TWENTY AND THREE: THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES.

It really is very important that I inform the lot of you that I, Afam am no longer twenty and two. No, I'm over that, 22 is such an awful age. If 21 is the orgasm of youth then 22 is the bit that follows after it when you fall asleep. 23 is infinitely better than 22, because the very second you turn 23 your batteries recharge and you're ready, primed and keen for round two.

Now, it should come as no surprise to you that I, Afam am special. If I wasn't, you wouldn't be reading, and no, I'm not just special because Mama Afam told me so. I'm special because I share birthdays with Papa Afam. I used to think that this was a brilliant thing until I turned 18 and he turned 50. He completely eclipsed my assent into legality. He trivialised the birth of my manhood and I was distinctly displeased. I plan to secure my revenge by getting married on my 28th birthday as it will be Papa Afam's 60th. The sentimality of it might turn him into a floundering mass of tears. 

What did I do?

I did nothing. I'm terrible at being celebrated. I literally cannot handle it. The truly excessive amounts affection showered on me inspire a similar reaction in my tear ducts. It takes an enormous amount of spiritual fortitude to refrain from shedding a tear or two. 

On second thought I did do something, I cooked myself a meal, drank half a bottle of red wine that I opened a week ago and watched 10 Years, a movie with Channing Tatum and Rosario Dawson and Justin Long, but this isn't about that. It's about me. 

Where was I? You would think that today of all days I would be able to stick to one line of thought  but that seems like an achievement I shall never accomplish. I believe this to be my fatal flaw. I won't be surprised if I digress my way to my grave. 

The truth is, my weepiness probably has little or naught to do with me and everything to do with you, my family and friends. If there is even anything remotely extraordinary about me, it is you. You are brilliant, and I am very sure that I do not deserve you. Even if I toiled everyday for the rest of my life I could not deserve you. There is nothing that I have done, there is nothing that I can do, that will ever make me think, "that is why I have you." There are so many of you that I shall never throw a party, for if I did, I would be a pauper. 

I love you all. I love some of you so much that I would sooner rent myself in two than lose you and I love some of you so much that I spend the bulk of my days hating you. Yes, I will almost never speak a good word about you but don't be mistaken I love you all the same. I love some of you so much that I fight with you in my head no fewer than 50 times a day but I never tell you of our mental fights for you would find them weird. I love you even though I'm often just as distant as I am overbearing. I've never been one for striking a healthy balance. I love you even when I can't speak to you properly because I've forgotten how, and I love you when I can't stand to be around you because I've forgotten what to do with my hands and what to say around you. I don't love you all equally for that would be wretched of me. I am not a harlot. I only have so much affection that I can give but make no mistake, I love each and everyone of you in my own way most of all today. 

Good Job!! #AfamUp #AfamThumbsUp.
If you're thinking about economical swimming trunks, Slazenger do a pretty fine job. You can't see the logo properly but those are made by Slazenger. I swear it. 

So thank you from me (The only Rambling Madman you'll ever need to know, The Living Gambian Legend who isn't Gambian, The Don_Quixote of the Masses, The Sexy Beast and The Super Boy). Keep on doing what you do. No one does it better than you.

Happy Days

Afam.