The Gospel According to Me: Slayqueens, Bitch N*ggas & The Art of Minding Your Business

 

An illustration depicting a Slayqueen.  Photo/Getty images. 

Ladies and gentlemen, and the undecided in between,

They’ve said a lot about me. Oh yes. I’ve been called names too vulgar to be printed on a church bulletin. If vibes could kill, I’d be six feet under and trending posthumously with the hashtag #RestInPiecesFelix.

But guess what? I'm still standing, still typing, and still too stubborn to be cancelled. Because while respect is nice, it doesn't pay my bills. Writing does. And today, I’ve come with no filter, no apologies, and absolutely no chill.

Let’s talk about my two sworn enemies—those who keep me on my creative toes: Slayqueens and Bitch N*ggas (yes, we’re going there).

Chapter One: The Gospel of the Slayqueen

Imagine this creature. Eyelashes heavy enough to start a tornado, nails so long they could pickpocket you from across the room, and filters so advanced even NASA couldn’t detect the original face. This, my dear readers, is the modern slayqueen—Mother Nature’s optical illusion.

Now I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: this blog is for grown-ups. So buckle up.

Slayqueens are walking Wi-Fi zones with no connection to reality. Brains? Decorative. Opinions? Recycled from TikTok. Priorities? Snatching photos over purpose. They confuse attention for affection and believe WiFi clout equals self-worth.

I first wrote about them in campus. A fiery little blog post about “socialites” who thought clout was a career. That post went viral. My inbox? Full. Not with love letters, but curses so intense I thought I was being pre-exorcised. I was called everything from a failed blogger to a chokora with a WiFi password. Apparently, being a former street kid is a disqualification in the School of Writing According to Instagram.

Still, I survived. The slayqueens breathed fire, but I breathed facts.

And this week? Oh, this week! One slayqueen accused me of using AI to write. Sis, who doesn’t these days? Even your captions are AI-generated—Artificial Ignorance.

Chapter Two: When Men Misbehave – Enter the Bitch N*ggas

Now to the second group of humans who get under my skin faster than a mosquito in heat.

Let’s get this straight. There are men, and then there are bitch n*ggas—men who act like broken printers: loud, unnecessary, and never printing anything useful.

Just the other day, I wrote about dating bartenders. My experience. And suddenly, a whole grown man caught feelings like it was a bouquet at a wedding.

You see, dear readers, this blog reaches thousands of people—most of whom I’ve never met. So if you feel personally attacked by a general story, it means your life is a copy-paste of my satire. And that, my friend, is not my fault.

But these weak-wristed keyboard warriors always find ways to drag me into their imaginary beef.

“He has pictures of my boda.”

“He’s chewing my girlfriend.”

“He thinks he’s smarter than me.”

Bruh. If you dropped out in Class 8 and think you’re intellectually superior to a university graduate with a passion for public policy, that’s not confidence—it’s hallucination.

Final Benediction

So here’s my gospel: talk your talk. Whisper my name in your little WhatsApp groups. Let your hate power my imagination. Because if I’m the topic of your tea-time gossip, then I’m living rent-free in your mind—and I’m not moving out anytime soon.

But for the rest of you—my loyal readers who laugh, learn, and occasionally question my sanity—I’ve got nothing but love. You are the reason I keep going.

Now go forth and change or perish.

Can I get an Amen?!

About the Author

Felix Kinyua is a fearless freelance journalist with a degree in Communication and Media, and a Master's in Public Policy and Administration. Known for his raw storytelling, biting satire, and viral blog posts, he writes what others only dare whisper. When he’s not writing, he’s either thinking about writing or making enemies by telling the truth.