Well, my name is Afam, and I have sponsors. It's one of the perks of being me. What am I saying? It's a privilege that I cannot thank God enough for. It would have been tragic if I were to have been someone else. That's not to say that I'm perfect. I'm so far from perfection that I despair sometimes, but this is natural. I do my best now to be better tomorrow. Sometimes, my best now isn't very good at all, but it's something, and something, as we all know, is better than nothing. 

Me in Whispering Palms. It's an amazing resort that faces the Lagos lagoon.

The other day, one of my sponsors, Whispering Palms (the best holiday spot in all of Nigeria) informed me of their vile treatment and the hand of Cummins, the generator people. At first I couldn't believe it, because Cummins has a brilliant reputation, or they have a brilliant reputation outside Nigeria. These two things don't have to go hand in hand. It is likely that the Nigerian arm leverages on the good name of the company and then goes to town on destroying it. To confirm my suspicions I went to google. Yes, I entered google and I found that Cummins Inc's second quarter earnings were up 7.7% but that this increase in earnings from the previous quarter was almost purely as a result of a strong performance in North America. The engine maker's overseas businesses aren't doing very well in comparison and I'm not surprised, they treated my sponsors like they were the red headed step child of life. They treated my sponsors so appallingly that I am weeping as I type this. I am bald with grief. But enough about me, let's talk about what the bad bad company did.

Whispering Palms was looking for a new generator because generators aren't permanent things, they crumble and die. Well, Whispering palms is still looking for a new generator because Cummins buggered them and if they're not looking for a new generator then they're looking for generator parts which is abysmal when you consider that the 350 kva generator they bought is barely three months old! A 350 kva generator goes for about $50,000. That would pay for me to go to college for a masters easily. One year's tuition, can you believe it? I've got ahead of myself, let's backtrack.

Whispering Palms was looking for a new generator so they called Cummins in for a consultation. You know what I mean right? They called them in for a check out what I've got and tell me what I need session. It's what you do when you go to the doctor.

Enter Hypothetical you and Doctor, Doctor.

You: Doctor I've got a fever, an itch and a stitch

Doctor: That sounds like quite the pinch

You: You haven't the slightest!
        I've been itching and scratching
        and wailing and sighing
        I think I might be dying.

Doctor: Ah! I know what's troubling you
             All you need is this nasty brew.
             A sip of this and a draught of that
            You'll be right as rain by morning's dew

Except that you aren't. #awkward

This is exactly what happened in the case of Whispering palms and Cummins. Cummins recommended that Whispering Palms purchase a generator that was unsuited to their climate (fairly humid, with lots of salt in the air), so it isn't surprising that they've had to change the generator's exciter 3 times despite it being brand new. The only thing is that it's been Whispering Palms paying for the repairs. I cannot understand this? It's like paying for punishment. This isn't a re-enaction of 50 Shades of Grey, it's extortion. If you recommend a naff product, the least you can do is replace it with one that isn't threatening to drive the business into the ground. The professor that owns it is 82 this year for Christ's sake! Are you trying to kill him? Jesus!

Happy Days,
Afam

Hello, my famzers, my friends, my enemies and the people I loathe. Lagos, has taught me that it is better to loathe some than it is to love some, and that it is possible to be a better enemy than you are a friend. Yes, I have rag dolls of a few people by my bed, and I include them in my prayers. It's like Christian Voodoo but not. I go, "Lord, it would be very nice if this person got irritable bowel syndrome, and diarrhoea and food poisoning tomorrow night, and, it would be particularly amusing if that person's trousers split from pubic hair to ass crack mid conversation." (Insert evil chuckle). Am I not a lovely enemy, always thinking of you in the worst way possible? In fact I dare say I am a far better enemy than I am a friend. To be friends with me is to be a devout believer in the sayings, out of sight out of mind, and, no news is excellent news, and, I am fighting with my phone so if you cannot be bothered to email me, text me, skype me, call Mama Afam, call Papa Afam, and harrow brother Afam, then it must not be very important and I shall not bother. The times, they are hard, but I shall prevail just as I prevailed when my tyre burst in the middle of third mainland bridge.    

Living in Lagos has been meh. I've been here for a year, and that's a bleurgh. Don't ask me what meh, and bleurgh are, because I don't know. What I do know is that I live from moment to moment, and that moments don't necessarily happen every day. I don't live every day even though I'm alive and this is a SHAME. I shall work on this. I am Afam, the epic, the smart, the occasionally lazy, the stupendously happy, the felicitous and the light. Yes, shine forth the mini sun inside my breast. Shine forth and dispel all traces of darkness. Shine forth and conquer all traces of bastardy and villainy. You get the picture. My heart is shining now, so I shall move on. 

I like to party. I mean, I really likes to party. (Intentional addition of s for emphasis people). I likes to get down, and get up, and drink my weight in booze (62.3 kilos. The wicked chef Caderrouse brought me down to  58.1 kilos. We are making progress). I thought that at 24, I'd stop liking to get up and get down, and drink my weight in booze, but that hasn't happened yet. All that's happened is that I routinely ask myself at 9:00pm on every school night why it is that I am not getting up, or getting down, or drinking my weight in booze, then I remember that I have a job, with obligations, and demands, and that I actually have to do shit. And even when it's the weekend, I sit at home more often than not because, the thought of spending another Saturday writhing around in my single bed hungover reeking of whisky and cigarettes is too tragic to bear. And even when I don't drink, I'm stupidly tired and stll smelling of cigarettes. There's no win to be had. Everyone's a loser, especially me, and I know this because I live inside my head. 

The last time I went out was over a month ago, and this is what happened. 

I'm a little confused about where to go from here. Do I tell you about the juicy bits, or do I tell you about the whole thing? I suppose the story will tell me how it wants to be written. Yes, this is good. I heard somewhere that it is good when a story possesses you. This is good. I feel more like a writer already. Story possess me!!! 

It was a Friday night, and the sky was dark... dark and what?... It was a Friday night and the air was dark and smoky. Nice, nice, what next?  I walked the two hundred or so metres to Agberos flat. I walked with purpose... That's all very well and good, but I'm getting bored. Well I'm not bored just yet, but I think I'll speed this baby along. Sub headings will be necessary.

Agbero: Agbero is a young man that I've known for half my life. He's a great chap. He's 6 foot 6 and he's basically white. I mean, if he told you he was mixed race you'd tell him to go shove it somewhere. You'd think he was a WASP (white Anglo Saxon Protestant) claiming that his great grand mother was one-sixteenth Navaho. The thing about agbero is, even though he's fairly white, the guy's a ruffian. He's always good for a fight. If you piss him off, or try to steal from him (this happens a lot) he'll deck you first and ask questions later. It's actually surprising. One minute, you're talking to this soft spoken guy, with a neutral English accent, and the next you're dealing with the albino hulk from Ajegunle. Let me give you an example of what I've had to deal with.

Agbero likes his Suya after a night out. He doesn't just like any Suya, he likes it fresh from the road side. He likes the kind of Suya that you eat with a prayer. 

Aboki hands Agbero the N 2 000 Suya, then Agbero does a routine tap down. Head, shoulders, side pockets, back pockets, penis, toes. This is Africa, you're always a pneeeeew (the sound that all magical spells make) away from losing your penis.  

Agbero: All of you guys here line up!

Aboki: Eccsccuse me sah, any problem.

Agbero: One of you fuckers here took my phone.

There are five men standing around...

Agbero: Do I look like an idiot? Wasn't it last week that you took my iPhone 5? Now you want to take my iPhone 4, are you fucking crazy?

It was probably a different group of abokis that took his phone, but Agbero casts his net wide. Lagos is to blame, all the abokis in Lagos must pay. 

The men look left and right making exaggerated signs of innocence, and genuine signs of wonderment. They haven't seen this kind of white person before, and neither have I. I mean I know Agbero, but how well can you know someone? I had thought that he was a buttered ex public school boy, and he'd morphed into this behemoth of anger and frustration. I never experred it. 

tense change... possibly clunky, maybe alarming, but necessary I think. 

The inaction isn't making Agbero any happier, so he grabs one of them and jacks him high. You know how to jack a person don't you? You hold him/her by the collar and pull him up to your chin. Always up, never down. Short people don't jack people. I would know. 

Agbero: Where is my phone!!

Chorus: We don't know sah.

Chorus: Put him down sah.

Agbero: I should put him down eh! I should put him down when one of you bastards took my phone?!

Agbero flings the bagger like a sack of something. It's surprisingly brutal. Somewhere else this would be assault, but here, in Lagos, it's only fair. He makes for his next victim, but before he grabs him, the culprit comes forward.

Thieving Area boy: Take it jare! Look at all the wahala you're causing for one tiny phone. Don't you have shame?

We all feel the backhand coming, and he does too. There's a collective silence that could only mean one thing, a haymaker's right around the corner. Luckily, Agbero remembers that he's a civilised chap (a very drunk civilised chap). He ignores the rude chap and inspects the suya, and then we leave. 

Fine Boi: Now I haven't known Fine Boi for very long at all. I've only known him for a year and a bit, and when you've known everyone around you for at least a decade, a year's nothing. This is a little tragic. I don't want to call it high society but it is. Socialising is like moving through a series of intersecting venn diagrams. Maybe socialising is always like that, but life here's weird. I can' really remember any of the lives I've lived before. They're like dreams. Yes, before's a dream, and the only reality, or my only reality is this reality. It's not as bad as it sounds... And back to Fine Boi. Fine Boi is exactly that, a Fine Boi. He's the voice of reason between the rambling madman and the well dressed ruffian. We're a weird bunch, but it works. Fine Boi, is a master of collecting and receiving free drinks. This is a skill that cannot be overestimated. In fact, it's charitable! Think of all the livers you're saving with your humility and absolute refusal to buy by the bottle.

It was a Friday night, and the sky was dark and smoky.  I walked the two hundred or so metres to Agberos flat. I walked with purpose. The plan was set. It wasn't anything revolutionary. It went something like this.

Get to Agbero's flat: Drink.

Wait for Fine Boi to arrive: Drink.

Fine Boi arrives: Drink.

We're Leaving: Where the Tennessy Honey at? Drink.

Pick up WWAE (That's what's in my head when I think of him so that's that I guess?): Sip tea and then drink. (It was awful, some Ribena vodka thing).

Get to club/bar (Spice): Drink.

While in Spice: Drink.

Leave Spice: Drink.

Walk the hundred or so yards to another club (Escape)... and this is where the real story begins.

At the gate of escape, WWAE, Fine Boi, and Agbero made it in, but I didn't. It was a temporary gating. It's what they do when they try to pretend like the club's the poppingest popping place in the history of popping, and that it's super exclusive, so you have to command the bouncer to let you in with a moneyed voice, but general pleading tones. Sometimes, oppressing the bouncer and everyone else, with your manly male aura, and cash heavy swagger works too. Sober me would have waited until the bouncer's hand lifted the moment he realised that I Afam, was Afam, the D lister, the friend to the celebs, the moneyed in name, the writer (these titles are depressing me so I'll stop). Drunk me is an entirely different beast. While I was standing by the gate, I realised that I didn't particularly want to be standing by the gate, or standing inside the club with too many people and too loud music. I decided that I would rather be in bed. I decided that I would walk the 11.2 kilometres from Victoria Island to my house in Lekki.

I don't live on Elegushi beach exactly but it's close enough. It's a little further down, or further up, or further left, or further right, but if you're really keen on visiting, read the disclaimer at the bottom and then don't.

 Err maa gerrrd. What was he thinking? I can't say exactly but that's what happened. The next thing I knew, I was plodding down Adeola Odeku with a song on my lips and a dance on my hips. It was exciting. I was doing something absolutely senseless and digging it. Everything was going swimmingly, until two men approached me and informed me that I needed to pay for protection. They said that they had spotted some goons chasing me, and that they were the only thing standing in the way of them and me. I nodded once and took flight. I used to be a cross country fiend. If I couldn't beat them, I would run away from them.

The run too was very nice. I was having the time of my life striding along in my Russell and Bromley tasseled loafers, never mind that Lagos has a well documented kidnapping culture, and other equally undesirable undocumented cultures. Everything was fine until I jogged past the toll gate.

Now, I'm jogging past the top gate when two police men call me over. I want to ignore them. I really do, but they have AK 47s. It's touch and go really. I want to say that when a police man calls out to you, you should always respond. And I want to say that police men make me feel safer. I want to say that the police is the arm of the law and all of that romantic stuff but I can't. I never feel sad in front of the police. They're loose unpredictable cannons with guns. Sometimes, they're good, and sometimes, they're criminal. I don't mind this necessarily, it is what it is. It didn't happen over night, and to get rid of it, they'll need one heck of a rebranding campaign. 

I go over to them, and greet them. It's always important to greet. I feel fine. I don't have any drugs, or guns, and it's not like I'm driving drunk, so all I'm expecting is a short conversation and a be on your way. 

Officer 1: Where are you coming from.

Afam: Spice Route. I went out. 

Officer 2: Where are you going?

Afam: Home. 

Officer 1: Sit on the floor.

Afam: Why? 

I don't quite feel it, but I know it's happened. I hear a loud clap, but it feels like it's coming from miles away. I can't say which officer has done it. My face is stinging. My head is turning, and my body is following it. I've been forced into a pirouette. It's a clumsy one. I feel myself sinking with it. A rotation and a half. My arse is on the floor. My ears are ringing but my head is clear. All romantic notions of my moonlit stroll have left my head. It's a classic Houston we have a very very big problem situation. I should be angry, but I'm not. Fine angers aren't the ones that flare up and die. They're the ones that build like a furnace, and explode like a bomb. You don't see them coming. They're well concealed little beasts. I sit still. I sit silent. 

My silence didn't last for long. I flared up, and I swore. I swore like I hadn't sworn in a long time. Officer one became the grand vizier of bastardy, and officer two was the principal fucker of fucked up behaviour. They called their supervisor over, and I put him on blast too. I didn't swear at him the way I did at the others. They said they would take me to the police station and I fake called my lawyer and told them that when we got there my legal team would be waiting to screw them. Then the apologies came, and I didn't want them, I only wanted to get home. They called me a danfo, but I didn't want that either. I wasn't keen on their charity. The remaining 6 kilometres were infinitely more sober than the previous 5, but I enjoyed them all the same. They reminded me of my younger quixotic self, and how that self is dying.

Happy Days,
Afam

  

On Saturday, the something of July (psst. the 19th of July) I resumed my event whoring lifestyle. I can hear my pastor's voice in my head. 

"Afam. Afam. Event whoring is bad for your soul." 

"Pastor. Pastor. Everybody's a whore for something, and champagne is as good a thing as money, so show me the Dom!"

I went to the Kingdom Tees Pop Up launch event at Temple Muse.

Afropolitan Vibes. Mixed Crowd. Lagos haze. Afam daze.

T shirts on the wall.

Here we've got my sweedest girl Oyinye, and Deji. Look out, cos she's just too sweed for words, and it's breaking my heart in two, she's got too much soul for me. I don't like it but it's true. I think I've used this song before. I need more references. :(

Latasha Ngwube and a friend. I can't believe I did the person and friend thing. :(. They had a selfie wall there. I thought it was pretty cool. I mean, it was as cool as a selfie wall can be, and I took a selfie and all, but you know, I'm a little bit tired of selfies. There are only so many times I can suck my cheeks in to give myself Olivier Rousteing like cheekbones.

Faridah, who's lovely. She's got this hard exterior that I haven't cracked yet. I'm sure I will in time. I'm nothing if not loveable.

Bidemi. I think she's inspiring, so when she said, "Afam I'm going to let you take my picture today." There were no complaints.

Deola Adebiyi, senior writer at Hello Nigeria, co-owner of the fashion blog, Omoge Ruwa, and fellow champagne trail trudger.

All poison is indeed poisonous, no matter how sweet, no matter how tart it is. But, the sweeter the poison, the greater the indulgence, toeing the line between the cliff and the fall. I toed the line like a pro that day.

She's wearing the Nsibidi Nigerian hairstyles tee. I quite like that one. It's neutral, and it would look great baggy. I'm into baggy clothes again.

Ozzy Etomi

This isn't a very quiet smile is it. The question I had for myself after speaking to her is, how long can you go talking to someone without letting them know that you can't remember their name? It's actually cowardly. Must aspire to be more gung ho about these things in the future.

And this my friends is some Kingdom art that you can own for N75,000. It isn't unreasonable you know? That's roughly £300. It seems like a fair deal to me.

It could also be the taste of it. It's a relatively easy drink. The typical Moet requires almost no acclimatisation, unlike the harder liquors out there. I'd like to see any novice declare that tequila's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Sometimes the alcohol burn is so elusive that amateurs drink it like it's fizzy grape juice, and express surprise when they're face deep in their own vomit. It's also dry in a way that I find addictive. It's a liquid that doesn't extinguish thirst, thus requiring that you drink more and more and more of it. Given its inability to cure any water related thirst it is a little bit of a wonder that it is more popular than water at many of our parties. The champagne bottle to water bottle ratio at some weddings is no smaller than 5 to 1, which is slightly confusing given that alcohol dehydrates as efficiently as heat. 

As compelling as the taste of champagne is, I think that it's the status attached to it that spurs us to wanton consumption. As champagne is generally one of the more expensive forms of alcohol, it is associated with the lifestyle of the rich and famous that we're all supposed to aspire to. In fact once sighted with a bottle, it is assumed that we belong to the exclusive club of champagne consumers. In this fashion the host of the party that only provides Dom Perignon for its guests is infinitely better off than the host of the party who provides Laurent Perrier. As the bulk of us are discontent with our stations, on pain of death we'll scrimp and save until we can pull off the Dom Perignon bash so that everyone who attends, believes that we are of the Dom stock when we're really of the Laurent Perrier. 

We mustn't forget about the bottle. The champagne bottle is heavy with pomp, circumstance and fortune. The very image of it is so compelling that it has become a prominent marketing strategy. Last year, both Heineken and Star unveiled their magnum themed bottles to great success. I did not know how popular they were until I was doing the paramilitary segment of my year of National Youth Service in Edo state. Instead of popping champagne to celebrate the winning of some competition or the other, we popped magnum star. 

Our much documented love for Champagne has led to an extraordinary rise in the presence of luxury alcohol brands. While brands such as Hennessy, Jack Daniels, and Remy Martin have always been sold, I cannot remember a time when they were so ubiquitous. There's always a bar crawl, or a club night, or a rock themed party these days. The logic must be if champagne why not whisky or brandy or Irish cream. The Champagne brands aren't holding back either. Sponsorships are now so popular that I imagine that it would be difficult to throw an event that isn't sponsored than it is to throw one that is. They cannot be blamed for we have the population, the thirst and the rising middle class to keep their share holders happy for at least another two decades. 

Happy Days,

Afam

"I'm inbetween this world and the next. I'm in the present and the past. I am everywhere but I am nowhere. I live in Lagos, but do I really? My mind travels when my body doesn't, and in a way, I've achieved everything I once wanted. But at the same time I've achieved nothing. I know more than I did a while ago. I know how to be silent in the midst of noise."

"Who are you?"

"I don't know. I'm many things to many people, and I'm not sure that I should be."

"Where are you going?"

"Everywhere. I'm hungry for conversations I haven't had and things I haven't seen."

"Why are you going?"

"Everybody's got to do something. I want to do everything I do well. Well is comparable. Well is competeable. If I do not go then I will never know how good I am, or how not good I am."

"What do you want out of all of this?"

"I want to win."

"What do you want to win at?"

"Everything. I want to pick one thing and win at it. I think that'll be enough."

 

And this has been a very good example of the indulgent shit that goes on in my head. Ten articles by tomorrow. 100 k in one night, all spent by first light. The thing is, when you've found a buyer for your work, shouldn't you sell as much of it as possible?

Happy Days, 

Afam

And... It's about time that we moved on.

Yesterday I was sitting at Stranger talking about Audrey Tattou and other similarly affected topics when Soliat (a new but very reasonable addition to the Afamourage - that is the Afam entourage) started talking about jungle fever. I shall recount the ordeal as if I was her.

Yes, I remember the days of my youth; the days when I believed that all I really needed to complete me was a savage to rip off my blouse, and ravage me where I stood. I don't mean just ravage me. No, I mean RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVVVVVVVVAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGEEEEE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. If I get too excited I shall sweat, and if I sweat, I shall reek, and we can't have that. I wanted a ruffian, an area boy, the less refined the better, so I went out and found one. Yes, he couldn't speak without my back straightening, and my legs preparing for flight, but my body's defensive mechanisms didn't put me off. Believe me when I say I was determined.

I booked a hotel room and had him meet me there. When he arrived, I gave him some lynx shower gel and a sponge so that he would at the very least smell like something familiar. He came out of the shower like a tarzan and my mind was screaming, "Take me now!!!" He bounded to me and ripped my shirt off. I was besides myself. I was ready to ravaged, but then I saw his face approaching mine, with his tongue hanging from his mouth like some sort of trout, and I couldn't take it. I literally squealed and fled.

That was when I learned that fantasies should be left as fantasies, and that snobbery is soul deep. I'm not proud of myself but it's true. I'm too much of a snob to schtoop a ruffian.

The End,

Happy Days,
Afam