I am not in the mag

We were sitting in a near empty upmarket Kilimani restaurant late one night, when in walked an old mzungu man, trailed by what a fellow network maker calls butterflies. They were top of the range butterflies. Ample butterflies. Their dress code – tight maximum exposure. Everything was either abulging or ahanging. Four buttocks a butterfly, created by the cut of the tight panties across their rear ends. Five breasts a butterfly, two auxiliary breasts toward each armpit, two real breasts, and the fifth, a mound of flesh centrally located on the chest, created by brightly coloured ill fitting breast-compressing-brassieres, showing through their transparent tops. Flesh vending. Flesh galore, for sale by the kilo.

One had been in a fight with acne. She’d lost. She had enhanced and highlighted the acne scars with a light coloured mask of foundation. I assumed the mask was the skin colour she aspired for, because you could see the variance on her dark black African hands.

The acne veteran was assertive. In a short while she had claimed a bar stool, got two drinks apiece for herself and her silent compadre and was extolling their selling points to the mzungu. He was not interested. It emerged he had tried getting rid of them, by crossing the road from another nearby joint, the butterflies' domicile, in the hope that they would be barred from entering this restaurant.

They prowled the bar. Their long gold coloured horse mane hair swishing. Displaying their dimpled and mottled thighs, in porno heels. I learnt that phrase yesterday. Loudly coloured lady shoes with a thick platform and the narrowest longest stiletto heel that can be found.

I love watching "the butterflies". You must say it like that - the butterflies. And they love being watched. Which makes sense, because their service offering starts at the visual. These ones did not disappoint me. Mouth agape (pronounced with heavy emphasis on the last vowel) we watched as they did a little pole dance routine around the bar stools. Aptly twirling and turning their nether regions.

Our interest was not missed. Miss Acne spoke up and we had the following conversation;

You are jealous.

*Eyebrows lifting* Me?

Yes you are jealous.

Really?

Yes.

Ok.

You are jealous.

Ok.

Because you are not in the mag.

The what?

The mag.

What’s that?

THE maaaaaaaaaaag.

What are you talking about?

This mag *pulling out a South African store catalogue*.

See – here she is. There was a clothes model with a striking likeness to the mute butterfly.

Is that her?

Yes.

Oh wow. It’s her. In the mag.

You see – you are jealous.

Why?

Because you are not in the mag.

Yes, I am not in the mag.

So you are jealous.

Ok.

I knew it. You are jealous because you are not in the mag. She is in the mag. You are not in the mag.

Yes, I am jealous.

Major selling point established, she turned toward where she had left mzungu man sitting, to find he had long fled.

Major selling point wasted.

But I learnt something new. A selling and marketing technique - You are not in the mag technique. I was not in the mag. Mute butterfly was in the mag. Therefore she was better than me. And I was jealous. Was ahead of me in whatever race or game it was. And thus was better. A better deal to buy.

Anyway - I am not in the mag. Which led me to wondering if I will ever be in the mag.

image from www.prweb.com

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