The Facebook fan page – Campus Divas for the Rich – was at first a harmless, just for fun virtual entertainment. It was my and Sharon’s idea.
Sharon and I were pursuing Bsc. Computer Engineering at the Nairobi University, were roommates and people called us geeks and lesbians. Guess we behaved like ones, geeks I mean.
Sharon and I were hottest dudettes around, staunch Christians and anti Pro Choice activists. One day, Sharon suggested that we create a Facebook fan page just for fun, no pun intended, to see how gullible and depraved men are; just to play with their minds.
At first it was a virtual game, doing match-making for the players and all that kind of virtual dating stuff. Then, it was no longer a game.
Sharon posted her photos nude and semi-nude, others at various stages of undress. Soon, friends on FB liked, commented and shared them. Before long, messages started flooding the page’s inbox. From that we saw a minting machine in the making.
Overnight we had more than ten thousand likes, photos added and shared; and profiles with juicy, tantalizing and seductive bios created. That’s when the virtual game ended. The largest online escort service in the country was created with Sharon and me as the directors.
However, we meant it – we wanted the rich, no hustlers, no punks, no strings attached; just pure fun. We were ready to be the fantasy woman every man envisions in exchange for cold, hard cash. Overnight, we were stinking rich.
Then, the worst was yet to come – some of the clients went too far. They wanted us to deal, told us that it would give us the porn-type-off-the-planet orgasms every woman dreams of in addition to performing other unorthodox sex acts. Some of us went along with it, others didn’t.
That’s how Sharon ended up dying, such a tragic end indeed.
There was this client we had at a private party in one of the Nairobi’s leafy suburbs – stinking rich, government official with more clout next to the president, ranked high up there the food chain. He wanted a threesome. Sharon and I agreed.
Nonetheless, he was too creepy – he wanted us high on ecstasy, cuffed, blindfolded, legs tied to the bedposts and perform asphyxiophilia, as he played with our bodies; his idea of ultimate pleasure.
Sharon agreed to that. I couldn’t, but I was there for her. Always was. As I watched him, his hand on Sharon’s throat, controlling her oxygen, kinda giving it and taking it away, fear crept up to me. Sharon played along until when he was climaxing – her movements became jerky and desperate. It was as though her weakness was his pleasure until when she stopped moving. Then, without even looking at me, he dressed and stomped out.
Hardly had he walked out when two men in black entered. His bodyguards? I didn’t know.
Sharon was carried out while I was left in the house. I thought they were going to give her first aid.
That was the last time I was to see Sharon alive. God, she wanted to start her own software company.
Her body was to be found in the morning the following day at the Dagoretti dumpster, mangled as though it had been run over by a truck.
Copyright ©Vincent de Paul, 2013.
