The Ramblings of a Madman

The Moon and Venus are Beautiful... But Inflation and Poverty are ugly.

2024-03-13T20:14:00.001+00:00

I took a walk. Just now, I left my mug of Irish Cream, Baileys, and walked outside to look at the sky. I have to tell you, the Lagos sky isn’t what it used to be. When I was young, younger… I am still young. I have to remind myself of this daily because I fear that if I start believing I am old, I will behave like an old person. That is to say likely to drop dead at my next breath.

There used to be stars, heavenly bodies as far as the eye could see. Now, there’s usually nothing, just black. If you’re lucky there’ll be a cloud. Maybe two clouds… These days it’s black, stale, hot, humid. Just me, and my sweat, looking up at a bleak sky. But not tonight. Tonight, there’s a beautiful crescent moon. How it gleams. And there’s a star above it too. I think it might be Venus. How pretty! How lovely! How nice! It’s so nice that I’m very nearly able to forget the deplorable situation in my country, our country, Nigeria.

There are many Nigerias. There’s the one you live in, and there’s the one others, your betters, occupy. Of course, if this logic holds, ceteris paribus – remember I have an Economics degree, there must also be a worser Nigeria, populated by the unfortunate. The people who reply to the question how are you with, “I’m quite truly terrible.” A lady did that to me yesterday. I fled from her, vanished from her sight with the quickness of the Greek god Helios, or Hermes, or Apollo? Which one of them is the one that drags the sun across the sky?

Anyway, let me tell you of my Nigeria.

There’s more than 500 naira in my bank account. Thank God. I have had less money than this. If I find a cash merchant, one of those POS somebodies, I’ll be able to get 300 naira, and this will buy me a bottle of Fanta, a divine drink which every good boy deserves.

Today, a friend of mine, Beamer, told me of an odd thing that happened to her when she was driving home… This Beamer is an excellent friend. Truly spectacular! So incredible that I don’t mind that she friend-zoned me when we were 18, so excelle-markable that we remain friends 15 years later. She said…

Enter Beamer!

Beamer: Afam, my facial was good, but also bad.

Afam: How come? Aren’t you looking finer than you were before it.

Beamer: Yes… but…

Afam: But what? You really must stop sweating the small stuff Beam-Beamer. If you die before your wedding, I’ll be very unhappy.

Beamer: What if I put you in my will?

Afam: I’ll mourn you with joy!

Sorry I must take another walk… Drinking and writing must be broken up by walking lest one lose the will to finish.

I have returned… but my laptop battery is low, and if I let it die, it may never come on again. If you recall I have under N 1000 in my bank account, and that money is reserved for Fanta. It is not for fixing laptop.

I must now go and get the charger.

Where is the charger?

I have returned. Where was I? Yes. Beamer.

Beamer: How lucky I am to have a friend so good he’ll laugh when I die.

Afam: Only if you put me in your will.

Beamer: The extractions were excruciating. I screamed with my mouth closed.

Afam: So you squealed in public. How shameful!

Beamer: Also, the guy that owns the place was hitting on me.

Afam: The curse of the beautiful, to shock everyone, even the unattractive, to attraction.

Beamer: PIKACHU!

Afam: Pokemon?

Beamer: No! I just saw a lady.

Afam: You’re really too excitable. How is seeing a lady worthy of taking the great pokemon Pikachu’s name in vain.

Deamer: She’s wearing a Denim skirt but no shirt. Her nipples are saluting the sky!

Afam: So she’s only half mad! That is bizarre.

Exit stage left Beamer!

In Lagos, we’re used to fully mad people. Naked people rambling around for who knows what reason. I think it’s a sign of the times.

In my Nigeria, I am being gaslit by the economic principle, and truly terrible thing, inflation. On Saturday night I bought a beer for N2 500. Abomination! I came back for a second 30 minutes later and they sold it to me for N3 000.

At my local supermarket, my deodorant of choice, Rexona invisible for women is now N 3 500. It’s expensive yes! Too expensive! But even worse is my brain, which tells me that I cannot pay that much for deodorant, so I switched to roll on. A big mistake. The first time I rolled on that anti perspirant, was the first time since puberty that I smelled like my animalistic self, which is to say I fled the dancefloor because I was skunking up the place. The next time I went back to the supermarket I shut my eyes and I bought the damned thing.

I’d tell you more of how I’m living, and what’s happening, but I’m tired, and it’s Tiger’s birthday.

I’ll go outside now, for a walk. I’ll look at the sky. The moon, a crescent moon! She’s so pretty. And the star just above her, Venus, is so sparkly. Both of them, a reminder, that only the best things are free.

Happy Days,

Afam.

We go again - The Return of the Ramblings of A Madman.

2022-10-25T01:27:00.005+01:00

Do you know that I wanted to be a star?

It happened in the summer of 2018. I had just left CNBC Africa. I had just joined the BBC. I went to England, London for a week. Life was good, but yet, there was an emptiness, a vacuum I found terrifying. There are very few things worse than nothing.

I expected the Lord to part the clouds and scream to me, “Well done my boy! Come home!”

He did not.

Instead, I’d have to begin the less-than-divine struggle for prominence. I thought it beneath me.

Madness didn’t descend like I thought it would. There were no fireworks. No bomb went boom. No great pane of internal glass shattered. I suppose it’s nearly impossible to know you’re breaking when you break slowly.

Something broken broke properly; the tilted vase fell, shattering glass. Glass on the marble dance floor. Blood pooled at my feet.

Do you know you can bleed forever? Do you know you can spend a whole lifetime losing liquid life and still have life?

That one’s a bit of an odd statement to make; a weird question. How very queer of me.

Whenever I go away I feel the need to explain why, to conjure words where there are no words, to build a story around myself that makes sense. I was ill. I was tired. I was exhausted. I was terribly depressed - stories by a story man, the ramblings of a madman.

I think I stopped being myself.

Is that it?

Does that work?

Am I lying?

Perhaps.

The Rambling Madman - Afam, sat on a wall.

The Rambling Madman - Afam, suffered a great fall.

And no priest, no reverend, no shrink, or psychiatrist, could put him back together again.

Do you know that someone, let’s call him, Aboniga… That’s what we called him at school. He was insufferable then, and he’s insufferable now, tweeting for Africa, misguided thoughts about policy, politics, and power. Always, all the time, as if cursed, his fingers articulate ideas that are mostly stupid.

I don’t dislike him. I don’t dislike him one bit. In fact, I think I quite like him. He’s interesting, I think. Watching people be themselves is a delightful occupation. Some people say, “Shut up Aboniga you’re an idiot.”

I say, “Ride on good misguided sir, let’s see how far this takes you; how fat you become.”

That’s besides the point.

This sir once told me I was self-absorbed. The words stung. They pierced my un-fleshy breast, nestled in my heart like a festering cancer. A demon of the heart, singing me lies like lullabies.

A brief aside. I’ve developed a fondness for alliteration. That’s what you do when you string words with the same consonant sound together.

“Lies like lullabies.” - That’s alliteration.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.” - That’s alliteration.

“Am I self-absorbed?”

The thought plagued me like an unpaid prostitute harangues an owing client.

It was only one of many things people had said about me, painful words that reached my ears, bruised my heart, and crippled my spirit.

I stopped being myself.

Healing is as strange as breaking. It doesn’t happen all at once. Deliverance takes a lifetime. Church bells don’t ring. Flying Monkeys don’t swoop in from the sky and shout, “The Wicked Witch of the West has withered to waste.”

In the great before, during the time of turbulence, the season of pestilence, I would try to explain myself away. Treat myself like I was some Mr. Robot. The Rambling Madman on the journey to greatness, timelines so strict, he couldn’t stop for a drink of water, a meal, a snooze.

Ah! A fool’s mission.

There were breakdowns. Big ones. Little ones. Serpentine ones.

What kind of person journeys without fuel and gets genuinely surprised when the car stops on the road?

What did I think would happen?

I started this blog in 2012. It is 10 years old. How marvelous, how wonderful, how grand!

I haven’t written a word on it since 2019. How terrible, how neglectful, how sad!

But also…

And so what?

What of it?

Why should I feel bad about it?

We go again.

It's just like it was in the beginning. No audience. Very little knowledge about what will happen. A boy, a baby man, with some words in his heart, and absolutely no plan.

Let's see what happens.

Happy Days,

Afam

The day music goddess Kah-Lo defended her one and only Afam.

2019-12-02T13:56:00.001+00:00

There's a manic pixie dream girl I'm in love with. Her name is Kah-lo. She's the sort of person that makes you believe in magic and fairies and unicorns. Her hair is green, her skin is brown, and her eyes twinkle with mischief. She is one of the few people on this planet that drunk me and sober me love with equal amounts of fervor.

Now, I must backtrack here, because some of you are a little bit cross with me. You're thinking, "Afam, the next blog you promised was the one about your kidnapping and valiant escape. What is this piece of nonsense."

To this, I have the following to say.

I will not speak of, or casually refer to that traumatic incident until my therapists and I have dealt with it completely. As most of you know, I took a break from my exceedingly successful career as a journalist to become a full-time Demon Slayer. And just today, or was it yesterday, I realized that I'd given my demons such a thorough thrashing that I could return to my journalism career. However, we must never forget where that career started: the blog.

In any case, Kah-Lo is a wondrous creation. She's a lyricist without compare, a songstress with an eye for trouble, and a hard worker. Now, I must say, I don't know her very well. On the few occasions that I have met her, I have never once behaved well. I would apologize for this, but love is love. With my consistent declarations of casual affection, I have weaseled my way into her heart. Just the other day, she jumped on twitter to defend my honor.

It all started when I tweeted the following...

And then that led to this...

At the time I didn't really want to discuss my tweet further. In as much as twitter is a source of joy, it's also very often a source of stress. I find some debates stressful, and debating with Timi, who I quite like, is exhausting. It's far better to do peaceful constructive things like sleep. So I followed that tweet with this.

Fight Club is an extraordinary film that came out 20 years ago and like all good films, its relevance exceeds its date of release. Timi had the following to say about my tweet.

When I saw his reply, I sighed very heavily and thanked the good Lord for growth. You see, when I was younger, I'd have used this as an opportunity to further my achievements in pettiness. I'd have said something like, I admire your ability to treat the mundane as serious. But, being an adult, I did no such thing. And that was when Kahlo, my green-haired, Grammy-nominated, music-making, angelic fiend, came to my rescue.

Obviously, Timi wasn't going to let this slide.

But Kah-lo, the defender of my musical dreams and sanctified ears struck him again.

Timi refused to stay down. He was hell-bent on defending his position. If Kah-Lo was a lesser being it'd have worked, but Kah-lo isn't a human being, she's a spiritual being, I knew it the first time she said, "It's time to make the club go up, it's time to shut the club down." My girl came through with a sledgehammer of a retort.

And before I could dance a merry dance because Kah-Lo had put down my wayward but ultimately lovely assailant she followed it with this. A Ginger sized 1, 2 punch. An "open close faster faster" if I ever saw one.

I danced a merry jig when I saw that one. When the agents of Jesus fight for you, all but the monumentally troublesome dare fight back. Timi tried to steal a win but he was ultimately unsuccessful.

And then, Kah-Lo made me love her forever and ever.

I love it so much I'm going to put it on a t-shirt and give it to myself for Christmas. After that, I'll put it on my underwear so anyone that's lucky enough to see me in the semi-nude (typically my parents) knows the way I swing and lastly... If you do not already know who Kah-Lo is you must educate yourself. She has a brilliant single that's perfect for Detty December (The Nigerian way of saying in December we party to the death). And with no further ado, I present to you, the work that my Knight in Shining Armour has made:

Can you die if it isn't your day to die?

2019-09-24T15:41:00.001+01:00

There’s something about being in your twenties. It’s the only time in your life when you can be a young upwardly mobile professional and a smooth talking delinquent with little or no irony, perfectly preserved in some version of post adolescent beauty by the happy combination of fantasy, alcohol and money. At least, that’s how the Nigerians I know do their twenties. Adult children with big dreams devoid of suffering, weeping or teeth gnashing. If only their dreams were real.

Somewhere in our twenties adulthood begins. The smooth roads we dreamt of are only accessible when we sleep, or at the end of a whisky. Happiness grows so fleeting that it is scarcely remembered. Instead we learn how to perfectly preserve every exquisite moment of our suffering. Or maybe that’s just me.

I was driving across Falomo bridge in Lagos. It’s an important bridge but it isn’t the most important bridge here. That title would have to go to the Third Mainland bridge, aptly and unimaginatively named because it’s the third bridge that connects the island to the mainland. More important because it handles more traffic than any other bridge in the city. Falomo just connects two of the city’s more wealthy neighbourhoods. It serves its purpose with a Lagosian mediocrity for although it has not yet collapsed (I think it will some day) it isn’t the sort of bridge that you speed along without fear that a new unregistered undercarriage wrecking pothole has sprung up without warning. But I didn’t care about that. I was drunk and trying to prove a theory.

When my grandfather buried my grandmother he buried himself. Three months after, he needed a wheelchair; four months, his heart started failing; five months, and he had trouble breathing. Six months later he was at my brother’s wedding. On Christmas Day he had a few glasses of Champagne and said, “I just want you all to know that if I die today I die a happy man.” Three days after he was gone. He died they way he lived. With him there was no time for regret only action. This brings us back to the theory I was trying to prove... That we wouldn’t die until we were meant to no matter how hard we tried.

The speedometer climbed: 60,70, 100. My heart beat too fast for sanity, more adrenaline than blood in my veins. 120, 140, two cars joined the bridge. I’d gone far enough. I hit the brakes. It was too late now. It was going to be the car and me or the car or me. At that moment I felt something like regret. I could hear the squeal of metal on metal. I didn’t want to hurt myself or the Nissan which had begun to rebel against the idea that it should pay attention to the steering wheel. I felt like a brave fool. I thought, “Forget about half arsed prayers, God my life’s actually in your hands.” I’d forced life’s most mysterious aspect to make a move.

The cars in front of me picked up their pace madly, like they’d begun a drag race. The Nissan slowed quickly, 140 to 60 in the blink of an eye. Nothing happened... but I knew two things. The first was that it wasn’t my day to die. The second was that I wasn’t quite alright.

How to survive the recession: Think Peer to Peer Lending

2019-09-11T20:45:00.001+01:00

By August 2016, many Nigerians had learned a new word: recession. Two consecutive quarters of negative economic growth confirmed by the National Bureau of Statistics. It was a word that had not shown itself since 1994. Time had long eroded its meaning. For some, a recession means very little. It’s something heard in the news and mentioned in articles not unlike this one, their bank accounts and their incomes secure enough that they do not have to worry. But for the economically vulnerable, it is as good as an excruciatingly slow death. They watch their loved ones lose their jobs and live in fear that they will lose theirs sooner rather than later. Life in Nigeria was difficult enough when the dollar was cheap and the economy was undisputedly Africa’s largest. Now that the economy is in recession it is almost intolerable.

On the streets of Lagos the harsh realities of rising unemployment and inflation are apparent. “Masses are crying loud” said one pedestrian at the Adetokunbo Ademola round about in Lagos’ Victoria Island. Before she could finish, another passer-by chimed in. “People are crying.” Another woman lifted her hands despondently and said, “If they (the government) want people to perish and die and go, let them do it because I have never seen this kind of government before.” One man said that he had to keep two of his four children at home because he could no longer afford their school fees. Others reported much of the same. Rising prices leading to cutbacks on expenses that were once considered necessities. Any real hope that the government is capable of dealing with the situation is dying.

When times are hard and real income is falling, people look for alternative sources of income to meet their needs. They take loans from banks and other financial organisations. However, with interest rates in the double digits this is not an option many can afford. The First City Monument Bank interest rate for general commerce ranges from 17.5 - 30%, and across the industry customers applying for personal loans or SME loans could face rates as high as 80%. As if that wasn’t bad enough, according to Lafferty Cards and Consumer finance, the probability of a loan being accepted is about 7%, but this is not unusual in a recession. In a recent interview with Premium times, the Chief Executive, Rest of Africa Standard Bank Group, Sola David-Borha said, “With economic recession, customers and companies find it very difficult to pay loans. Consumers have not been paid salaries and are unable to service loans.” As banks do not have the regulatory or legal framework to ensure repayment, or a well developed method of assessing risk, they have very little choice but to charge high interest rates. Furthermore as the Monetary Policy Committee has kept interest rates high, the bank rates have little room to manoeuvre but up.

As rational as this method of operating may seem, it is not without its drawbacks. In a 2011 survey of the Nigerian middle class by Renaissance Capital 60 per cent of the respondents claimed it was impossible to borrow small amounts from formal institutions, 84 per cent had never applied for a loan, and a mere 20 per cent saw banks as the possible providers of loans. This is shocking when you consider that 20 million small and medium enterprises account for around 80 per cent of all businesses and they employ a total of thirty-one million people. The situation has not gone unnoticed. Prof. Akpan Ekpo, the head of The West African Institute for Financial and Economic Management (WAIFEM) said that the hard conditions faced by SMEs was caused by the lack of access to funds for working capital needs as a result of the behaviour of banks.This peculiar situation raises a necessary question. If 84 per cent of the middle class have never applied for a loan from an official financial institution then where or from whom do they borrow in times of need?

Most people are likely to borrow from the three fs: family, friends and fools. They are the first resort. A fool and his money are soon parted and family and friends are willing to dilute cynicism with affection. As some ask, what it is a little money between friends? But there’s a problem here. While blood may be thicker than water, it isn’t more binding than a well constructed contract. There’s no legal or formal framework and because of this both parties are exposed. Friends can recall the debt before it’s due, and you could choose to not pay back. In addition to this, friends and family are unlikely to have the resources to truly support the dream you have. Whatever they give comes at great cost to their well being. This is not the case with most formal institutions.

With inflation crippling the value of money and rising job insecurity, many Nigerians have turned to fraudulent Ponzi schemes promising impossible returns. Up to 3 million Nigerians signed on to the country’s iteration of the Mavrodi Mondial Movement, a platform that has never once failed to bankrupt users in every country it’s operated in. Nigeria’s version is in dire straits, as the founder of MMM in Nigeria is reported to have fled to the Philippines, leaving millions anxious about their investments. However, this tragedy has not curbed the Nigerian appetite. New ponzi schemes pop up by the day with some like Twinkas offering 200 per cent returns. A drowning man will grab a straw to save himself from death, it is the same way Nigerians have grabbed on to schemes most know are fraudulent to save them from poverty.

The difficulties of the great recession are not restricted to the lower and middle classes alone. Those with significant amounts of disposable income have been affected. Consumer confidence fell to a record low of -28.20 in the third quarter of 2016, and investor confidence has been hit as well with the Nigerian Stock Exchange shedding a trillion naira of its market capitalisation last year. In times of uncertainty even the rich seek security. They pull out from any schemes they deem risky and lock their money up in safer financial instruments.

For solutions to these problems, it is necessary that we look to technology. From time immemorial, technology has provided us with the most efficient means of moving forward. In the Nigerian retail space, companies like Konga and Jumia are introducing e-commerce to the average Nigerian and enhancing the shopping experience which has been crippled by logistical and infrastructural difficulties. According to a report by Philips Consulting, in 2014, 38% of Nigerians preferred to shop online, by 2016, this figure had shot up to 49%. This development has made shopping more convenient for consumers and has contributed to the rapid growth of the wholesale and retail industries. In 2014 the sectors accounted for 16.6% of Nigeria’s GDP, second only to Agriculture.

If similar innovations were applied to the financial sector, it is possible that some of the problems the sector is plagued with would be resolved. An instance where this has been successful can be seen in the introduction of BVN which now serves as a powerful tool in identifying an individual financially. This system is not perfect but it is definitely a step in the right direction. One possible solution to the scarcity of credit and the lack of confidence in Nigeria’s financial markets especially in a recession, could be the introduction of a peer to peer lending platform like Fint, Nigeria’s first peer to peer lending site. Fint is an online platform where people can access credit at competitive rates and investors can earn returns on their investments by supplying those loans. On the platform borrowers can get as much as N3.5 million.

The loans span a number of categories and are both given and received through an internet mediated registry. This model is new in this part of the world, but it’s been tried and tested in the United States with platforms like Lending Club and Prosper. Judging by their reviews, the benefits it could bring to borrowers and investors alike are astounding.

For a peer to peer lending platform to work, it must have a method of assessing risk; a credit model. Fint uses a pioneering proprietary risk algorithm to achieve this, allowing people to receive unique interest rates that are calculated after a number of conditions have been taken into consideration. This leads to lower interest rates not only because the loans are provided by a large number of investors, reducing the risk any given one of them faces in the scheme, but also because the rates are tailor made for you after taking your considering the particulars of your financial circumstances. Furthermore, because the loans are administered over the internet, overhead costs are reduced and efficiency is increased, cutting the red tape by up to 12 weeks.

The benefits of this system are not restricted to those who need credit alone. Peer to peer lending platforms like Fint are typically transparent so investors need no previous knowledge of financial products and can self manage their investments. Once they find a person, a project, or a business to back, they receive monthly payments from borrowers. This gives them an additional stream of income that requires very little additional work or effort. Furthermore, because interest rates are favourable, returns on their investments are higher than comparative financial instruments. Investing in Fint brings an opportunity to diversify a portfolio with a new asset class, giving greater confidence as risk is shared over a larger number of financial markets.

When peer to peer lending took off in the United States of America, some who were reluctant to look at the fine print of platforms like Prosper, were quick to paint it with the same brush as they would a ponzi scheme like MMM. However, the comparison is demonstrably false. According to the Securities Exchange Commission in America, a ponzi scheme is “investment fraud that involves the payment of purported returns to existing investors from funds contributed by new investors.” The difference is that with peer to peer lending, it is the borrowers provide the returns for investors, as they do with the most traditional financial instruments.

Originally published in Businessday

The causes of the Nigerian recession are many and varied. The scarcity of affordable credit, the global fall in oil prices, the lack of significant foreign reserves, the penetration of corruption, and the current government’s sluggishness in the face of an economic disaster all had a part to play, but that is not where the story ends. To exceed the heights of our previous economic boom, we must not leave it to the Government’s spending plan or a reversal in global oil price trends. We must look to ourselves.We must empower our 170 million strong population, all of whom could be an entrepreneur given the right financial assistance. A peer to peer lending platform like Fint could very well be all the help that they need.

There could be blood...

2019-09-02T02:39:00.000+01:00

We may meet them at a house party, a gathering of mutual friends; sometimes in a bar where the music is too loud for speaking. Sometimes from twitter, occasionally at a funeral – where the grief is almost tangible – and every now and then at a wedding. If we look at the largest possible picture, the broadest possible view, we must admit that it matters not how we meet them, only that we do.

Two people arrive at a crowded event, drinks at Lagos' most popping bar. It could be any number of things, an accent, a pair of bizarrely patterned trousers, a shared affinity for a good martini- shaken not stirred. Who knows the million billion things that could inspire two people to look each other in the eye and see the glimmer of a kindred spirit?

More often than not, it happens after the sun has set. It is easy to understand why. Only then does Lagos not seem like the thief of dreams. Even if it still remains the destroyer of all legitimate passions, then it is at the very least not entirely hideous after sunset. The potholes look like art installations, each with the significance of a museum.

It is the suggestion of thrills unknown. There's a look, a smile, a smell... Some vague impression that leads to that first hello. Most of the words that follow put great emphasis on specific questions – “What’s your name?” “What do you do?” “Where did you go to school?” “What are your top 5 films?” Their sum is the answer to the one question neither of you can answer – “Who are you?”

You being in your twenties haven't the faintest idea. You're only just learning that you'll never truly know. So we do our best to piece it together, till there is at least the vague picture of a person. It will become clearer in time.

Will the glimmer of something turn into something more? It depends, and it will continue to depend. Sometimes the spark doesn’t quite catch that way. The initial excitement could give way to absolute loathing, casual indifference, public declarations of mutual affection without much private conversation. And it could become something much more than you intended. There could be blood, the recognition of a similar soul in veins that aren’t your own.

If there is blood, you will be as one. The things about the city that grate – its assault rifle wielding policemen, its high on lizard shit thugs – lose their edge. The horrifying, the disgusting, and the annoying become the fuel of bleak laughter.

You will meet many, sometimes on the beach, occasionally at the gym, ever so often at dinner. Most of them won’t see you to the brink of infinity or the beginning of forever, through no fault of theirs, only because not everything is supposed to last forever. But when there is blood, the recognition of a similar soul in veins that aren't your own, the rest as they say is history.

Notes on Bobrisky's cancelled Birthday Party

2019-09-01T21:16:00.000+01:00

The only thing certain about living is dying. As none of us know precisely when that will be we cannot really afford to waste a single breath. This is why we pursue personal happiness in so far as it hurts no one else with almost single minded selfishness.

Being Nigerian is a strange affair. The successful among us (not to be combined or confused with those who are successful as a result of corruption) have become so despite the country's best efforts, but we love Nigeria because we have no other reasonable choice. To live with hatred is to choose to live with a cancer. It is a waste of precious breath. So we love it despite itself. It is our prodigal son and our black sheep. I have never known anyone to thank it in a speech. If I ever win anything, I could thank my ancestors who are mostly Nigerian, but the country itself, never. I am alive in spite of it. As long as I live here it is likely that I will die because of it.

In Nigeria, there's a trans-woman called Bobrisky. She's a social media sensation, a personality as famous as the country's president, Muhammadu Buhari. She'd been planning an all white birthday party for ages. To stop Bobrisky's birthday party, Nigeria's Police Force deployed 100 policemen and several vehicles. I find this fact heart breaking.

Where were the 100 policemen when I got kidnapped? Where were the 100 policemen when two men attempted to rob me in traffic? Where were the 100 policemen when my family got robbed? Where were the hundred policemen when my grandparents got robbed in their old age? Where were the hundred policemen when my aunt was almost raped at the end of a robbery? The answer is nowhere. This leads me to ask another question I find uncomfortable. Why is the policing of Bobrisky more important than my safety or that of my family? Why is it that the police are nowhere to be found when they are needed, and then, suddenly, everywhere, when they are not?

Bobrisky may not be Nigeria's first trans-woman, but she is its most relevant in this day and age. It is said that she made her fortune the patronage of a rich gentleman and a thriving skin lightening business. People often use the skin lightening business as the foundation of an explanation of why her morality is questionable, but they forget that skin lightening products are perfectly legal in Nigeria. These people then move on to discuss how she's setting a bad example for the young, but she isn't really. I don't know much about being transgender, but there is one thing I think is true. Only a trans person could truly endure everything that comes with being a trans person. The existence of Bobrisky will not create more trans people. And in any case, cosmetic surgery is beyond the scope of any of Nigeria's laws.

As the Police Force is funded by my taxes, I need to know why 100 policemen were sent to stop her birthday party from happening. The police say that they acted on intelligence. I want to know what the intelligence was. In an interview with the Vanguard Otunba Runsewe the Director of Nigeria's National Council for Arts and Culture threatened Bobrisky. He said, "if he is caught on the streets of this country, he will be dealt with ruthlessly." I need to know that this was not the attempt to deal with him ruthlessly.

Am I a fool to want what I will not receive even when I am owed?

If Nigeria were a true democracy I would say that a police force that cannot be held accountable has no reason to exist. But Nigeria is not a true democracy so I dare not say that. For Mr. Runsewe, it's a different matter. We know his name. We know his job. We know people that know him. We know where his office is. He must be held accountable for his callous words if nothing else. This is the email address of the government agency that he works for. Please drop them an email in your spare time: info@ncac.gov.ng

For Bobrisky, I have nothing but a quote by Rob Silaten.

“Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

I am sorry that this happened to you.

Notes on Supo Shashore's The Journey of an African Colony

2019-08-30T17:32:00.002+01:00

A few months ago, I had a meeting with Tomiwa Aladekomo, the CEO of Big Cabal Media. During our conversation, he asked me what I thought of some existing media platforms. As I am known to do when I let my tongue run away from me, I launched into a monologue that was scathing at best and bitter at worst. He stopped me, saying, "You must never forget that these platforms are pioneers. They're filling a space that needs filling and doing a job that needs doing. Flawed they may be, it's a fact that we can't ignore. You must also remember that many are new, and they're modelled on platforms that have existed for centuries. They'll get there eventually. They're more worthy of praise than scorn." I'll never forget these words, and I was reminded of them when I watched the first episode of Supo Shashore's The Journey of an African Colony.

There are two questions every Nigerian asks: What happened to us, and why are we the way we are. History as it's taught in Nigerian schools is a farce - an abortion of a thing. That it is possible to leave education without knowing any answers to the above two questions is a travesty. This is why Shashore's documentary which airs on Nigeria's most watched news network, Channels Television, isn't just highly recommended but part of every Nigerian's civic duty. It is the history lesson we should have had in school.

What the script lacks in tightness, Shashore more than makes up for in his narration. His confident delivery and his syrupy baritone make the story easy to follow and more importantly easy to remember. His pieces to camera are world class. This is marred by the sound editing which bizarrely bad and the camera work which definitely needs work. I have heard that quality was lost in transmission but the criticism stands. I can only review what I saw. The production may also have been better served by more creative thinking. I would have loved for Shashore to visit some of the slave towns he spoke of in the series first episode.

However, for all of its flaws, The Journey of an African Colony is a must see.

Lagos Hotspots: Bar Bar

2019-08-30T10:52:00.001+01:00

If you're in Lagos and in need of both a haircut and a drink then there's only one hot spot for you, Bar Bar. Yes, it's a bar that's also a barbershop. It sounds unsanitary but it isn't. The barbing salon and the bar are mutually exclusive.

Located in what can only be called the Lagosian idea of a strip mall, this place has everything. Manic Pixie DJs that go by Aye, tall men, short men, questionable men, posh men and feminists. You're also quite likely to see me, Afam, half man, half myth, and recovering alcoholic.

With free shots available depending on who you know, it's the place to go if you're drinking on a budget.

At Barbar you can dance like a dervish without fear that anyone's watching because no one is. The people that go here are almost uniformly selfish in that they care only about their good time. They mind their business and wind their waists, which is always and everywhere a good thing.

PS: Beware of the fantastic beast and madman Faratu for he's been known to hang about there. If he takes control of your night be aware that you have entered one chance. You'll wake up at 4pm the following afternoon with no memory of what happened the night before.

Happy Days,
Afam

Diamond dust and a shoe string...

2019-08-29T12:26:00.001+01:00

The human imagination is a thing of wonder. I'm not sure that it would beat the speed of light, but it's definitely quicker than the speed of sound. You see, in all the time it takes to say hello, it is quite possible for a person to have gone from thinking, "Oh! This person seems alright." To, "We will have a big wedding with no fewer than 5000 guests and Burna Boy's On The Low, will be the song we use to enter the wedding reception." This is why matrimony is just as lovely as it is terrible. When a thing has been imagined and analysed with such frequency, it is quite frankly impossible for reality to match it.

This is the problem one nameless user of Beyonce's internet finds herself faced with. After spending 8 years dating the same man, and the last 3 years talking about marriage, her big day arrived. He proposed. But to put it mildly, even by my basic standards, the proposal was sub par.

The thing might as well be a piece of string. And the worst thing isn't the fact that the diamond is essentially diamond dust it's that it looks hideous on her finger. But be that as it may, I think the pairing will be successful. He gave her an insulting ring, and she trashed him all the way from Seattle to Sydney. It's a match made in heaven.

Happy Days,
Afam.

Hot Fraud Summer

2019-08-28T10:57:00.000+01:00

I was on summer holiday when I got a text on my phone. I'd won a million naira. Now, these were the days before the great devaluation. A million Naira was not chicken change. A million Naira was four thousand pounds. This was in 2006, 2 years before the great recession. I thought it might have been a scam for about five minutes, but I quickly convinced myself that it wasn't. Those only happened on the internet, this came straight to my Nokia. The number the prize came from looked like one of the ones my mobile network provider would use to tell me to subscribe to love advice or sports news. I bit the bait. I was 16.

I don't think I was greedy then. I certainly didn't need the money, but I understood the value of a windfall. I understood the ease of saving money you didn't need. My mouth went dry as serotonin, dopamine, and adrenaline flooded my brain. How Fatima, Maryann, Faridah, Foluso and Ebube would tremble when they discovered I was Afam 2.0. Millionaire without counting his parent's largesse. I also made a note of how I would ruin Chibuikem, who'd thought it prudent to share my adolescent journal complete with passages of my adventures in masturbation with my year. I think some people called me Bursts of Pleasure for one full term.

I followed the instructions on the text. First they asked that I buy them credit. I did. Not a lot, about N 5,000. Enough that my brain started sending me hot signals. N 5,000 at that time was probably all the cash I had. I decided to abort mission millionaire, Maryanne and Chibuikem be damned. But those were the beginnings of my troubles. They called me incessantly for 2 days. I was traumatised. They wouldn't stop. I begged. I pleaded. But they'd found their mark and they were refusing to release me. So I went to my brother cap in hand. "Brother Gbaddy, save me!" He did.

There's some magic that happens when a deep voiced Nigerian with the poshest British accent uses the full weight of his education to deal with another human being. Women fall at their feet and the gods weep. The men never called again and I learned a lesson. In this life, it is not your destiny to win any lotteries but the one of birth. I didn't even know then that I'd been the victim of Advance Fee Fraud, and I didn't need to be told about a Nigerian Prince to fall hook, line and sinker.
___________________________________
For Obinwanne Okeke, life's been a storm. He basked in the sunlight for a moment only to be shattered on the rocks the next. Forbes Africa launched his reputation as a wunderkind, a vanquisher of poverty. TEDX and the BBC cemented it. For a time he shuttled between his houses in South Africa and Nigeria. To look at him, as I once did in person, was to see a younger better Aliko Dangote. Obi's story fit the rags to riches trope more neatly and we loved him for it.

Now, his globe trotting business days are behind him, bound as he is by the FBI awaiting his day in court. It will be his second trial. The first trial ended the day news of his $12 million scam hit his native country. The detailed report of the investigation by the FBI left no room for doubt. The verdict was guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. In the blink of an eye Obinwanne Okeke, the young African entrepreneur, became InvictusObi, fraud par excellence. I do not think that this will be the last we hear of him. At the very least, when all of this is over, should he want it, there'll be a book deal attached to his freedom.

Before Obi became a foster child of the U.S.A, like most of us, he had another father. He was born to a household that was as large as it was humble. He was the 17th child and his mother was the 4th wife. His mother was a teacher who traded to make ends meet. When he talks about her, you can see his eyes light up. His love for her is no lie. Her main dream for him was that he get an education.

Obi's father died when he was 15. He misses him. Fathers are very often a strong resource that sons rely on. He says had his father been alive he'd have been able to seek his advice and prevent some mistakes. At 16, Obi was out of secondary school. A young entrepreneur with big dreams, he started his first business. He called it an IT company. He made business cards and this allowed him to do two things. The first was buy bicycle so grand he was the talk of his village in Anambra, the second was earn enough to fund a Computer Science degree at Monash University South Africa. The degree currently costs around $6,000 per year and I suppose takes at least 3 years to complete. It's here that the first suspicion of fraud sneaks in. How successful would a business have to be to yield profits sufficient enough to pay for an international education, and buy a bicycle?

With bills to pay, a degree to fund, and himself to rely on, Obi's entrepreneurial spirit couldn't die in South Africa. He started 2 businesses that he's spoken of, an entertainment outfit for students and a taxi company. By the time he was leaving he had 13 cars. He has never spoken of loans as a source of capital. He's only spoken of scrimping, saving, a bitter climb from rung to rung and partnerships formed with friends. All of this is now suspect. Bachelor's degree completed he flew his mother in for graduation.

For his Masters degree he set his sights on International Relations in Australia. His love for Nigeria and his quest to understand Boko Haram, the country's terrorism pest, led him to add Counter Terrorism to his degree. In hind sight his knowledge of Counter Terrorism could only have proven useful for the scams he'd one day run. In Australia he says he did all kinds of jobs to survive. As of February 2018, you would have needed to show evidence of about $14,000 separate from tuition and travel to get an Australian student visa; no small feat.

When he finished that he moved back to Nigeria and started the Invictus group in 2009. In the beginning it's said that his company had only one computer. He says his first project in Nigeria was low income housing. He doesn't say where the project was, but as with most of his independent moves, you have to ask where the capital for this came from. From there he expanded and grew his interests. By the time he made it into the Forbes Africa 30 under 30 list in 2016, he had 128 members of staff across 9 companies, and fingers in construction, oil, gas, renewable energy and agriculture. He had 2 houses, one in Nigeria and another in South Africa. He'd built a house for his mother. He scrubbed his story of any illicit under tones and took to the media to inspire a generation.

For me, April 2018 was Obi's most interesting month. Between April 11th and April 19th, Obi, posing as Unatrac's CFO authorised $11 million in payments from the company to a number of foreign accounts. On the 25th of April he walked into the BBC's headquarters in Oxford Circus, London and gave an interview so great that they called him a rising star. The only time he faltered was when the interviewer Veronique Edwards asked if he paid himself a salary. Washed by his charisma, she didn't press for the details of his excess which once led him to shower himself with champagne in a South African nightclub.
___________________________________

For Nigerians, it's been a hot fraud summer. Obinwanne's collapse from grace was the beginning. The news of 80 Nigerian indictments by the FBI for scamming was the sequel. The $17.5 million fraud by Jumia's sales agents and the confusion around its listing rounds out the trilogy. And all this happened in the space of 2 weeks.

None of this is new. Nigeria's culture prizes wealth over everything. The country's super wealthy are uniformly strange in that most, at one time or the other, have had to deal with allegations of financial impropriety from Nigeria's law enforcement agencies. If we were to point fingers we should look no further than our celebration of wealth independent of legitimacy.

With a fifth of the country's labour force unemployed and a fleet of 419 success stories, fraud has become a line of work that the young aspire to. It is perhaps even more attractive than banking, law, or even drug dealing. Nigerians in the diaspora will face even more scrutiny when they try to send money home. Nigerians in foreign schools will endure jokes about Nigerian princes and corruption. Visas, already a challenge, will become even more challenging. Stories of rejections will flood social media. Nigerians running legitimate businesses will find it even more difficult to build partnerships beyond our shores.

But be that as it may, the wealthy will continue to go unscrutinised. The fraudsters who make afrobeats hits and create unsavoury dance moves will continue to do so. Soon enough, we'll forget that this was the summer of hot fraud. And the worst outcome? 419 is not just the bit of the constitution that deals with these things, it's a career path more popular than banker or dealing drugs.

Notes on Living at Home...

2019-08-27T22:33:00.002+01:00

I have a contract with the universe. It's that my life will be many things but it will never be dull. And that I'll respond to the abundance of interesting events like a crazy person. People tell me I'm dramatic, but you'd be dramatic too if dramatic things kept happening to you. Like, that one time that I got kidnapped. But this one isn't about that. It's about my living arrangements.

As an unmarried young man under 30, I'm delighted to tell you that my dogs and I live with my parents. Everybody is equally unhappy with the arrangement. I eat Papa Afam's Guinea Fowl, I break Mama Afam's dishes, and I occasionally borrow her skin care products and make up.

I, Afam, the wondrously mediocre, would like to tell you that if you're a man, and you don't have concealer, mascara, an eyebrow pencil, or foundation, you are playing with your destiny. God did not put you on this good earth to torture the masses with your hangover eye bags, or your pimple scars. In any case I was on television. On days when I needed it, I'd get my face beat and take that face to drinks. I'm single but nobody calls me ugly and everybody thinks I have great skin. These two things keep me warm at night.

I also make my dad buy dog food for Plato and Zeus, who I now call my children. They're adorable. One of them has rickets, and the other has an unusually high marginal propensity for diarrhoea, but I suppose I love them in my own way.

I'm not very happy about living at home because Papa Afam has made it his job to make me as unhappy as I make him when I steal his Guinea Fowl. Guinea Fowl is the poultry equivalent of Eid Ram - food for the gods.

On a Sunday morning not too long ago, Papa Afam Barged into my room at the crack of dawn. There was a tub of vaseline on the floor right by the top of the bed. He proceeded to yell the following things.

"Why are you still in bed! It's 7 in the morning, your mates are in the gym but you are here sleeping!"

"What is that by your bed? Vaseline? You have been masturbating!"

"Don't you feel ashamed? You can't even afford a bloody prostitute!"

I suppose I'll go steal more of his Guinea Fowl now.

Happy Days,
Afam

A letter to Mr. Runsewe the Director of Nigeria's National Council for Arts and Culture...

2019-08-26T14:07:00.003+01:00

There's nothing I like better than a man who presents himself as a bastion of morality and an arbiter of good taste, because men like that are very nearly always full of shit.

In Nigeria, there's a man called Otunba Olusegun Runsewe...

I have to change the line of attack here because I spoke to Mama Afam about what I was about to do and she wasn't too pleased. Every crazy person has someone they hate offending.

Dear Mr. Runsewe,

I hope this letter or blog finds you well. When I first thought to write it, I thought it would be funny and quite frankly, brilliant. However, as I have run out of time, it will end up being rather mediocre. This is fair to you, I think. The quality will be on par with the interview you gave in the Vanguard.

I did not understand why you spoke about culture like some dead thing trapped in a gele and bound with coral beads. It lives. It breathes. Nigeria's cultural identity was never meant to be static. It could never be static. While politicians debated this and that, culture happened. Some of us became fraudulent, finding opportunity in an under regulated internet space and a police force that was as bribeable as it was clueless. Some of us took the idea that we should discipline our children and used that as an excuse to abuse our children. Some of us developed what we call the art of getting by. We stay employed, mind our business, drink water, don't let Nigeria kill us.

I don't mean to be alarmist, but our culture is a great reaper of lives. If you let it, it will make you unhappy and then it will kill you. And when it has killed you it will bury you standing up, in an unmarked grave. People talk about the transgender crisis, the scourge of immorality, the drugs, the sex on television and all sorts of nonsense but I don't care about these things. I want to know what we're going to do about the culture of mediocrity that killed my aunt. She died during an appendicectomy. I want to know about the culture of maintenance, the absence of which has killed more friends than I can count on my fingers and toes. I want to know about the culture of poverty, because I was kidnapped earlier this year by some hungry looking low level criminals and now I find it very difficult to be driven by anyone.

What is Big Brother in the face of this? Who is Bobrisky? What are drugs? Sometimes there's a vice around my throat and all I can think is, "God don't let these people let me die here." Because if I fail to take care of myself for one minute you will let me die and you won't come to my funeral. Then you'll give an interview in support of all the archaic values and things you say are my culture; the things that killed me. You, a public official, a product of my taxes, my employee, will speak to the press and hope that they deal with Bobrisky ruthlessly. You, a public official, a product of my taxes, my employee, will list all the things in the press you think are problems but will refrain from giving me, your employer, viable solutions. Do you think you have the luxury of complaining?

I suppose the main problem is that I blame your generation for everything, so when you say anything like cultural restoration I say burn it to the ground.

I'm sorry. I'm upset. You've got your work cut out for you and you're a recent hire, but just in case you were confused, Bobrisky is not your work. You are the Director of Nigeria's National Council for Arts and Culture. I want to hear about scholarships to acting programs, writing programs, music programs. I want to hear about opportunity. I want to hear about musicals, I want to hear about festivals, I want to hear about plans for infrastructure. I want you to travel around Nigeria so much that you become dizzy. I want you to write an open letter to Dbanj thanking him for his contributions to music. I want to hear you praise Burna Boy, I want you to ask Jidenna if his passport needs renewing, I want you to send Bobrisky to New York pride because she's made being a beautiful trans-woman her business, and she's world class at it. I want you to apologise to tekno because he's done more for the country than some of your peers. I want you to throw a festival for Nollywood, I want you to go to Lagos Comic con or Abuja Comic Con. I want you to succeed.

I don't want you to be the policeman of anybody's morality. The moment you start that you start sliding down a slippery slope. You'll start to think that the crux of your job is to appear to be holier than thou and it isn't. If you do your work properly, you could marry a tree and no one would care but your wife and maybe your children, but I'll say it one more time, if you think fighting with Bobrisky and Big Brother is your work, you've got another thing coming.

Happy Days, All the Best, I hope that auntie that had a stroke recovers, I hope nobody commits suicide because their child is gay, I hope parents also doin't commit suicide when they find out it was naked booty shaking that built the house in the village, I hope we get our shit together, I hope you get your shit together, much love,
Afam.

Notes on Polyamory...

2019-08-22T15:46:00.002+01:00

Polyamory is really much ado about absolutely nothing. Back in the day, my mum, Mama Afam would sit me down and say, "Afam! Let me tell you! There's absolutely nothing new under the sun! Human beings have been freaky since the time of Sodom and Gomorrah." She was right. Polyamory is old fashioned freakiness with a millennial name.

For those of you who don't know what it actually means, it's what happens when people have more than one partner and everyone is cool with it. This means that A can date B and C and D while B dates E and F and G. And that all 7 of them know about each other, and are fine with whatever's going on.

Normally the legs of my content don't stretch this far. I wouldn't have had any cause to think about polyamory today if Jidenna, a popular musician, who's also part Nigerian hadn't mentioned it.

He tweeted the following.

"I believe in monogamy. I believe in polyamory. I believe in marriage. I believe in non-traditional union. There are agreements & compromises to be made in every relationship. Most of all, I believe in Love & Honesty as the foundation. I’m looking for wifey..."

I have many thoughts. The first is, STOP LYING. You can only realistically believe in all these things apart if you have several people living in your body. The moment you say you're looking for wifey, you've cast your lot with monogamy.

Monogamy isn't actually as inflexible as it sounds. It simply means that in the event that someone dies and someone asks, "Who is the husband/ Who is the wife/ Who is the boyfriend/ Who is the girlfriend" only one person stands up.

I suppose my main problem with polyamory is that people are generally terrible at talking about love, sex and everything else in between. If honesty is difficult enough when there are two, then it will be impossible with 4. Someone is going to be unhappy in this confection of modernity, and when it unravels it won't be a shouting match it'll be a battle royale between however many people are engaging in your love cult at any given time.

And then, what do you do if the minor bae is trying to take your place as the main bae? Who gets the largest share of the property if someone dies without a will? How do you coordinate everything? Do you have a group chat for all the people in your relationship? When you fight does everyone join in? Do people take sides? What do you do if the circle keeps expanding and at the end you've entered into a polyamorous relationship with your sibling?

All of these questions are incredibly stressful. It's things like this that make me feel rather conservative. I would rather you cheated on me with full confidence than tried to talk me into anything quite so modern as polyamory. I will be thirty soon. You should save that stuff for my children.

I think I have hyperventilated myself to a conclusion.

If polyamory works for you then that's fantastic. For me, it'll be a really quick way to a nervous breakdown. Breaking up with one person is a near fatal event, doing it with three is tying yourself to your own funeral pyre and flinging your ashes into a volcano.

ps...

I reviewed the lyrics of Bambi and if the song is to be believed his grandfather had 7 wives and he refers to his love life as a spiderweb. So I suppose that explains everything.

The Sense of an Ending

2018-05-30T17:01:00.000+01:00

This is difficult to say, but something feels off. Maybe it’s that I expect too much. Maybe it’s that I contribute too little. Maybe it’s that I’ve let you down too many times. Or maybe our interests no longer align. Maybe it’s an ending and maybe it’s a beginning. Maybe it’s neither and I’m being paranoid.

But if I don’t admit that there’s this thing I feel knowing full well that it might not actually exist, then I’ll have no way of understanding what’s going on. And maybe it would be better that way. But there is damage being done in the uncertainty and this is what I’d like to mitigate if I can.

Or maybe all of this is for the best and speaking about it will only make it worse. The thing I most want to know is are you here or not here. But that I have to ask that at all is perhaps the only answer I need.

Happy Days,

Afam

The Island and the Sea

2018-05-29T17:43:00.000+01:00

The lucky among us live on an island. There’s you, there’s me, our children, our friends, and some of the people we’ve rescued from the sea.

The island isn’t much of an island. There’s the sun, there’s rain, and I suppose there’s wind too but those things are everywhere. On the island, if there are palm trees, or any other sort of tree for that matter, then neither God nor nature put them there. And if there is sand, it is because one of us willed it to appear.

The sea too, isn’t really a sea. It isn’t strictly a large body of water with fish and sunken ships. However, it is possible to find a sunken ship, or two, or three, and water does feature frequently and often undesirably. There’s water when it rains. It remains on the streets in puddles, and sometimes the drains clog up so enthusiastically that the adventurous use it as an excuse to go kayaking. And sometimes there’s water even when it doesn’t rain because pipes do burst from time to time.

When a pipe bursts on an island, it’s fixed within the day. Islanders are a bit like gods. No effort is spared when shaping and molding our island to our standards. Men come in ships, some times from another island and sometimes from the sea to deal with it. The men that come from an island typically charge more. Their ships are clean and air conditioned so we islanders feel safer around them even though they may not do a better job than the men who come from the sea. But this is to be expected. Islanders have been known to flock together.

It isn’t too difficult to move from island to island or traverse the sea. All it takes is a ship, a couple of minutes, or hours; depending, on the roughness of your route, the time of day, an important figure passing by, anything really. When it comes down to it there is no logic to the sea routes here. Whatever we meet we take it just like that. And we don’t really complain. An islander’s ship is as close to an extension of their island as he or she can make it. It’s always reasonably new, and even when it isn’t it’s well maintained. But, it is impossible to tell an islander from a dweller of the sea simply by looking at the quality of the ship. You see, some dwellers of the sea have learned the formula and implemented it. Some of their ships are just like ours. This is why mothers tell their daughters, and fathers their sons, that it is only by titles and deeds that we may know the true measure of a man.

All islands are alike, but that should not imply that they are equal. Just as it is with all things some islands are better than others. Some are individual forts with more than enough agency to feed a village. Others are not so. People often pool their wealth to build an estate that matches the largesse of their betters but what they gain in comfort, they lose in solitude. These ones usually call their estates something that sounds like the antithesis of the sea like, Troy Court, or Goshen, or Living Gold. And even among these there is inequality. Some do not quite manage to stay unscathed from the scourge of the sea. There’s one called Dolphin, although it was once the haven of many an islander, time and circumstance have reduced it to something less than an island. Both its streets and its buildings are now largely indistinguishable from those that float on the sea. All it has left is its name and its reputation — Dolphin, the island that once was.

Islands are also safer than the sea. Situations that could be fatal on the sea aren’t on the island. Of course if you get shot in the head, then it doesn’t matter where you are. Dead is dead. Dead as a door nail or dead as rabies. But I once heard of a man — an island man, who fell from the penthouse of his island home. He smashed his face on the pavement, and if witnesses are to be believed, his brains just about spilled out from his nose. Everyone thought he’d die. He didn’t.

He was airlifted to a place where there are more islands than seas and was never heard from again. He didn’t die. I know that because bad news always travels. I believe he remained there, for they say his island in that new place is a lot better than his island here. Those that know his name don’t speak it often, because people from islands don’t like to explain how it was that a fellow islander pushed by no one fell 4 floors. The malicious say it wasn’t a fall but a jump, and once that’s considered the mystery of it makes sense. I do not believe it possible that an islander, no matter how gifted with rhetoric, could explain to the people from the sea whose daily experience is suffering that the comforts of the island were not enough to stop one of their own from from wanting to die.

The sea and the island are metaphors but at the same time they are not. I cannot speak of all the places that have them, but I can tell you that my city does. I was sailing home the other night through the overwhelmingly dark sea. I heard later that a pipeline had blown up somewhere, ending the supply of the stuff the steel angels rely on to guide the sleepless as they navigate the sleepless sea.

Mile after mile, I sailed on in the dark, avoiding unseen craters and fellow travelers, trusting that my familiarity with the route and the radiance of my floodlights would be enough to lead me. I continued like this until I got to the gate of my island; a lighthouse in the desolate Lekki sea.

Happy Days,

Afam

Notes on Falz' This is Nigeria: It's Brilliant!

2018-05-28T12:32:00.000+01:00

This is Nigeria

It is likely that many Nigerians listened to and watched Childish Gambino's This is America with what I'd call an appreciative apathy. It's an eloquent essay on what it means to be black in America with imagery that borders on the grotesque, but however well put together, or however well executed, it is not Nigerian. Although we watch the news and sigh whenever racism rears its ugly head, that story is not ours. The blood that has been spilled is not that which pumps through our veins. It is a tragedy but it isn't our tragedy. This is important to remember when you think about Falz' This is Nigeria. Yes, it is derivative, and yes, it lacks the careful choreography of a slick Hollywood production, but those things take very little away from the value of what has been put forward.

Of course, because it is by Falz' own admission an adaptation, it cannot escape being criticised within the template set by the original. However, I would argue that this is the most basic form of criticism anyone should levy against it. The audience This is Nigeria is created for cares not for the original and if they do, no matter who, This is America cannot speak to our lives the same way This is Nigeria does. It may have been different if both were created 2 decades ago, when Western music perhaps had more sway on public opinion than Nigerian music, but this is not the case today.

In the beginning I wondered why Falz didn't make something entirely new - he clearly has the talent for it. I imagine that the lines had sat in his head for years. At the very least I do not think that any one who lives in Nigeria could ever be short of inspiration in this regard. Our suffering is generations long. But, what you must realise is this: had he created an entirely new song, with its own undoubtedly original video, he would have missed a window and indeed an opportunity. It wouldn't have seized the imagination the way it has. I wouldn't have gone up to Mama Afam and asked what she thought about it, because she quite frankly wouldn't know. And this is why any reference to This is America must be forgiven or even ignored.

Some may question the lack of an overarching narrative or message. This is America quite clearly tells black men to get their money regardless. But the same message is not applicable here for our problems are many and the solutions are all chicken and egg equations. There is no singular aggressor. There is no one tyrant. The issues play out like a battle with a hydra. For every head you cut off 2 or 3 sprout in its place. And even if you were to cut off one head and burn the stump, you'd still have 8 more heads to deal with. The song does point to a central problem at the beginning, a recording of a speech by Falz' father which says, "we operate a predictory neo-colonial capitalist system which is founded on fraud and corruption." As one pundit puts it, "Nigeria doesn't really have any new problems. We have new symptoms. The problems are all old, from before you and I were born."

With every headline you read in these parts, from the money swallowing snakes and monkeys to the many atrocities committed by the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), to the many headlines with numbers of the dead, our sense of apathy increases. I once said, in Nigeria all you can do is watch as the fucks you give simply bleed out of you. At the very least with this song and its derivative video, Falz has re-ignited the national conversation in a way that I have not seen in my lifetime, at least, not through music. And maybe, like all the conversations that came before it, it will end as collective murmurs of dissatisfaction which lead to nothing by way of change. But, every time we talk, one person among us grows closer to acting, and this is why our seemingly ineffective grumbling must continue.

I know a writer with whom it seems I will never agree, especially when we talk about Falz. Something can only be called mediocre when it is compared to other things in its category. It seems that after decades of silence, with Nigerian art sometimes trying and more often than not failing to evoke some sort of emotional response about the state of affairs in the country, someone has succeeded. Such a thing can never be called mediocre. It can only ever be brilliant.

Happy Days,
Afam

NOTES ON BLOGGING AGAIN

2018-04-23T18:33:00.000+01:00

Another day, another beginning and all of that good stuff that you see on instagram, like instantly, and forget about the next second. I’m trying to be dark and sarcastic but I think I’m failing… desperately. Be that as it may, I’ve come to the realisation that the blog will never be what it was. I feel a bit stupid that I can’t tell you what it was, but that was the point wasn’t it? I don’t know that it was meant to be anything, or that I should have tried to make it be anything. It was what it was.

The above is an immeasurably stupid paragraph but I’ll persist because I have wisdom to dispense. Or at least I think I do. Another random thought - So much uncertainty in such a formerly handsome young man. How will he ever get anywhere?

The other day, I was driving home. I had to change clothes. A banging suit jacket and un-ironed trousers won’t take you anywhere but home. I think I was half blind when I put them on and dashed out that morning. When I got to work, I was embarrassed. Dressing poorly takes up so much mental energy these days. You’ve got to spend your time… spiritual energy… qi? telling yourself over and over again that it’s okay when you know it’s not. And when people bring it up, you’ve got to find a self deprecating comeback that’s so funny it says, “Now here’s a guy who knows not to take himself too seriously.” Anyway, the trousers weren’t going to take me to the pool party I’d been invited to. Mid drive, some guy Oprah was interviewing on some podcast that I only very rarely listen to said, “Set backs don’t mean go backs.”

I love moments like that. Random words fly out of nowhere and knock you to Sunday school. So much truth in 6 words. Heart knots undone just because something said let’s see what Oprah’s got for us today. The same something that said, if you’re not going to delete the blog then you might as well write on it (there’s a brief note about this at the end). It didn’t stop there. When your heart finally talks to you it usually doesn’t stop until it gets the point across.

So it went on. Dude it said, if you don’t write about something, anything, you’ll probably get so tired of your excuses that you’ll get depressed and try to boink yourself again. You either need to get it over with or get prepared to get nowhere in life.

It had a point. Intern, to social media intern, to intern producer, to junior producer and digital analyst, to Anchor in one year has been pretty fucking fantastic (it’s the grace of God I swear) but if that writing aspect of the dream is unfulfilled then I’ll probably never be happy.

500 words in under an hour. I’d say I was back but that’d be me jinxing it.

Ps1-I know the url says I’m mad but if I ever do that then somebody needs to commit me to the nearest psych ward because your boy’s probably suicidal. And that’s not joke. I was once quite severely mentally ill and I live in mortal fear that if I slip up a bit too much I’ll end up there. I call it the sequelae of depression- that’s a pretty good phrase)

Ps2- I’m never going to complain about the website again. I can’t do all things. People who try to do all things in Lagos get high blood pressure at birth.

An Explanation

2017-10-25T10:36:00.003+01:00

A friend asked me to take a good long look at the mirror. I have a sneaky suspicion that it should be “long good look” not “good long look” but that’s neither here nor there. Why he said it is also inconsequential, the only thing about it that matters is that he said it and it stuck. It is the trigger that inspired this unwilling explanation.

I do not find mirrors particularly useful. They show you how you look and can stoke the fires of your vanity or self loathing; but whatever it is, what they show is merely only skin deep. Writing, on the other hand is a different thing entirely. When I write about myself, only the semantics can be adjusted. The who, the where, the when, all endlessly manipulatable. I alter them at will. The same is not true of the what and the why. The what: a statement of fact that this happened and that happened, rigid. The why: endless introspection about motives, mine or someone else’s. Always and everywhere incomparably deeper than I am willing to venture.

Over the past year, many things have changed, and as regrettably cliche as this may read, nothing has changed. I read my journals from when I was 13, 17, 19, 22, and I am the same. The things I fear and the things I hope for, unchanged. The only difference is where I stand in relation to them. If you talk about the concrete plan, the vast network of roads I may take to the final destination, then I am well on my way. I am a journalist not by a stretch of the imagination, or by some stranger’s estimation of my blog or talent. I have a degree that says so, and then there’s the job with CNBC Africa, the year I’ve spent without leave or many a sick day, reporting, writing, producing, tweeting and sometimes anchoring Africa’s business story. No amount of pity partying with demons, old or new could ever change this. I do, so therefore I am.

If I wanted to take the easy way out, I’d say, “all of this journalisting is so intense that I simply have no time to write anything.” You would buy it without pause for thought, but there’d be no point. I do not write to deceive or to spin. If my motives were so shallow I’d stay silent and spare us both the agony. Are you tired yet? It is hard, is it not? To read 418 words at a stretch.

The breadth of my contract took a while to sink in. I signed it straight away in spite of it; but the liberties I signed away stayed with me. How do I keep a blog called the Ramblings of a Madman and not somehow find myself in breach? What if I want to rant about a certain Company, but that Company’s a client or a potential client? There are clauses that require I seek permission before I embark on a project, and then there are some corners of the media world that I cannot venture into.

I counted the days, the weeks and the months. On some days I’d blast out 300 words then delete them.Words once familiar seemed strange and then the you’re not any good demon and I started kicking it again. At that point I was damned. Even if I found the time and the presence of mind, whatever I managed to write wouldn’t be good enough.

There was a bubbling, something underneath saying that happiness or at least my version of it isn’t what I thought it was. It isn’t the glittering fleeting feeling you get when you’re with friends, or when the thing you get when your now is infinite and it isn’t having a lot of money. It is climbing the rungs of a ladder one foot after the other, ensuring that at every stage of your journey, you’re at least a half step higher than where you were - a fraction closer to the dream. There’s a difference between happy in life and happy in now. Having both of them simultaneously would be amazing, ideal. But if I had to choose, I’d much rather have the former.

I have taken a look in the mirror and I do not always like what I see. I am a journalist. I produce my show, or my shows, regardless of the day, or my mood, or the shit that happened the day before. I like this part of my reflection. The writer in me has not enjoyed the same growth. I do not like this part of my reflection. If only I was born fully formed, all good and wise and not at all reckless and occasionally foolish. If only I made no mistakes and crashed less cars. If only… If only… If only… But one foot ahead of the other, one step on the rung at a time. One word ahead of the other, one sentence at a time.

A Trump Short

2017-01-24T09:13:00.000+00:00

There is a lot about life that is beautiful. It’s the conversations that we hear, and the stories that we tell and how different they are. There are bursts of colour, unpredictable and commanding. There are the moments that we’d rather not remember, shaping us to ends that we cannot see. All of us subscribing to a higher purpose, or agenda. Not all of these are good, but there is a beauty to them all the same. The depths of depravity, the height of goodness, our uncute faces cute to me.

When the man they call Teflon Trump was elected and then inaugurated, I remembered the terrifying pain of a broken heart. There was a world I was supposed to be in love with that I discovered didn’t love me. You can tell me why he won, and you can tell me how. Reductions of the absurd in the most academic prose. You can write of the anger the disenfranchised feel and you can proselytise the tales of the disillusioned. But there are two things you cannot do. You cannot convince me that he was deserving, and you cannot fool me into thinking that his win is good.

I read an essay once. It was so long ago that I can no longer remember who wrote it, but like all great essays, the meat of it remains. It was the story of a man who lost all faith in God, and replaced the vacuum with a profound belief in nothing. Things stayed that way until he had children. Not knowing how to instil in them the values he knew to be good, he took them to church that they could learn what he learned when he was just as young. The merit of hard work and honesty; the power of love; the meaning of forgiveness; the difference between what is right and wrong; the strength to aspire to do what is right; and the empathy to not judge too harshly the people who do wrong. These were the values I grew up with, and they are the same ones I will teach my children, even if they have now become relics.

Villains are not scarce when history is concerned, but you could search the list and you’ll be hard pressed to find a man like Trump. Since he’s been given the spotlight he has never once taken the higher road, even when it has been easy. A tweet, a passing comment, a well timed dig, all performed to perfection as long as a win was within reach. Hand delivering pain and confusion when all but the insane would know to stay silent. And God how he lies. With frequency, with mania, with urgency, and utterly without point.

People question his motives and theorise them. Maybe they think what I think; that he’s a man so desperate for love, affection, and attention that there’s no length he won’t go to for one of the three. He will break the world for no point but to be the one that broke it. Devil or Saint, he’ll take what he can get. But anyway you look at it, it’s a Trump world and the Trump is king. Racists applaud him and supremacists bow at his feet. He is a walking miasma of ire, and maybe that’s why he’s there. When things break subtly and imperceptibly it is difficult to know they are broken, and if we don’t know they are broken then they can’t be fixed.

So to Trump I say, “Go ahead and break the world. Expose the fault lines of prejudice and show us the cost of failure.” After him, there’ll be another. It’s the way of life that nothing lasts forever. When he is done, we will fix it, and it’ll be a better world than the one he saw the White House in.

There is a lot about life that is beautiful. It’s how we grow, and how we change and how we hope. We struggle and we fail and we learn. Sometimes we seem like the frailest beings, but when we triumph over our weakness it’s pretty damn fantastic.

Happy Days,

Afam

On Religion...

2017-01-12T15:06:00.002+00:00

by Eskor Toyo

We must treasure the moments we have while we have them. While musing on the topic of Religion yesterday a sober thought struck me — what if it’s all untrue? It’s a difficult question to ask yourself. As a Christian, or more accurately, as someone brought up in the Christian religious tradition, you are taught that God is the universe and humans are at the centre. This theist centrism is not a metaphorical one, we Christians sincerely believe (most of the time) that we matter to God and that God matters to the universe — therefore what we do, think, and say are matters of universal importance (especially when judged through the lens of ‘God’[1]). Often, I am taken by the thought that this centrist paradigm feeds arrogance and self-importance in men; the fuel that ignites the flames of vanity.

By placing the individual at the centre of all creation we create justifications for our excesses because after all, all creation — even the birds, the trees, the sun, and the planets that litter the vast endlessness of our spangled universe — was made for the singular purpose of enabling humans transit between here and the hereafter. Isn’t this a dangerous morality? Is it surprising that what follows from this logic is a philosophy that obsesses about things unseen and remains ignorant of the present human condition? Is it not this ignorance, induced by our self-obsession, that is at the core of all suffering on earth?

As a Nigerian, this centrism is even more literal. It is the framework through which we relate to the stark world that surrounds us and how we make sense of the lives we live. My view is that our willingness to follow bad leaders and to live in blissful ignorance about the sorry state of our country stems from being socialized at an early age in religious (and cultural) traditions that inculcate a blind and unquestioning obedience to authority. Nonetheless, these words, these thoughts, are the privilege of my status. What does my philosophy matter to the poor man? What does my empathy profit him? Does it put food on the table? Who am I to tell him that he is poor? No, in fact, it probably comes across as the mindless prattling of a self-regarding elite who from Olympian heights condescends to know the experience of the poor man and what he needs. He does not know, God knows, God trusts, God provides, God decides, have faith, that is good enough.

In this sense quoting Marx’s famous words makes poignant sense — “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people. The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness. To call on them to give up their illusions about their condition is to call on them to give up a condition that requires illusions.” So even while I remain a staunch critic of the religious experience, even while I revile the odious corruption of the identity of God in the self-interest of man and his politics, I am softened by the understanding that for many the devotion to religion serves as a palliative. In a world of sham, imperfections, and broken promises, it offers aspirations that are perfect and divine.

[1] The character and characterization of God by humans either through biblical interpretation or societal norms bears heavily on the religious experience.

PS: This not atheism. At most it is a critique of religious practice.

Originally published on Eskor Toyo's medium account. Which we highly recommend. He's Reforming himself while living in Lagos.

I skipped to My Lulu and killed my ankle but your Chairman was happy

2017-01-11T18:26:00.000+00:00

There's a chune so magnificent that when I first heard it, I stood in front of my mirror shirtless and danced a very African dance. I basically shook my very tiny behind in a scandalous fashion for over 3 minutes. I wasn't drunk or anything like that. It was just that the song I was listening to was so good that I couldn't help myself.

Now some of you that are new may wonder what the jigglypuff it is that I mean by CHUNE. I'm a fairly generous guy so I'll tell you.

A chune is a song so gloriously wonderlous (that's when wonderful meets fabulous and it doesn't happen very often) that everyone listening feels an almost irresistible compulsion to yell, "CHUNE!!!" And that's a word that really has no place in the English language. That's why you're unlikely to see it in the Oxford dictionary.

Anyway, the song that made me shake my my very minuscule bum bum for far longer than a minuscule bum bum should ever be shaken is this one.

It's called My Lulu and it's by District featuring Ajebutter 22. Now, I don't know a lot about District but the song is like puff puff. It's fluffy and wholesome, but also sweet and oily, and one listen is never enough. It's the same way no one ever has one puff puff in the small chops metallic pack. If you like puff puff and you eat one, before you know it the second and third are making their way to your stomach, pimples and muffin top be damned.

I forgot about it until a guy called Bolaji Fuga aka Laji tweeted about it the other day.

Please Listen to Listen to this and tell us what you think My Lulu by @DistrictUk_ ft @ajebutter22 https://t.co/DHO7nTC4WJ
— Laji (@BolajiFuga) January 10, 2017

He's one of the people behind District. He calls himself a District creative but I don't really know what that means. I don't mind this too much because you can't really expect musicians to be normal. Before you say anything to me ask yourself if Davido is a normal person, and then keep quiet because he isn't. A normal person doesn't spend N100 million in two weeks on two cars in a recession year. It simply isn't something that a normal human being would do, and that's alright.

After I listened to it again, I was so moved that I tried to dance to it while playing a very aggressive game of squash. The chorus goes something like, "skip to my lou lou bae, omo you do me juju." Very catchy no? That's how I decided to skip to my lou and get the ball.

I did not get the ball. Instead, I skipped my ankle to its grave and ruined it.

Look at it. Ruined!

Look at it, the ankle is just about done in. It's looking for the after life but the rest of my body is resisting the light mightily. I needed outside assistance so I hauled my well used Vulcan ankle brace out of the closet and strapped it in, that way, I could continue to skip to my Lulu with District without wondering if or when my ankle would decide to give up the ghost. Above is a picture of me listening to that song after work, wearing my strawhat and feeling pretty damn good about myself. I suggest that you do the same.

Happy Days,
Afam

I AWARD THIS SONG FIVE LOAVES OF AGEGE BREAD!

This is me hyping a musical feature I used to do on troambyafam, we grade music out of loaves of a maximum of 5 loaves of bread or other such baked things.

Why? We aren't your typical Nigerian/Lagosian blog.

Is Davido a Car Addict? Minor Bell ringing in head.

2017-01-11T10:25:00.002+00:00

Another day, another sign that Davido is a probable car addict, compulsive shopper and recession teflon. Yesterday, the star prompted several melt downs when he bought yet another extraordinary vehicle for seemingly no reason at all. I heard a woman in the gym succumb to a bout of complaining as a result of it.

What a legendary photograph. Standing on N83 million. If I had that much I'd build a cash altar and do thanksgiving by myself.

This one is N33 million. That's what most people are reporting but how would I know? If I go to a Benz showroom I'll have a stroke and die.

In the middle of her squats she wailed, “This Davido matter is really weighing heavily on my spirit. In two weeks he’s spent over N100 million on cars. Now, I’m looking at myself and I can only shake my head. What of me? Do I not work hard? I work very hard but where is the money? If it is here I can’t see it. Today, I spent N 2.2 million buying $5,000, and I felt good about myself, then I heard about Davido and I felt useless.”

All of this begs the question, how many cars does Davido actually need? If he continues at this rate he’ll have an expensive vehicle for everyday of the month! Now I don’t have any problems with this. It’s his money and he isn’t in any sort of political office. Furthermore, musicians aren’t known for their wits so we can’t expect the young man to know very much at all about a little concept called saving for a rainy day. But still, we’re in a recession and inflation is murderous. Would it kill him to chill a little?

I suppose money really is funny when you've got this many dollars. That's how his cook will be relieving him of a few notes at a time and he won't know. Old chap, won't you put it in a bank?

Another person who could do with a chill pill is Kcee. Yesterday, Linda Ikeji did the devil’s work when she posted a picture of him holding a Louis Vuitton bag bursting with dollars. Underneath the picture he said, "Shut up! I'm still making the money in bags. Keep talking while I keep balling. God is greater than we all.” He’s since deleted the picture, but it doesn’t reduce the loudness of the but why question that’s ringing in my head. I suppose this is because over the weekend a couple of charlatans smashed the window at the back of my very humble Toyota and took my hair clippers.

So please guys, I know money is sweet, but times are hard and your people are petty. CHILL!

Happy Days,

Troamteam

Why we need to talk about mental health: Inspired by Tee Billz. Brought home by Niyi Okeowo

2017-01-10T16:23:00.002+00:00

Before I started this article, I wondered for a second, if I had exhausted the topic of mental health. I have written about it more than once but sometimes I fear I write about it too much. It’s something that I lived, and it’s a question I ask myself all the time, but it isn’t everything. It barely scratches the surface. The one thing I’d hate to happen as a result is if depressed became my adjective. That would kill me.

Sometimes I fear that it slips out unbidden, and while I may be fine with glueing shells to my man boobs and galavanting around the beach, I’m incredibly uncomfortable sharing my more painful moments. The way I see it, I’m supposed to be good always; happy always. I have always believed that that is my best self. When I’m not, I say that I am anyway with all hope that it will one day be true. And this is part of the problem. I am ashamed. I know that it’s an illness, and I know there’s nothing to be ashamed about but the shame lives on.

Yesterday, Tee Billz, Tiwa Savage’s something or the other put up a picture of Kerry Washington with a quote that she’d made. It said, “My brain and my heart are really important to me. I don’t know why I wouldn’t seek help to have those things as healthy as my teeth. I go to the dentist. So why wouldn’t I go to a shrink?” It’s apt coming from Tee Billz. A little while ago he was on the side of a bridge in Lagos thinking about or trying to jump. Since then it’s been reported that he has received some sort of help. Underneath the picture he said, “If you can seek help for malaria and fever, don’t be ashamed about your psychological and emotional condition! Why are we so afraid to discuss mental health in our society?” That question is one that’s definitely worth asking.

You can get tired of your own words and your own actions. Sometimes I feel like I’ve talked so much about depression that there’s nothing left to say and that’s usually when Niyi Okeowo, a creative genius in Lagos comes along with a quote or a retweet that raises awareness about mental health. When that happens, I think, “I may not have enough energy for another sentence, but I’ve certainly got enough to click the button that says retweet.”

I hit him up on twitter with two questions: why he raises awareness about mental health on twitter and why he thinks it’s important that others do the same. Here’s what he had to say.

I think mental health awareness is really important. Most Nigerian’s either don’t understand what it is or think it’s got something to do with being mad. There are a lot of kids, youths, and adults that have these issues but don’t know how to identify them. Apparently this generation thinks it’s lame to talk about your feelings. You have people that can’t even express themselves properly for fear of how they’ll be percieved by twitter.

I do it because it’s really needed. Someone needs to talk about it. You hear of a lot of people committing suicide and we don’t know why. There’s this ignorant statement I’ve heard, “only white people commit suicide.” Just talking about it does two things for me. Firstly it helps me overcome my own demons and then it helps someone else overcome theirs. If we all really said how we felt… we’d probably be happier. We wouldn’t have so much to hide. But it’s the new age… Everybody wants to be perfect, no flaws… That’s the illusion of social media; everyone’s life is perfect.

But it’s really the opposite. It’s okay to be broken as long as you find your way out of it. The moment people can see that its okay to have flaws is the point that people begin to understand why it’s important to talk about mental health.

And then, it’s very important that those who understand it a little talk about it. When they do they’re doing a good thing. Mental health education is important. If I talk about it today, someone else feels the need to continue the wave and decides to talk about it tomorrow. Before you know it everyone’s talking about it. Everybody is learning. Everybody understands the dangers of not talking about it; the stigma and every other thing that involves mental health . The more hands come together to talk about it, the more we create awareness. This is how movements start. One person sparks the movement and the rest follow through.

I know I delete my tweets every now and then. I could tweet about mental health today and the next month I've deleted my tweets, but, I’m trying to use art to tackle mental health. Exhibitions. Music. Literature. Any art form. Just bringing all of these art forms together under one umbrella to talk and tackle mental health issues. But yeah… It’s super important that we all talk about it. It’s the only way we can educate ourselves. The government either doesn’t care about or understand mental health. All we have is each other to be honest.

Happy Days,

Afam

A Troam Team Discussion about the Girls on a Leash

2017-01-09T20:10:00.001+00:00

Afam: This is so strange. My jaw's literally on the floor right now. I can't wrap my head around it.

Troamteam: Who's that?

Afam: It's a god dog alien man called Pretty Mike. His real name is Michael Nwalie and he owns a night club.

Avenger: Where's this night club?

Afam: The Premium Times says it's Club Uno which was once called Q Club on Allen Avenue (It's a street/district in Lagos).

Avenger: Is this what they do there? You know? Girls on leashes and horse tail whips.

Afam: I assume so. Why else would anyone turn up to a wedding with girls on leashes? It's only excusable if the club is kink oriented and maybe not even then.

Troamteam: Is this something we should be writing about? I know it's being talked about everywhere else but is there anything new that we can add to the discussion? And even if there is, should we be part of the viral machine? He clearly wants some sort of infamy for this and we are giving it to him.

Afam: You have a point, but here's the thing. We can't not talk about it. I'd rather have it on here where we'll have a proper discussion about it, than somewhere else where they'll just put it up and say it's wrong. It isn't enough to say that it's wrong, we have to say why.

Avenger: It's clearly odd, but I'm struggling to see why it's wrong. If they're all consenting adults then I don't think wrong is the right word to describe it. It's strange and it's inappropriate but I'm not sure that it's wrong.

Troamteam: It's wrong because having this out there in the light of day says that it's alright for a man to put a woman on a leash, and it's not. Impressionable people will see that and think that it's normal, and it isn't.

Avenger: But that's the point. That it doesn't seem right doesn't mean that it's wrong. I can't tell anyone how they should live. It isn't my problem and it certainly isn't my business.

Afam: I think it's wrong because it's misogynistic. It isn't news that women the world over are treated unfairly because they're women. This is one of the most explicit representations of that fact I have ever seen. It sends the message that it's alright, and because women are already relatively disadvantaged, it isn't harmless fun.

Avenger: Would you be as offended if it was a woman holding a man on a leash?

Troamteam: No, but that's a crazy argument. Men have always been protected by society. Forgive the cliche but male privilege is a thing that exists. Over the holidays my 3 year old niece saw me washing the dishes and said, "Uncle why are you doing the woman's work?" I had to sit and tell her that who washes the dishes isn't gender specific. She's only three but she already believes that one of the many duties she has to shoulder as she gets older is dish washing. The image of a woman being confined to a leash is infinitely more harmful than the opposite because it makes a bad situation worse!

Afam: I think it's tricky because both of those things aren't great but I think @Troamteam has a point and I'll explain. If you had a son and he called you stupid is it more harmful or less harmful if you are the one that says it to him?

Avenger: They're both wrong.

Afam: But you cannot deny that it causes more harm when you say it than when your son says it. It's the same thing with cracker and nigger. I call a white person a cracker and it's just another rude thing that people say, but when a white person calls me a nigger it isn't. By calling me that he hasn't just insulted me because I annoyed him. He's called on my history as a black person (colonisation and slavery) and he's called whatever idea I have of that to the fore. And it's painful because, and I really hate to say this, we're still not free of white supremacy. So the two are not the same.

Avenger: Fair enough. I can see that, but what of the sexual connotations behind it. What if it turns them on.

Troamteam: If that's the case, then they should do it where it's legal to have sex, and that isn't at a wedding in full view of the public. If it's because they're getting some sort of kink out of it then at the very least it's public indecency.

Avenger: Chances are that he's doing it for the publicity, if he is I think there's some merit to it. When have any of you done something so outrageous so that you could be successful?

Afam: That's a fair point too. And I haven't done anything so crazy that it'd blow up the internet and earn me publicity. However, I'm glad that I don't think I have to. I think I'm better than that. I genuinely believe that there should be another way to get popular than having to put two girls on a leash and parade them around a wedding the same way I might do my dogs. It's such a disrespectful thing to do and now I'm not even referencing the fact that they're female. It is disrespectful to their humanity.

Avenger: But what if they got paid for it.

Troamteam: I hope that they did and handsomely too. I'm really bothered by it, and maybe that's why we should talk about it. Anything that bothers me this much has to be a topic of national conversation.

Afam: @MamaAfam what do you make of this?

MamaAfam: My problem is that I'm looking at it from a woman's angle. How do I see myself to allow someone put a leash around me and walk me like a dog? To allow a man to lead me around like a dog... How do those women see themselves? Do they not understand the message they're sending out about womanhood? Do they not understand that they're degrading the essence of womanhood? Because they were not forced! If they were forced I would understand. And for society at large the guy should be stoned. And he was fine with people taking pictures? When it's not a carnival! It is not a float. And let's not even bring up the liberal argument. In England could you go to a wedding and put two women on a leash. I don't understand it. Ko ye mi ra ra (I am confused). Are we sure that those girls are mentally okay?

Avenger: That's an important question to ask because in as much as I don't think you can tell three adults what to do when it's not expressly illegal, it is vile. And you have to think of the mental or emotional state of a woman that let a man do this to her.

Troamteam: Is it me, or is this looking a bit like prostitution?

Afam: It's not just you, and you're not the only one that's deeply bothered. I keep holding my head and literally asking myself if this is what it means to have free will because I'm not sure that everyone should.

Avenger: I'm going to ask you guys a question and you must answer honestly. Do you or do you not want to go to his club now?

Troamteam: I don't want any part of me to ever be associated with anything that guy stands for so the answer's no. I will not dance to the music there, and I certainly won't pay for a drink there. I will not enable him in any way.

Afam: I would go to see what it was like. I feel like it's better to know what's out there than it is to not know. So no matter how vile it was I'd go and see it. If I met him on the street I'd want to ask him about it too. There has to be more going on than I was just marketing my club so I decided to put a collar on two women and lead them around in daylight. If there isn't he's clearly insane.

Avenger: The funniest thing would be what he would do if he has daughters. His past would quite literally scar them.

Troamteam: That would be terrible. It wouldn't be funny at all! He should not have children at all. If he has daughters and they see that picture then it'll be all but impossible to remove that image from their minds. And if he has sons they'll go around thinking that they can put women on leashes.

Afam: So he shouldn't have children?

Avenger: No. Probably not, but he will anyway, because anyone that does what that guy did, thinks it's acceptable behaviour.

Afam: I don't know that I can do this anymore. I am quite literally exhausted. Let's leave this out there for the readers of the blog. I think we've said everything that we think about it, but I don't know that it's enough. I'd like to know what the readers have to say about this. So Afamzers/famzers/beloved readers, please tell us what you make of this fiend and his actions.

Afam End Note:

This conversation literally happened on the shared google document that was meant to be a recap of episode three of Skinny Girl in Transit. Like I said, Afamzers/famzers/beloved readers, please tell us what you make of this fiend and his actions.