I’m not going to sell bread for the rest of my life. I’m going to be a supermodel!
If that Olajumoke, who can’t even speak a word of English, can be plucked out of obscurity and turned into an overnight sensation why not me?
I’m fair-skinned and pretty. I have nice long legs and speak good English. I can give Genevieve Nnaji and Omotola Ekeinde a run for their money any day, that’s how beautiful I am.
I’ve invested my savings in make-up and every morning before I go out hawking I put everything on – foundation, fake eyelashes, lipstick – till I look like a Nollywood actress out on the celebrity party circuit.
I’ve even practiced the model walk – with a full tray of bread on my head – sashaying along gracefully, one foot in front of the other, with catwalk precision.
I’ve even tipped the local area boys to give me a call if they spot a camera crew or talent scouts. These little boys have eyes and ears all over Lagos and if it’s happening they are the first to know.
I’m not the only one. All the other hawkers have upped their game. Before we would ply our trades dressed like ragamuffins – torn and faded dresses, dusty legs and worn out slippers, hair still done-up in last season’s braids and without even a dollop of Vaseline on our dry faces.
That’s all changed now. Nigeria’s next best models are strutting their stuff along the roads and highways of our cities caked in make-up, balanced precariously on inch-high heels, sporting torn jeans or ripped hotpants and mini-skirts with naked flesh bulging for all to see selling akara or bread!
Everybody wants to be discovered by a modelling scout.
But I’m ahead of them all. I have my army of little area boys and informers looking out for me and I also have a cousin who’s into internet marketing. If he knows of anything he sends me a text, like the one he sent me this morning. I want to be first in line when it comes to selecting the best.
A T.V documentary was being shot in Agege around where T Y Bello discovered Olajumoke Orisaguna when she photobombed a Tinie Tempath photoshoot. There were some journalists and talent scouts coming – including some oyinbos from abroad.
I rifled through my wardrobe. No iro and buba today. I needed to look sexy and model-like.
I settled for a tight-fitting V-neck that half showed my cleavage, a pair of distressed micro-shorts and nude coloured legging.
I put on my make-up, all of it. I put gel into my hair to make it more curly and fluffy and stepped out.
I was at Agege within the hour. There were others there, jostling for attention, but I was not to be put off, circus or not.
Balancing my tray of bread on my head I walked up and down around where the television crew were. It was hot and tears of perspiration streaked down my face on to my top giving me a wet look as I was soaked in sweat.
After a while one of the photographers looked at me and I smiled back, striking a pose.
“Asewo…”, he shouted,”…how much do you charge?”.