For those of you who are new, Ogilvy is my dearest friend from school. He is so dear to me that I would gladly throw out the word friend and call him brother. It would take aeons to list his merits but only a second to list his one demerit. Ogilvy is ridiculously unlucky in love. He often writes to me in times of need, seeking my counsel on the matters of his heart.

He first wrote to me in two summers ago complaining about his summer fling that was more summer than fling. That is to say that no flinging of any sort occurred during his summer.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/notes-on-summer-fings-lessons-from.html

He wrote me again last summer and asked for my tuition on the preparation of dodo (fried plantain) for the champion of his heart at the time.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/notes-on-summer-flings-importance-of.html

Then he emailed me in Winter and asked me to help him revive the waning affections of Coks, the Rosalie of my primary school years after he took her to see Brave. Yes, Brave, the pixar animated movie about a 16 year old girl.
http://theramblingsofamadman-afam.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/notes-on-winter-love-lessons-from-brave.html


Dear Afam,

Did I ever tell you of the story of how I lost my virginity? I know that a man calling itself a virgin is something akin to a dog calling himself a cat but you get my meaning. I don't think I told you of how I was ruined by one for all.

Gil



Dear Ogilvy,

No you did not. I was under the impression that you were thrust into the arms of piety and propriety by your apparent and unbelievable lack of anything closely resembling the thing we have all come to call game.

Love,
Afam



Dear Afam,

You wound me. My game exists purely because of the common misconception that I have no game. I may never be smooth or suave. I will probably never deliver that perverted pick up line with so much confidence that the 10 in the bar goes home with me, but I am perfectly capable of delivering 50 pick up lines so badly that she wets herself in hysterics and has no choice but to come home with me.

In spite of your hurtful remark, I'll tell you.

I met Georgie before my first semester in university was done. I awoke after a night of complete decadence and debauchery to a facebook friend request from a beauty. I added her without second thought, such was the superiority of her facial features. She reminded me of the circumstances through which we had met, which I couldn't recall because I had been completely off my face at the time.
Apparently she was standing in line talking to a friend of hers when I tapped her. She ignored me for a while then she felt my hand on the nape of her neck tucking in an errant tag. She turned in disbelief and I said, "You aren't that fit. Sometimes there's a guy in the line who's just trying to be decent. If you're going to wear a dress with the tag in it so that you can return it later, you must at least have the good sense to conceal the tag properly." After that I pulled out a pen and wrote my name on her arm.
After a fairly long and interesting facebook conversation that lasted about four days, she invited me to hers for a movie.
We sat awkwardly for about 30 minutes watching or trying to watch Youth in Revolt. You know? The one with Michael Cera. Our fingers were touching, and we kept looking at each other when we thought the other wasn't looking. I got tired of playing the game of eye contact avoidance and turned all my attention to her, that I may sieze her lips with mine the next time she looked my way. When she did our faces seemed to gravitate to each other. Soon our foreheads were touching and the distance between our lips, reducing. The first kiss was sweet and brief. It stank of innocence and good intentions. I seized her bottom lip with my lips for a second and released her.
Everything that followed could have been  from a dream, or a dream of a dream. It should have been documented my Victor Hugo or Tolstoy or Dumas. It was apparent that she was more experienced than I. She hinted at what things I should do, where I should place my lips, where I should use my tongue, what should be scratched and what should be caressed with fragility. She was my piano and I her maestro. If she did not sing, I only had to play another note. So tuned in was I to her every need.

When we were done, we lay in bed talking of life, love and the future. I thought we would get married. I thought that this would be the start of the greatest romance. I didn't know then that I had caught a severe case of the virgin goggles that because she'd stolen my first experience so cruelly, I would so pedestialize it that no other could possibly reach it. In my world there was only she. I didn't know then that she was free spirited, that she would flee from anything resembling attachment. I was damned. She only had to call, and I would fly to be with her. She didn't call often, thrice in first year, twice in Second year. I deleted her number then because I was sure that as long as I had it i would keep pining for her. She was the moon to my wolf. no amount of howling would bring her closer.

After a year without seeing or speaking, I bumped into her in uni. We once again exchanged numbers, and within a week we had rekindled whatever it is that we had had. I played her like a grand symphony. I banged some keys like they needed the pounding of Thors hammer to make even the slightest sound, and some others I played like they were so brittle that if I didn't take care I would only get to play them once. I played the piece like it would be the last time I would ever play it or hear it but even after that I'm back to where I was, glancing at my phone every 5 minutes. Checking to see if she's read that wattsapp message and wondering if she'll reply before tomorrow. I am lost. No, lost is too kind. I am damned.


Hopelessly Damned,
Gil

 
Dear Ogilvy,

Believe it or not, this actually makes sense to me. The question is what do you want from me. Within that truly sappy narrative, you made no mention of what I could help you with. I am left to assume that you either have it under control, or you are quite happy with the state of things as they are. If you are comfortable being damned, I see no reason why you shouldn't be damned. I can only save you from yourself if you want to be saved.

Afam.


Dear Afam,

I need you. You must save me. The current state of affairs is too tragic for words. It's almost as wretched as Eponine's tale. If there is anyone capable of saving me it is you.

Praying for a Hero,
Gil.


Dear Ogilvy,

It pains me to tell you that the cure for your affliction is just as bad as the affliction itself. I wish I could tell you that you would be rid of it just as quickly as you got over all the others but that would be untrue. If only you'd come to me sooner. If only you hadn't let the wound fester and rot. But not to worry, I will fix you better than fix it Felix fixes that abominable apartment building.


I saw Wreck it Ralph the other day. I wish I'd done something more interesting, like lie naked in the cold and snapped off my toes as they blackened from frost bite.

I know that it would be nice to think about those 2.4 children, and that white picket fence but she is not the one, she will never be the one. However because you are surely constructing sonnets of love to her as we speak you'll probably ignore this golden nugget of advice. Instead I will give you the means to dominate and tame this nasty specimen of woman.

You're sadly unsuited for the specimen you described because you are too nice. To her your niceness is a price on her head. a price that she doesn't think that she is worth. As a result you must treat her as she treats herself. You must be wicked to her. Every word you send to her must be filled with hate and pain and vitriol. You must degrade her at any and every opportunity. To save yourself you must be a Villain.

Then you must show her your love by accompanying her everywhere she goes and waiting outside buildings for her. Only by showing her the full measure of your affection and angst will you be free of all the pain that she causes you daily.

Soldier On,
Afam.


Dear Afam,

I did as you recommended and she got a restraining order against me. Don't talk to me for a while.

Gil.




Happy Days,
Afam


ps. There really wasn't a better way to deal with it. Now Gil will be forced to move on to bigger better things or he will go to prison. As Gil is a man who is well acquainted with the advantages of self preservation, I look forward to a new email at the end of the month about a Sheila, a Leila, a Zeek or even a Sandra (God Forbid!)

Last week one of my famzers who blogs as well said the strangest thing about me. She said,

"He would definitely not poison the mouse, he lacks that ruthlessness and the ability to see the world only in black and white. This is a good thing as much as it is bad."

I do not disagree with this. I would propose that I am only like this because I love myself. I love all the nasty, hidden bits of myself that no one sees. I love the fact that whenever I see that a new blog has sprung up among my peers I steam for at least a day because I am well aware that some of you famzers only read as a favour to me.

If another one of your friends started blogging you would have less time for mine and what if they were better than me? Then I would be damned. Eclipsed by a friend of a friend. And I love the fact that I struggle to deserve everything that I've been given. It is not an easy battle. I often come up short but that too is okay. I am incapable of judging anyone more harshly than I judge myself.

Of murderers and serial killers and racists I can only mourn their actions, because if I had walked the entire journey in their shoes I cannot tell you with complete certainty that I would have chosen any differently. It would be far easier to yell about things without thinking them through. That I could sit on my horse and judge you all.

So unto the nitty gritty, the marrow of the bone that I have to pick with the world, the cotyledons of the beans in my bonnet. They say that premier league football players are overpaid. Of course if you take into account that Rooney is paid £250,000 per week when most highly skilled surgeons with years and years of training earn the same amount in a year and are more highly valued by society this seems plausible.

You see, things like value are not defined by God. There is no scale of value. People are paid exactly what they are worth. If you feel that you are underpaid then quit and get a new job where you're paid more. If Rooney wasn't worth £250,000 a week you wouldn't watch every Manchester United game, you wouldn't buy a season ticket at Old Trafford and you wouldn't spend hours of your time thinking about his role in the next match or tweeting about how well or how poorly he's playing.

When was the last time you tweeted about your doctor? How many times a week do you go to the hospital? Do you spend more time watching football than you do at the hospital? You cannot have your cake and eat it too. You cannot watch every premiership match and every Champions league match and ask why it is that premier league football players earn more than most people. Surely you must see that it is because of you. Furthermore you mustn't forget that they are the best at their jobs. The highest paid football player, Samuel Eto'o earns about £17,000,000 per year. I will wager that the highest paid medical professional earns more, because football playing often doesn't allow for ownership benefits. The highest paid medical professional in the world probably owns his own chain of hospitals.

Now that the scene has been set let's talk about a fairly recent issue. Kim Kardashian went to Lagos, Nigeria to host the "Love Like a Movie Event" with Darey. She was reportedly paid $500,000 for her efforts. It seems like the best way to do this is to take some of the most popular comments and comment on them.

"Rich, controversial and influential, Kardashian’s rating on the entertainment scale seems to be enjoying regular “top-up,” especially among the younger female folks. But many families are not exactly comfortable with her lifestyle, as she hardly cuts the image of a role model to a generation in need of a moral dress up. Many families believe Kardashian is outright “vacuous”, as she is believed to have nothing virtuous to pass on to the younger ones. The American First Lady, Mrs Michelle Obama, was, for instance, quoted to have said she does not allow her two daughters — Malia and Sasha — to watch  “Keeping up with the Kardashians”, which is believed to have a bad influence on growing minds."


In my opinion it's the equivalent of a $500,000 advert. Except that it might be better value for money than a $3.5 million, 30 second spot at the Superbowl. This one has certainly gone on for a lot longer.

"Instead, she seems to have made a sensationally brief appearance at a nightclub, nominally introducing a concert for which Nigeria's great and good – don't ask me to make value judgments, I just type this stuff – paid the equivalent of $640 a head."

Marina Hyde, the Guardian.

Eko Hotel isn't a nightclub. It may be many things but it isn't a nightclub. But we can't blame you for this. You're a columnist for the guardian. You had to make things as interesting and funny as possible. A nightclub is infinitely more exciting than the Eko Hotel & Suites Convention Centre. You mustn't do this too often though. Hotels don't like it when you call them night clubs.

Is it so bizarre that Nigeria's great and good paid the equivalent of $640 per head for a concert? You can talk about the poverty in Nigeria, and you can talk about the great rift between the rich and the poor, but what you mustn't do is suggest that $640 is too much for able Nigerians to pay for a concert. The people that went may not even have noticed. 

The value of anything is what any man is willing to pay for it. How much does it cost to get a pregnant Kim Kardashian to work a Nigerian event for 45 minutes and 45 seconds? $500,000. You can argue that it oughtn't, but that's a different story. 

If you have a problem with the world and the way things are then wage war upon the world and society, and shake the earth with your proclamations. Confront the issue at hand. Don't let the extent of your narrative be $500,000, Kim Kardashian and whether or not she is worthy of our followership. 

Ah famzers it has been a while. Well it's only been 8 days but in blogging time this is an eternity. For those of you who noticed my absence and missed me I love you. You're far too good for me and you're far too good to me. Even if I worked everyday to deserve your goodness I would come up short. For those of you who didn't notice, I hate you. You are terrible. But even this hate is love. I only hate you because you do not love me more. You do not love me as much as I love you.

I was going to write you a scorcher on Valentines day but my Valentines day did not go the way I planned. You see, on Valentines day I was going to make a few phone calls, and then maybe go out for supper at Manchester's most popular hipster palace with the lady in my life but I didn't.

Manchester's most popular hipster joint is an American themed anti-establishment restaurant by the name of Almost Famous. Even though bloggers are not allowed in I managed to sneak in without anyone being the wiser. This is how much I love my Famzers. I sneak into alien territories to bring you the scoop. More on this later.

I didn't start my Valentines day with a box of chocolates or paying for flowers, I started my Valentines day in one of these.


No, I didn't climb into one of the very fine bins at Student Castle because I have a little bit of a kinky fetish for them, I climbed into one of them because I accidentally threw my wallet and my phone in there with the trash. In my Afam playbook there are only 3 plays that can emerge from something like this happening so early in the day.

• The Universe has its eye out for me. Any and every activity I partake in will be jeopardised by one freak incident or the other. Call in sick and spend the day watching Scandal. (This might be completely inappropriate but Kerry Washington's face seems to blossom when she is whimpering, screaming or looking depressed. She never looks more beautiful than when she's acting like her life's about to go up in flames. Her face was made for suffering. I can only hope that she continues to pick more emotionally challenging roles.)

Photo credit: abc. Do you see what I mean? She looks upset. She looks like she just saw someone eat a goldfish alive! But she's never looked more attractive. More power to her. She makes the struggle look sexy.

•  The universe is trying to tell me that my phone is pants, that it is about time that I put it where it belongs i.e the bin. Well a year ago I would have believed this but I have come to the conclusion that I should not rush into getting a new phone. If I got an iphone 5 today i could break it in an hour. I'd rather bang up my already banged up blackberry (struggleberry, crackberry, shitberry #justsaying)
• Lastly, the universe is trying to tell me that my wallet is pants. Tell the universe to stick its head up its arse and then get a colonoscopy to determine whether or not it has succeeded in this endeavor. My wallet is very good at telling pickpockets that the opportunity cost of picking my pocket is too high. You see, if anyone were to pick my pocket and relieve me of my wallet, they would immediately find that I have no money. They only have so much time to pick so many pockets. Picking an empty pocket is a risk they cannot afford.

I decided that the first play was the best play and spent all day in bed watching Scandal. I don't think I've ever had a better Valentine's day. There should be a blog dedicated to the many faces of Kerry Washington but all of that is by the way.

Valentines day is perhaps most famous for it's ability to expose the thirsty in society. The older I get the more aware I am of the the thirst. The thirst can be defined as an all consuming unrelenting insatiable infinitely blinding craving for love. Thirst is a very powerful thing. It leads to prayers like the one below.

This is an actual book. It's supposedly quite funy

Can you see? She is so desperate for a husband that she doesn't even care about the kind that she gets. She has turned her life into a box of quality street or celebrations. Yes! do not argue with me. She did not specify the type of husband she wanted. That is how God will deliver her a cactus as a husband. You will see her on a documentary on the discovery channel, "I have become an objectophile and I am happy with my life" that's what she will say. She will never guess that the root of her objectophilia was a half thought prayer that she beamed up to heaven. But objectophilia is better than the alternative.

What is this alternative? This alternative is a RUBBISH husband. The kind of husband you pick up willy nilly on a Gambian beach. What if God provides you with a husband that drinks, sleeps around or beats you black and blue. Will you still be happy? Who will you complain to? It's just like asking your father for a car and receiving a lemon. You asked for a car, he got you a car, so you have to live with it. You can't go back and be like "well daddy, this isn't the car I wanted. Give me another one." It is far better to be in a romantic relationship with your can of deodorant than it is for you to have a bad husband.

(A lemon is the Nigerian equivalent of a Tokunbo and any English made car in the seventies. The best thing I have ever heard said of the Austin Allegro is 

"it isn't a particularly bad car, it's just an astoundingly adequate car with mistakes made in it." 
Top Gear

This is the power of the English. Their understanding of the language is so absolute that they manage to say the worst things about things without actually saying anything bad about them. For those of you who do not already know what Tokunbos are, a Tokunbo is a vehicle that has changed hands no fewer 50 times and no longer possesses the underlying features that constitute what exactly a car is. Most of them were once legends in their own right but they've been tinkered with so many times that their interiors are vaguely reminiscent of one of my Science projects from my school days.)

This my dear friends is a Tokunbo. I know it doesn't look that bad but can you imagine what they've done to the suspension to make it appear normal even though it's carrying enough Onions to feed an entire village for half a year? Without the sacks the butt of the car would be closer to heaven than it is to the ground. I have seen this so I know it to be true.

Furthermore, if you are unhappy without a husband, you will be unhappy with a husband. Your unhappiness will make your husband unhappy and then make you doubly unhappy. It is better for you to contain your unhappiness in your own vessel than it is for you to infect others with them. Your misery doesn't need company. The person that first suggested that is both a Villain and a Suppressive person. I stole the last one from the Scientology handbook.

So remember, when praying for your husband add a long list of adjectives lest you receive a bounty when you really wanted a malteser.

Happy Days,
Afam

Yesterday I signed up to do the Bogle. The Bogle is a 55 mile walk around Manchester.
It typically takes around 21 hours to complete but this scares me so I shall do it in less. I hear that if you jog it you may be done in 12 hours. I shall be very happy if this happens because then I'll get to go to the Afrogala.


I know it seems like a lot to do in 48 hours but don't worry for me. I'm in the spring time of my youth, and I'm both a Super Boy and a sexy beast.

I didn't call myself a sexy beast. One of my famzers did me the honour yesterday. Check my Who's Afam page.

These physical attributes render me more than capable of completing both tasks without falling to pieces. I'm fairly certain that I shall fall to pieces at the Afrogala because it is hilarious. The last time I went there was a sketch about Fatimarella and I laughed so hard I very nearly shat myself. In fact I'm quite sure that a little something slipped out.

Now, lets get down to the heart of it. Why am I walking/jogging 55 miles? Well I'll be straight with you it's not because I love walking/jogging and it's not to prove that I'm fitter than the average 23 year old. It's because an opportunity for me to do some good has presented itself.

There is nothing more important in life than health. Your health affects everything about you. Perhaps more important than your health is the health of those you love because we feel the effects of the illness just as acutely but we are unable to do anything for we know that everything that we are feeling about them being ill is mental. We're not the ones in hospital, and we're not the ones who have to take pill after pill, injection after injection and test after test. I'm not talking about ilnesses like the flu or even malaria not that those aren't serious illnesses. I'm talking about those with no cure like cancer and HIV/AIDS. I know that you can be cured of cancer but anyone that's seen anyone go through chemo will tell you that it's not quite a cure. There's no taking a single pill and coming out all rosy at the end. The cure itself is like a disease.

I believe that it isn't enough to sit on your laurels and wish everyone well. It isn't enough to mourn with the families of the affected. If all we did was mourn, then we would mourn until there was no one left. We have a moral right to galvanise ourselves into action. This isn't a story about the people I've lost to cancer. It's a story about the rest of my life. I know not everyone can walk or jog 55 miles. You have other commitments, some of you can't even do it physically but there's always something proactive that you can do. At the very least you can promote the cause. If you are so moved you can donate to the cause. If you haven't the means, then someone you know can donate to the cause.

I have chosen to give the proceeds of my fund raising efforts to the Ellen MacArthur Trust because they are a great charity. They teach children and young adults with cancer to sail. They help rebuild the self confidence of the ill by providing opportunities that some never thought that they'd have. For people that have spent long periods of time in hospital there can be no greater respite. The satisfaction that being out in the open with the sun, and the air and even the rain brings them is undoubtedly priceless.

The Trust was launched by the internationally-renowned sailor Ellen MacArthur on the 2nd of January 2003. In her words:

“These are really special kids. In many ways they are just they same as everyone else, they are interested in the same things as kids their age, they have the same goals in life, but the difference is that they do this with a huge challenge ahead of them.

I face challenges out on the water, but these are challenges that I choose to do. They on the other hand don’t have this luxury. They battle against something harder than many of us could ever imagine and they do it with the biggest smiles on their faces. To me they are truly inspirational and if the Trust can help them in their battle in any way then that is a fantastic achievement.”

To support my effort click  on the following link:

http://www.justgiving.com/Damilola-Ade-Odiachi?utm_source=emailvision&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=fundraisingpage-donation-alert-email

If you do not give then still click on the link and share it on facebook, twitter, or google. You can even use Hi5, myspace and all the other long forgotten social media things. I'm hardly pedantic. If you are not on any of them then you can email the link around. You can do one, or do all. To those who have donated, Berie Graham, Toni Adeeyo, Ugo Mbakwe, Tapfuma Mutas, Lolia Etomi, Titilayo Awosemusi, Ayanam Udoma, Nefe Etomi, Anonymous, and James Eatwell thank you! To those of you who have shared and tweeted, I thank you too unfortunately I cannot name you all, but your contribution is just as appreciated.

Happy Days,
Afam

I just read an article. I'm sorry I must back track. I'm not accustomed to being so direct. It is far better to be an indirect long winded fellow than it is to be the opposite. Why? Because I am an indirect long winded fellow and I love myself without restraint. To prefer the short winded direct people would be to despise myself and I can't have that can I? Yes where was I? I was having my usual gander on facebook when I saw an article shared by one of my famzers, Arriety. (Don't ask me how I came up with that pseudonym. All you need to know is that Hirosama Yonebayashi who was also an animator on Spirited Away and Princess Mononoke directed a movie called the Secret Life of Arrietty in 2010.)

This particular famzer is greatly esteemed not only because she's the sister of my first girl friend but also because she is clever, opinionated and outspoken. The first time she shared something that I had written I wrote the following about her,

"Arrietty and I went to school together. She was two years above me. I can't say that we had that many conversations but what I can say is that her telling me that she loves my blog made my head swell to the point of bursting. I had an extra spring in my already springy step. Yes, that's how highly I regard her opinion."

This is the article that Arietty shared http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/10/opinion/sunday/in-nigeria-youre-either-somebody-or-nobody.html?pagewanted=1&_r=0&smid=fb-share

Give it a read will you? It will be a hundred thousand times easier to follow everything that comes after this if you have. But because not everyone has the time I will quote the first paragraph.

"IN America, all men are believed to be created equal and endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights. But Nigerians are brought up to believe that our society consists of higher and lesser beings. Some are born to own and enjoy, while others are born to toil and endure."

This paragraph should tell you all that you need to know. The writer is incurably addled. She's not addled the way I'm addled as I am nothing if not a rambling mad man. Her sense of the world is skewed beyond the point of recovery. As someone who is quite familiar with the world I can tell you with full confidence that some are born to own and enjoy while others are born to toil and endure. To refuse to admit the universality of this statement is to be naive.

Like the writer of the article when I was growing up we had staff. Till this day we have staff. We have a male steward, a female cleaner, a male cook, 2 gardeners courtesy of Omar Gardens, one washer man, 2 drivers and 2 nurses (My grandmother has Cardio Vascular Dementia. The nurses are indispensable). When I was younger the stewards and cooks doubled as nannies. Yes, the Afam household is a little like a small economy. You might say that this many staff running a 5 bedroom house and relatively small grounds is ludicrous. But you know what? My parents have earned it. You see Mama and Papa Afam were not magically installed as the rulers of this micro economy. It wasn't handed to them by God and the privileges of birth. Two decades and a half ago they lived in a one bedroom apartment on my paternal grandmother's estate and my father ran his business from the living room. So you can understand why I insist that this woman is beyond deluded.

As children we were not permitted to call staff by their first names, they were auntie and uncle or mister. Even now that I am a man (well a man-child) I cannot call Papa Afam's driver, Alfred, anything but Mr. Alfred. They were imbued with as much authority as our parents. Heaven forbid you were rude to them or didn't say please or thank you. Sometimes the reward for your poor behaviour was a scathing look but sometimes it was an hour long lecture that put you firmly in your place. If auntie Patience, my nanny, punished me and I dared tell Mama Afam she too would punish me. After they had lived with us for a while, Mama Afam would call them to her room and ask them what they wanted to do with themselves. Some didn't know, and that was fine. Others wanted to go to school, and that was fine too. Whatever they wanted to do we supported. It wasn't uncommon for them to come to us illiterate and leave with better vocabulary and diction than some university graduates. They were not figures depressed by the hand of nature below the level of the human species as Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani seems to think. They were our teachers, our confidantes, our friends, our disciplinarians and our helpers. There were times that it didn't work out. Some of them stole but we weren't so jaded as to believe that they were all scoundrels. If they were all scoundrels then I would have been the worst of them because by the time I was 8 I had forged my mothers signature a few times and stolen 50 Naira when Papa Afam wasn't looking but while I couldn't be dismissed I was certainly punished. My punishments were significant enough that I wished that I could be dismissed.

She goes on to say that America is a more civilized place than Nigeria because of the principle of equality that was laid out in the declaration of independence. To say this is to make light of the struggles that America has endured to achieve the level of equality that it has today. Equality was not presented on a platter of gold. It was fought for. It is still being fought for. And what's more Equality of service is not something that is humanly possible. I cannot expect a waiter to treat me the same as he would treat Rihanna. I am a student. Even if his service was legendary, I could only tip him £5 at best but with Rihanna the possibilities are almost limitless. In Pretty Woman Julia Roberts walks into a store and is denied service because she looks like a whore, but this is true anywhere. Shop assistants have no patience for window shoppers, they cannot earn a commission off you so they try to determine who the likely customers are by going on preformed ideas of wealth. Because of my current lack of funds I can hardly expect to be given a private room and a glass of champagne every time I visit my bank, but if my account were fat enough that would be the least my bank would do for me. We all know this. At least if you don't know, now you know. People act in their best interests. To piss off a man who has banked £300 millions with your bank is to lose your job and earn a bad reference. To piss off a student knee deep in his overdraft is to laugh about it over drinks that night.
The same principle applies in Nigeria. If you do not display certain tenets of wealth you cannot be expected to be treated the same way as someone who does. You should expect the same service but you shouldn't expect to have your arse kissed for it. 

I am not saying that this is right or wrong. I am saying that this is common and not uniquely Nigerian.

But I suppose the fault is mine for making the effort to read and blog about an article that can only be described as the journalistic equivalent of trolling. I fear she fails to realize that somebodys can quickly become nobodys and nobodys can just as quickly become somebodys. My story includes an extensive knowledge about apartments in Knightsbridge that are no more and families that ripped themselves to shreds fighting for the dredges of parental wealth and people that were once somebodys but are now nobodys. Perhaps hers isn't as well informed.

Happy Days,
Afam

Bear with me, this is all leading somewhere.

As you all know I'm a little bit of a rambling mad man, I like music and I'm in love with the idea of love. The more impractical the love, the more engaged I find myself. In my opinion the best things in the world are the sad things. Those are the things that inspire the most feeling. As a result the sort of love I seem to subscribe to with greatest frequency is that of the unrequited variety. Unrequited love is the sweetest sorrow. There is such beauty in the pining, and the longing of the one thing that will never be yours. It has its own special sort of romanticism. As all consuming as it tends to be it is also the freest sort of love, because for all your pining and lusting, and wanting and longing, you're still a single pringle primed for mingling.

I tend to call unrequited love the bane of my life but my comrade, Asquith tends to call it oneitis. He is of the opinion that it is perhaps the most fatal disease among young men.

Ps: Oneitis is the term for male obsession.

With my seemingly persistent oneitis infection it is no surprise that the most recent fixture on my playlists is the self proclaimed King of Oneitis, King Charles. On the Huffington post he wrote the following,

"My name is King Charles and last week I released my debut album called LoveBlood. It's full to hilt with songs of love and loss and as 'the king of unrequited love' I don't mind sharing tales of the losses that inspired some of the songs on the album. On LoveBlood, there are three songs dedicated to a lady who I call Mississippi Isabel."

You may read the rest of it here:http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/king-charles/king-charles-love-letter-for-mississippi-isable_b_1509396.html   it isn't for the faint of heart.

His lyrics are full of all that longing and angst that any young man in his twenties or late teens can identify with. Take the song Bam Bam for instance,

One of the best things about twitter is that it allows us access to the most amazing thoughts from the most unlikely sources. Take this tweet for instance

Some women are like abstract paintings, even though you can't understand them, they are still beautiful.
— Peter Klesken (@PeterKlesken) February 2, 2013

I do not know Peter. He followed me quite recently. I do not even presume to believe that he followed me because of the blog. With 258,000 likes on his facebook page it is evident that he doesn't require my paltry promo services. That being said, his pictures speak for themselves.

Pygmy boys play with an old decommissioned dugout canoe in a quiet sidearm of a river.  Peter Klesken. Click the link below for the original photograph. http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10150660051756009&set=pb.269262571008.-2207520000.1364247576&type=3&theater

I once read a book that stipulated, or postulated that there are only two sorts of women in the world: The sort that remain mysterious, no matter how long you might know them and the sort that are always straightforward.

Well... not quite straightforward, for it would be unbelievably foolish for one to assume that women are ever completely uncrooked and unwiley. No, one shouldn't go that far. Women are never straightforward but some are straightforward in spite of themselves. They fancy that every thought they have is completely private and that every action is undiscernable but they often fail to notice that internal cringes and what they imagine to be the subtlest looks of revulsion or lack of interest reveal themselves as spasms and contorted facial expressions that the performer is seemingly unaware of.

I think that my friend refers to the former, for the latter are so common that they do not merit prose so beautiful. There's hardly anything abstract about them. That's not to say that they have no merit, for men do get tired of solving unsolvable puzzles and wondering if the seductress from the night before will still be there when eyes open in the morning.

Happy Days,
Afam

I finished my exams last week Thursday and I've been in a little bit of a phunk since. This phunk is unlike all the others. It isn't an infusion of melancholy, it's more like a confusion has afflicted my bones. After spending the better part of one month in the Library and the Alan Gilbert Learning Commons I no longer know what to do with myself.

This is a photo taken by an account on flickr called the University of Manchester Library. I didn't know that my University library had a flickr account but no matter. The Alan Gilbert Learning Commons appears to be quite the modern building made out of more glass than concrete (I do not know if this is true or not, but it seems plausible). It was originally intended as a 24 hour building but we students know that it cannot be relied on. How can a building that's spent more time shut than open be reliable?

When designing the interior the University thought it best to fill the building with comfortable chairs and open space. I believe that the chairs do not pass the comfort requirement. What is the Comfort Requirement? University chairs must be so uncomfortable that they dissuade anyone from catching a wink or 40 but not so uncomfortable that they render one incapable of walking. Those chairs are far too comfortable.

 After the exams, I celebrated by going to the official University of Manchester post exam Student Party, Pangaea dressed like this.

The theme was Alice in Wonderland. I got a Zebra onesie from primark, chopped off the head, and the mane and called it a Cheshire Cat. Ingenious? I know!

During my time in Manchester I have become quite the fancy dress connoisseur. There is no theme I cannot crush! Observe below!

That time I dressed as a cross between a shepherd, an angel and a wise man. The theme was the nativity. It is evident that I, Afam exceeded expectations. That is what you call a "threefer" (A three for one)

I wore this a year ago. The theme was the circus so I went dressed as a sexy clown. Admittedly it wasn't my best idea, as it was winter and snowing.

However the week took a turn for the less exciting and more sobering on Tuesday. I  no longer find it surprising how the events preceding the receipt of tragic news gain some sort of supernatural sharpness after the news has been received.

A friend that I went to school with died of non-hodgkins lymphoma. It wasn't surprising. I'd known he had been in a bad way so I wasn't surprised. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't mourn, so that night while looking out of my window on the 21st floor of this questionable Student Castle that manages to be simultaneously brilliant and inconvenient I wrote the following,

"Ser Mbakwe second of his name Heartsbane, has seen fit to go adventuring where I cannot presently follow. I can only wish him Godspeed on his most recent endeavour. I begged him to leave me a ledger of his travels that I may follow. There's really no need to mourn. How can you mourn the adventurer that's gone before you to lands untried? You can only wait your turn. I'm sure that one day in the near of far future I shall follow, and I know I will find him waiting."

Is it not spectacular? The view was made to get lost in. Of course a few weeks ago I couldn't quite get lost in the view because the pitter patter of water dripping from the ceiling was most distracting. Such is the nature of the building. It has a carrot and a very ample stick. I have never encountered such a punitive structure. Just as you manage to fall in love with its dazzling newness it reminds you that it is fully capable of making your life uncomfortable. But not so uncomfortable that you pack your bags and flee.

 In the Spirit of my non-mourning pledge, I continued on as if nothing had happened. My struggles are my struggles, best not put on full display. The world doesn't stop so that you can come to terms with whatever has happened, and by extension you cannot stop the world so that you can come to terms with whatever it is that has happened. You can only steal moments of meaning from your pre-existing routine. To break from this routine is to invite doom. Two weeks off can easily turn into four weeks off and four weeks off can easily turn into 8 weeks off and before you know it you're on a six month bender hung over somewhere in Bermuda. And my grief isn't sizeable enough to warrant that sort of reaction. 

On Wednesday, I went to my first ever photography society meeting. I joined the Photography society in September but my lack of a camera and my distaste for borrowing things prevented me from attending any previous meetings. Growing up in my house in Nigeria you didn't borrow things, to borrow was to admit to a sort of greed for the things of the world and was symptomatic of the greenest sort of envy in the world. There was a time my brother, Gbaddy borrowed a neighbours game boy, the swiftness and severity of his punishment left me rolling with laughter. When I was younger, I wasn't my brothers biggest fan so I delighted in his punishments as he delighted in mine. I was always quick to tell on him. At the time I imagined that I was more suited to be the older one. My dislike for him, and my Jacobian tendencies ended with one particularly nasty fight during which I found myself branded with a toothbrush. I still have the scar.

I bought myself the Nikon Coolpix S8200

It isn't the biggest or the best, but I quite like it. It's got the CMOS censor and that allows for pretty decent night time pictures. It hasn't got a manual mode but I can work around that.

The society meeting involved following the gang to Castlefields in Manchester for a wirewool experiment and some light painting. 

This is Castlefields. It's quite a nice area especially for Manchester. Don't get me wrong I love the place but it's just not the prettiest city.

Maybe Manchester like Lagos, looks best in pictures. You'd never guess that it was 2 degrees Celsius and extremely windy  when I took that photograph.

Now for the stuff you've all been waiting for, the light painting and wire wool action.

That is a star.

This is what happens when you set wire wool on fire and spin it around in circles.

I quite like this one.

The Wire wool, though beautiful once afire and awhirl only lasted a maximum of 13 seconds, after which it burnt out. Even though 13 seconds is a short time, we managed to capture the best bits of the event. It got me thinking that maybe it's okay that some things don't last. If they did we wouldn't know that we were meant to appreciate them.

Happy Days,
Afam.

My dear Famzers,

I have come to believe that it is my destiny, my fate, to be surrounded by the weird and the wonderful. I do not think that I have ever once had what could be considered to be a normal friend. They all seem to have some quirk, that either renders them bizarre or spectacular. The most recent addition to my gang of oddities is Arshad.

Arshad is three quarters Pakistani, and a quarter. He is more light skinned that his heritage would suggest. At first sight, I thought he was mixed race. I thought he was one of those characters that was so mixed that it would take several hours for him to tell you just how it was that his great-great-great grandfather's great-grandfather was a soldier in Alexander the great's army and how it was that he saw a local girl by the well somewhere in current day Chittagong and decided then and there that the best course of action would be to have a bastard by her and so on... and so on. He stands at about 6 foot and two inches. He is good looking in a healthy sort of way. Even though he has lived most of his life in Liverpool his tongue is untainted by the Liverpudian drawl, as a result of this he is quite well spoken and very easy to understand. You would think that this middle eastern stud of a man would have it all figured out but you couldn't be further away from the truth. He lies in wait like a ghoul on facebook ready to ambush anyone that dares to come online. It is slightly true that even I, his friend have come to avoid going on facebook for fear of being accosted by him on matters so mundane that it is a wonder how they managed to be brought to conversation.

On one night at two am, Arshad called me. I ignored his first call as I could not think of anything that was so important, that it could not possibly wait till the break of dawn. When he called me a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth time I began to fret. Surely he had landed himself in the deepest quagmire humanly possible. I began to imagine that he had killed someone by accident. I slipped on my industrial gloves, put the bleach at the ready and prepared myself for call number 6. It came swiftly.

"Afam, Afam! something horrible has happened." He cried to me in a voice so thick with desperation that I imagined that he must be wringing his hair out of his hair in anguish.

"What is it that has happened? Tell me!" I replied authoritatively. The panicked need to be handled with gruffness and fortitude lest they panic themselves to the ends of the earth and back again.

"It is so horrible that I cannot speak it on the phone. Please come." he said. I imagined that he was on the verge of tears. His voice was unnaturally thick with emotion.

It was as I feared. It made perfect sense that he would not want to disclose the nature of what he had done on the phone. The police could record his phone call and use it against him in the court of law. I was born for an adventure like this. Hours of CSI, and the Good Wife had prepared me for the worst eventuality. I grabbed my bottle of bleach and a scrubbing brush and ran to his one bedroom apartment across the road from my building.

He quickly buzzed me in and I marched in to his apartment with the purpose of an undertaker.

"Where is the body? Get out your biggest knife and a few refuse bags, we've got some work to do." I said with all the authority of an army general.

"What are you talking about?" He asked. He looked confused. It occurred to me then that I might have the wrong end of the stick.

"Do you not have a body that needs to be disposed of?" I asked in reply albeit a little gingerly.

"No! But the worst thing has happened!"

I said nothing back. He was obviously being a drama king. It is common knowledge that you don't call a friend at 2am and say the worst has happened unless you've killed someone.

"Basically it all started at about mid-day-" He started.

I stopped him before he could go any further. It was three in the morning. There was no way I was going to let him subject me to fifteen hours of a story with all manner of tragic and pathetic happenings.

"I don't need to know about the beginning. You can start with the end." I said with crushing finality.

He began again,

"Tonight I went to Factory 251 with some mates. You know the one?" He asked tentatively.

"Yes, I used to be a frequenter of the establishment but then it got shit. Is it any good?" I replied.

"It's a decent night. Anyway, I had a few drinks."

I interrupted him again.

"You drink! Aren't you muslim?" I asked.

"Yes, but clubbing is no fun sober. Believe me!" he replied.

This true. Clubbing is a challenging experience when you're sober. Clubs are often smelly and filled with people who have no respect for personal space. When you're drunk, you're so focused on your good time that none of this seems to matter.

"We went on the prowl for girls..."

When Arshad goes on the prowl, he really does go on the prowl. However his prowl is really more like a fevered scamper of desperation. He calls at any and all doors, and the presents the full brunt of his devotion to anyone who offers the even slightest inkling of interest.

"... at first it was a little bit of a struggle..."

It is always a little bit of a struggle with Arshad. He is generally an asteroid of intent. To say the he has his eyes on the prize is an understatement. He has his whole body primed towards it but he lacks the means to obtain the proverbial prize. Rather than inspire lust and affection with carefullu whispered words and delicate touches, Arshad belts ill formed drunken mutterings and maws with his rather large paws.

"... then I got lucky. I made out with a girl. She wasn't very pretty but any hole's a goal right? We made out for a while then she agreed to come back to mine."

I was deeply impressed. I didn't think his methods would ever be rewarded with success.

"Well done buddy!" I interjected.

"When we got back to mine, I pressed my suit keenly. Soon I had her naked on my bed with me on top of her. While doing the deed that I had sought after almost single mindedly for at least 6 of my twenty years, I noticed that she was bleeding. I asked her if she was on her period and she insisted that she wasn't. I had no choice but to send her away." He finished.

I hung my head in shame. I could not fathom how he didn't realize that a bleeding girl is only evidence of her chastity. 

"She was a virgin." I said while picking up my bleach and my scrubbing brush. As I walked home, I could not help but wonder if I was ready for a friendship with him. They say show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are. If you remain friends with someone that you know is questionable then it means that you stand willing to beat him or her into shape. I do not know if I am up yo the task of educating Arshad, but I'll be damned if I don't try.

Happy Days,
Afam