As I write this one I'm literally listening to Demi Lovato's Cool For the Summer which sounds like what sex looks like in 2015. At first you're looking and thinking about how interesting they are, then you're talking or dancing and you're thinking about how shaggable they are. And the next thing you know there are feathers, you're on top of a car, there's a finger in every hole, you're being whipped, there are people everywhere, you see Bill Cosby, there's a nipple ring, toes are curling, there's a swing, camera's are flashing, there's a video and in the morning, you're appropriately hung over and bruised.

All I'll say about that song is, the Disney kids have grown up and they don't look like Disney kids anymore. When I see them I think, "Hot damn! When the twenties happen they happen!"

So it's officially summer time. I can see August from my window. Typically I'd be out there prowling the streets with bodies on my mind and minds on my body. But I can't this year because I missed the summer body memo. I didn't read the million and one articles on GQ about splitting the one pack six ways, and I certainly didn't read that spaghetti strands were best seen on plates and not on torsos. As if all of that weren't enough, I fell ill recently. A five day bout of malaria had me looking like I'd been living on a diet of crumbs, dirt and coffee for the past year. All of this means that I will still get shirtless because I have the soul of a nudist and I won't care that I'm not your body type because it's my body: your thoughts don't live here.

Anyway, the other day, I started thinking about how good it'd be to be fit again. I'd like to be able to do things fit people do like:

•  Run a five minute mile - If I did this I would drop dead and die. I can't handle it. I actually cannot. 
• Jump over a 6 foot fence - If those hyenas come down from the savannah it'll be Afam for dessert. I currently don't weigh enough for a main course. 
• Swim a kilometre - when the river and the ocean gods get mad at us for all the sand filling we've been doing I won't be able to swim to safety. I'll die. 
• Not have 25% body fat. This is true. It is terrible but understandable. Yesterday I had ice cream for breakfast. This is what happens when you wake up and your first thought is vanilla, two scoops.

 Because of these feelings I decided that it was time that I went to talk to a running professional I chose one of the most famous ones out there. I chose the flash. It was an interesting conversation. Once he started talking, I couldn't get him to stop, so I'm going to be lazy and tell you everything that he told me.

Enter the flash. 

Afam my dear chap, you want to start running don't you. It's a good activity. I quite recommend it. It'll tighten up all the bits of you that are more fat than anything else at this point, and when you walk down the street you won't look like you've run a marathon.

The first thing that you want to do is stretch.

Yes. Just like that. I know people would say that I look like a pervert but look at that form. Just look at it. If I look like a pervert then I look like a pervert god and anyone who knows anything about anything knows that looking like a pervert god is better than looking like a mortal. And I know that this pose isn't really thought of as stretching but it is. The butt cheeks are clenched, and the abs are tense. As far as I know, this is the best stretch for the core. 
The next thing you want to do is sniff your pitts. You're meant to be stinky after you've begun the run and not a moment before it. Believe me. You know how hard you've worked out by how smelly you are at the end. If you're not smelly at the end then you haven't done nearly enough.  After this you're good to go.
Set off with a bang, or a flash.

Watch out for Okadas.
Let them overtake you. Your mother's vagina did not open the gates of life so that you would spend your life hustling with okadas (scooters). 

When you're done, wait a second, take a minute, and take a shit. I mean it.
Like that.

I feel quite proud of myself now because not enough people talk about how important it is for your bowels to work efficiently. This is prime outside poopoo technique, and it's good for your thighs. It's like the plank, but for your arse. And this is one of the reasons why I love Lagos. All of it is a toilet. Whenever you need to go, just go. Make like Shakira and go, "Whenever, wherever, your poo and the ground were meant to be together." After your run you can chill. You could go to the beach and sit like so
or do some yoga like stuff like so
 and you can definitely lean back and think about your life like so.
Or you can take a relaxing swim like so.

As the flash said those words he died. Right there. He died. I couldn't even call an ambulance or anything. The good thing is we'll never see that costume again, and the bad thing is I lost a friend like that. Everyone needs a flash right?

Happy Days,
Afam

I don't like talking about death in real terms. I know we all do it (die), but still, talking about it always leaves me a bit rattled. I don't think my life is a sea of tragedy, but that's how I feel when I talk about my experiences of other people dying.

I went to this secondary school called Loyola Jesuit College, and while I was there there was this plane crash. Sixty people died. I know sixty sounds like a lot, but to me the real number was more like ten. At the time I thought, "mourn everybody! mourn everybody equally goddammit." I felt guilty about the now faceless names I never said hello to and the people I just couldn't be bothered to make an effort with. It was tough, but not as tough as you might think. It definitely wasn't so tough that anyone should give me that look that says, "Damn! You've been through shit." I have. I'll admit that. But then again, so have you. At the end of it, I'm quite happy with my shit. I don't know that I could cope with yours. My dad once said, "God makes provisions for us all." I believe that he's right. I have the emotional skillset to cope (however badly) with my issues. If I had yours, I don't know that I'd be as lucky. The grass is only ever greener when you're being a moron.

Now I've started to think about life and death, and how my near brushes with death never get spoken about as deathly times. In this day and age, casual references to death are actually public declarations of great times. Could you imagine how a person from the 18th century would read,

"Oh my GOD!!! I just saw Lady Gaga! Yes! Fucking Gaga. She asked how me how I was doing and I died! I literally died! I stopped for a second to make my funeral arrangements because I wasn't sure I was going to make it!"

Anyone reading that sentence literally would think that the esteemed Lady Gaga was some version of the plague! They'd be like,

"What!"

"So you met this lady Gaga or whatever, and all she had to say to kill you was hello?"

"Is she an evolved version of Vlad the Impaler? Or maybe Khan the Genghis? Is he Hitler come again? (17th century people don't know who Hitler was so you'll have to read this with a pinch of salt.)

I'll give you another example. 

"So I was just walking down the road, and Taylor swift came out of this pub, and asked one guy if she could bum a cigarrette. He died. Right there. He died."

All of this stuff made me start thinking about death and stuff you know? Maybe it's time that we stop being so cavalier about the subject and start applying it to situations where death is actually on the menu. I'll give you a couple of examples.

"So, I'd been feeling wretched for a couple of days and all of a sudden I chundered everywhere! The entire thing was so chunderiffic that I called the ambulance right there and then because I was DYING. I thought I was this close t being killed dead. And then when I got to the hospital and the Doctor was like we don't know what it is, but we think it's cholera and as she said that I literally just shat myself! It was terrible! I looked all around me and thought, "somebody get me a lawyer because I don't think I'm going to make it!"

"Last weekend there was a house party get together thing. No. Don't ask me what a house party get together thing is because I don't bloody know. But yeah! Whatever they brought out, I was like throw it down me! Yeah! I want to get messed up! I got so messed up that I pulled out some of the facebook poetry that I wrote when I was like 10 to chat up some girls, but it didn't work. And then this Afam guy started bossing me around like he was my mum. He was all like go nap. Go have a drink of water. But I was like go fuck yourself. And then everybody was going to get shawarma and I got into my car even though I could barely walk and drove out ahead of them. The next thing I know, the car's tumbling down the road, and I'm pissing myself because I am literally about to die! I'm like RIP ME because this shit is crazy! And then I thought that alcohol is literally the king of slay because I've never been so close to complete slayage, I swear! The car stopped rolling and I climbed out of some window, and I thought, "Shit dude! You were this close to DYING!"

Food for thought no?

"You're going to have to learn how to drive drunk."

That's what my aunt said to me while we were at a bar on High Street Kensington. I was stuttering a reply that would have said something like, "Auntie you know I'd never drive while under the influence. I'd just get Alfie to drive me if I was drinking." She shushed me before I could get a word out and said,

"I was young in Lagos too. Don't bullshit me. You're going to have to learn how to drive after you've had a few."



Youth is sweet. You're filled with thoughts of adventure. You seek out the most fantastic experience as you come to terms with the concept of life. You long for the taste of infinity, and in your quest for it you will probably do several ill advised things. Your favourite adventures will toy with disaster. You'll rage against the machine forgetting that you're supposed to make it through. You'll drink too much, you'll try a cigarette. You may never try anything too hard, like cocaine or heroin because you've heard the stories of life ruining addictions, but alcohol will slip trough the cracks of your fascination with life affirming experiences. I've had my share but I haven't yet had my fill.

If you've been away you're bound to think that life here is almost the same as life elsewhere barring a few infrastructural differences but you're wrong. It isn't the same. You can't flag a taxi down at every corner, and even if you could you probably shouldn't. Your taxi driver could turn kidnapper at the drop of a hat, and you cannot guarantee that he too hasn't indulged in activities best left unadvised. In your search for fun and glory I'd prefer it if you made it home. It's in my best interests. The dead do not care for blogs, and if you mess up, even once, you might die. There'll be no do overs or had I knowns. There'll be a hasty funeral and a closed casket. You'll serve as the lesson for the next generation. When your friends have children they'll tell them about you and how you died. You'll be the cautionary tale for the masses. It's a little bit ironic that getting your life may lead to you losing it, but that is the way things are.

1. You are not invincible
Speed is good. You see the accelerator push past a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour and you think, "Yes! This is what they wrote about. This is what they talk about. This is what life is." The rush of the wind against your cheeks is exhilarating. Your music blaring out on to the street is transcendent. Everything about that moment is beautiful. However, you're drunk. Your reflexes aren't what they are when you're sober. You may forget to look right or look left, and you forget that there are other cars on the road so slow down.

2. The time is ten minutes to two
Your hands. One at ten O' Clock and the other at 2. Focus. Your mind's racing through all the infinity on high moments that the night may bring, but this isn't New York or London, it's Lagos. Someone as drunk as you are could break a light, and your impulsive meandering on a straight road could endanger someone else. Focus on your lane and stay there. You'll also need to turn, and as far as I know, ten minutes to two is the best way to make this happen.

3. Don't forget to turn.
The obstacles you see are not optional. If you do not turn, your corpse will marry a round about or a street light and people will marvel at the fusion between your chest and the steering wheel.

4. Convoy
The least drunk driver in front and at the back. The truly plastered in the middle. You'll make it there and back again nine times out of ten.

5. Know your drunk
This one's fairly easy. You should know your levels. If you really are too drunk to drive then say something. Your friends will oblige, and if they don't then they weren't your friends to begin with.

6. Lariats on the ready
One night in hundred you'll be an absolute idiot. Even when you're slurring like a cat, peeing yourself, and falling about like a spineless fool, you'll insist that you're able. This is when you need a kiss with a fist. You need to be tied down like a pig and knocked out like a base ball. You'll understand in the morning. 

What happens when a web series is funded by people who don't really care about it? How stupid must they think us to believe that we'd be happy with just about anything produced? How long are we supposed to pay attention to something that seems to be about nothing? How bad can the shots be before the director, an actor/actress, the runner, an intern, just about anybody says, "isn't this a bit too dark?" How bad does the sound have to be before anyone tells the people behind Indigo that you can't have 25 different sound levels in a ten minute episode of television? Has anything ever made you wonder if watching paint dry would be a suitable occupation? Indigo makes you think all of these things.

In Nigerian English, there’s this thing that we call the woz. The woz is a slap, only that it isn’t a slap, it is a woz. A slap may occur on any part of your body, like the head, the bum bum, or the leg but the woz is different. It is restricted to the face. It’s specificity shouldn’t distract you from it’s lethalness. When you’re slapped you may say, “Oh! You slapped me. You Bish! I can’t believe you slapped me.” But when you’re wozed you wonder where in the world you are, and what you were doing before you were struck by a thunderclap. I do not lie when I say that it is the open palmed hay maker and conversation ender.

Visitors to Nigeria shouldn’t fear the woz because it isn’t a skill that just about anyone has. It requires specific training. Policemen do it, Army men can do it, and seasoned Area boys are magnificent at it. The woz is the reason I believe that time travel is possible, because just the other day I saw a man get wozed to the middle of next year.

I went to the Cinema to see Spy for the second time. It’s a brilliant film. Rose Bryne is a revelation and I must confess that it’s the first time that I didn’t find Melissa McCarthy a little bullish. She’s a hustler of a comedienne. Each punch line is delivered with the gravitas of a comet and the subtlety of a lightning storm. In Spy it worked out well. There was always something to laugh at, so I laughed until I wasn’t sure if my farts were farts or sharts. Sharts are farts that come with a payload of faeces.

When the movie finished as all good things must, I went to the toilet in that incredibly mediocre, often too cold, sometimes too warm cinema in the Palms, Lekki (It wouldn’t be so mediocre if they served popcorn that didn’t make you think of ass but that’s a different story for a different day). In the toilet, the cleaners were slopping about filthy water with mops. I didn’t care really. I’m not going to pretend like I haven’t stepped in shit before. It isn’t the most pleasant thing, but what I’ve found is that shit don’t stain. All you need is a shower and some anti-bacterial soap and you’ll be right as rain.

They asked me to hurry up so that they could get to slopping. They were a bit rude but I didn’t mind. The one thing you need to understand about being from a fairly wealthy family in Nigeria is that you’re trained to not engage. You do not fight with people who don’t matter to you. If I had said, “you better speak more politely to me” to the cleaner what good would that have done? I’d have got myself into an argument with someone who can’t speak English properly, and gone home vexed because I’d have found his absolute refusal to be civil troubling. You have to consider their struggles in your dealings. He works for very little pay. He doesn’t live close to where he works. In contrast, I’m driving the 6 kilometres home in a car that I didn’t buy myself to sleep under a relentless air conditioner. He doesn’t need my shit. His load isn’t one that I can bear so how could I add to it by demanding courtesy in the toilet where I’m restricting his work? I would like to think that more people would agree with this sort of thinking than not, but I’d be wrong.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, I heard some aggressive yelling from the women’s toilet. It was a large man yelling at a cleaner with the cleaner’s collar in hand. “You splashed water on my wife!” He screamed.

“You splashed toilet water on my fucking wife?”

“Toilet water on my wife.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The sight of it hit me before the sound. He summoned all his earthly might and lifted his hand to the ceiling like he was accepting some demanding power. His hand hung in mid air for what seemed like an eternity before descending faster than my eyes could follow. It struck the cleaner like the hand of fate itself. The cleaner’s face snapped right before his body achieved lift off. He flew a few feet and stumbled into the wall upon landing. You would think that that would have been enough but it wasn’t. His dominance gave wind to his assault driven sails, and lent greater voice to his wife who yelled, “You will never work here again.” Her screams only served to stoke the flames of her husband’s anger. In the heat of his passion he’d become a neanderthal and needed three to restrain him from continuing his battery.

He and his wife left not long after that leaving the offensive cleaner with a torn shirt and a bruised face. They walked out of the mall almost hand in hand and climbed into a white Range Rover Sport that didn’t have a plate number. No charges were pressed. There was no mention of the police. There was no defence for the cleaner no matter how much wrong he might have done.

Do you believe me now when I tell you that Nigeria is a jungle?

There's this African that's been on all our television screens... Maybe not all of them. Some of you that read this blog don't know anything about African television, and some of the Africans among you don't watch content developed in Africa. But, all of you go on youtube and that's probably why Stephanie Coker's rebooted her show, StephRocksTV on StephRocksTV brought to us by First Bank. I know! It's a little bit confusing but I suppose we'll have to live with it. It would be a little bit nice if she maybe called it something else like Steph entertains us with various degrees of success because if that happened I'd be able to write, "there's this fairly new show that I've been watching called Steph Presents (or something like that). It's on StephRocksTV, a youtube channel that's really quite watchable."

I hadn't heard of it before her latest episode, the accent struggle. She promoted it on instagram so I thought to give it a watch and then maybe a blog. I've watched it so here's your blog.

As you might expect the episode called accent struggle is about Stephanie's general struggle with accents because this is one of her Nigerian problems. I would probably have preferred if it was about something like the price of fish in the market. Conversations about accents are tiring and tired. There are two sides to the problem and both of them are equally daft.

Side 1:
Why do they complain about how I sound? It's just an accent. I didn't live here for a very long time, so it should be understandable that I do not sound like everyone else. Stop complaining about me and the way I speak and move on.

Side 2:
Why are there so many people with fake accents about? Can't they just speak the way they do naturally? Uh! It's so annoying.

That's all there is to it. It's a problem borne of entitlement. If you cannot stand that people cannot understand your Eastern London fare, and you want to be understood, there are two things you can do. The first is hire a translator, and the second is change it. It isn't a particularly big deal. About side 2, you hating that people have copied an accent that isn't theirs is nothing but the obstruction of social movement. Let me explain. Foreign accents are associated with wealth and most people like to be associated with wealth, so when most people speak, their accent is going to be running far far away from the typical Nigerian fair to some other plane that you may not have heard of. A foreign accent is basically a Benz in your mouth.

And that gets us to my problem with that episode. Its main segment is content absent. The previous paragraph has more content than the 10 minutes she spent on the same subject. There's just nothing there. I can't even write about it properly because I don't know what it was about. It was a meringue without sugar, and anyone that knows anything about meringues knows that eating a meringue without sugar is exactly the same thing as eating cardboard. Luckily the section f the show that had the accent bit in it also had Falz who is great. I had a few laughs, and I'll always be grateful for laughs. However the funny bits with Falz confused me a bit because I wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a variety show, an informative show for Nigerian returnees, or a vanity project.

Having said all that, you mustn't think that it's terrible because it isn't. It's merely confused and this is good because you may find a diamond hidden in the rough. All in all, I liked it. It's only the first episode of what looks to be a revamped version of the show, so I'll give it a season.

Finally, that opening sequence is extraordinary! I'll never forget it as long as I live! It gives me the hippitty hop in all my fingers and toes! It's like that song that we used to sing in primary school, Chicken no dey cry for night.

Dear Afam,

You are quite frankly a failure of a friend. It is often said that absence does wonders for the heart, and that a lack of communication isn't necessarily equal to the death of a relationship, but five months without so much as a tweet is nothing but negligent. The frequency with which I speak to you is perfectly disgraceful. It's almost as bad as the frequency with which you speak to me.

What's been going on with you? Are you seeing anyone? Also, I'm still in possession of the pocket flask you made great use of the last time I saw you in the flesh. We were at some infernal dinner and you were convinced that its repeated use was the cure for your bad temper that night, only that it wasn't. I don't mind keeping it. In your absence it's become my greatest companion and temptation. Everytime I think about it I wonder why I'm neither drunk nor on my way there. It's the worst sort of peer pressure because I haven't the good fortune to be delusional enough to believe that the pressure is even remotely external. You must either rid me of the hellish thing or celebrate my budding alcoholism.

Walk the Moon is great,
Gil

Dear Ogilvy,

I remember the night well. It was the squash dinner, and while I had a great time at the expense of everyone else in attendance, I also discovered that whiskey is not to be mixed with Vindaloos. My trip to the toilet the following morning was both explosive and excruciating. I apologise for any discomfort I caused as a result of subsequent issues with your plumbing. And many thanks for taking me home that night. If you hadn't, I'm quite sure that I would have waged battle with the nearest dustbin. As for the pocket flask, send it to me by return of post. As things stand I'm better equipped to deal with its allure than you are. And it's only in this fashion that we'll achieve true brotherhood. We'll be the brotherhood of the traveling flask.

I'll admit to a certain lack of diligence with regards to our affairs, but it is exceedingly vulgar to berate me like a judge when you are not in fact a judge. Be that as it may, I shall answer all your questions as the third item of our friendship contract requires (If you are so fortunate as to be asked a question by Gil the big ideal, you must answer in great detail, leaving absolutely nothing out).

I haven't been up to much. My inactivity can be blamed on a recent bout of anthropophobia and agoraphobia coupled with sprinkling of the flu and an onslaught of malaria. I also withdrew a bit so that I could write the GRE's without being embarrassed by my lack of proficiency. If you're looking to do that exam, I'll recommend being sicker than a bitch in heat. Nothing clears the mind like illness. You either focus on your own mortality or the task at hand, and it shouldn't surprise you that I chose the latter and not the former.

Am I seeing anyone? This is a question for the gods. After languishing in the sea of my own singleness, I decided that it was time to change. As a maverick, I didn't want to do things the traditional way so I joined Tinder, and it's been revolutionary. I am now convinced that I am not good looking enough to not be single. The number of people that swipe right on me is astonishingly low, and even when I think I'm settling, the people I think I'm settling for still don't find me attractive. And I've been out of the game so long that my game has quite literally turned to shit. Look at these conversations Gil! Look at them!



I have no words for how bad they are. I only hope that a good talking to from you will set my head straight, and forcefully remove the rust from my game. But that's enough about me. How about you? The last time I checked you were getting married. Have you eloped yet?

ps. We talk when we're supposed to; not a moment before and not a moment after.

Always in this twilight,
Afam

Dear Afam,

I don't think it's that bad actually. You're displaying some wit, some humour and trace amounts of charm. Furthermore you've avoided some of the more terrifying tinder tropes. You haven't yet started a conversation with the completely debauched, "Do you want to fuck?" Don't lose sight of the tail so easily. Keep the banter coming, and you'll get more than you would with just a pretty face. What's your Tinder picture? You're not at at all bad looking, so I'm a bit surprised that you're not getting swiped at like a drowning man clutches at straws, but knowing you, you've chosen a picture where you look like a sex offender or a cannibal.

I'm no longer engaged. I have no idea what I was thinking. I believed that I'd stumbled on that thing we call love at first sight. I proposed after a week, and found that I had thrown my hand in with a gorgon. I've never met a gorgon but if the mythical monster does exist, I'm certain that she's a direct descendant. In our second week together would you believe that she made me a sandwich with pickles? The inclusion of the pickles convinced me that if I eloped with her I'd end up dead. I terminated our relations then and there. I think this may have something to do with why I've become so attached to your pocket flask. When I send it back to you I shall go back on the hunt. I'll do things the right way this time. 50 dates before I invite her over, 2 years before I let her make me a sandwich. 3 holidays before I refer to us as a thing, and 6 years before I let her do my laundry. My adventures in the world of womandom have shown me that we can never be too careful lest we get forcefed pickles and turn to the toilet only to find that it's been invaded by baskets of potpourri.

Don't stay up all night to get lucky. You'll be tired in the morning.
Gil.

Dear Gil,

You did the right thing. Anyone that would feed you pickles clearly doesn't have your best interests at heart. 

I haven’t been myself lately. I hunkered down in my Holy Sanctum aka my tornado destroyed room (I’m the tornado, and the room is my victim) and hid from the world. I’m not quite sure why I was hiding. It could have been an unwillingness to see myself repeatedly through the eyes of others, or it could have been my shame at failing at several commitments that I was supposed to be excited about. Needless to say my phone has become the graveyard of messages, and my following has grown lazy. I do not blame them for abandoning me. I will probably always be undeserving of their affection. Be that as it may, I shall court them one word at a time. I shall delight them with the bits of myself that escape my own scrutiny. The reason why you shouldn’t compare yourself to anyone’s instagram or anyone’s blog is because you cannot compete with the highlight reel of somebody else’s life. I find myself caught between displaying my best moments and my real moments, because my real moments aren’t nearly as attractive as my best ones. The real moments cannot be packaged and sold as anything but what they are, and I fear that they reveal too much. As implausible as it sounds there’s a bit that I’d like to keep for me.

The hunt for Chimamanda

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Let the words roll of your tongue. Caress them with your lips and kiss them with your teeth. I do not know what the name means, but now that I say it, I do not think that there was any way that she would not have been great. There are people like that; god kissed. Their names resonate with you long after their deeds fade from memory. I loved her at first for giving me Kambili. I ignored Olanna for she had little or nothing to do with me, and I mocked her for Ifemelu. I idolised her for giving voice to my ideas. She gathered them, repackaged them, and then she said them back to me in a way that I could not have thought to articulate them. As my adulation grew so did my loathing of her, only that it wasn’t hatred it was fear and envy. When an eagle flies swifter and soars higher than you ever dared dream, how can there be room for two. She is both the sky and the limit. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie; Chinua Achebe’s daughter in all but blood. The right sort of angry, the right sort of feminist and the right sort of African black. I never thought that I’d meet her, only to find that in Lagos with all its intersecting circles I did. I imagined that if I met her it would be equals, in a place where we could actually speak. She would know as much of me as I would of her but those plans were shattered by a hand greater than my own. My will is only so small. It cannot change the hand cast by fate. I looked at her perfectly made up face as she smiled her very Chimamanda smile and wished that we would all go away.

It was the Farafina graduation event. I don’t know that calling it a graduation is correct because it doesn’t make sense that you should graduate from a workshop. It would be more appropriate to call it a certificate giving ceremony but that’s altogether too long and too unwieldy for anyone with half a brain to say it time and time again without replacing it with its shorter cousin, graduation. I can’t tell you that I know why I went. As a one time Farafina Workshop rejectee it should have been the sunlight to my vampire. And as someone who’d developed and nursed an ill-supported grudge against the entire program because of the afore mentioned rejection, I should have announced my displeasure and screamed my disdain, but I didn’t. I tucked my tail between my legs, draped my clothes on my malaria subdued frame, got into the car and drove there. I crept in there like a thief in the night and took my place at the back, where family, friends, and other people who had more reason to be there than I sat.

Olisa the radio personality was the host. I tuned out his too many accents to discern his past voice and turned my eyes from his potbelly to look at the hall. I planned to be partially aware of everything that was going on. I thought that the distance would save me from the inferiority thrust on me from every corner. You didn’t get in, so your words are not among the the best that live and die in Chimamanda’s inbox. You didn’t get in, so you haven’t been touched by her brilliance, you won’t carry the spark that she undoubtedly gives everyone that she deigns to critique or mentor. I busied myself with Nigeria Breweries attempt to decorate the hall. This was much better suited to my negativity than any attention spent on Olisa. To say that it was a disaster would be putting it mildly. I do not joke when I say that Jesus was lucky that his manger was not visited by whoever  Nigerian Breweries employed to decorate it. Who knew that cerulean could be so insipid or that amber could be more reminiscent of the Harmattan haze than fabric? Who knew that one of Nigeria’s biggest companies couldn’t be bothered to completely drape a not very large hall in fabric that looked cheaper with every glance? It’s often said that we shouldn’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good, but sometimes it is better to do nothing lest the little you do spoil the part that already exists.

My attention returned to Olisa when he began his lengthy introduction of her. He listed every achievement she’d ever had to the extent that I believed that she wasn’t there, because I didn’t understand how anyone could sit through that and not be embarrassed. I expected her to grab the microphone and unclasp his mouth from her left arse cheek, but he didn’t. When he was done she rose to applause and thanked him for his glorification. I didn’t see then that she was proud of everything that she’d accomplished, or that modesty from her would be just as unattractive as gloating. Her speech wasn’t as powerful as others she’d given but it had a certain Chimamandaness about it that made it worth listening to all the same. Even more notable was her voice, delivering her opinions so smoothly that the very idea of doubting her could not possibly occur to anyone in attendance. If anyone there was successful they’d have to have worked hard for a skepticism that far outclassed mine. And then she called each member of the workshop to the stage by name, describing her impressions of them as they climbed. After that she held a question and answer session with Binyavanga Wanaina, another prominent African writer. I didn’t have ears for him. All he got from me were my eyes. I could not look at anything but his hat, a decoration that would perhaps have been more apt atop a Christmas tree owned by people who’d only heard of the notion of Christmas and trees, but lay largely free from its globalised premise.

I wanted to ask a question but I found that I couldn’t. All the questions I had that day had answers that could be found elsewhere, and I could not bear to shame myself by asking something foolish. When the whole thing was said and done, I made my way to where she sat. A pair of girls had made their way there with their parents in tow. They stood beside her as their mother took pictures with her phone. All I did was look at her Chimamanda studied smile, and note that she had a pimple on her brow. I would save the introduction for next time, when I was also a somebody; when she’d seen my work and longed for a conversation. It wasn’t the motivation of a sermon, but the fraction of a dream worth holding on to.