Showing posts with label RAMBLINGS OF A MADMAN. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RAMBLINGS OF A MADMAN. Show all posts

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

01:27:00



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 







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Are you hungry enough?

18:41:00

"Are you hungry enough?"

That's what my mum just asked in an email. I hate questions like that, and I hate answering them even more because the answer is never going to be pretty. I like pretty things. Problems that have only one solution and ends that tie themselves up nicely. Stories that neglect to mention the awkward parts. The part where you're not sure if the life you've chosen is the one you want. The part where you're not sure how to live without offending anyone else. What you do when you realise that the only problem with your so called dreams is that you're a dreamer? And what you do when you realise that as you your world isn't what you thought it was. It isn't some small one tracked and one sided thing. It is vast. There is space. There is space for everything, but at the same time there's space for nothing. The awareness of space only makes you aware of how much space there actually is.

Where do you go from here? Up, sideways, down, left, right? Maybe you stay where you are and look up, sideways, down, left, right. But you know that staying is bad. You can't stagnate. You should be moving somewhere, anywhere. You should be living and learning and growing. It doesn't really matter if down is where you're headed or left is where you're drifting, because left and down, our two least favourite directions, may be where you need to go before you go up.

Attached to the email was a brilliant article by Akwaeke Emezi about her experience at Chimamanda's Farafina workshop. She'd crowd sourced funds so that she could pay for her flight ticket to Nigeria.

"Are you hungry enough?"

The question rings again, only this time it's would you crowd source funds so that you could afford to go to a workshop half the world away. No. I would die of shame. It isn't who I am. I'm not celebrating my snobbery. I don't think that it's a good thing to spite your face for the sake of a pimple, but it's true. I was not raised that way. I wasn't raised to seek the future on my own. I was raised to entrust it to daddy after prior consultation with mummy. The question is unfair.

But at the end of it the question remains, "are you hungry enough?" It's what I'll ask myself when I don't email introductions to the blog to everyone that I meet. It's what I'll ask myself when I sleep. It's what I'll ask myself while I dance. It's what I'll ask myself with every word I write. I'll cripple myself while I think about whether or not every decision that I make reflects my hunger; my burning passion; unquenchable, unrelenting, unquestionable. It's what you'd ask a horse that you thought would win the Kentucky Derby. And at the end of it, that's exactly what I am; a horse. Only that I'm not a very good one. Even the talent that is praised is sacrificed at the altar of propriety.

Everyday I'll think, would it not have been better if I was a banker, or a lawyer? Would it not be better for everyone if I was something other than what I am; something other than who I am? I'll look to the heavens and pray, not for forgiveness, or for favour, but that someone else could be put in my body. Someone with the chops to answer the question about hunger that I'm meant to be asking myself.

Let's imagine that I was hungry in the way that the question implies.

"You're not an orphan." They would say.

"You're meant to take advantage of everything around you!"

 "You're meant to use our name, our wealth."

"You're meant to use your good fortune that you were not born poor."

"From today, I have nothing to do with you. You're my son in only name."

I'll pale. I'll shake. I'll worry. And then I'll ask myself if it is my hunger that is lacking and then I'll equate my hunger to my lack of internet blown-upness.

The one thing I don't do enough is turn the question on it's head. If someone only presents a problem without the solution then what good are they actually doing you? Of course you'll know that there's a problem - Thank God! Your inadequacy will make your heart explode with profound delight!

I don't say, "Is it because I listen to you that you think that I'm not hungry?"

I don't say, "Is it because my hunger has not been a good enough reason to sacrifice you along with everything else?"

There comes a time when you realise that you'll never be enough; that you'll always be wrong. I'm not there. Not by a long shot. I didn't ask to be born. If you'd asked me beforehand, I'd have told you to save us both the strife. Now I must contend with the fact that I'm not Akwaeke enough or that I haven't embraced a support system that loathes the thing it's supporting.

Are you hungry enough?

Obviously not.

Happy Days,
Afam

It's funny the things you find in your drafts. This one has been sitting pretty for over a year. 
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Why we Broke Up

23:18:00
Hi! I wrote something based on an experience I had when I was still interested in not being uncoupled. Yeah, at the moment I am not interested. I'm not terrific with other people to be honest. I loathe the ones that love me, and I love the ones that loathe me. Some people loathe you but they don't know it yet. Let's be frank here. Anyone that treats you like shit because they love you is a liar. If they loved you, they wouldn't. They may think that they love you but they don't; not really. It's like how I say I love everything that God made, but show me a lizard and watch me kill it with a flaming broom and insecticide. Yes, I use insecticide on lizards!! All poison is poisonous. Anyway here's my partially true, and probably not very good, story like thing. 
......
Why we Broke up...

I’m suddenly sleepy. I suppose that’s my body’s way of coping with it. If I were to fall asleep now, I would be free of you. You won’t follow me there. While we were together, I never dreamt of you. If I had, I wouldn’t be sleepy now.

You happened to me. I met you and you turned my world on its head. You gave me something I never thought I’d get. I remember the night, I remember it well. You took my hand and led me around the hotel as you made small talk with people I didn’t care to meet. I had never been led. I asked you why, and you said, “it’s because I don’t want to lose you.” It worked. You didn’t lose me. In the end, it was me that lost you.

I don’t know that we were good together. There are some couples that glow when they’re together. There are some couples that complete one another. I don’t know that we did. I was always too nervous. Always tripping on my words. I thought it strange that I was still tripping on my words even though I am well into my twenties, but you didn’t. Maybe you thought it natural that my awe of you would stun me to silence. You had a reply for everything. You would would say it was natural in a self assured way and I would be at ease. I felt like half of myself when I stood next to you. You shrunk me or you made me shrink myself. I don’t blame you for it. How could I blame you for my lack of confidence only made more obvious by your bravado?

It took an hour, tops, for me to fall for you. I told you about the boner I had on the night we met. I thought it would be a quiet revelation about the totality of the hold you had on me. It wasn’t. It turned out that the boner wasn’t all that quiet. I told you i liked you that night. I was in love with the now. I figured that if I didn’t tell you how I felt then, I’d never see you again and my feelings would amount to nothing. I wasn’t expecting the, “I like you too.” I wasn’t expecting the first kiss to be as chaste as it was. I wasn’t expecting to discover that all the proclamations I uttered were actually true.

Things were good. You facetimed, and I facetimed; you called and I called. We talked about the people that came before, and about how they’d hurt us, or how we’d hurt them. I’d just been hurt. The person before you didn’t give as much as I needed. I need to know I’m not an after thought. I need to know that if I died it wouldn’t take a week before you thought something was wrong. I thought that wasn’t too much to ask. I was wrong. It was.

I was drunk on you. I was high on us. Life was sweeter. My smiles had you words at their root, memories of your face spread my lips, and exposed my teeth, your thoughts lay at the dimples in my cheeks. I saw our future. It wasn’t happy or sad. In it, we were together and that was enough.I’ve had a toke of the green. It felt like the right thing to do. Sometimes we just go through the motions. They say when someone breaks your heart you’re meant to dull the pain of it with green. The green hasn’t dulled my pain, if anything, it’s given it wings. It rises through the space in my head and fills out every corner and crevice. It will not be compartmentalized. I cannot tire it out with runs around the neighbourhood, or drown it with laps in a pool. I cannot sway it with whisky, or shut it out with any drug that I’ve thought I might try. It is there in the high and in the low. It is both in front and behind me; on the line and in the inbetween. It is loss. I lost you, and in losing you, I lost me. I mourn the both of us.

The end of us came along with the height of us. I drove down to your house. I drove over the bridge, through the slums, until I got to the good bit at the end. I only succeeded with the help of google maps. I’m not that great at directions. We only had a few hours before your flight. I thought that those few hours would be enough for us to express everything that we felt. I was mad. With your parents in the next room, and your sister in the room beyond that, there was no way, but I hoped anyway. We kissed four times, and i groped you once. My unfamiliar hands tickled you. You laughed and I laughed too. I thought that you would get used to me in time and that I would soon know your body well enough that you’d only giggle when I wanted you to. I never got the chance. When your plane took off, you left me.

We were cute in the beginning. I went from being completely against Long Distance relationships to being a determined champion. You worried that I would leave you and I did the same about you. When you hopped on the plane I knew things would change. I hoped that absence would do what some promised and make your heart grow fonder. I can’t say that it did. I can’t speak for you. I can only say that we went from talking twice a day to you disappearing on me for days at a time.When you got back things were different. I tried to understand but I didn’t; not really. I tried to be certain in your newly acquired silence but I failed. Everything was wrong. I was supposed to be steadfast in the distance. You turned an hour long drive into a week long negotiation. I would have driven down. I would have driven down on any day, but you never asked. You said you needed space and I gave it. I should have ended it then. Space is the request of the confused. You cannot both want me, and not want me. If I had ended it then I wouldn’t feel like this. Now, I am a fool for staying as long as I did, and a sell out for not staying longer. I am also a fool, for thinking myself a fool. My self flagellation does not help anyone.

You offered me your body in bits and pieces. I still have the artistic pictures of your nudity on my phone. I was insulted at first. I wanted all of you, but you offered me the worst of you like it was gold. I was looking at a lifetime, but you showed me the bit of you that would only decline with time. I couldn’t believe that I wanted your conversation more than I wanted your body, and you probably couldn’t believe it either. Then you were leaving in two weeks, then you were going to sort out your university certificate, then you were ill, then you came back, then you were ill, then you were well. Through all of this, the only thing I got was your silence. I’d see you online on wattsapp and I’d fire off a hey, only to see you ignore it.

I saw you not too long ago. We agreed that we needed to talk. I asked you to call, and you didn’t. I couldn’t after that. I am too proud. My love is too proud. We had no history that I could leverage so I ended us.

I wrote, “I know we aren’t anything so we can’t break up, but I don’t know what we’re doing (I don’t know what I’m doing), and whatever it is that we’re doing I don’t want it.” You were fine with it. There was no but. There was no fight. I’d gone all in and come back with nothing. I suppose the best thing about this is that you’ve happened. You’re no longer happening. The bit of my now that you own is at an end.

The end...

There's a typo in there somewhere, but Russia's playing Korea and I've got to live tweet the match. Peace out. 

Happy Days,
Afam

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The blog post about nothing and typos... Rhythm is a Dancer... Food is the enemy

23:01:00
Ah Pants! Pants is the world I use when I mean to say fuck, shit, or goddammit, but I don't use those words on the blog anymore because they're not professional. I hate that last sentence but I shan't delete it because deleting it, will taKE  away from the gunghoness of the blog. I want to delete that sentence too but I shan't. This is sad. I've written about a hundred words without saying ANYTHING. But no matter. Believe it or not - and I know it's fairly unbelievable - this blog is not about my inherent inability to hold on to a stream of thought. I think I might be schizophrenic. No, I'm kidding. I'm not schizophrenic. I just have a severely undisciplined mind. I'm not selling my market well here. Just remember to read my disclaimer at the bottom of the page before you confront me with any of this stuff okay? And my mind isn't undisciplined, it's CREATIVE. One day, when I was daylighting as an employee of Lagos state, my boss said, "But these creatives are not very creative!!!" I don't know what a creative is. I die when people refer to me as a creative. they go, "This is Afam, he is a creative." I'm sorry. What the Escudo ROjo is a creative? When did creative become a noun. I am Afam. I am a phenom. I am epic. I am a writer who cannot afford a photgrapher. I am a lover of life. I have seen the typographical error in photographer and I shall not correct it because, I'm not supposed to write and efit at the same time. 

Anyway, let's get on with it. The matter on the table today is quite a handsome matter. The matter on the table is handsome dude, Denola Grey. He released his website the other day, and I Afam, being incredibly kind and benevolent and nice, decided to do a blog about it. Unlike most of my other blogs, I shall show him this before I publish it, because I want it to be a nice blog. Sometimes, my idea of nice isn't really everyone else's idea of nice. I said that someone homeless and I meant it as a compliment. Looking homeless is derelict chic. I adore it's anti fashion leaqnings. Actually... I just decided that this blog won't be about Denola Grey after all. I shall talk about him some other time. This blog is going to be about this awesome fashion designer I discovered somehow. 

Now, you all know that I don't really rate fashion designers in Lagos. why? Please go on Bellanaija. Do it now. I don't mean to be shady, but, I've just trawled through the style section of that very, very popular Nigerian blog and I've seen a lookbook that I don't understand. If the model is finer than the clothes she's wearing then please, I'd much rather see her naked. That's the truth. Nudity is awesome. That's what I thought when I saw the Viva Le Resistance show at last years Lagos Fashion and Design week. Breasts, are beautiful, beautiful things, and if you as a designer decides to display them, then you best make them even better looking than they are already. Should that be already are? I think it should be already are. I think I need another dog. I've been missing captain Reginald lots. I don't run on the beach anymore. It's been three months and I'm still acting like I've been hit by a wrecking ball. 

Actually I don't want this blog to be about anything at all. It's just me at 11 pm thinking about a bunch of things. I want to sleep but I've got to live tweet the Russia vs Korea republic match. I hope it's epic, but I know it's going to be dull. I'm fairly happy you know? Life is good. I still work harder than well, and I still eat like food is the enemy. Food is the enemy. I miss dance classes. So you think you can dance is back. Rhythm is a dancer. And I'm nothing if not a madman. Adios suckers!!

Happy Days,
Afam. 

If this one becomes popular I'll streak.

I'm serious. 


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I'm 24... Who cares? The sequel to I turn 24 tomorrow.

04:33:00
I'm pouting as I write this. No, I don't know why I'm pouting. Alright, I do know why I'm pouting. Why didn't I say in the beginning? Well, it's a stupid reason. No, I'm not shitting you, the reason is daft. Okay, only because you're so desperate to know. I like the way my face feels when I pout. It's an addictive feeling. Pouting makes me feel beautiful. Yes, beautiful. No, not handsome, beautiful. I'm going to take a selfie now. 

Why did I say beautiful and not handsome? Will you get off my back? It's just an adjective. Handsome is often too restrictive. I feel like it confines itself to the physicality of the person it describes. Beautiful is a lot better because you can be beautiful but incredibly terrible looking, which is why I was surprised when people complained that it was Lupita who won the People's magazine most beautiful person of the year not some illustration of classical Hollywood prettiness. Does that phrase make sense? I don't know. Do I care? Do I care? I shall find out in the morning. I don't care too much about it now but that doesn't mean I won't care in the morning. We who live at night should be wary of ourselves in the morning. I'm only twenty four but I already have a lifetime of regrets. No, being Afam isn't one of them. Being Afam saved my life, or should I say our life? I wish I'd loved less. If I had I wouldn't be so spent. No, I'm not going to talk more about this. If you ask me about it I'll kill you. No, I won't kill you, but you know what I mean. Sometimes I want to say things and have you lot take them at face value. But for the sake of telling a more complete story, I'll say that I've come to believe that love that is unrequited is the purest most selfless kind of love that there is, and that I, Afam, have always been a little bit of an overachiever. That's all I'm going to say about that. 

About Lupita, how could any of you doubt that she is deserving of the most beautiful person of the year award? Have you heard her speak? Have you seen her smile? It's an incredibly honest smile. All who see it cannot help but believe it. It isn't fake or forced. It's a beautiful smile. I've come to believe that it is not the eyes that reflect the soul but the mouth. When those lips pull apart you see the essence of a person's being. You can tell if they're calculating, wet, or shy, because of how quickly one is willing to reveal some of his or her teeth. Lupita's smile is quick, wide, and self assured. No self assured is the wrong word. Lupita's smile is too honest to be concerned with the trivialities that surround its luminance. And what of her skin? Does is not glimmer with the full bodied sheen of health? Is that not beautiful? It is so radiant that you know that it isn't just because it is good skin that is shines so. It is surely a mirror of the qualities that lurk within her. 

Being 24, has been a little bit weird so far. I've been moody, and sleepy and I've been eating lots. I feel like I need a moment to stop and take it all in you know? I'm not processing well. I generally don't process things well. If I were a computer I'd be a Windows 95. It can take me a full week to wrap my head around the slightest thing. I've been eating so much that I miss Caderrousse, the terrible cook Papa Afam kicked out. He was with us for two months and a bit. He was delightful for my waist line. His very presence in the kitchen cast a miasma so thick that I was forcibly relieved of anything resembling an appetite. If I keep up this pace of wanton gluttony I shall be fat. If I am fat, my clothes will not fit, and I will have to go about naked. Not that I mind too much. I have been fully clothed for 24 years, I deserve some time off for my compliance. 

April is done, and we're in May. I'm tired of feeling moody, so I shall stop. I'm sorry for stating the obvious earlier. It's an awful habit. I'll try to stop that too. In the mean while, I shall continue as I was before the 24 phunk hit me. At the end of the day I'm only a year older and nobody really cares but me. 

Happy Days,
Afam


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Nigerian Men are Weird and stuff... And a bunch of other stuff.

10:02:00
Oh my Days!! Today's been terrible. I know it's hump day and all but how the hell do I only have 126 page views? Have you been ignoring me again? How bad of you! You're all terrible and cruel and I hate you. That's the 13 year old girl that lives inside me. Whenever you see a tweet from me that says something like,

"OH MY GOD!! Nobody loves me!"

or 

OH My God, I'm never falling in love again!"

That's her. I call her Tweefam. Yeah, I fused tween and Afam together. I think she comes out of me whenever I'm on my man period. And you guessed it. I'm on my man period right now. I'm feeling weird and emotional for no good reason. I just burst into tears, because Shounen jump didn't come out today. Shounen jump is the japanese manga magazine that's got One piece, Naruto and Bleach. Don't make me explain what they are. Please? 


That's Toyin, in Stranger Lagos

Because the views are so pathetic, I've decided to write one off the cuff. And no this one isn't about man periods and Tweefam, the 13 year old, my pretty pony loving, annoying brat that lives inside me. It's about men. It isn't about all men. It's about Nigerian men and how weird they are. And Nigerian men are so weird. They're too weird to be understood. Maybe it's unfair, but they really are weird. They're so weird it's intimidating. Maybe that's why not many people seem to write about how weird Nigerian men are. For one of the most homophobic people in the world they're really really gay. You know what I mean don't you? You're talking to someone and all of a sudden their hand starts stroking your arm for no good reason. It isn't never even one stroke! It's stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, and stroke. If they had some sort of sexual interest in you, it would be understandable, but they hardly ever do. They just stay stroking. 

And don't let me get started on the hand holding. When I saw that the antigay bill proposed that public shows of same sex amorous relationships be punishable by 14 years in the slammer, I laughed a little. Nigerian men are professional hand holders. During prayer time, they interlock fingers. When they're crossing the road or walking side by side their hands draw to each other like they're negative bits of magnets. If that's what the sort of thing they're looking for, then the already full prisons will be fuller in no time. Last night as I strolled from Stranger, a concept store that I quite like in Lekki Phase 1 to my house, the hand holders were out in full force! There were like 6 of them! That's more than you'll see in Soho! (the gay bit of London)

If the weirdness of Nigerian men was restricted to the interactions they had with other men, I suppose we could say that gayness was something so foreign that it wasn't considered or thought about during normal interactions, but they're like this with women too. Has a Nigerian man ever refused to relinquish your hand after a handshake? I've seen it happen. It's the most unfortunate game of tug of war ever. The woman tries repeatedly to free her hand without upsetting the man, and he just clutches on oblivious to her discomfort. I suppose it would be alright if this sort of behaviour was restricted to night clubs and parties, but it happens everywhere! It's even worse when the overlong handshake become infected with the stroke. 

It becomes a...

Enter pervy weird Nigerian dude, Prince, and unfortunate Nigerian hunny, Nkechi.

Prince: Hello Nkechi, how was your night? 

He grabs her hand.

Nkechi: It was fine thank you. How was your own night?

She starts to try to release it but he's oblivious. 

Prince: It was fine. stroke. I had many many dreams - stroke - about our future - stroke-  You get me? stroke 

...

I think Nigerian women are unlucky. I suppose they're luckier than Iraqi women, but it doesn't change the fact that they're distinctly unfortunate in the grand scheme of things. I wouldn't have realised this if my country, Nigeria, hadn't sent me to Edo State for the paramilitary segment of my year of natural service. While there, I had this friend I called Ajebo. She went to Kings College London, and she had a little bit of a lewd body. Everything she did was sexy somehow. She was sexy without being sexual. Her voice was sexy, the way she flipped her braids was sexy, the way she frowned was sexy. Because of the sexiness she radiated seemingly unwittingly, she was like man crack. By the time we left camp,  I had a little bit of a crush on her. The feeling wasn't mutual. I think I'm going to have a cry again. How come the people I like don't like me? WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY? 

Anyway, back to Ajebo. In camp they were giving a lecture about something I really didn't give a flying shit about, when a guy planted himself in our field of vision. By our I mean, the Super Ts. The Super Ts was the name that I, Afam gave our group of friends. Of course every guy with half a brain knows the T, 

Never approach a fine gurrr when she's with her peeps, if you aren't charming, or ridiculously goodlooking, or super charming or if you haven't got a more than capable wingman.  

By Charming I mean Tom Cruise charming because I love him even though he's probably bat shit crazy. 

He didn't even speak. He motioned that she come over Morpheus style. You know? He wagged his waggable fingers and expected her to come up to him with her tail wagging. She didn't, so he strolled down to us and...

Enter obnoxious, stupid as hell, Nigerian dude, and Ajebo. For the sake of convenience let's call obnoxious bloody stupid Nigerian dude Bonnyface.  

Bonnyface: Why didn't you come over? Don't you know I'm a man?"

Ajebo: And so what if you're a man?

Bonnyface: You have no home training. Is that how you answer your father when he calls you?

Ajebo: Are you my father?

Bonnyface: I am a graduate and a prince. How dare you talk to me like that?

Ajebo: But aren't we all graduates?

Bonnyface: Well I graduated with a first class.

Ajebo: But what does that have to do with anything!!

At that point I burst out laughing. I laughed so hard, I wept. I laughed so hard that I fell to the ground. I laughed so hard that I choked on my saliva. He couldn't find the words after that. It was just as well because we couldn't spare the time. We wandered off and left him scowling.

 This is part of the reason Nigerian women are so unfortunate! This is 2013, and a university graduate thinks like this. I cannot understand it. If you look at it academically nothing he said was defensible. You see what I mean when I say that Nigerian men are weird? I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, he was the only one. You're thinking, "Afam, you can't carry an argument on one stupid stupid stupid son of the soil." And I'm not. He wasn't the only one. There were several! 

I could go on, but I've run out of whatever it is that I was on when this started. SHUT UP! Sometimes I get tired of talking about what I'm talking about. And I'm thinking that I should write another post about how Nigerians are STUPID. Don't even argue with me. I don't believe in doing things just because but a lot of people here seem to. I'm not Christian just because I'm Christian, believe me it'd be easier to not believe in anything. And I'm not going to get married just because people get married. If I want a child, I'll have a bastard and if I need someone in my bed, I'll get someone in my bed. I know I've veered off a little, but really, how can a graduate say to me, "Women are meant to be in the kitchen because they're meant to be in the kitchen!" That's the sort of thing that'll make me a murderer. Do you know where I'd be if Mama Afam didn't get her arse out of bed and go to work everyday? DO YOU? DO YOU? DO YOU? And then what of the ones that say father's are meant to pay school fees, just because fathers are meant to pay school fees. If you're a graduate and you think like this, take your ass back to primary school.  

Happy Days,
Afam

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