Papa Afam giveth and Papa Afam taketh away...

I know that people mostly say that about God but it's also true of Papa Afam. Papa Afam puts the clothes on my back, the oil in my hair, the loreal skin products on my face, the dashiki on my torso, the straw hat on my head, the tiny food on my plate (I don't eat a lot and then I complain about being skinny. I don't understand myself), the contact lenses in my eyes, and the flip flops on my feet. Papa Afam is like an extremely unwilling bank. The pin code to his cash dispenser is the look of absolute poverty and wretchedness. I tend to do this really well. You see, my eyes are larger than eyes usually are. Half the time they make me look slightly deranged, but the other half of the time, they make it clear that you have wounded me to the point of suicide. I call the latter look the if you don't help me I'll die look.

Resist me. I dare you. It just occurred to me that Nigeria, has increased the efficiency of this look at least a hundred fold. I look like suffering here. Or should I say, I look like suffering with better than average skin. 

This look has never failed to net me the odd N5,000 (£20). Don't even try and embarrass me. There's no shame in my game. There are few things I wouldn't do for N5,000. These days, I'm daylighting as a swimming instructor. Every Sunday, I drive up to some mahassive house in Lekki to teach a bald six year old girl called Ragga-ragga how to swim. I get paid N2,500 per lesson.

That's me demonstrating front crawl arms to Ragga-Ragga. I yell at her more than she deserves, but it isn't my fault. I don't like Children, She needs the motivation, and I need the entertainment. On my left hand, I'm wearing a TiffanyCo bracelet with my initials on it, and my so called girlfriend bracelet. Do I have a girlfriend? MIND YOUR GODDAMM BISCUIT. 

 Now, I'm not saying that cash is short, because it isn't. It's just that I remember the times when I sat in my house for days without end because I had no money. I'm really pleased that my poor days are over. It's looking like 2014 will be my year of surplus after all. I'm not to pleased with my pastor though. He's the said the same thing of every year since 2001.

Papa Afam doesn't particularly like that I give swimming lessons, but I'm tired of giving him the if you don't help me I'll die look. It's been a little over used lately because Papa Afam took my car, my 2004 Toyota Corolla, My pimp mobil away from me. I need a car like a recovering heroin addict needs methadone. I haven't not had a car since I was 18. It used to be my brother's but I commandeered it. It was a brilliant vehicle. It never broke down anywhere, and even after ten years, it could still do 180 kilometres per hour.

In the event that Papa Afam gives me a new one, I'll tell you, but I won't put pictures of it up. A brand new car doesn't have the same charm as a used decade old Toyota Corolla. One of them is appropriate for a twenty three year old and the other is more than a little bit generous. I haven't got anything else to say, so I'm going to go. Later famzers.

Happy days,
Afam.