I am always puzzled when I hear some girls term themselves ‘small girl with big god’. I get annoyed when people call me that. Annoyed, not because I don’t want to be referred to as a runs girl (it is what I am, and I am not afraid to own it), but annoyed because of those words, 'small girl’.
I, Kira, has never been, and will never be,
comfortable with being referred to as a ‘small girl’. Come on! I am a big girl!
So, I would rather be called to a ‘big girl with bigger god’. As
a matter of fact, I would even prefer ‘big girl with biggest god’. I am not
there yet, but that is my ambition... to graduate from the ‘big and bigger gods’
I currently associate with, to at least one ‘biggest god’.
Everyone has the ambition to attain the pinnacle of their career
and I am no different. The pinnacle of ‘runs’ is to have a ‘biggest god’ taking
care of you. I want to be just like those girls who are lucky to be with those kind
of men; I want to enjoy the kind of lavish lifestyle they enjoy. I want to roll
in my own range, take rides in private jets, holiday in Dubai today and Ibiza tomorrow,
rock the top designer couture and change my wardrobe like no man's business. To
achieve this kind of lifestyle, one needs to have a ‘biggest god’ in one’s life.
I am sure you know the kind of people that fit into the profile
of ‘biggest god’. Well if you don't, I can enlighten you. Politicians (nothing
lower than senators and governors o, honourables or local government chairmen do
not qualify), big time drug lords, scam kingpins and billionaire business men.
I have been working hard on attaining my dream. I have tried to
meet a ‘biggest god’ at places one would expect to find them… such as the bars
of five star hotels, polo club, etc. I have not been successful yet, but I had
no intention of giving up and remained alert for opportunities to meet these
men.
So, one day at the airport while waiting for my flight back to
Lagos after an appointment with one of my bigger gods in Port Harcourt, I overheard
a man having the following conversation, and my ears stood like antennae;
“What kind of pictures did you send to me? I told you that I
need very classy ladies and dashing young men for this job, and I am talking creme de la creme stuff here. This is
not a small wedding we are talking about.”
He mentioned the name of the governor whose son was getting
married. My jaw dropped and refused to close as he continued to reel out the
names of the big wigs that would be in attendance.
“I don't joke with my events, much less a major one like this, so
don't recruit rubbish for me."
Kira…
hmmm… this is an opportunity to be in the same room as many ‘biggest gods’. You
must tap into it, I thought.
I turned to the man with a
very bright, winning smile when he was done.
“Hi, sir. I couldn’t help but
overhear you talking about recruitment for an ushering job. I am interested, if
you don’t mind.”
He looked at me from head to
toe, taking in my Fendi handbag that I had almost killed myself to buy, and
‘original fake’ Louboutins.
“Are you sure? You look too
big for the job. All we pay is N30,000.”
“Ah, bros I don’t mind now. Don’t
judge a book by its cover o, I can do ushering job very well. And going by the
description of the girls you said you want, I am sure I am perfect for it.”
“Okay, if you say so. But it
is not an ushering job. I am a mixologist. I make classy cocktails and other
drinks, and usually work for the top echelon of the society. It is service
ladies and men I am seeking to recruit, not ushers.
Still I did not mind. Anything
to get myself into an event that has ‘biggest gods’ in attendance. I told him I
could also do a server’s job quite well, even lied that I had worked as a
waitress at a top restaurant years back.
“All right, you’re hired.” He
gave me his card and told me the date and time to report for training.
I was ecstatic.
Kira,
this is the opportunity you have been looking for for a long time now. You must
make sure you make the most of it! I lectured myself.
Days later, at the training
for the job, I was a bit disappointed to see the uniform I would be wearing.
With it, there was no way I would be able to market my curves to the optimum to
get the attention of my target audience. I would have stood a better chance as
an usher.
So I came up with a plan. I
would utilize the server job to gain entrance into the venue. Once in there, I
would change into befitting clothes, abandon my duties and blend in with the
other guests.
It meant I would not get any
wages, but I cared less about that.
And with that I got into
preparation for the D-day. I started with a skincare regimen that would make me
glow like the sun, then purchased accessories that would turn heads (bum-length
wavy wig and dazzling imitation gold jewellery), and finally got my tailor to
sew a bad ass outfit that would give anybody’s Daddy instant stroke.
D-day arrived, and so did I at
the venue of the wedding (Eko Hotel), punctual and dressed in the cocktail
server’s uniform. But in my large handbag were the actual clothes I planned to
wear, wig, jewellery and make-up set.
I sat with the other members
of the service team at the cocktail gazebo, then disappeared to the bathroom
the moment the dignitaries began arriving. In the bathroom, I changed to my outfit
– a body-gripping gown made from lace drowned in a million golden sequins with
a very provocative plunge to the neckline that left only my nipples covered. I
then took my time to beat my face into top shape and put on my wig.
I knew I looked stunning. The
way my skin glowed like 1000-watt bulb; the way my boobs curved over the
neckline of my dress, jiggling slightly with each movement; the way my long
legs and thighs gleamed invitingly. I had not come to play.
The Story Continues>>>Part 2
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