The Ramblings of a Madman

How To Get Away With Cropping...

Afam 01:11:00

Photo by Yagazie Emezi

There are two articles in this one. I'm quite sure of it. I'm as sure of it as I am that I'm a beautiful man. I'm sure that I'm beautiful because Mama Afam tells me everyday. The last time she saw me in a wig she half wished I'd been born a girl but she cringed when I informed her that it wasn't too late for me to become a girl. Let's be real here, a penis is one incision away from becoming a vagina. That's probably a little bit of an exaggeration, but I'm allowed to embellish things and blow them out of proportion. Anyway because it's my blog, and my blog is a special weird place, for special weird people who're looking for 5 minutes of escapism I'll give the lot of you the least commercial version.

I remember the day clearly. The previous sentence is a sign that I shall spend the next five hundred or so words telling you what happened that day. I will probably say too much, and it will probably be embarrassing for the both of us. Shut Up. Don't complain. These are the things I do for you.

I woke up feeling a certain sort of way. I can't quite say what it was. If I had been in a hotel I would have attributed the difference to my temperament to the water. I would have said, "the waters infected me with an odd sort of whimsy that's made me even madder than I normally am." Let's not get confused here. My name is Afam and I am mad. Everyone says so. And as you know, everyone is always right. Because I'm a Nigerian living in Nigeria, it would be easier to assume that I endured an encounter with a water spirit as I slept, and was left a worse for wear as a result. A lot of people blame their behavioural extremities on water spirits and their like. Haven't you ever heard someone blame it on the devil? It's a fairly common phenomenon here. There's one song about it.

Blame it on the devil, he got you feel vile.
Blame it on the sango, it got you feelin django.
Blame it on the m-a-a-a-a-a-mmy
Blame it on the m-a-a-a-a-a-mmy
Blame it on the Mephistopheles
Blame it on the Loki
Blame it on the Legion...

You get the idea.

As I was saying. It would be quite easy for me to blame it on all the metaphysical plagues on humanity but I shall refrain because I am superstitious. People who blame their problems on the above mentioned are likely to be turned into yams. I kid you not, the village witch doctor told me something like that.

I will only say that I forgot where I was.

Let's get on with it.

I had this Abercrombie and Fitch shirt that'd been sitting in my wardrobe for ages. I hadn't worn it since Mike Jeffries said what he said. I mean, I'd never quite got into the whole A&F craze, and as I grew older the need to conform to the public school preppy look reduced. It was a redundant remnant of my natural affinity for the herd. The herd queued for hours to get into the Abercrombie and Fitch store on Madison so when I went there, I did the same. My legs hurt and the store reeked but I got my t-shirt. What I'm trying to say is that I felt bad for the t-shirt. So much stress, so little wear... I wanted to make it relevant again, so I cut it in half and turned it inside out. Suddenly, my symbol of classic white good looks and American youth culture was something else entirely. I liked this. I threw it on, grabbed some sweat pants, strapped on some sandals, and strode out of my house like a super star.

I'm not quite sure about it. I don't think it's a bad photograph but it makes me cringe a little. I won't be doing it again anytime soon, apart from if there's a point to be proven. I'll try it again next year and see how I feel about it then.

WRITERY WRITING

LAGOS LIVING: AFAM X STRANGER X WHITESPACE

Afam 08:40:00

Okay guys, we need to have a come to Jesus chat because I've been slacking. I know it. You know it. We all know it. I won't make any promises; we all know how those end. Instead I'll share what I'm working on for my Lagos Living column on the Sauvage. It's a little dark, and more than a little bit whiny, but I like it still. I can't say when it will be up exactly. Let me know what you think?

Saturday – Fall/Autumn 2014

I’m finding myself. That’s the only phrase I have for it. My actions are determined by paradoxes that I cannot reconcile. I want complete isolation. I want time to stop for me. I know that it won’t but that doesn’t stop me from wanting it. At the same time, I tire of my own company.

There’s a Blockparty at Whitespace and I’m going. I don’t need to call and ask who else is. I don’t need to band with a group of acquaintances and friends so that when I get there I’m not alone. Whitespace is so firmly within my scene that it’s unlikely that I’ll ever feel unwelcome there. The creative circle in Lagos is small, and the elitist creative circle is even smaller. There’s no degree of separation that’s worthy of commentary.

Whitespace is a blank sheet of paper for hire. It can be wrangled into whatever shape you desire. I’ve been to pop up shops, and exhibitions there. Each time, the space was different from the last time I was there, but the crowd was the same. It’s for the writers, the fashion designers, the art enthusiasts and the musicians. Whitespace is at the centre of Lagos’ creative renaissance.

Feyi calls me.

“Are you going to the Whitespace block party?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes but I need a ride.”

“I’ll come get you at three thirty.”

She lives in one of the gated pockets of suburbia along the Lekki Expressway. It’s distinctly out of the way, but guaranteed company is always nice. Feyi offers a measure of security that I do not dislike.

The drive to hers is uneventful but for the sweat that streams down my back. The grandfather gifted Mitsubushi Outlander doesn’t have any air-conditioning, and the sun is punitive. This concerns me. I hate being sweaty, but it is what it is. I’m wearing a barely there grandfather collarless all saints shirt, navy blue All Saints trousers, a light blue Hackett belt, and black sandals. I look like myself. I’m not so outlandish that any one thinks me a trendsetter and I’m not so informal that anyone might assume that I have never seen a suit.

We get there at 4:30, and I’m restless. Her company does not keep me from realizing that I am not nearly drunk enough. I make the rounds, saying hello to the people I know, the people I think I know, and the people I’m sure I’ve forgotten. This doesn’t take very long at all. By five I’ve spoken to everyone I care to speak to. My hands are restless. My throat is dry. The solution is at the bar, there’s a bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Honey with my name on it.

The improvement to the time I’m having is almost is almost instantaneous. The music is better, and the small talk is fascinating. I use my red cup like a shield. When the conversation dies, I take a sip. As the buzz kicks in my head starts bobbing. I tuck myself in the gap in the hedge and dance there. Between my circle of friends and acquaintances I feel safe, but this sensation doesn’t last long. Some guy and his female friend come up to me giggling.

“He’s been laughing at you all night because you can’t dance. I don’t know why he’s laughing though. He can’t dance either.”

He’s stuttering “No-s” and half saying “I didn’t mean it like thats” in rapid succession. I wonder what I’m supposed to do with this. I’m almost hurt but the wound escapes me. I understand their motives. They want me to include them in my good time, but they don’t know how to go about it. I dance like I know I can’t dance, so they think that telling me that I can’t dance lets them in on the joke. It doesn’t. I would like to fire off clever abuse. The sort that leaves you thinking about what was said days after it was said. Instead, I laugh and leave my gap in the hedge for the centre of my circle. The aim of dancing while drunk isn’t to look good, it’s to feel good.

I leave before the party ends for Stranger’s first anniversary. It’s the more important of the two, and it’s sponsored by Laurent Perrier. I’ve never seen Stranger so full. I’m overwhelmed. The conversations grow dumber and I grow more cynical. I endure pretentious random musings on fashion and art and music that are both random and uncalled for. The champagne stand beckons. I’m standing there nursing a glass I should not be having and P’s a foot away. I didn’t think she’d come. I jolt like someone’s blasted me with lightning. We stand like that, side by side.

“hello”

“how are you?”

“good”

“how are you?”

“good”

We stand like that side by side for a few minutes until she leaves. I sulk, because I said too little and felt too much. I sulk because, the grief is one sided. She’s going to go out to some nightclub, and I’m going to go home because as long as I’m out in Lagos, I’ll bump into her, and it’ll hurt.