Afam Goes Back to School Part 2 - The Incredibly Cantankerous Papa Afam

Papa Afam: Afam, you're really not young anymore.

Afam: I know. I feel the difference between 20 and 25 with every new hangover.

Papa Afam: I don't understand why you insist on whining about your hangovers when you're the one that chooses to consume the stuff like it never occurred to you that you may in fact live to see the days that follow. You may be decent looking, but God knows that you're not good looking enough to be drugged.

Afam: I'm a man of the present. I find all thoughts about the future frighteningly sickening. The fact that I may be hungover doesn't usually occur to me until I am hungover.

Papa Afam: You're lucky that you're not an orphan. If you were, you'd be dead, and if you weren't your poverty would put you at risk of death. Now don't interrupt me again. It's rude and I'm far too busy for your brand of humour as I attempt to tell you something important.

Afam: What if I paid you for your time?

Papa Afam: It is my greatest disappointment that you may never be able to afford me.

Afam: That was cruel, even for you. One of the greatest lures of death is that I'll finally be free from your lashing tongue.

Papa Afam: You're mistaken if you believe that death will free you from me. If my lectures don't reach you in the grave, I'll join you there in no more than 5 decades.

Afam: I can't endure you. You're bad for my health.

Papa Afam: As are you. If I do not sort you out, you'll be the death of me, but I'll kill you before I let you kill me. I call it my pride as a father. Now I'll get on with my speech. We have disagreed with varying degrees of enthusiasm about what it is you should be doing with your life for the better part of two years and we have achieved nothing. You say you want to be a writer, and I support you but I won't let you turn my dining table into a work space. If you want to be a writing journalist then you must go and find them somewhere that isn't here. Go and get yourself a Masters somewhere. I don't particularly care where, just go.

Afam: How about London?

Papa Afam: Not there. Theresa May is literally a walking headache. Why not New York?

Afam: I can go there for my second Masters can't I? I want to live in London properly.

Papa Afam: Do you think I'm a sultan? You're mad! I won't support you unless you apply to at least one American School.

Afam: What happened to your unwavering support?

Papa Afam: This has nothing to do with support and everything to do with life. There's no such thing as a free lunch. If you smile when I have a hand full of money, you must also smile when I kiss you with my fist. Do you have any universities in mind?

Afam: Yes. City University London and Emerson in Boston.

Papa Afam: Neither of those are in New York.

Afam: If you'd given your infinitely wavering support in September last year, then we could have spoken about New York. It is May and the admissions offices are closed.

Papa Afam: As long as you get out of my house and visit at intervals of three months, staying for periods of no longer than ten consecutive days, I'll be happy.

Afam: I think you'll find that I'll be happier than you. You may not have noticed this but you are more than a little bit troublesome. Be grateful that I've been your verbal punching bag for two years. I really don't know who you'd vent at if you didn't have me.

Papa Afam: I'm appalled at the thought that I may actually miss you.

Afam: You'll ruin my impression of you if you're sentimental in front of me. Pull yourself together.