• Go to your second choice. (It’s still a University you should be grateful)
• Go into clearing. (Hustle for a place studying anything in a reputable school)
• Take a Gap Yah and re-sit your exams at the first opportunity.

Fam,

Summer's come round again and I'm trying to rectify my errors from last year. I'm trying to remove that black mark against my name in the love department. You may or may not know that I have been chasing a particular female for some time now. Even while adventuring and Bunburying up and down town she was never far from my thoughts. When I played harpoon the whale (I recommend this game whole heartedly) she remained in my mind somewhere inbetween the harpoon and the whale. I try to remain professional and aloof when I'm around her, just like all the books say. I try to radiate the quiet confidence of Joe Black in the movie Meet Joe Black, I try to exude the charm of Hugh Grant, because that guys charm borders on twattishness. It's not right for a man to be so charming. Lastly, I try to embody the pretty boy looks of Chris Hemsworth, this is extremely difficult but I power through it somehow.

Whenever I'm around her I tighten the buttocks, push out the chest, suck in the tummy and assume a perplexed but cute, worried but strong, sexy but shy, pretty but deep, aloof but keen look on my face. Much to my surprise this has not worked. I have also tried wearing my man musk so that she's attracted to my pheromones, and various mating dances. These dances are often so complex and outstanding that after any display I am escorted off the dancefoor by burly men. This is undoubtedly to keep the hoards of females away from me. While there have been hoards of women, she has not been among them. I started to wonder what I was doing wrong, but then I found her twitter account through intense stalking.

She writes and I quote, "Dodo is the food of champions. It needs to be sweet and not soggy. No salt required". If I cannot dance my way into her heart then I shall cook my way there! Will you help me?

Later,
Ogilvy.


Gil,
I trust that this email finds you well. We will have to discuss some of the things you wrote... I fear that you may be overworking your facial muscles. While you are not at all bad looking currently, I'm fairly certain that if you continue with these exertions you will lose what little looks you do have. Having said that, I am quite pleased that you've come to me with this issue for I am fairly skilled in the frying of dodo.

Cut the plantain into neat slices and put them into a bowl. Heat a significant amount of oil in a frying pan. Here I'm working up the nerve to drop the plantain slices into the hot oil. This is a fairly risky task because chances are that the oil will react most violently to the introduction of the plantain slices and burn you.

Stretch out your arm, tilt the bowl and tense your quads. The frying of plantain is an art. It requires all your body parts to work in perfect tandem.

The moment you empty the plantain slices into the hot oil, you scoot backwards. In this instance, i have scooted backwards so quickly that the very capable DSLR Canon Camera cannot focus in time to catch me.

I have just come to a stop. I quickly check myself for any damage.

I am a boss. I have escaped unscathed.

This incident needs to be celebrated by dancing the dodo dance. It's very much like the tap that dance I taught you at school. You get low, and pelvic thrust like there's no tomorrow. If done right, you will look like you're humping the oven. Don't worry about this, I'm pretty sure that the oven enjoys that sort of attention.

Now it's time to transfer the dodo to a plate. I was still high off the fact that I had not burned myself. I'm a boss aren't I? Yes, That is an apron. Aprons are important so that you can properly channel the chef that you admire. Mine's called Fregz, but yours is probably Gordon what's his face?

Dodo is best served with Corned beef sauce and a dash of ketchup. No, it's not burned. I just like my Dodo on the dark side.

I hope you get the girl this time buddy. You have endured untold levels of suffering at the hands of females. It's a wonder that you haven't become a Jesuit. We're all rooting for you. Bring this one home to the lads.

Take care,
Afam.


To the rest of you louts, Ogilvy's already on it like a bonnet. I think it's high time that you hopped to it too. You've got a little over a month till the end of summer and I know from experience that you can fit two or even three flings into this space. Don't go as high as four because too much fun is always and everywhere a bad thing.

Happy Days,
Afam.

Yesterday I regaled my misadventures with Vodafone in great detail, but I made no mention of the blackberry. I'll be frank. It has been quite sometime since i referred to that thing as a blackberry. It leaves a funny taste in my mouth. Whenever I refer to my blackberry the prefix crack, struggle, bad or shit is usually used to replace black. Why do I have cause to insult my blackberry so? Don't worry I'll tell you.


My first blackberry was the 8520 curve. I was so excited when I got it but I wish I'd read some reviews before hand. That's not to say that I have since read some reviews of the phone, because I haven't. I haven't got the time. What I can tell you is that we of  the Afam household have a three year old 8520 in our stores. The phone currently functions as a land line, or a desk top. If you disconnect it from the power source the device has the mobile phone equivalent of a stroke. You're probably thinking that I should replace the phones battery right? But why should I do this when the Nokia E90 communicator that I used to use is still completely functional after 6 years of use?

I was not informed that when I purchased the blackberry curve 8520, I would be buying an uncooperative twit with no respect for my social life. The phone was possessed. It hard reset when it felt like, deleted my blackberry messenger contacts when it had bad days and generally tried to disrupt my life in every manner possible. When a phone displays that the battery is full and then proceeds to die in the next 30 minutes, that phone is taking the Mickey. My 8520 was stolen in Chicken George and I was relieved. I was due for an upgrade so I planned to get the newest blackberry. I thought that the phone would be free of the personality issues that had come with the one before it.

The first flaw of the blackberry bold 9780 is that it looks just like the blackberry bold 9700. What's the point of getting the newest phone if it is exactly the same as the old one? Apple had the good sense to equip the iphone 4s with Siri but blackberry was not as clever. In my opinion they only changed the colour of the casing and downloaded their newest operating system. That operating system was also available to those with the previous bold. The phone worked fairly well, until 6 months after procurement. I was using it during a light drizzle when it hard reset itself and refused to reboot . I took it to the Vodafone store, where it was diagnosed with water damage? Water damage? From a drizzle? If I were to put my phone away every time there was a light drizzle in Manchester then I would never use my phone. I was given a courtesy phone by Vodafone as a replacement. They gave me the 8520. I promptly turned it off and placed it in the box. I had no need for it.

I informed the Vodafone staff that I was returning to Nigeria for three months, so I would be unable to pick up my phone until September. During the holidays, they informed me that my phone was fixed and ready for collection. I ignored this because I had told them where I was going and they could hardly expect me to purchase a thousand pound ticket for the sole purpose of picking up a troublesome phone. I returned to the United Kingdom only to find that they had disconnected the courtesy phone, because my phone was ready to be picked up. Did they not remember that I had left the country?

On the day of my arrival, I marched to the Vodafone store to collect my blackberry that had supposedly been fixed only to find that it had not actually been fixed.

VODAFONE, BUT WHY?

(You can see that Vodafone is highly skilled in the art of corporate spanking).
It gets worse. 

The lady then told me that insurance could no longer take care of the repairs because I did not report their negligence and inefficiency after the phone had been fixed. I was stunned. I could not believe what I was hearing. This would mean that Vodafone had sent my phone off for repairs, received the phone unfixed and left it on their shelves for three months. Does such a thing seem possible. The repairs were not free. I had paid £25 pounds for them. That doesn't include the insurance premium that I pay monthly. I was informed that because I did not pick my phone up 2 weeks after it had been returned it could no longer be repaired by the insurance company. After I had gone through the trouble of telling the staff at the store that I was returning home for the holidays and that because of this I would not be able to pick up my phone immediately.

Had I not argued for several minutes about this, I would have paid for the repairs myself. In all honesty I might as well have paid for the repairs myself. The repairs would have cost £100 at the most. It is always and everywhere infinitely preferable to gain satisfaction from expenditure, than it is to lose satisfaction and a general sense of well being from expenditure. I fail to see how this can pass for customer service? It isn't even bad customer service, it's crazy!

When all was said and done, the phone wasn't repaired. I was given a brand new one phone. After all the stress I had gone through to get it fixed, I didn't want a new phone, I wanted my phone. While all this fixing was going on they added more strokes to the corporate lashing I was receiving by giving me a first generation samsung courtesy phone. They didn't even spring for a 1st generation nokia. I'm sure that I don't need to detail the damage my social life suffered as a result of this.

I find it amusing that I no longer know how to use 1st generation phones properly. Texting with one of them is IMPOSSIBLE!!

The new Blackberry 9780 was not as sturdy as the old one. It was like the reincarnation of my 8520, it did things as it pleased. It could not open web pages of a certain size, but I didn't mind too much after my experience with the samsung, I found great comfort in the qwerty keypad.

Yesterday my blackberry found itself in the Atlantic ocean. Although efforts to rescue it were successful, it remains an invalid in the sack of rice that the Afam household keep in the kitchen. If I know anything about my phone, I know that it shall use this opportunity to enjoy a quiet passage to the after life. So what should I do? After my experiences I will not be handing the phone to vodafone for fixing. I'd rather buy another.  I will not make any promises or overly bold proclamations, but I can assure you that the times they are a-changin'. In the mean time I'll make do with my trusty nokia.

I feel bad that I should have any cause to complain so. I would really prefer it if I never had to complain at all, that I may restrict my efforts to the enjoyment of the Earth and all the things inside it. But now that it's done, I can focus on better, more positive things, like my recent ungraduation from uni and my Lagosian adventures. Onward and Upward!!!

Happy Days
Afam

A very important development has developed. Can I not say that? Well, I don't really care. This important development has put a stop to my hearty Lagosian adventures. I am convinced that there are three things in this world that could never mix, and I believe that several of you know exactly what it is I am on about.

This combination, this cocktail of misfortune, this eternal quagmire is the marriage of Vodafone, RIM, and I, Afam. I'll start this tale from the end. As we speak my £55 Vodafone phone bill is two days overdue. I am fairly sure that my bill should not be £55, because Vodafone owes me money. How did such a thing happen? I'll tell you.

In April or May, while pulling off one of my many all nighters, I heard a faint voice calling in the wind.

Enter Nightly Spirit

Spirit: Afam, Afam.

 I looked around and wondered who it was that whispered to me in such a lovely and appealing voice, that made my mouth water with desire.

Afam: Who's there?

Spirit: Quarter Pounder with cheese, mmm.

Afam: I really shouldn't, I mean I mustn't.

Spirit: Go large with the fries. You know we make the best fries on the high street. Don't forget to try our medley of sauces. I know that we appeal to your infinitely adventurous palate.

Afam: My palate does yearn for the unfamiliar every now and then...

Spirit: That's the beauty of it, we're so familiar but yet so foreign.

Afam: Who are you? Tell me...

By this time there was a rumbling in my stomach going boom bada boom bada boom

Spirit: When last did you get a large Vanilla milkshake from us? You naughty chap. You've been cheating haven't you?

Afam: But they're so good at Archie's, I couldn't resist!

Spirit: Shut up! we've been catering to your every desire since you were six. That should count for something.

Afam: I'm sorry.

Spirit: No matter, there's no time like the present to rectify your negligence.

Afam: Yes, I'll leave right away.

Spirit: Don't forget to get an apple pie and a Mcflurry. Also don't forget to get that cheese burger with your student card.

With that dismissal, I wakeboarded from my seat in the Library. Yes, I did this. Don't doubt me


I was in such a good mood after this conversation with the spirit of McDonalds that I went skipping very gayly down Oxford Road in Manchester with my trusty Blackberry in hand. Before I knew what was happening, I felt myself vault through the air. I landed flat on my face, and my blackberry smashed into the ground with a lethal amount of force. It ceased to work instantly and no amount of coaxing could wake it from the dead. Being a lad who's well aware of the many shits that the universe can take on a human being during the course of a day, I brushed the dirt from my shoulder and continued to McDonalds, where I ordered everything the Spirit told me to. It was a splendid meal, even if it did come at the cost of my phone.

While one cannot belittle the obesity crisis sweeping the world, one can proclaim that McDonalds in moderation is good for the soul.

 After my exams I sauntered up to Vodafone and to claim my insurance. The insurance company duly informed me that I could only make a claim on accidental damage, if it happened within the last seven days. This was obviously a clause that I had neglected to read when they asked for my autograph a year and a half before. I was also informed that it would take £100 to resurrect my blackberry. I bit the bullet and asked for it to be added to my bill at the end of the month.

Two days later I realized that Vodafone had gone above and beyond the call of duty and disconnected me. I went to the shop and they said that they needed me to pay the £100 immediately. I complied. Two days later, my service was suspended yet again. I checked my account online, and it said that I owed £100. I thought, "Gosh, it's so embarrassing that the first payment did not clear"(These things happen sometimes). 

I paid again. I checked my bank statement two days later, only to discover that I had paid Vodafone twice (Rookie Error). As a student who's perpetually broke, this is a deadly error. One that must be rectified with no delay. How could such a thing have happened? They had ruined my finances! I called customer service to complain about the unreasonable development and they asked me to take my private and undoubtedly personal bank statements to the nearest Vodafone shop.  I swallowed down the difficult and extremely bitter pill and strolled into my preferred vodafone shop with my bank statements in tow.

The Vodafone staff then had the audacity to scan and send my very unhealthy, and unbelievably private bank statements to a Vodafone office only God knows where, to do only God knows what with. After a little while they informed me that they had located my money and that they were unable to make an immediate transfer to my bank account. Could they not see that the double debit had pulled me into my unplanned overdraft, the fees of which are £50 pounds. They then insinuated that it was my fault that I was double billed. It was too much to take. I went into shock. I couldn't even complain. Believe it or not, Vodafone still had some more buggery up their sleeve. They deducted my next bill from the money that I had in excess and promised to send me the rest within 10 working days. I left the store without any spring in my step. I was extremely deflated.

Let's fast forward to today. After their horrific treatment I can confirm that my money has still not reached my account. I can also confirm that they have not deducted it from my next bill.

A little over a month has passed since this incident.

Vodafone why have you chosen to punish me so? It must be at the prompting of some universal entity, that you decided to wield your heavy hand of corporate bureaucracy against one incomparably tiny Afam.

Happy Days,
Afam.

I feel that since I used this forum to declare my gainful unemployment, I should use the same medium to declare my ungainful employment. I was very content. People think that lounging about and being a slob is lazy but they can't understand how monumentally difficult it is to stay at home and do nothing all day. Yes, that is one of my many talents. If only I could be employed in an industry that encouraged the development of such talents but no. It was not to be. The end of my blissful period of gainful unemployment was heralded- as most things are, by a conversation with Papa Afam.

Gainful Unemployment: I have used this phrase a few times without explaining what I mean by it. It is not very easily defined. You see I, Afam, am special. Yes, my mother told me so. Because of my unparalleled muchness I collect a salary at the end of the month for performing the activities necessary for life. But the moment I get a paying job, these funds dry up. It's not that they are not available to me but the pockets of Mama and Papa Afam, seem to become incredibly shallow whenever I have a job. It would be harder to extract water from a stone than to get those two to cough up. 

Enter Papa Afam and Afam
 I'm sprawled on the couch. It's 6 am. Don't be ridiculous!! I could never wake up that early. Papa Afam attempts to ignore me as he walks past my couch to make a cup of tea. I dutifully ignore him. Anyone who knows anything, knows that one should not be disturbed when watching a nollywood production. You may miss one of the many theme songs. But Papa Afam had a very large bee in his bonnet that morning so my dreams of nollywood bliss were put on hold. How can you tell the man that bought the television, the cable, the couch and even the floor to be silent while you watch Beyonce vs Rihanna, or Rihanna the President's daughter (I think the latter has about 5 sequels).

Papa Afam: AFAM!!
Afam: Yes dad.
Papa Afam: How long have you been back?
Afam: four days.
Papa Afam: What do you intend to do with yourself?

Afam: Silence. The question was purely rhetorical.

Had I answered the conversation would have gone like this
Afam: I'm relaxing until National Service commences.
Papa Afam: Oh! so you mean you'll just be sitting here idle until November.
Afam: Yes.
Papa Afam: So while your mates are out getting internships and such, you'll be watching television.
Afam: Yes dad. You'll find that watching any Nollywood production is just as tasking as doing any actual work. Your brain works overtime analysing the various reasons why you shouldn't be watching the drivel, but it's useless analysis because it is widely known that Africa Magic impairs the motor functions leaving you unable to look away or change the channel.
Papa Afam: Are you Crazy?

But being infinitely perceptive, clever and forward looking, I keep silent.
Papa Afam: Come to my office at 9, we'll sort you out.
Afam: Yes dad.

I'm not really complaining about the manner in which I got the job. I'm well aware that not everyone has the good fortune to even be considered for a "decent" job in the current economic climate.

So here I am, standing in central Lagos at mid-day (I mean like Lagos, Lagos. The part of Lagos where I who have lived in Lagos all my life am a tourist). I'm a bit like James Bond, I can tell you my name, but I can't tell you who I work for or what it is that I do. All you need to know is that on this day after being hauled to work at 9am I had to take someone somewhere, to get something that would make someone else immensely satisfied.

That is a picture of the sun. It beat down on me with such intensity that I suspected that I may have wronged it somehow. But I, Afam, was prepared for it. After suffering severe sun burn the last time I went wake boarding I make sure to sun screen up at all times. Yes, black people get sun burnt too.

Yes, so there I was standing in the centre of Lagos, the place that the most adventurous tourists head to in the hope of gaining a glimpse into the lives of real lagosians. I was not going to waste the opportunity. So while I waited for someone to bring me the something that I had driven to the centre of Lagos for, I donned my tourist hat.

I take it with me at all times. Whenever I need to don the demeanour of a tourist I put on this hat and my perception of the world changes. The most insignificant observations become objects of bedazzlement. Furthermore my ability to appreciate the smallest things increases 100 fold. The hat also grants me powers of extreme recklessness and bravado. These will be illustrated later.

While walking through something like this, I encountered a number of obstacles.

I had to avoid being run over by Keke na peps (That's slang for a motored tricycle) like this.

And Okadas like this...

But it was all worth it because I got to see this...

I had often wondered why I was so interested in my bowel movements. I thought it odd that I should look forward to them, or somehow seem to insert them into most conversations. This proves that I am not the one at fault. I will use this opportunity to suggest that all Lagosians are more interested than is the norm in activities usually restricted to the toilet. (During a four day expedition I delighted in the opportunity to leave a little bit of myself behind in a medieval hut at the foot of Mount. Snowdon, in Wales.) If you're ever in need of some herbal laxative, tell me and I'll be sure to procure some Ajase Kokoki. It's guaranteed to make things happen. I'm not sure what exactly it'll do to you but I'm sure that it will do something.

Yes, somewhere around there. Things look so much better in pictures. They don't capture the 40 kilometre an hour head wind that sometimes blows through the mountain range. Never Again!!

I also got to see this. I stood in the middle of traffic to get this shot. The people weren't pleased but I had my tourist hat on. I was one spider bite away from being a superhero.

After a successful day out during which I finally obtained the something and gave it to someone who had a great time with the something, I went to my favourite joint at the moment, the Three Arms Hotel in Ikoyi and ordered a chapman.

It was at this juncture that I thought that it was a little weird for me to consider myself a tourist in the city that I have lived for the last 22 years. But, maybe it's a good thing. It just means that there are several more adventures to be had. Life would be dull indeed if I had accomplished everything that there was to be accomplished. I find it reassuring that there are things the even I, Afam don't know. All of this introspection ended when I boss lassoed me back to the office at 7pm, where I remained until 11:30pm.

Happy Days,
Afam.

I apologise for my weakness. I am indeed rather weak. There are so many things that I’d like to say, except at the moment my mouth can’t seem to form the words. I find it funny that every time I try to say them my voice gives out. I let you coax me back into quiet acquiescence when we both know that we could never be. This thing is an anomaly, it should never have happened. I’d like to lay all the blame on you but I can’t, for it was I who let myself be led on.

We could sit here and talk about the depression that seems to be approaching from the east. You’ll probably liken my attitude to the cold front that leads the warm one. The violent force of the storm only to be endured until the eye, then you’ll wait with baited breath for the warm front, a pathetic excuse for a fight. After all my energy has been spent you’ll lure me back into mediocrity. Before, I would have been content but it’s not enough anymore. I have seen the first glimmer of excitement, I hadn’t realized that it had been so long since my heart quickened beneath my chest. So long since I felt so happy that I would float away. Did you really expect me to deny the first splash of colour in my world? I’ve heard it said that it’s the things we love that destroy us. If this is true then I welcome my destruction. I’ll cling to the stake as I burn.

Thoughts from Anna Karenina.



Happy Days, Mellow Nights,
Afam.

Bear with me, for as I write these words, I myself have no idea where I will end up. Such are the dangers of rambling.

I detailed the circumstances regarding my flight back to Lagos in "Hogwarts and Unicorns: The trip to Lagos" but I did not or could not tell you of the incidents after it at the time, because I wrote most of that feature whilst on-board the aircraft. The circumstances regarding our landing were most peculiar. Nigerians have a tendency to be rather eager and enthusiastic regarding the movements of their hands. They often feel the need to clap them together with little or no provocation. I am not unfamiliar with the concept of applause, but I was of the opinion that it was to be used in two circumstances:

1. Someone has done something highly commendable so you celebrate them by producing as much noise as your frame can muster. In this case it is permissible to stamp your feet, clap your hands and hoot as loudly as possible. If you do this well enough, the recipient of your attention's head will swell and explode.
2. Someone is putting you through an epically horrifying experience. This experience is often like passing crushed glass through your ears, or your colon. In order to put an end to your torture you applaud them for their efforts and beseech them to depart from the stage prematurely. This is the best outcome for all parties involved because you don't hurt the individuals feelings and your ears are saved from further torture.

In this instance, the pilot's undoubtedly bumpy and slidy landing was celebrated with a round of applause. I cannot and will not attempt to understand it. It is and will always be a curious incident that occurred at night time.

The remainder of my journey was exactly what I have come to expect from the Murutala Mohammed International airport. I'll write it in song.

It was hot and sweaty,
La la la la la
The airport was dirty
tra la la la la
The people in the queue were smelly
doo be doo be doo

(On a more serious note, Nigerian body odour is so remarkable a scent that it should be bottled. I fear that it may be an evolutionary mutation developed to cope with the dominance of mosquitoes. You don't think so? Well, I'd hate to think that the sole reason for it was the lack of decent and proper hygiene.)

There was a tout amongst us,
la la la la la
He fought with the immigrations officer
dum dum dum
Do I know what happened?
tra la la la la
No at all, all, all.

The carousel was slow,
lo lo lo lo lo
Our luggage came out last,
la la la la
No really, the wakeboard was the last thing off the flight
dum dum dum
This song sucks?
What did you expect?
the waiting was much.

A remarkable picture of the airport. I'm starting to think that Nigeria may be better in pictures.

Murtala Mohammed International airport is a genius invention. Even if you'd been away for so long that your memory of life in Nigeria appears to you as a dream or a sequence of events from someone else's life, the airport shall correct your misconceptions. In that airport you will be exposed to everything Nigeria has to offer; the best and the worst of it. You'll see the bribery and corruption as some able bodied little Lord Farquaad speeds past you in an airport go-kart reserved for the disabled and gets put on the much shorter queue for foreign citizens when his passport is as green as yours. You'll see the branded suitcases that may cost as much as one of the men pushing your trolley does for a year. Then you'll see the die hard, "yippie kai yay" motherfucker mentality of the people (Unshakable Optimism? I got a little carried away with my descriptions). Every employee of the airport will be looking to make a quick buck out of you. I am of the firm belief that the man who first said that a fool and his money are soon parted was Nigerian, because the phrase is truest here.


It should come as no surprise that I was in shock. After such a hectic trip; a trip that British Airways themselves declared unfortunate for I, Afam was a rose seated between two thorns (their words not mine). I expected to be driven home so that I could collapse on my impossibly hard double bed that I had missed for a year. I kid you not when I say that my bed is harder than the floor. But this was not to be. All my dreams of being a Howard Hughs-esque recluse were dashed for I was carted to a Davido concert. You see my sister, Bintin, was in attendance. I got to the venue at 10:30. The main man had not yet come on stage. I was surprised because this was a Sunday and the Monday that would undoubtedly follow was not a public holiday. So why would a concert (especially one targeted at people too young to be roaming about at night in the undoubtedly unsafe and intolerably exciting society that Lagos is) have any cause to start so late?

 Lagos is like a big budget movie, a kidnapping here, an armed robbery there; it's all fun and games till it's you, or someone you know.

 I comforted my sister as big brothers do, because there was no way that I was going to turn up at Papa Afam's door with his only daughter in the early hours of the morning just because she wanted to see Davido.

A week and a bit later, another opportunity arose to sample the Lagos music scene. It was the DRB Lasgidi industry night at the Oriental Hotel in Lagos. It was a free concert. I was quite keen to see them live. I had heard of them while I was doing my A levels, till this day I appreciate their work ethic and dedication. I am distinctly pleased that they have kept at it for so long and are now reaping the fruit of their labours. I don't mind their music. When I hear their stuff on the radio I do not feel the need to attempt to incinerate the radio with my mind. Having said that, it is important to mention that upon listening to their music I am not overcome with the need to drive myself to the nearest internet hotspot to begin a stalking and downloading spree. To make up for the disappointment of the night of the Davido concert I decided to take my sister to the DRB Lasgidi industry night. She in turn brought her posse.

I drove into Oriental at 7pm sharp.

Enter Afam, Bintin, Jolz and Wam.

Bintin: It looks dead.
Jolz: It starts at seven right?
Wam: Yeah, 7.
Afam: Are you sure?
Bintin: You doubt me?
Afam: Not at all, it's just that these things are harldy ever this empty. This is a blessing though, we'll get awesome seats.
Wam: When do we have to be home.
Afam: We'll leave at 10pm and get home before 10:30pm.
Bintin: Can't we leave at 10:30?

The answer to Bintin's question is silence. The terms of Bintin's curfew are not negotiable.

You can tell from the above conversation that I was a Johnny Just Come (JJC), I had forgotten the rules of Nigerian time. This was my second offense. The long standing rule of Nigerian time is that if there is an event, you must ignore the time of arrival prescribed by the organisers, for the organisers know not of what they speak when they tell you that they want you there at 7pm. Truth be told they really want you there at 11pm or 12am. The laws of punctuality fail to hold in Nigeria, and it isn't better late than never, it's better late than ever!

It should come as no surprise to you that there was no one there. In fact, the hotel had not finished setting up for the event. Being deathly allergic to waiting and having nothing to do, I abandoned my wards and went home to enjoy a light supper and some Olympic fun. But even this was not to be. As I settled on the couch to sup and watch, I found myself in the other plane, the dream plane. In this episode I, Afam fought with a great white and came out on top. I then proceeded to grill it on a skewer. I never got to taste it for I remembered that there was some place that I had to be. I leapt from the couch like a dervish and raced to the pimp mobile. I found that there was no need for my hustle and bustle because even at a few minutes past 10 the concert had yet to begin.

At that I rounded up the troops and took them home. As luck would have it, we spotted the DRB gang stepping out of their ride as I drove out of Oriental. I wanted to jump out and say, "Hey, we waited! Where were you?" but I thought the better of it. I could not blame them for my ignorance of Nigerian social etiquette.

Happy Days,
Afam.

Cafe Vergnano. I need a moment to recollect my thoughts. Yes, such were the indignities bestowed upon me by this Lagosian establishment that claims to have begun in 1882. Lies! There may be a Cafe Vergnano somewhere in the world that began in 1882 but it is not this one. This one, the one in the Palms shopping mall in Lekki, Lagos is a glorified tea shed. Should anyone ever suggest that you grace the foul establishment with your presence you must decline and proceed to dissuade them from visiting. It is the decent thing to do. You're probably wondering why I, Afam have fallen out of love with Cafe Vergnano and if you aren't then you should be.

I had been to Cafe Vergnano about twice before this unfortunate visit, and I thought it the pinnacle of Lagosian sophistication. It was clean and quiet and the service, sharp. The Cafe I went to a few days ago was nearly unrecognizable. I was attracted to the cafe by the sight of some succulent cakes on display. My mouth watered, I knew then that the internal debate about whether or not I should load my body with several useless calories was lost. I was already making false promises to the pot belly that I would obliterate the damage done by doing an hour on the treadmill the following day, LIES!! The slice of cake that caught my eye was a chocolate one. It looked like perfection. The icing looked wet and the cake, moist. It also had a slab of white chocolate on it's head. I had to have it and no price or good sense could deter me. The cake was a little expensive at 1000 naira, but I believed that this was an infinitesimally small price to pay for the chocolatey goodness that awaited my belly.

I should have known then that I would not enjoy the cake as much as I had imagined because what cake could live up to such high expectations. I had set myself up to fail. The cake I received was far from the cake of my dreams. The satisfaction I derived from chopping it (That's what I did, I chopped that damn cake) could not even provide the thinnest cushion to shield me from the battery of my conscience for indulging myself. The cake was mediocre and dry, but this in itself is infinitely better than a bad slice of cake, so I didn't mind too much.

While I munched on the cake, I ordered a Virgin Mary (we detox just to retox). I finished eating my cake but the Virgin Mary remained elusive. I played a couple of rounds of words with friends, but my Virgin Mary was still on holiday.

Yes mocktails go on holiday too. That's where they are when they're not on the table in front of you.

.After a little while, (about 45 minutes) the waitress came back to tell me that this very reputable establishment lacked the ingredients to make a Virgin Mary. These things happen. I went on to order a Milkshake. Once again the waitress sauntered up to the bar and disappeared for some time. She returned after 20 minutes to tell me that they couldn't do Milkshakes, or Frappes. You're probably thinking- because I was too, what sort of cafe calls itself a cafe and cannot make a milkshake or a frappe. I thought that this was a defining quality of cafes but obviously I was wrong.

By this time I had been sitting for an hour with nothing to entertain me but Words With Friends. Starmix was fighting her impending defeat most fiercely. Why can't the vanquished just stay vanquished. There's really no need to rise again and battle. I decided to try my hand once more, at the gamble that was the Cafe Vergnano menu. This time, I went for the safest bet, a pot of tea. This came speedily, but the magic was lost.

It's the acute realization that there is no more fun to be had in a particular venue. This is when your thoughts involuntarily swivel to the circumstances regarding your departure. I should have known that leaving would not be an easy feat. I had to wait another 45 minutes for my bill and no less than 20 minutes for my change. I said to the waitress who had served me, "I hope you know that your service leaves a lot to be desired." To this she replied, "Pardon?" I tried again, "Your service is truly horrendous." This time she got the right end of the stick and said, "I know sir. I'm sorry" It was a useless apology because try as I might, I will never reclaim those two hours I spent waiting for one thing or the other in that tea shed.

I would have awarded them a full star for their air conditioning but even that had a comma. When attempting to cool the living, you need not go above and beyond the call of duty. That is precisely how people get hypothermia in the tropics.

For doing the mostest to spoil my evening I award Cafe Vergnano half a star. For an accurate definition of mostest please travel to The Saga of the Mostest.

Happy Days,
Afam.

Yes, this post is about the refrigerator of love. No, I am not being ridiculous, there is such a thing as a refrigerator of love. It’s just like the leprachaun’s pot of gold except that this one lies at the base of the rainbow in your heart. Yes every heart has a rainbow, I saw it in a dream I had last night.

I really can’t be blamed for this. I think it’s one of the side effects of my medicine (I fell ill during the year and I have been heavily medicated since). I now get vivid dreams that have no place in my head. I think that they may have been transplanted from Terrence Malik’s head, but no matter. I quite enjoy them, when I’m not being eaten by snuggly-warts (yes I just made that up) or looking at myself sleeping (this happened once).



So what is a refrigerator of love? The idea was still extremely fresh in my mind so I did the only thing I thought appropriate in this situation, I conducted a social survey. It’s been a while hasn’t it?
With great fervour and effort I switched applications on my mac to my browser of choice, Firefox and conducted my interviews. Considering that all I did was hold down command and tab it may seem odd that I call it a great effort but such is the height of my laziness and dislike for actual work.

So I dived into action...


I began my social inquiry by asking Ellie. You’ve met Ellie before in one of these features. She’s proven to be a most consistent ally in all my endeavours.

Enter Ellie
Afam: Everyone has a little refrigerator of love at the little rainbow by the bottom of their heart. What do you think this is?
Ellie: A kidney!
Afam: So you believe that the little refrigerator of love in the bottom of your heart which stands decorated by a beautiful rainbow is a kidney?
Ellie: When you put it like that, I’m not entirely sure.
Afam: I’ll assume that you’ve never had a Biology lesson in your life.
Ellie: What’s the correct answer?

I didn't know at the time, so I left her hanging.

I engaged the poetry writing yam (Azone) in a similar vein of questioning

Afam: Everyone has a refrigerator of love at the little rainbow by the bottom of their heart, what do you think this is?
Sir Yam: GAY!!!
Afam: I beg your pardon.
Sir Yam: Well rainbows are rather gay, so I thought gay would be an appropriate answer.

I was speechless... I think my silence made the poetry writing Yam a little uncomfortable for he attempted to answer again.

Sir Yam: How about weed?
Afam: Don’t feel bad, someone else said kidney.
Sir Yam: That’s fine then. It’s an interesting mind test.

At this point I was ready to bury the very thought of the article when a certain Dell came online.

Afam: Dell, I know it’s been ages but could you help me answer a monumentally important question?
Dell: You only speak to me when you need something.
Afam: Isn’t that the only time when you should speak to someone?
Dell: No, you’re supposed to inquire about their well being.
Afam: You know how I feel about rehearsed and altogether pointless conversation...
Dell: I’m sure you’re about to tell me.
Afam: I simply haven’t got the time.
Dell: Sigh, I would change you if I could. I really would.
Afam: Everyone has a refrigerator of love at the little rainbow by the bottom of their heart, what do you think this is?
Dell: I’m sorry. You’re going to have to rephrase. What on earth are you on about? Lol :s
Afam: No clue.
Dell: What do you mean by refrigerator of love? Do you mean a person?

I think about this. It makes perfect sense to me that if there is a refrigerator of love, then it should contain people.

Afam: Well you put people into the refrigerator of love.
Dell: Oh! So you’re asking who I’m in love with?
Afam: Not at all.
Dell: Oh. Well I suppose you put the person you’re in love with into the refrigerator of love.
Afam: That makes sense.

The idea finally made sense. I realized why it had had the audacity to impose itself on my dreams last night. My friend Thatcher is a truly remarkable fellow, but he has one fatal flaw. He has a hard time letting things go, so he piles one issue after another into his already issue filled life. So if we assume that an individual that one falls in love with is a three course meal fully formed, and that at the moment that you fall in love with them they make a home for themselves in your refrigerator of love. One should inherently know that before you put another three course meal into your refrigerator, you should throw out the meal that is already there. Thatcher, like most Nigerian families overstocks his refrigerator until it can barely function. Being the very example of generosity, and goodwill I am extremely worried for my dear friend Thatcher.

If you know any individual in a similar position, then be a good Samaritan, and throw out some of the rubbish they’ve stored up.

Happy Days,
Afam.

You lot met me a couple of posts ago. Truth be told, I was rather upset when I discovered that Afam, the man I consider my closest ally and owner saw fit to reserve me for the 69th post on his blog. It was almost as disappointing as being the last to find out that Afam had a blog. But being the loyal kind, clever and infinitely handsome companion that I am, I forgave him. I know, it's terribly gracious of me, but what's a dog to do in this day and age?

What? You doubt my good looks? Is my coat not lustrous? Is my colour not splendid? Do my eyes not twinkle? Is my posture not a wonder to behold? Afam himself declared that there isn't an adjective that could possibly describe my muchness. I am pure bred; the progeny of champions and I am treated as such. Even among privileged dogs I stand uplifted. But it was not always so. Before I met Afam, my prospects were grim indeed. Had he not intervened I might have become a lowly guard dog, as opposed to the master of external affairs of the Afam household. Yes, I have done well for myself. It's kind of you to say so.

I was brought into the world by the exertions of my mother. The moment my nose breached the confines of her body I knew that leaving it was a grave mistake indeed. I was assaulted by the acrid smell of burning diesel and some loud noises. Worst of all I found that I was destined to compete with 15 charlatans and scoundrels for mother's attention. I was depressed.

My mother, an evil bitch if there ever was one, was very wise. She knew what was good for pups, and had an even better understanding of what was good for herself. So she withheld the greater proportion of the milk for the strong pups and left the weak ones to starve. It remains a marvel that she did not eat us. Furthermore I felt the things, they latched unto me and sucked. Night and day they sucked. I didn't think anything of it for my brothers and sisters had them too. My mother and her owners were alarmed at my undoubtedly disheveled and scrawny appearance. They did not bother to name me for they felt that my fathers in the after life would perform the task adequately. They conspired to profit from my misfortune. As my untimely end approached, I was displayed before the masses with the hope that someone would buy me only to have me expire a short while after. But my God is a miracle working God. I was picked up by a man who I now call Papa Afam as a graduation present for his son Afam (this Afam had just graduated from high school).

Afam taught me that there was such a thing as love at first sight. He looked at me with those big brown eyes of his like I was the most handsome thing in the world, like I was all he could or would ever want, like I was the sum of all his desires. It was then that he carried me like Rafiki carried Simba and christened me Captain Reginald first of his name Blackdog of house Afam. His proclamation wrested me from the grip of that other place. He personally removed the things I'd eventually come to know as ticks and fleas from my coat. I never had to walk, for I retained a permanent position in his arms. We showered together, ate together and slept together. Even though we aren't as close as we once were I remain assured that his love for me is indelible. This is my testimony.

Afam has been through a lot since we met. There are times that I could not be with him due to insurmountable barriers, but now that he's back with me I will not relinquish him.
It has come to my attention that Mama Afam is conspiring to see him paired off with another. I detest this. Why should he be paired with another when he already has me? I know that Mama Afam and I have never really got along (I may have sniffed her buttocks a few too many times for our relationship to be repaired) but separating me from Afam is downright cruel. I, Captain Reginald, the current head of external affairs of the Afam household command all parties involved to Cease and Desist! You do not have my leave to discuss the issue. You do not have my permission to arrange Afam's affairs. He does not need to be matched. I will find him a suitable match at the appointed time and not one moment before.















Captain Reginald

Sometimes, I put something up only to realize the second after I post it that I'm really not done talking about it. This is one of such. It is the sequel to The Questions at the End.

The questions have begun
Some remain unanswered
Several are resolved

The questions have begun.
Most have been answered,
Some do remain.

The questions have begun,
The solution is now clear,
The doubts are now with us.

The doubts are with us,
Things are not as clean,
Not like that first spring.

The questions have been answered,
This, in itself means nothing.
For those of you who knew nought
The questions will remain.

Hapy Days,
Afam

I only have so much to give, so don’t take more than you need. I’d like to make you happy, to make you pleased, but every time I do it takes a little out of me. You’re like a vampire or some feral leech. I feed you happiness and get none of it back. But what about me? I deserve to be happy too. We don’t really talk anymore. When you need support I’m there like a crutch, but the second I need it you pull away. You make it seem like I need too much, like I ask for too much. How could I not leave? If I knew of any other way, I would stay.

If you ever need a break up Speech, you know who to call.

Happy Days,
Afam.