Written By Highest Kite
The year is 2020 and my self-worth is at rock bottom, again. I smoke weed to ease the ache but with Covid, everyone is home and I can only smoke either early in the morning or late in the night. I want to switch to cookies but online across Facebook, Insta and random links on Google, the treats are expensive af and with the family around, I cannot redirect grocery shopping money.
I am a second year dropout from actuarial science with no cent to her name and worse, even after clearing months-long debts, money lending apps have permanently banned me. I have no boyfriend, no real friends and anyway, my addiction is my responsibility.
In college, the few times I dragged myself to parties and clubs, I disliked the princess roles a lot of the girls took up. Many of them were part of the arts faculty while their boyfriends and I were in the maths and science one. The boys and I would budget and cough up cash while the ladies only had to show up. It irked me a lot and I judged them but shouldn’t have. Especially now that I’m inviting the same: a guy to cater for my high.
Scrolling through Insta, I feel silly trying to recall from sleepovers, the profile name of an escort agency. I could type ‘Sugar daddy’ or ‘Sugar mummy’ on the search bar but past results have not been localised. What am I to do with a man in Harare? I can’t just walk to Zimbabwe. When I do spot an agency, the douche in the DMs wants cash upfront as payment for connecting me to a money daddy. I ignore them and search on but the experience is similar – I’ve got to pay a fee upfront. How unlucky for them; I’m broke.
Telegram is my next great option but the site is saturated with similar content. On a porn group, I doubt I can compete with texts that read, “Hi Admin, my name is Mercy from Lang’ata. Brown skin, thick thighs and looking for a man. Should be ready to compensate and accommodate. Thanx.” Mercy knows what she wants and who she is. At twenty-two, I am as stick-boned as I was at fourteen and with the Covid atmosphere, where am I going that needs accommodation? I want to be paid for sex, but I don’t want to actually fuck. I’ve seen the short clips on Telegram and Twitter with creamy kitties turning me on. That’s what I want, pay for play.
For days, my search is fruitless. I almost give up when the search results for ‘Kenyan’ on Porn hub and XXX, all lead to male-owned accounts. Are there no females running their own shows? One who can teach me pro bono? It seems not. My search leads me to a Kenyan site called Raha Tupu, Kiswahili for pure joy. Everything looks professional: the dark pink themed website, the models gracing its pages and the descriptions of each one’s talents. Everything is on the table: lesbian sex, anal, three-ways and more. I wish the models used similar names on social media but none of them seem to exist outside this site. I can’t find any and ask, “How do I start? Where do I post and to whom?” I’m tempted to hit the call to action buttons but I’m broke. I do not wish to offend these ladies by wasting their time. My last option is twitter and lucky me.
Maybe because I’ve repeatedly heard that only the daft avoid Twitter, I’m rarely on the bird app. The content is always loud and makes me aware of what a small life I’m living. It is 2020; the world is on fire, literally. Every afternoon, a special segment comes on with the Health Minister relaying new death tolls and more looming ones. Roads only lead so far before borders and police blocks demand you turn back. Both my parents are out of work and I will not see my grandmothers this year.
But all this seems distant, far-off and quiet compared to my depression. I hate how the low feelings continuously convince me that I only passed school because I barely slept during the exam period; that I have never been loved beyond familial responsibility; and that, in truth, no one can love the nothing that I am. I feel like a log and until I’m high, like a great burden on Earth wasting the very life so many are losing. I get high to forget I’m a waste in the world.
I need weed and to get any, I’m back on Twitter searching, ‘Kenyan XXX’ after resetting the forgotten password. Tweet after tweet, thread after thread, username after username, I scroll through reading and reading until I come across a conversation merely days old. A two-minute clip shows two masked women in lingerie pampering a middle aged man who too is masked. While one of the ladies massages the man’s neck and head, the second fondles his balls and gives very sloppy fellatio. The man constantly moans and at the end of it, holds the second lady’s head in place as he cums. The video promises yummy nights for clients and in the comment section, @Jina_ni_Solo wants to know how legit @Carol_Queen is. Carol’s tweeted a contact and I’ve no clue if Solo hit her up but when I do over WhatsApp, Carol turns out to be a real Queen.
“Hi Carol, my name is R, and I’d like to get into what you do.” Not to confuse her, I double text, “Got your number from Twitter.” In minutes she replies,
“Hi R, what exactly do you want?”
“I’m 24, skinny and looking to get cash like you do.” I lie about my age to help with what? I’ve no idea.
“Okay. Ukona picha ama experience?” (Do you have any experience?)
“No. Sina anything. I can squirt though.” It’s my sole selling point.
“Well guys like that, so do you have a good smartphone?” I don’t.
“Yes.”
“Basi, take a few photos or if you’re up to it, a 10-15 second video of you touching and enjoying yourself.” Before I reply, she double texts, “I’ll share them on my status, I’ve got over 300 so if anyone contacts you, wametoka hapo.” (...if anyone contacts you, they’re from there.)
“Okay. Thanks. Asanti.”
“No problem.”
