. Typical rebound guy. But he was not interested.
He recruited me. And trained me. Then I was sent out. That’s how I ended up falling for the CS. And when the idiot got tired of me in a record two months, the Ambassador offered a shoulder to cry on. He bought me the alcohol I nursed the wounds in my heart with.
The Ambassador passes on sensitive info to me, and I pass it on to NIS. He has promised to take me with him to UG when his term expires. Take me as a second wife. Or I might even make him divorce his wife. He is going to enter politics. That’s what NIS is banking on.
So far I have raised questions with Uganda intelligence services. Their antennas are up. The Direction Finders have zeroed in on me. Triangulating. I am a girl to watch. Twice I have being picked and grilled by the Internal Security Organization (ISO) while in Uganda with my beloved.
Theirs will always be conjecture. Isn’t that what intel guys do? They will never get me, my records are clean, and thanks to the media for publicizing my booty and boobs, I am socialite, preferably sexpreneur, who sees business opportunities from dimwits who can’t zip it up for the sake of their boring wives.
I am just a girl in love, unlucky to fall for the diplomatic corps, dignitaries and policy makers. Love knows no boundaries, right?
And do I love my beau? God, yes. Very much. He brings out this girl in me that I barely know.
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