"Content Crash & Chicken Soup"
Zoe was exhausted.
Her eyeballs felt like burnt raisins. Her hair was in a bun so high it had its own altitude. Her camera battery had betrayed her twice, and her laptop fan was wheezing like a pensioner after a marathon.
It had been two straight weeks of trying to keep up with content creation, algorithm shifts, client briefs, and—worst of all—Sir Squawksalot's new fame.
"Why does your bird have a media kit?" she groaned, flopping onto the couch.
Pauline, in a silk robe and face mask, didn't even look up. "Because your bird booked a podcast and you haven't."
Sir Squawksalot, lounging in a tiny hammock near the window, chimed in:
"Booked and busy. Peasant."
---
Zoe had tried everything to revive her own channel. She updated thumbnails. Changed titles. Even filmed a "Get Productive With Me" vlog—which ironically took 9 hours and left her unshowered and crying into a packet of crisps.
It didn't help that every time she tried to record, some form of chaos followed.
Once, the neighbor's goat escaped and entered the frame.
Another time, Pauline started a kitchen fire trying to make cinnamon-spiced ugali for "a wellness reel."
And yesterday? Zoe tripped over a ring light cord, hit her knee, and screamed so loudly the landlord texted to ask if someone had died.
---
Her body finally gave out.
On a rainy Tuesday, Zoe woke up feverish, aching, and speaking in weird slow motion like she was buffering.
Pauline gasped. "Zoe! You're unwell. You look… matte."
Zoe croaked, "I'm fine. I just need to post today's video and—"
"No!" Pauline yelled, snatching the laptop. "You need chicken soup, a hot water bottle, and twelve hours of sleep."
Sir Squawksalot added, "And a PR team. Your image is suffering."
Pauline glared at him. "You're not helping."
---
Enter: Pauline's Healing Soup.
A steaming concoction of chicken broth, garlic, ginger, lemon, turmeric, and something "mysterious" she refused to disclose.
"It's called 'Legacy Soup,'" she said. "It cured my heartbreak in 1996."
Zoe sniffed it. "Is it supposed to smell like menthol and sadness?"
"It's supposed to bring your soul back from the abyss."
She took one spoonful and immediately coughed. "Why does this soup taste like betrayal?"
Pauline waved her hand. "Healing isn't supposed to be delicious. That's why it works."
---
Meanwhile, Sir Squawksalot decided to "take over content duties" while Zoe was out of commission.
This involved:
Posting a selfie of himself with the caption "Hot birds don't get colds."
Doing an IG Live Q&A in which he answered every question with "mind your business."
Sending a pitch to a feather-care brand called "Glossy Claw."
Zoe, curled in bed and sweating through her blanket, watched the chaos unfold on her phone and whispered, "He's going to replace me."
Pauline adjusted her eye mask. "Honestly? I'd let him. He doesn't complain about thumbnails."
---
By the fourth day of forced rest, Zoe finally started to feel human again.
She came out of her room in a hoodie, sipping warm tea. Her curls were frizzy. Her socks didn't match. But she was upright and breathing. Small wins.
Pauline clapped when she entered the living room. "She lives!"
Sir Squawksalot offered a crumb of his cracker. "Peace offering."
Zoe nodded. "Thanks. Now, hand me my laptop. I'm reclaiming my platform."
But as she sat to work, she noticed something—her views were climbing again. Not because of her last video, but because her sick day vlog (which Pauline had sneakily filmed) had gone viral.
Caption: "When your immune system gives up but your hustle doesn't."
---
Comments poured in:
"This is the realest thing I've seen all week."
"She's sick but still editing?? ICON."
"Is the bird okay tho?"
"Where can I get the soup?"
Pauline beamed. "Turns out vulnerability is content."
Zoe groaned. "I can't even die in peace without someone monetizing it."
Sir Squawksalot shrugged. "Sick sells, sweetie."
---
Later that night, Zoe posted a video titled "Burnout, Birds & Broth: A Breakdown Story."
It trended on Kenyan YouTube.
She lay back on the couch, sipping soup, finally content—for now.
Pauline smiled smugly. "See? Your downfall is your breakthrough."
Zoe nodded. "Yeah. But if this bird wins another brand deal before me, I'm cooking chicken stew. And I'm not talking about soup."
Sir Squawksalot squawked in alarm.
"Too late," Zoe whispered. "I've got the turmeric."