“I’m the tall lady in the romper,” I texted from the lobby of Serena.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Nice outfit. I’m Rich.”
The 65-year-old business executive looked old but well-preserved. After some wine and a cheese plate, we got a room—Rich undressed, I de-rompered. We popped champagne, toasted in the Jacuzzi, and dried off.
On my way out, Rich slipped an envelope in my purse. “Your allowance, babe.”
“Thanks, daddy,” I replied, counting six crisp “gorillas”.
I met Rich through a popular WhatsApp group, sort of dating platform that matched wealthy, successful older men, called “Sugar Daddies,” with attractive, open-minded young women, AKA “Sugar Babies. For the gentleman of means, a mutually beneficial arrangement provided no-strings-attached companionship.
From the start, I was an unlikely candidate for the platform: a quirky girl-next-door type with the face of a nun. My two younger sisters and I enjoyed an upper-middle class upbringing in the Ntinda suburb. My father was a lawyer-turned-entrepreneur. My mother taught English at a local secondary school. I attended an all-girls school (I wont mention which) and joined Makerere University, where I majored in Business Administration.
Throughout campus, I’d rarely dated. For years, I’d shared a platonic bed with my best friend. Lately, he was busy exploring the Kampala nightlife scene and all the city had to offer. I often found myself sleeping alone.
Half joking and half desperate, I asked a friend if she could add me to this infamous whatsapp group I’d been told about sometime, unlocking a world of generous benefactors, willing to finance my aimless existence. From age 19 to 23, I juggled 30 different men between the ages of 42 and 75, and made close to 30,000,000UGX in total.
Rich was the first to message: “Nice clavicle,” he wrote, referencing my anonymously cropped profile photo—He offered everything there was to offer I’d envisioned concert tickets, spa treatments, new jumpsuits for my fall wardrobe. Straight up cash, though, was a sweet surprise.
“That was the easiest 300k I’ve ever made,” I boasted to my roommate, who was working for a 250k per month as a research assistant.
I was astounded to realize I could get paid to wear a slinky dress, sip cocktails, and chat, just as I’d done for free with guys my age. I thought back to one particularly cute guy I’d met a few months back at Blankets and wine: tan, toned, and 27. We’d dined at the Nandos Pizzeria . Afterwards, I went back to his place for sex—a fair trade, I thought. For two milk shakes and 6 slices of pizza, it seemed natural to return the favor.
I never saw Rich again, but after our tryst I was hooked on the forum, always online. I loved the naughty thrill and instant high of dating-for-profit. Sifting through my messages, I scheduled a new potential suitor for each night that week: a lawyer on Tuesday, professor for Wednesday, neurosurgeon on Thursday. Friday, I met a software engineer.
Sex was never a requirement, though I found it was often the main aspiration for these men. I didn’t hate intercourse; it felt like exercise—sweaty and cardiovascular. I capitalized on my indifference. With nothing at stake for me emotionally, money replaced the pursuit of pleasure. It was an incentive—a tangible, guaranteed reward in exchange for my consent.
I jibed well with the daddy demographic. Tendril-haired with a praying mantis physique, I was not the standard beauty; but these men saw my youth as a novelty—a fantasy.
Thanks to my lucrative exploits, I was able to move to away from my hostel in Kikoni and went into an apartment in Kololo . In my spare time, beat every level of Candy Crush, went for Zumba classes at Serena—sleeping with rich men who treated me like their paid princess was my secret second life.
Dating Sugar Daddies felt like a natural, preferable alternative to submitting to marriage or a stressful career. It was a life hack—a loophole in our society, one area in which young women could capitalize.
“Are you dealing drugs?” asked my (real) father. Aware I had no job, he was confused about the source of my mysterious cash flow. He’d taught me not to depend on a husband for financial support—in a way, I was following his advice. Banking on my feminine appeal, I felt like an independent woman, not tied down or trapped by one partner.
Eventually, I decided just to come clean. My parents weren’t thrilled to hear about my entrepreneurial dating methods, they almost abandoned me, calling me names and all. But after words they talked to me and were happy to the fact that I had come clean.
Three months later I was seeing no one. I was hopeful about returning to school, but without the Daddies I lacked direction. They were supposed to be a means to an end, but I still felt lost, devoid of ambition or any clear idea of what I wanted. For me, sex work had become a means of stalling—the ultimate distraction, vocationally and intimately. I turned to therapy for insight.”What would bring a nice, educated young woman to have sex for money?” asked the shrink.
“Besides money?” I replied He was not amused.
“What happened to your spirit?” he continued. “What broke, and when?”
I believed I’d acted deliberately, pragmatically, as a conscious adult. Becoming a Sugar Baby was not the path I’d envisioned for myself, but I viewed it as part of my journey to a life of stability—and human connection.
Still, as more time passed, I couldn’t help but feel haunted by what I was giving away. Every time I saw couples together I wondered, why don’t I want to share my life with someone? I feared something was wrong with me—I didn’t have this desire for emotional connection. Having sex for money had become a way for me to participate in this realm of intimacy, because otherwise I wouldn’t have wanted to have it at all.
Then, I finally confessed the source of my brokenness: At age 15, I was sitting next to my grandfather at dinner and felt his hand on my bare thigh. When I’d mentioned this to my mother later that night, she froze.
“That’s why I never left you alone with him when you were little,” she said. “He did things, when I was growing up—.”
As a small child, I’d learned that the closer I was with him, the more gifts he’d bring me: Cadbury eggs, Barbie dolls, raspberry candies in little round tins. Everything seemed innocent to me then, even when it wasn’t.
Mine was hookup culture. Hesitant about returning to the group that I’d now left, I told my friend to add me back.
“Hey gorgeous. Wanna be spoiled?”
“Yes,” I replied, accepting the 45-year-old hotel owner’s proposition.
After KFC and drinks, we retreated to his apartment in Bugolobi, sipped some red wine and, sufficiently aroused, progressed to the bedroom. I never truly looked at these men naked, but now I couldn’t ignore the dad bod.
“No panties,” he noted while caressing me. “I like that.”
“That’s what’s great about rompers—a whole outfit all in one.” I let the garment slide off me, as nonchalant as removing my shoes.
Sex had become automatic—a mundane ritual. But this time I couldn’t zone out the way I used to. After what felt like hours, I stood up and started getting dressed, thankful I could leave.
“I don’t get it—what’s wrong with you?” the Daddy asked.
“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I told him. “Good night.”
At first I was angry with myself for not collecting my allowance. But I didn’t care anymore. I could no longer carry on as I had, sleeping with men I wasn’t attracted to, switching off my feelings as though I were two separate people. It seemed in selling my body I was trying to reclaim control, however false and fleeting. That’s when I quit.
It was true—I viewed sex as a performance. I’d been playing a role. I’d always had personal agency—to joining this group, to sleep with the Daddies, to accept their money, and finally, to walk away.
Later that night, I packed my things and the next day left the apartment for my old rusty Kikoni hostel. This time, I craved something more substantial than sugar. I craved Love.
……as narrated by a Finalist at MAK
