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CITY GIRL: No sir, not every PYT in town is looking for a sponsor

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 house help 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 a seething mass of self-loathing, and understandably so. He is Nairobi’s premium conveyor belt for every sexually transmitted infection known to man. He is not called a dirty old man for sport, he truly is a dirty old man. Preying on young women half his age. Interns, secretaries, receptionists, wife’s nieces, his friends’ daughters…

A sponsor is what I’d call ‘new money’. A buccaneering businessman who got rich the other day, when he landed his first contract to supply rice and cereals to NYS and suddenly, he thinks he owns the world and all the PYTs in it.

He is mentally dwarfed, you know, an accomplished numbskull. You see, some of them are so fat, the belly fat has pushed their little brains to the darkest corners of their skulls, and they are basically operating on free gear in as far as brain matter is concerned.

He is an ardent Facebook user. Like the proverbial dirty uncle, he lurks online befriending girls only 10 years older than his eldest. He is permanently on Twitter, following and sending direct messages to the interns on the next floor. He is a resident of WhatsApp, forwarding naughty memes to Jesus-loving girls like me. On Facebook, he is messaging college girls from South B, luring them to the lions’ lair with the cheap thrill of an M-Pesa message and offering to buy them phones for sex.


Because he is intellectually dysfunctional, he will spend his money on young women instead of saving up for school fees for his two adorable children and a new pair of heels for his long suffering plain-Jane of a wife. He is a nauseating excuse of a man.

Instead of spending quality time with his family, you will find him juggling socialites in penthouses all over town — some of which, as some sponsors have painfully discovered — are not always a bed of roses, but contain thorns too.

Too bad, dead men don’t talk. I would rather you heard the truth from the horse’s mouth.

No wonder tragedy befalls them on their way home in the wee hours of the night. The mean-looking thugs in bulky jackets who drive around town looking for trouble will catch up with him eventually.

A sponsor will always drown in the rivers that their wretched wives have cried over them for years. Who cares if a sponsor gets carjacked in the middle of the night in Kileleshwa and accidentally gets shot dead? The world is better off less one dirty old man.

Dirty old men should be swiftly banished to where they really belong. A dark abyss of obscurity. The dustbin of history. We don’t need sponsors, we are badly off already all by ourselves.