Wasps, Avatars and the new aliens

I stared. Everybody stared. Our eyes followed a young lady whose entire dress motif was leopard skin. She had a nose ring and six earrings on one ear. Her bangles jangled—metal, wood, leather. She had about 15 bangles, I kid you not. Her makeup was flawless and her skin smooth as a baby’s bottom, but it was difficult to stare at her for too long. She wore ice-blue contact lenses, eyelashes like a bird’s wings, and tomato-red lipstick.

I looked away momentarily. There was just too much to take in. Most of the men were transfixed, and when my gaze returned, the women had moved on to other things; they were no longer staring. Miss Eyelashes was dragging her jarring-pink box to the far end of the building. Her hands—I beg your pardon, her nails—were all over the place. Bright red nail polish and impossibly long talons. I wonder how she was able to eat with those nails, but I digress. Her voice was a slow rumble, almost guttural. She was making a din.

Now, everybody turned back to look at her. She was explaining her challenge to an official at the top of her voice. She was, without a doubt, the biggest drama of the day. Her voice, her looks, her box—everything was drama. But it was her figure that took the cake. Her waist was impossibly slim, like she had been snatched a hundred times, but her rear view was clearly in the way of her body. She seemed to drag herself forward.

I was astonished by the sheer fact that the derriere she carried did not belong to her; it belonged to the surgeon’s knife. As they say these days, she had some work done. From her waist up, she looked a little awkward but still normal. She had a beautiful rounded face with dimples. From below her waist was a completely different story. That part of her belonged somewhere else. That part of her did not match the rest of her body. She looked like an overgrown wasp.

Truly, a caricature bestriding her space and offending other people’s space. To worsen matters, she was not quiet. We had to see her; she ensured we saw her. As she whizzed past us, heading for the other end of the space, everybody embarrassingly turned away.

Dateline: Murtala Muhammed Airport, Lagos.

There is a disease in town across several cities in Nigeria. It is called the Brazilian Butt Lift (BBL). It is an epidemic.

Miss Wasp is walking up and down, ensuring that her butt is the main subject of discourse. A large mass of immovable bulk and flesh, walking around the airport and causing a massive distraction. A spectacle, if ever there was one.

But, as it is now well known all over the world, BBL is a matter that is attracting all manner of persons who are vulnerable. There are now wasp-like figures populating the entire entertainment industry and other industries where women think they need more than just their brains. From property to aviation to some female CEOs—women who feel the need to be seen and women who are just out there to please men.

It is becoming a trend where many women, unschooled in the dangers of BBL, have gone to their graves. What is the look? A thin waist that is completely unnatural and a fat derrière that looks like a mass. plaster of Paris In addition to this, they walk around with a massive set of balls on their bosom.

This grotesque look is often seen in cartoons, but *it* is believed to be attractive. Plastic surgeons have faced difficulties in dealing with persons whose mental health tells them that the bigger they are in some parts of their human anatomy, the more attractive they are.

In Asia, the demand for plastic surgery is increasing by the day. Asian women are working hard to look more and more Western through surgeries targeted at the eyelids, cheekbones, and jawlines. (China and Japan are 3rd and 4th, behind the U.S. and Brazil, in the demand for plastic surgery.)

And the cost in Nigeria and other parts of the world is mind-blowing. And, just in case you have not heard, it is also very addictive. Surgery to beautify or enhance can start small, but it becomes the elephant in the room when you crave surgery for your nose, your hips, your butt, and even changing your entire look into that of a different person.

For corrective surgery, I understand, but cosmetic surgery is a different ball game. The other day, I walked into a hotel and encountered a woman who looked fairly familiar. It was her voice that gave her away.

“Aah, my sister,” she said, waving.

Truly, Asian smile—she was a different person: lips pouted, eyes narrowed, and nose now more aquiline.

But, more importantly, she was fair-skinned in a strange way. Her skin was porcelain yellow and transparent. She had taken an injectable, something new these days for skin-lightening.

Just what are we becoming? We are collectively becoming aliens, unrecognisable to our families and friends. We might as well become avatars, cartoon characters, and new monsters on the block.

When it comes to maintenance, no one ever tells you that you have to spend another six thousand dollars to maintain that butt. Out there, it may look attractive to some, but back home, no one ever tells you about the pain, the discomfort, and the horrible journey for most.

I leave that to your imagination.