I'm feeling a wee bit manic at the minute. Yes, manic is the right word. I feel like if I do not get this blog out I shall be vanquished by the weight of my duty to the lot of you to inform you of my adventures as a professional event goer. Yes, my friends, my foes, my famzers, I am an event whore. Show me the champagne and I'm down. That sounds like a good catch phrase doesn't it? SHOW ME THE CHAMPERS!!!! Those of you who do not know me very well, are undoubtedly confused. You're thinking, "but how could this young man be declaring himself an event whore?!!!! Is he alright?" I'll answer that one for free. No. I'm not alright. I am Afam. I will never be alright. I am superior. When I decided to become quite serious about blogging, I forsook whatever qualms I had about getting my name out there. As the Nigerian public seems to be enamoured with these parties that they almost never know about, I Afam, the charitable, the handsome, have deemed it wise to tell you beautiful people, what tha what happened at the events I manage to sneak myself into.


So Famzers are you ready to follow me to the wonderful wonderful world of Tara? It doesn't matter because whether you like it or not that's where you're going. Now you're thinking, who the who is Tara? I mean who is Tara! You see, I didn't know myself as I stalked the corridors of that new Shopping mall, Centro, taking pictures of the attendees of the event. It wasn't until I was about to leave that I stumbled upon her in the flesh and demanded that she place a big fat smooch on my cheek because she's pretty and I like to be kissed by pretty people. The funny thing is, I didn't know who she was when I asked her to bless me with her lips. Now she shall never forget me, and I in turn shall never forget her. Sorry Tara, I've blown our cover. When your husband reads this, he shall come for me with a machete, and I shall allow myself to be smitten because I'm a polite honourable fellow.

And that's me, at the event, with lipstick on my cheek.

On a more serious note, Tara Fela-Durotoye is the CEO of House of Tara International, a beauty and skin care consulting firm, with their own range of products that aims to become (and probably already is) a household name amongst Nigerian women and thereafter the women of West Africa. Tara's won a fantastic number of awards including Entrepreneur of the year at the Future awards, and the 1st Lady award for Women empowerment. She's pretty interesting no? If you'd like to read more about her, then please, make your way to wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tara_Fela-Durotoye) and the House of Tara Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/houseoftarainternational/info).

Some of you are wondering why I devoted three paragraphs to explaining things, instead of just going straight to the pictures. It's because I'm a broke writer with trust issues. This means two things:

• I cannot afford the photographers I trust to take pictures the way I want them to be taken, so I take them myself. 
• The words are the bigger and more important part of my market. I am a writer. If there were no words in this blog post I would be a self saboteur. This is me strutting my stuff. Just because it's chatty and Sawa sawa sawa le, don't think I can't use words like facetious, and polynomial, and crinkum-crankum because I can. However, I was taught that good writers aren't meant to lord their skill at using thesauruses over the rest of humanity. If the sentence doesn't require it, I shan't bother. 

Yes. That's the one. I took those pictures yesterday. You see, on the day of the event (Sunday... 2 days ago) I forgot myself, and I didn't pictures of the store. Some of you probably don't see the harm in this, but think about it. I went to a store opening and didn't take any pictures of the store that was opening. Bad Afam!!

Now you get to see how good I am at general knowledge that I don't really need. If you were in doubt, I'll clarify. I do not own any make up. I'm not opposed to its use if it's necessary, but as my facial craw craws seem to be receding, I'm perfectly confident rocking my face au naturale. I do however need some contouring for my stomach. The abs are leaving me, and I'm too lazy to work out properly.

This is foundation no?

And this is lipstick. I'm not half bad at this photography thing you know?

A general view of the store.

This was on the day of the event. The model's getting her eyebrows shaped by a make up artist. I need not tell you that the model is Nigerian. That would be stating the obvious. Look at how she's looking at the make up artist handling the razor blade. She's one step away from bitch slapping her if things should go afoul. Luckily or unluckily, there was no Real Housewives of Atlanta realness at the event. The make up artists in Tara's employ are really rather good.

This, my friends, is Imoteda. Her smile is stunning. She wasn't really keen on the idea of me hanging about to take her picture, so I told absolutely filthy jokes until she cracked up. You've got to love people with a sense of humour. They're just so... so... so... incredible. Anyway, the word on the wind is she's going to be the host of a television show quite soon. I'm not sure which one it is, but I hope fervently that it's a cooking one. Contagious smiles like this and food go together. Her smile reminds me of how I smiled the last time I ate Ogbono soup with rice and dodo (fried plantain).

This Sistuh was trying to ignore and avoid me. She was unsuccessful. I GATS THE PISHO!!! I quite like what she's wearing here. It's simple. I especially like the skirt of the dress. There's just something about pleats that makes me smile. There's really nothing more coquettish than a pleated skirt.

Check out braided sistuh on the left! How pretty is she? It's a pretty girl in a pretty flowy dress that could do with a little bit of an iron. Those shoes look incredibly uncomfortable though.

Hey Famzers! How you doing? I know that it's uncommon for me to be so prolific, but my dog died, so bear with me. I'm throwing all that ennui into the blog, and its betterment. And as I took a ten day vacay in the middle of February, views are down, and my blood pressure's up. So come one! Come all! I'm back and I'm taking prisoners. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the competitive aspect of blogging and writing didn't turn me on. And I am very much turned on. Whenever I see someone, more popular than I, I get a little bit angry because there shouldn't be anyone, more popular than I; my tender heart tends to start to bleed. When someone's beating me silly at the blogging game, I see that I need to up my err'thang game and kill them dead. And as per usual, the opening paragraph isn't an opening paragraph at all. I'd think you'd be tired of this sort of writing by now, but you aren't, and for that I am eternally grateful.

The more devoted amongst you will undoubtedly recall that while I was in Edo cultural dancing my life away, I brought in a guest blogger to keep you fickle famzers from straying. This amazing totes amazeballs guest blogger (Olaisblogging), created something so brilliant that even after he's gone and got a job, I am inclined to continue his good work. So without further ado, I present to you the second bread review on the ramblings of a madman by Afam.

You've got to remember that I occasionally feel the need to name drop my good old blog, inside my good old blog, so that when you people google The Ramblings of a Madman, I Afam, the Rambling madman, am the only thing that comes up. 




I must admit that I'm a more than a little bit biased where this song is concerned because I spent a great deal of my time in Edo State (NYSC camp) dancing to it. Yes! It was what I was sashaying to when I tore up the mammy market in that god awful leaf skirt that left nothing to the imagination (you mustn't think that I mind leaving nothing to the imagination. I'm selling my market one awkward body part at a time) 

Yeah! That's the skirt. What can I say? Medicine man chic?

 The song starts with the lyrics, "I fit die on top your matter eeeeeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh!" You have to admit that it's a lovely sentiment even if it is more than a little bit dishonest. Chances are you won't die for the person that you're thinking of when the song is playing. But we must forgive his youthful idealism because he is young and because his face is the freshest face I have ever seen. His skin is like a baby's bottom pre-heatrash. His face has probably never sprouted a pimple and at 23 he remains suspiciously devoid of a beard.

The song continues with the lines, "baby girl!! God bless your mother eeeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh! you too fine pass mammy water eeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh!" That bit of it made me laugh. It's got a great sense of humour. Yeah why not tell the woman of your dreams that she's hotter than a she beast that lives only to seduce men and carry them away to unheard of underwater kingdoms eh? She'll take it in her stride. She'll smile at you and tell you that you're more important to her than her morning shit. LIES!! She will go to her room and cry like my best friend Wonwon did when Royodeboyo told her that she was sweeter than fried meat.

ps! I don't know that she actually cried, but I do know that the compliment caused her far more grief than any insult. 

After begging God to bless every member in the girls family, Wizkid goes on to explain that love isn't selfless or kind or unconditional, it's largely dependent on reciprocity.

"love me make I love you baby oh"

But we can't judge him too harshly for that because he proves that he doesn't support rape and sexual violence in the next line.

"kiss me make I kiss you"

If you follow this advice, you shall never be guilty of any impropriety.

All of that lyrical floury goodness is carried by a yeasty beat so effervescent that one cannot listen to it without being blessed with a hint of happiness. Like most Nigerian bread it's more than a little bit on the sweet side. And like all sweet things it can only be endured in small doses. The song suffers from a nasty case of diminishing breadness, where your enjoyment of the baked product diminishes with every bite. It doesn't become unbearable until the second verse by which time even the most staunch Wizkid supporter slams his head into the floor and screams, "WHEN WILL THE BLOODY SONG END?" or delivers a life ending slap to the music playing device.

In conclusion, the song features crumby and crummy lyrics super imposed on a spectacular beat produced by Del B. The beat, and Wizkid's whiny vocal embellishments save the song the way shitty bread needs more nutella than bread to be edible. The song is the musical equivalent of factory produced agege bread, and while this certainly suffices when one is in need of a bout of constipatition and some nostalgia, it is not healthy. As a result of this it gets three loaves out of a possible five.

Happy Days,
Afam

With regards this blurb, I could share the pictures with you and that would enough. There are pictures that do not require words to explain them. Such are the pictures from this look book of sorts. It's a collection of skins and hard cases for the devices that have become such fundamental parts of our modern existence; the macbook pros and the macbook airs, and the Samsung galaxies and the iPhones, and the iPads, and the iPad minis.











The images were shot by Toyosi Faridah Kekere-Ekun who seems to be making great strides as a fashion photographer. Her first solo exhibition, Induction, opened at the Omenka gallery (number 24 Ikoyi Crescent) and will run until the 7th of March.. If you would love to go, but you'd hate to go alone, then hit me up. I could always do with the company, and you could always do with more of me. Her understanding of negative space leaves nothing to be desired. 

You may purchase them online here: http://www.studioofmode.bigcartel.com

And they are stocked at Terra Culture as well.

While all of that is true, you'd do well to visit their website: http://studioofmode.tumblr.com


Happy Days,
Afam

Hello famzers. Yes, I call those of you who read my blog my famzers, because you are for all intents and purposes mine, just as I am yours. It's a mutually beneficial relationship. I'm occasionally funny, and you're occasionally nice enough to let me know how funny I am.

By now you must all have heard about the distinct tragedy that has befallen the great Lamido Sanusi, who has managed the Nigerian Banking Sector so 'well' the past four years. If you haven't I'll give you the long and short of it. $20 billion dollars of oil revenue have gone on holiday from the Country's accounts. Upon noticing that over a billion dollars of oil money had been leaving the country every month between January 2012 and July 2013, Mr Sanusi became quite perplexed. He looked for the money everywhere, and by everywhere, I mean everywhere. Do you know what it feels like to lose $20 billion dollars? No? Well I don't either, but I know what it feels like to lose a car.

One day, my Uncle parked his Mitsubushi Lancer, on a quite well lit street in Yaba. I cannot remember what he was going to do there, for those memories have been stolen from me by the she-beast that is time. Anyway, after he went to do whatever it is he went to Yaba to do he returned to the spot where he parked his car to find only pavement. Would you believe that he looked for the car inside the gutters? I tell you most sincerely, human beings are truly incredible.

Let's get back to the matter shall we?

When Mr Sanusi, noticed that all those billions had slipped away from underneath his watch he cried out in a very loud voice, "WHERE THE HELL IS THA MONEY." The Nigerian National Petroleum Coroporation wasted no time in throwing the good chap under the proverbial mountain. They said, "Mr Sanusi is a crazy person. As he is mental, he is a flawed narrator." And then the president who is probably also a raging alcoholic (even if he isn't, he should seek medical attention because he displays all of the characteristics of one) suspended him. The end. Not…

But all of that isn't what this post is about. This post is about why some Nigerian people, have taken it upon themselves, to label the incident Sanusi-gate. Are you a little bit daft? The only thing that is gate about Sanusi is that his very big house somewhere in Nigeria has a gate. Please don't bring American terms and apply them to our politics. Watergate was watergate, and it is fine to affix the suffix gate, to any Scandal that happens in those lovely United, but un-united states, but please for the love of God and all things both Holy and Unholy do not bring that home. When you're talking to your market woman and you say, "Oh! did you hear about that chap Sanusi and his Sanusi-gate" do you feel clever or monumentally stupid? I know you'll be feeling clever with yourself, but evaluate the situation and check your damned self.

We out!

Happy Days,
Afam

My dog, the great Captain Reginald died today. I dug his grave. I didn't think 23 was old enough to be digging graves, but I was wrong. I'm wrong about a lot of things. He was a fantastic beast; as pretty in death as he ever was in life. I loved him. I love him still. I shall miss him. I fear that I shall not be half as interesting without him.

A lot's happened since I've been back and not all of it has been good. Some of it has been downright horrible. Blogging isn't convenient anymore. Or it isn't as convenient as it was, and I expect it to grow more difficult still. But there's this thing I do, that I do well. I do it so well that I'm quite certain that it's what I want to do. I'm not sure where it's going, or what I will be doing in a year, or even a month, but all of that is inconsequential. So, I shan't let anything stop me. I'll keep at it until I'm well and truly spent. I'll yell at the heavens and rant and rave until I haven't got a rant or a rave left in me.

Since it seems that the Universe is hell bent on shitting on me - God knows the untimely departure of Reggie was a step to far - I'll shit right back at it. But I would be lying if I said I wasn't tired.

Goodnight, Travel Well,
I love you
Afam

Also, for those of you that know me and know me quite well, do not be a bastard and tell my sister about this. I shall do it myself in my own time. I know this seems like an unreasonable demand to make, but I'm making it anyway. I will demand this one indulgence from you and you will give it.

It is Saturday and I am at a loss. You see, I fear that the infernal fire that possessed me to start this foolhardy endeavour has abandoned me. It's left me like a rich or not very rich old man leaves his old matron for a lithe, truly strapping example of youth and coquettish energy. But upon completing the composition of the previous four sentences, I have come to the conclusion that it hasn't. I was wrong. And now I must tell you a tale. But the thing is, I do not know what it is I should talk about. Everything is so dreadfully morbid. If I were to tell of anything, it would fill you with feelings of such ennui that you would be suicidal. And I can't have that. If you were depressed, then you would, sleep, and sleep, and not read the good, dear old blog. And if that were to happen, my dreams of quitting my parents via the powers of my talent would be dashed.

Forgive me. I cannot seem to focus. Anna Karenina's playing on the telly, and I love that film. I love it as much as I love tea - and I love tea a great deal. I love it so much that I have collected no fewer than 15 boxes of Twinings for my perusal, experimentation and amusement. Just the other day I discovered that if you add a touch of lemon juice to your Earl Gray, it becomes the most divine concoction.

Because you do not come to my blog to read about my obsession with tea, which was rekindled by my good dear friends at Stranger Lagos. I've told you of the space before haven't I? It's the one in Lekki Phase 1 that I can't do without. People call it a concept store and a magenta coffee house, but I fear that they're wrong. It is both of these things while being neither. It's a home away from home for those that would seek a home away from home. You may buy the most eccentric, unique, and fashionable items, while you drink the most enchanting brews from Gambia, Costa Rica, Brazil, Columbia, and Rwanda, but even if it did not possess those gems, it would still be just as precious as it is. And that is because the proprietors have carved out of thin air, a space so impossibly cool that those who have tasted of its waters and find themselves possessed by it. Fated to return repeatedly for N1,500 half pots of coffee they could probably do without.

I forgot myself there.

Because you do not read my blog to read about my amateurish endeavours with regards the brewing of tea, I shall refrain. And even if you did want to read about my dealings with tea, I do not wish to bleed words about tea today and so I shan't.

What I really want to talk about is my life at home.



I live with Mama Afam, Papa Afam, Grandmama Afam, my brother Gbaddy, my cousin Bibi, the maid Mary, the cook Caderrouse, the Chief of Security Captain Reginald, and my sister's dog Sabrina . This is hardly extraordinary. My understanding of African homes is that they're better suited to the accommodation of the extended family than they are the nuclear. this does not depend on how large or small the house is. If there is a member of the family - no matter how distant - that for whatever reason is in want of a room, they shall have it. And so, Bibi has kicked me out of my room overlooking the Redeemed church across the road, and beside the wi-fi thing-a-ma-bob, and I have been forced by Mama Afam's hard looks, conniving ways, and partially sympathetic wallet to room with my brother.

I am not unused to rooming with my brother, but, after very many years of sleeping alone, I sometimes forget myself and scream whenever I wake up to see his very naked manly back in front of my eyes. It's something I doubt I shall ever get used to. Furthermore the loss of the last space that was somewhat mine has left me mentally unfettered. Somewhat mine because every Nigerian son knows that their room is only an extension of their parent's goodwill, and that it may at anytime become a store for everything and the kitchen sink. This is probably also due to the fact that the Afam household is extremely partial to hoarding. As I type this there are three televisions in front of me that have not worked in years. I would throw them out, but I fear that if I dare touch them Papa Afam would perform the same service upon me, and I can't have that. I think he thinks that it is possible to extract the value of his money from them by observing them in their state of ruin daily…

Papa Afam and I are once again at loggerheads. I need more money, and he needs me to not ask him for it once a week, every week. He's told me to come up with a list of my expenses that he may dispense the cash like the good bank that he is on the first day of every month, but I haven't. I am not ready for the mental effort that the activity typically requires. It's me standing in front of his office with a flip chart showing logical calculations and estimations that prove that the vehicle I've been driving is a gas guzzling creature sent from hell to ruin me. And it's me arguing the positive relationship that exists between my Friday night excursions and my general well being. As with all negotiations I have with Papa Afam, it ends with him snickering at me, and me profoundly unhappy at being screwed over yet again.

And that's all I'm going to talk about today. I'm profoundly sorry that I've been away for ten days, but if I did not go away, how would I ever know that you missed me?

@Afam20 Chief ur last blog posting was 10 days ago.Kilode? nothing mildly amusing happening in Mr Afam's world or is it blog fatigue.
— DejiAnubi (@DejiAnubi) February 21, 2014

@Afam20 Does this explain why the 'Afamzers' have been refreshing unproductively in the last three days? (˘.˘)
— Àárínolá (@TweenyTee) February 20, 2014

Happy Days,
Afam

Oh! I forgot to say that I no longer have a laptop, which is sad. It died a few weeks ago, but life goes on. We do not expire because the tools of our profession fail.