hujambo people!
Ever wondered what the lives of the chosen ones are really like? Well, I’m going to tell you, because I’m one of them. I’m not talking about beautiful models au actors au musical prodigies au mathematical geniuses. I’m talking about the people who are born to it—those of us who have everything anyone could possibly wish for and who take it all completely for granted.
Welcome to New York City’s Upper East Side, where my Marafiki and I live and go to school and play and sleep—sometimes with each other. We all live in huge apartments with our own bedrooms and bathrooms and phone lines. We have unlimited access to money and booze and whatever else we want, and our parents are rarely home, so we have tons of privacy. We’re smart, we’ve inherited classic good looks, we wear fantastic clothes, and we know how to party. Our shit still stinks, but wewe can’t smell it because the bathroom is sprayed hourly kwa the maid with a refreshing scent made exclusively for us kwa French perfumers.
It’s a luxe life, but someone’s got to live it.
Our apartments are all within walking distance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue, and the single-sex private schools, like Constance Billard, which most of us go to. Even with a hangover, Fifth Avenue always looks so beautiful in the morning with the sunlight glimmering on the heads of the sexy St. Jude’s School boys.
But something is rotten on museum mile. . . .