When I am not strutting my stuff all over Kimathi Street, I spend a significant amount of my time and energy warding off older men who think that every pretty young thing (PYT) in town is looking for a sponsor. Ah, a little clarification before I begin. Contrary to popular belief around the blogs, I am a fiercely independent and competitively-remunerated young woman who foots her own bills. You simply cannot trust the tweets of a repulsive, elderly blogger with a face like a seal, who if I was asked, would make double as an Odinga househelp than as a blogger. Back to the topic of the day. Now, I really don�t like to talk about sponsors � you know � the dirty old men littering this town looking for fresh PYTs for their warm company in exchange for cash. I like to keep my Rolls-Royce mind purring on the important things in life like perfecting my world-class cooking skills to impress my newly found boyfriend (Praiiiiseee the Loooord!). Until the sponsor discussion reared its ugly head again on social media and now I have to give the final word. Let me describe to my esteemed readers who exactly a sponsor is. A sponsor is a modern-day sugar daddy. A shameless, libidinous, promiscuous and cantankerous 47-year-old man with greying hair and a bulging potbelly, leading an unimpressive life and unhappily married to a plain Jane. A bloated man-child with stunted growth. A pathetic little boy with daddy issues. His life is a mosaic of disappointments and a tapestry of failures that graduated him into the insecure, combative and vindictive man that he is today. An under-achieving man who grew up with a drunkard of a daddy who was too busy to teach a little boy how to be a man. An abusive daddy who used to come home drunk, vomit all over the house and beat the living daylights out of his momma. Little wonder that today he is a puffy middle aged man with teenage-like tendencies, battling a massive identity crisis. He thinks his worth is measured by how many 20-year-old girls he can romp with in the back seat of his heavily tinted 4�4 automobile at the parking lot of a crowded bar like Njugunas. These sponsors are dead men walking. They are the number one carriers of HIV/Aids. If the government intends to eradicate HIV/Aids for good, then they should assemble all sponsors on a ferry and sink it mid-sea. Oh, and that cough is not a �July cough�. He is probably behind on swallowing his favourite cocktail that is a daily dose of ARVs. A sponsor is
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