There’s a certain kind of brand that doesn’t just enter the market quietly. It storms in, hijacks every screen in sight, blasts neon sale banners in your face, and sets up camp in your brain. That, in a nutshell, was Temu.
You didn’t discover Temu. Temu discovered you. You could be googling your cousin’s wedding photographer, watching a recipe reel, or playing Ludo Star, and suddenly it would appear. The orange menace. Offering you Bluetooth speakers for Rs. 700, a chai cup that doubles as a phone stand, eyebrow razors shaped like bananas, a waterproof calculator for your shower thoughts, and a mini desktop vacuum cleaner shaped like a ladybug that works exactly once. You never asked for this. But Temu didn’t care.
It wasn’t charming to say the least. It was the daawat guest who touches the aux cable, critiques your decor, and tells your mother she’s overcooking the biryani. Or the unfunny character that keeps showing up in your favourite drama, spoiling the flow and adding zero value. The ads were relentless. The app was pushier than a rishta aunty with three eligible sons. It didn’t just want your money. It wanted your entire attention span.
And then came the prices. So low, you had to squint. Rs. 180 for orthopaedic waterproof shoes? Rs. 200 for a full makeup brush set? A bedsheet bundle for less than a halwa puri breakfast? It didn’t matter if you needed it. Temu would show it to you twelve times a day until you gave in and clicked “Add to Cart.”
What they were doing was no mystery. This was a digital ambush. Spamming every app, flooding your feed, and pretending it was doing you a favour. Your phone battery was collapsing. Your algorithm was hijacked. Your brain was slowly convinced that you actually needed a glow-in-the-dark fridge magnet shaped like a duck.
People started buying. One order turned into five. And sure, things took three weeks to arrive, but it was cheap, and half the fun was forgetting what you bought until it appeared at your gate looking like it had fought customs and lost. Temu wasn’t useful. It was noisy. But it was everywhere. Then came the switch.
One fine morning, the deals weren’t dealing. The Rs. 500 gadgets were suddenly Rs. 1,400. The Rs. 600 vanity mirror? Now priced like it belonged in a salon in DHA. The cart that once felt like a playful indulgence now resembled your K-Electric bill. The discounts were still there, but now they sat on top of prices that made no sense. “20% off” meant nothing if the base price had doubled overnight.
People noticed. Social media flipped. It went from “Look what I got for Rs. 1,200” to “Is Temu okay?” Complaints were piling up, but they had actually been out there for a while now. Delays, missing parcels, random products that looked nothing like their photos, refund requests that disappeared into the void. Everyone had a story. But the app kept pushing. Loud, persistent, and full of fake urgency.
Let’s be clear. This was never about convenience or value. Temu didn’t come to Pakistan to solve problems or improve lives. It came to dump products, flood timelines, hijack attention, and then quietly crank up prices once enough people were hooked. It was never affordable by magic. It was strategic chaos.
They built the addiction, then moved the goalposts. Classic catfishing. Lure people in with unsustainably low prices, make them feel like they’ve unlocked a secret, and then slide in the real price tag when it’s too late to back out. The app still screams SALE like it’s saving you from inflation, but now it’s just yelling in your face about deals that don’t exist.
Now that the dust has settled and reality has kicked in, people are waking up. That glow Temu had? It’s gone. The app that once followed you around like a bad decision is now trying to convince you that Rs. 3,000 is reasonable for a pencil case with a built-in calculator and fan. We’re not falling for it. If there’s one takeaway here, it’s this: just because something is loud doesn’t mean it’s valuable.
The act is over. The charm never landed. And the curtain’s been pulled back on Temu for good. Pakistanis are no longer impressed, no longer distracted, and definitely no longer buying it.
