Her name is SHE. She uploads her very first picture. With brooms fixed as eye lashes. And foreign clay glued to her face, glazed with Indian kerosene- makeup, which makes her whiter than her father's polished black hair. She gets an encouraging number of likes and comments, most definitely from guys. She is happy. 'But that other competitor has more likes and comments.. I need a step up.' She thinks. She opts for bigger mounds on her chest, and gets the cancerous silicon. She orders fakes Chinese eyes from jumia. With plastics, the length of T.V remotes, fixed to her finger nails, she thinks she is set. Then she borrows a selfie stick, poses like a disabled, synthetically disfigured and takes a shot of her pathetic self. Then we see on facebook: pinky#panty#saturday having.fun.with.me. I*love*God*100% More likes and more comments. Evidently from guys with the deceptive spirit of eve. "My sweet galaxy.. Oo heaven's gate.. U look cuter than my maternal grandmother.." Their lying tongues flutter. She is happier. She starts feeling like Kim Kardashian. She stops replying comments and messages of good friends. Yet, she is still not satisfied. Fine pose+Fine house+Fine car=Fine picture. But her father could only afford to rent a flat, and perhaps rides a not-too-bad Peugeot wagon. She uses her synthetic disfigured body as bait for pot-bellied tycoons who do not consider a second marriage but interested in some deranged shameless females to lay and pay. She visits their homes. Takes pictures on different outfits, different duplexes, and different 2015 model cars, and feeds her facebook profile with these pictures afterwards. She gets an instreaming of likes and comments; in hundreds and thousands. She thinks she is satisfied. Then, her momma notices the swollen feet, early mornin nausea, dizziness; and a lump in her tummy. Her fans are waiting for more pictures, perhaps taken in UAE but nothing is forthcoming. She quits school. Forgets her facebook password. Breaks her simcard. Leaves home to squat with a chemist friend to assist with uprooting the little, innocent selfie stick in her tummy. But the quack's attempt fails. She dies. Is 'she' just a character in my little piece? Is this just a story? What if 'she' is not just a character? What if this is not just a story? Be careful dear. Who knows, you might be 'SHE??
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