Buruburu women have the synchronised ability of being upmarket and ghetto, depending on the crowd. One moment they are dexterously manipulating cutlery in a five star-hotel, and dressing their servings aptly and the next they are abusing a matatu conductor in a language that will make a drunk tout shy.
Maybe it is because Buruburu is the better polished hood of the expansive Eastlands. The finest from Buruburu went to Huruma or Pangani Girlsâ€™. They have the rare ability of speaking Sheng and refined English depending on the audience. One moment they are savouring mahindi choma and mutura by the roadside, the next they are questioning your sensibility when you take them to a smoky food joint, on Accra Road.
It often escapes me, how a woman who was drinking soda in a club will switch to wine or some unpronounceable whisky as soon as you show interest in her. It defeats men, why a woman who on her own knows where the cheapest fries are sold will insist on pizza, if it is someone elses money.
Modern women are ingrained with the quality to be plastic. I mean, you have a woman who went to Chogoria High School who has the opinion on pizza. You have a woman who went to Kamagambo High School who insists that white wine works for me. How now? Not that they don’t enjoy these things, but listening to them explain this is what will give one cancer.
So who are Nairobis most plastic women? Let us start with starter models. If my daughter, God forbid, tells me she wants to be a model, she will be disowned. If you want a punitive conversation, try a starter model. It is the most self-centred, ignorant conversation you can have. I am not saying all models need to go back to school, but I happen to have had the unfortunate experience of meeting the slower ones. You invite her for cup of coffee; she arrives in a matatu but will insist you get her a cab back home. Simply because she showed up in her modelling outfit. She needs Jesus, not a taxi
The second class of women who drive me up the wall are college students who have been introduced to finer things in life by some sexually dysfunctional sugar-daddies. When you meet a second year university student with standards so high, that the Princess of Wales might want to look up to, you are reminded of your own mortality. One such, who joined campus wearing skirts more apt for a local Catholic Church, refused to have lunch with me when she discovered denim jeans and bigger smart phones courtesy of her yuppie male friends.
But it is women in advertising and public relations firms who take the prize for plastic women 2013. Maybe it is their jobs. They are expensive dates. Given they fly high, organizing corporate events in five-stars, in real life, they equally live their fictitious corporate lives. Ordinary folks will have little luck with them, lest they sell all their ancestral land to feed them for her week in Nairobi’s swankier hotels.
What hurts is they survive mostly on complimentary tickets and gifts that they flaunt around without any trace of guilt. They insist on exotic foods and drinks that they have no knowledge about. They insist that restaurants that Kenyans richer than them throng are seedy. Go to rugby matches for the alcohol and ogling the players. Above all, if you must behave in an affected way, at least don’t be shallower than a lake in the Rift Valley while in expensive and fashionable clothes.