So maybe you are 22, turning these pages – and cannot wait to be 23.
Because 23 is the basic age that a girl, even if she was never daddy’s or anyone else’s princess – (Beryl of the Royal Wangas up there can expound on this) – can become a Slay Queen in the Sovereign Socialite State of Slay Queens.
The Look
It helps if you were blessed with a big bust, and even bigger bottom.
But not to worry if you are so skinny and straight that they could use you as a plumb bob to measure the straightness of a wall (I find that ‘plump’ there very ironic, don’t you, Bob)?
Make sure you have a mass of horsehair on your head, because Slay Queens’ crowning glory is a weave made in Brazil, used secondhand in Togo, before finally making a home (nest) on your head.
Then make sure your fake eyelashes as Slay Queen are so long that when you blink rapidly facing East, the effect will be to cause Hurricane Quanika to hit Thiruvananthapuram town on the West Coast of India.
You must refresh your lipstick so often as Slay Queen that when out on a date, the dude will think you have Stage One Diabetes because of the number of times that you go to the toilet.
By now, I’m sure you’ve heard the one about the man who kept excusing himself to ‘go to the loo.’ Every time he returned, he kissed his date – but his lips kept getting saltier and saltier.
Perplexed, she followed him on his next toilet trip – only to discover he had quietly been eating a kilo of nyama choma, alone, in a side shack. (I suppose he wanted her on an empty tummy so she could get drunker on the alcohol he was buying her faster – but that story has nothing to do with Slay Queens).
A Slay Queen must wear clothes that leave little to the imagination – the way you looked the day the doctor/mid wife hoisted you into the air the day you were born. (Dear Future Slay Queen, they do this so that you can confirm that the dong you saw in the scan, if it is a boy, is indeed a dangling appendage on your newborn … then they smack their bottoms so the baby can get the first lungful of oxygen).
So you see, I never followed Itindi’s advice in last week’s article about not being in the DR (Delivery Room) six months ago – and I have lived not to regret it.
Anyway, Slay Queens are clueless about any conversation going on in the world. If it is not on ‘Snap Chat’, then it is not important.
They think that an ‘Elder of the Burning Spear’ is a sponsor with gonorrhea, and have never read a book. Even ‘Facebook’ is too-ooo long for Slay Queens. They prefer to keep it ‘Twitter,’ because 140 characters is as much text as their birdbrains can cope with, any given Saturday.
Speaking of birds, Slay Queens used to pout on their Instagram snaps – something called a ‘duck face’ as I told you last week. Before that, it was lifting one leg for a photo. Whatever happened to just saying ‘cheese’ or ‘cheers’ or whatever the hell it was?