So Rachel Zane walked down the aisle on Saturday. And while I couldn’t be bothered to watch the proceedings I’m happy for the newly-weds. I really am. They have proved to us that fairy tales actually do exist. They’ve shown us the Royal family can stomach Catholics after all.
Their love story reads like something out of a Ladybird series. Hollywood meets Sussex. And as the lovely couple stood at the altar, looking into each other, all mushy and dewy-eyed, the rest of the world held its breath.
Everyone wanted a scoop. The world’s best photojournalists knocked each other over for a framed picture of the couple.
Some, even, in this our Nairobi, purchased a viewing worth 1 Million shillings –where they could sit on grassy lawns and sip champagne.
The Royal wedding was all the headlines. Twitter was awash with everyone’s two cents on the matter. The Sunday papers were plastered with photographs of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, all smiles, walking down the church steps –on their way to maybe do some sex.
(Speaking of headlines. Have you read Headlines, my latest Dusty Rugs number?)
I can’t help but feel sorry for the bride, though.
Marrying into royalty means she’ll have to make some swift adjustments. She’ll have to lead a much private life. She’ll have to trade the flashy lights of Hollywood for a quiet life in a castle, where she’ll be attended to by loyal servants with spotless uniforms.
She’ll have to give up the bikinis and sun-kissed cocktails at the beach. She’ll have to switch her favorite beverage to tea, served in little china cups. And unless she’s in mourning she won’t be allowed to wear black. Which means her LBD will have to go.
During the day she’ll have to wear a hat, a tiara if it’s in the evening, and gloves, and skirts that only go below the knee.
I wouldn’t like that very much. A fairy tale is supposed to be fun and full of butterflies and never-ending happiness. But you’re not going to enjoy any of it if you have to wear a hat all the time. Hats get all sweaty inside. What if Meghan just wants to let her hair down?
She’ll probably be out and about on a sunny afternoon –doing some humanitarian work, kissing babies and championing women’s rights- and she won’t feel like the hat.
Which would cause one of her servants to lean close to her ear and say, “Excuse me, your highness. You’re advised to wear your hat.”
And Meghan would be like: “I know that, Marjorie, but I don’t wish to wear a hat today.”
“Please, your highness, you’re in the public eye. You can’t be seen without your hat.”
“Screw the hat!”
Marjorie will gasp at that. Never before has a royal family member been so crass. There’ll be a long silence as Meghan remembers she’s not allowed to cuss. Then she’ll say, “I’m so sorry, Marjorie. Sometimes I forget I’m not in Los Angeles anymore.”
And get this, Meghan won’t be allowed to hug.
Yup, if the Duchess of Sussex happens to come across a long lost friend, she won’t be allowed to embrace them. Instead, she will be required to stretch out her royal hand for the friend to kiss.
I don’t get this rule either. What’s so wrong with hugging? I simply can’t imagine being disallowed to hug. How else would I feel girls’ breasts? After three years in campus hugging feels like the most natural thing to do.
In my school people hug all the time. You hug when you say hello and you hug when you say goodbye. Every time I greet a girl I have to pause and think: “Do I go right or left?” Plus girls generally smell nice bana. Who wouldn’t want all that freshness all over their shirt?
To ram the perils of royalty even further, Meghan will be forced to curtsey to any member of the family who outranks her. In public conversation she’ll have to steer clear of topics such as politics, and religion, and sex.
It’s restrictions like these that make me want to look at Meghan and say, “See your life.”
What else will she talk about with her friends? The weather? Fuel prices?
Because imagine that. You can’t freely comment on the Bible. You can’t openly state your political stance. You can’t start sentences with ‘Because’. You’re basically not allowed to have any ghosts in your closet. Sex toys? That’s terribly inappropriate, your highness.
But I’m sure we can smuggle one into the castle, your highness.
Anyway, I was bent over a glass of beer while Harry and Meghan were saying their vows. The pub was on some loud Rhumba, and there was a tray of mouth-watering nyama choma at the next table.
Meanwhile, preparations for the annual BAKE Awards were underway. The tables were clothed and the stage was set. The trophies were arranged neatly in a corner, and orange juice was in plenty. It even qualified to be called a ‘Gala event’.
Various bloggers would soon be streaming in, with their already thought-out winning speeches. “Blah blah it’s an honor to finally be recognized blah blah.”
Only days before the president had signed into law the Computer Misuse and Cybercrimes Bill, which, among other things, restricts the publication of fake news. I haven’t read the bill either.
But I wonder if there was any mention of this at the BAKE Awards. I wonder if the organizers –while giving a vote of thanks- reminded the bloggers on the importance of integrity. I wonder if they still insist on quality content and all things upright.
And I’ve probably got this all wrong. Maybe Meghan’s life won’t be as boring as I think. Maybe I might have exaggerated a tad, and she’ll be allowed to take off her hat. But now, as I get ready to publish this piece, I can’t help but think: Does this narrative of mine constitute fake news? Am I to be penalized under the new law? I can’t know for sure until I read the damned Bill.
Maybe BAKE will also have to make some changes. Maybe they’ll have to be more sensitive to content. Maybe they’ll have to stop dishing out nominations like it’s Christmas. Heck, maybe all this bile will be the reason I never get a BAKE Award.
I reckon I’d do okay, though, because BAKE refuses to recognize my efforts, which ultimately means that -unlike the Duchess of Sussex- I have the freedom to write about breasts as much as I want.
Photo credits: Amazon