Slice of Life… You missed me didn't you?

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.