SEX FOR SALE
Journalists are very busy people. All the journalists I know are always in a hurry: rushing to conduct an interview, to meet with a source, rushing to meet a deadline, or, quite often, to a favourite pub, to catch up with the day’s gist, usually over a bottle of beer and a plate of pepper soup. Expectedly, in the midst of all the activity, in the process of gathering news in a hurry (for, what is journalism, but literature in a hurry?), many engagements suffer. For obvious reasons, it’s impossible to be at different places at the same time. So IVs for events at the bottom of our scale of preference either end up languishing on the reminder board, the trash bin, or an over-stocked drawer. To this, I plead guilty. Many times I have attempted to be physically present at different places at the same time, only to discover that my babalawo (that’s herbalist, for those uninitiated in the Yoruba language) lied to me. By the way, those herbalists have either stopped understanding the language of the oracle, or they have just discovered the art of lying…I’m sure one would have collected huge sums from Wunmi (the actress convicted of drug trafficking), in assurance that all customs and immigration officials will be struck with blindness anytime she gets close. One told an upcoming artiste to throw his master CD into the bar beach, claiming, that as the ocean knows no end, so would his career blossom unendingly, even after his death. The foolishly desperate artiste obeyed the old man… by the time he got back to the studio, the system had crashed. Guess what? His only back up was lying deep in the belly of the
Atlantic Ocean. He’s still threatening to sue or shoot the wretched old man…
Anyway, so last week, when I got an invitation from rising singer Zeal, inviting me to ‘a nite with the diva’, I knew immediately that this one was a no no. How could I spend a nite out with zeal, on a special Friday when I had a vigil to attend in church? When my girlfriend was busy buzzing me, sounding all romantic, and asking when I’ll return home. Oh, no Zeal. Maybe next time. I stacked her invites (and there were lots of them) at the bottom of a huge pile, and shut the drawer. Then my mind wandered. Zeal? Come, on…the girl’s face looks like the product of an error…she’s Not.Even.Fine. how dare she send me an IV? And how dare i think of attending? That’s one voice, leaping forward, condemning the poor girl and urging me to ignore her silly invite. Then another voice reminds me: remember the girl has a body made in heaven…her legs, her hips, her butts and, oh, generous boobs… remember? See, the girl’s stats are: 36; 27; 44
What’s a face without a great body anyway? The girl has more sex appeal than 10 beauty queens put together…what’s wrong with having a nite out with a sexy chic with a bad face? And since it’s her birthday, she might get so drunk and end up on my bed. (God, all that luggage… will I be able to handle it alone?).
As usual, the adventurous mind wins. So I ended up spending a nite with Zeal at The Vault, Idowu Martins,
Lagos, on February 2nd -her 24th birthday. Me and 2face and Sound sultan and Jimmy Jatt and hundreds of other guys, who all came out to see the girl’s butts, for real. Oh, there were ladies too, a sprinkle of them (including some lesbians, I believe, who came to assess Zeal’s properties). But the dudes it was, that rushed out in huge numbers, telling each other after each performance (and costume change) of how gorgeous the girl’s body is; of how much sexual current she emits; and of how they’ll like to go home with her – or at least her autographed picture.
Unfortunately, none of us thought it wise to listen to her songs and concentrate on her talent. And the singer had plenty of that, soothing our souls with Stress reliever, generation song, and other cuts off her upcoming album. I mean, it’s okay to let our testosterones loose… imagining her in bikini, on a beach, and nearly wetting our pants. But it’ll be unfair to her, if we allow lust distract us from her real commodity: music. To buy into her music, and sexiness, is to buy into her career and future, ensuring her CDs move off the shelves…but to buy into her sexiness alone, with a desperate intent to bed her, and tour her luscious body, is an insult to God, and to her talent, and a sure way of sending her scampering back to Cyprus, that little town she dumped for Lagos. For a long time, we’ve been looking for bold, daring ladies to grab the mic and flirt with our minds…now that they’re heeding the call, from Kween to C-Naya to Niyola and Zeal, I have an advise for the randy, lusty men amongst us…why don’t we listen to their music, before stripping them nude in our minds and imagining them alone in a hotel room with us? Why? So that, for those who have something to say, whose music is as seductive as their bodies, we’ll buy their CDs and pay for an autographed picture…the daring ones amongst us may even try to get a lunch or dinner date. But for those whose music is a direct opposite of their looks, those who’ve traded talent for looks, we’ll simply ignore their CDs…instead, we’ll buy their wallpapers: one for the room, one for the toilet, and one for the office…we could even keep one extra, to replace the sleeve on Kemistry’s album…the music may come nice, but I don’t think anyone’ll particularly interested in hugging her pictures…