There's a little book that I carry with me always. I call it my little book of awesome. It's the one where I write incoherent beginnings and even more incoherent endings. It's the one where I write down feelings, and other bits and bobs that will probably never see the light of day. I do it because there may lie in a sea of rubbish a phrase or a word that I do not loathe. This book is now lost and I am all the worse for it.

The word on the grapevine is that I am better than I was when I first started. The sentiment is one delivered with surprise and I don't understand why. Did you think that I would stay the same? We must never forget that life doesn't stop for anyone. The people you write off in Winter may rise victorious in Summer.
 
Believe it or not, I have thought of many more things this week. I will now share them with you.

Christmas in Lagos or London...

This was the bitter question that filled my thoughts this week. I wanted so badly to spend Christmas in Lagos, but after a lot of thinking, I decided that it would be better if I remained here. I will not enjoy the bite of winter, but there may be a new experience waiting somewhere out there. The Lagos Christmas is one that I'm incredibly familiar with. I would hate for my familiarity with it to breed contempt.

Music:
I found two songs as I patrolled through youtube this week. It's surprising how useless I am without a soundtrack to my life. There's a song for waking up, and a song for drinking coffee. When I write, I need something with a steady beat. The beat guides the words much like it does you when you walk. The first is Romantic by Korede Bello and Tiwa Savage. It is easy in the way that Lagos Nights are. When you dance to it, you sway.

The Second is Soldier by Falz and Simi. It's really quite beautiful. I love that he's telling Nigerian stories. As fun as popping champagne is, that isn't all there is to life. Sometimes, girls get harassed by Soldiers. These stories are valid too.

Film:
I'm tempted to say Star Wars, but I haven't seen it yet. I probably will soon, but I can't talk about it in any way that adds value until I do.

Instead of Star Wars, I'm going to go with Love Actually. I watched it to get into the Spirit of Christmas. It's the Christmas Romcom to end all Romcoms, complete with Hugh Grant and a convoy of British actors and actresses.

The old blog you should read...
If I were to write a Christmas message it would probably say what this blog said. Be grateful for the little things. 

 The Article that made me smile
Stuart Heritage is one of my favourite writers in all the world. I love his work so much that I talk about it incessantly. I'm proud to say that my preaching has done much good. Mama Afam now looks out for his articles on the Guardian. Anyway, he's got a column on the guardian called Man with pram where he writes about his adventures as a new dad. It's the sweetest funniest thing you'll read this year.

His latest column is called Christmas isn't baby friendly - though I see an upside to the festivities.

And that's it!

Happy Days,
Afam

When I was younger I dreamed of White Christmases with fields of snow, and pine trees of wood and leaf, not plastic and metal. I longed to build snowmen and mess about with sleighs. The films I saw about Christmas seemed to be saying that my Harmattan hazed Christmases in Lagos weren't Christmases at all. There was no Mistletoe or Mulled wine. Santa Claus wasn't a white grandfather with an unusual love for milk and cookies. He was a black man wearing a white cherry cheeked mask, and white gloves. We had the carols by Nat King Cole letting us know with every silky note that the Lagos Christmas was a poor substitute for the New York one.

It wasn't till much later that I realised that the White Christmases, with songs about Frosty the Snowman and Reindeer were the West's way of making the best of a terrible situation. Snow is only prettiest when seen from the luxury of a fireplace, and only when fresh. If I had known these things when I was younger, I would have loved my West African Christmases more for what they were. I would have loved them for their effortless heat, and their dusty skies. I would have loved them for their sunny interludes, and their bombastic celebrations. I wouldn't have filled my head with dreams of the British countryside, I would have dreamed instead of Senegal.
 There are many beauties in Senegal. There are white beaches, the picturesque remnants of their  French Colonial history, and natural marvels. As stunning as these things are, they pale in comparison to its people and their unique vibe. Dusty streets are invigorated with colours and sounds. Markets are a riot of noises and smells. The air carries the soundtrack of constant chatter, and Senegalese pop.
 
The Pink lake, lies just North of the Cape Verde peninsula, a few miles from the centre of Dakar, the country's capital. From November to June it is an improbable magenta, lapping against the bottom of boats, competing fiercely with the other pink lakes in the world. Even in its serenity it is not free from Dakar's buzz and trade. Salt collectors earn their living from the lake's high salt content. They scrape the salt from the lake's sandy waters at peace with the sheer unlikelihood that a lake should be pink.

One of the City's best views comes from Las Mamelles (breasts in French), twin hills that stand out in the otherwise flat landscape. From here you can see how the city sprawls; a combination of French colonial structures and villages; the Atlantic gentler than it is further East; and Le Renaissance Afriquainne, a monument that eclipses the statue of liberty, a man, woman and child point toward the horizon. It is a symbol of renewed African hope.

In Senegal, there is wildlife that you would imagine was confined to East Africa and South Africa. The Fathala Wildlife reserve boasts of 6000 hectares of protected forest and a landscape is dotted with Lions, Giraffes, Zebras, and Rhinoceroses. These are rare treasures of West Africa.

The pace of Dakar slows down considerably the further you go away from it. Ile de Goree lies 30 minutes offshore. It's a popular tourist destination as you will probably discover on the ferry over, but once there the streets are quiet and you can walk among its colonial buildings in near solitude. One of the stand out destinations on the island is the House of Slaves, which records the tragic history of the Slave Trade.

When your adventures are done, and it is time for you to retire and rest, there is little better than a nice hotel that overlooks the majestic Atlantic ocean.

 So this winter, when you think of how you should spend Christmas or the wintry months that follow, think of Senegal, Ebola free since 2014.

The first time I met Idris Elba, he was walking the red carpet for Mandela at the Toronto film festival. I lifted my camera and took a shot to immortalise the moment, that I may put it on instagram for all to see. I like every instagram shot I put up to say, "This is what I've been up to. I'd like to see you top that." And if not that because you can't do something truly wondrous all the time, then I'd like it to say, "I work 80 hours a week and I still look this good, this is how much better than you I am." I call it the politics of Instagram. I win everytime.

That night I was torn between two films. There was Mandela: A fantastic epic about the life of the great Nelson Mandela starring Idris Elba and Naomi Harris. Naomi's hands down one of the hottest women in the world. And there was Half of a Yellow Sun: The not very good film about love in middle of the Biafran War starring Thandie Newton and Chiwetel Ejiofor. Thandie too is one of the best looking women on the planet.

The thing that synched my decision was that Chimamanda was on the red carpet for Half of a Yellow Sun. I was in love with her words at the time and I would not be swayed. Not even by the promise of being mere feet away from the probable woman of my dreams. As beautiful as Thandie Newton is, she's married. There's no use dreaming a dream that's dead at first wink.

The second time I met Idris, things weren't as great. For one, it was at a bar called RSVP in Lagos. RSVP is alright as far as bars and restaurants go. Nothing that exciting happens there. The food is a little above average. The drinks are more expensive than average. It's on the right side of nice which is still somewhere left of great.

The waiters there were so thrilled with the idea of Idris being there that they tried to strip my table of its chairs. I resented that. I didn't care that my party was late. I had personally called and reserved that table and those chairs so I was going to hog them until the end of my booking Idris be damned. They should have known that my friends would probably be late. If people can't make it on time when there's money involved, how can you expect them to be punctual for drinks?

Idris lurked somewhere in the corner. I was aware of him without looking at him. The Lagos big boy code dictates that you should not worship at the crown of celebrity. There was no way I was going to walk up to him and ask for a selfie, so I watched his moves from the corner of my eye, hoping that he'd do something that would make for a great story.

When I realised that the night wasn't going anywhere, I gathered the bros, and left for Scarlet lodge, a somewhat underused bar in Lagos. The drive there was odd because we were being tailed by a sirened convoy. Being tailed by a pick up truck with garish mobile police officers is never a good sign. I drove a little faster, but to no avail. They took every turn I took, and ploughed through every pothole I did. It was the most disconcerting thing.

I got to Scarlet Lodge and the whole affair made sense. Idris wasn't in Lagos to chill. He was here to promote his new film, Beasts of no Nation. The bar I thought would be a quiet place to end the night had turned into a fan filled nightmare, complete with a red carpet, and movie posters.

I could have gone somewhere else but I didn't. If the plan was to drink at Scarlet Lodge, then we would drink at Scarlet Lodge guest list be damned.

To get in, I lied mightily. When they told me that I wasn't on the list, I fake called Jenny, the woman in charge of the event, then I demanded to see their manager. You should have seen the evil smile on my face when I saw that she was petite and hot. Turning on the charm wouldn't be a problem. I smirked, winked and smiled with so much enthusiasm that I doubted that I'd be able to move my face properly for a few days after. I can't remember what I said, but I'll tell you that all my words were honeyed falsehoods made convincing by my too expressive face. That's something I've learned since I moved here: when in doubt around a woman, ask yourself, "what would a Yoruba-demon do?" I call it the WWYD.

We got in to find that it was exactly the same as any old Lagos party. Everyone was trying to out cool everyone else. No one was talking. The lesser celebrities in attendance were darting around the place pretending to be morbidly afraid of their fans, while seeking their attention and affection.

That all changed when Idris came out to do his dj set. He was instantly surrounded by girls who would be hot if hotness was determined by how much skin was on display. I was only happy that the bar was open. I'd save my cash for some other night.

I wondered if I would have been more excited if I'd seen this when I'd just arrived in Lagos. If I'd have gone up to him and told him how much I liked him in Thor, or if I'd have cared even remotely that he was there.

This is what life in Lagos does to you. You're so embroiled in your hustle that you don't have the energy for minor concerns. It's like drinking a cup of apathy slowly. You can only watch, as all the fucks bleed out of you.

Words by Afam. Story by Obi. 

A man's relationship with his barber is sacred, but every so often we men must cheat on our barbers. It's an incredibly painful experience for a man to go through, but when you know, you know. I was with Sam at Nail Studios in Lagos for more than 15 years before I met Simeon.

When I turned 21, I realised that Sam still cut my hair the way he had when I was 10, a number one all around, no shaping. This was the moment that I knew that i would have to leave him. I was ready for a change but Sam wasn't willing to give it to me. It took me three years to gather the strength to leave.

After I left him, I toured the wilderness of Lagos looking for a new barber but I was unsuccessful at finding one. The hair cuts I received were so bad that I was inspired to write the following article, to guide you through the process of leaving your old barber for a younger more adventurous one. As with most adventures, the first few attempts are often misadventures.

Let us begin.



So, you've decided that it is time to get a shape up, a change up, or your regular haircut, and for one reason or the other things didn’t turn out quite as expected. Your barber decided that you needed a new hairline in the centre of your head.

You may not have known that your haircut was terrible, but your boss told you that he was considering signing you up to be the newest masquerade at his village’s New Yam festival. Don’t worry. All hope is not lost. These are a couple of things you can do to avoid carrying the ultimate, “something is not quite right with that man aura” until your next trip to the barbers.

Shave it off:
Hair grows. Every moment that abortion of a haircut continues to be on your head is a detriment to both you and good society. Your reputation may never recover from it, and for the rest of your life, people may ask how well your football career’s going even if your line of work hasn’t got anything to do with football.

Spare yourself the embarrassment and take it all off. You don’t need to go full on Boris Kodjo on anybody, just level it out. If you’ve gone and carved your girlfriend’s name on your scalp then you have no excuse. By the time the sun punishes your head for a few days, you'll see the light.

Hide it:
Hats aren’t just for fashion or style. They’re brilliant for covering all horrors that have to do with your head. If you’re a chap that’s never without a baseball cap then you really haven’t got anything to worry about. If you’re a corporate cat then option 1 will have to do. A hat in the office, no matter how suave will only earn you a meeting with H.R.

Blame it on the B:
Cover your ass. You didn’t cut your hair yourself. Your barber did it to you. Lay the blame on him and promise to get a new one. However this doesn’t really work, because you shouldn’t have been napping when he was doing his snipping. If the abortion of a haircut was your idea, then you may want to consider going basic for a while. Kill the innovator in you and stick with the regular stuff. You may not look like the coolest person in the room but no one will mark you as a possible sex offender.

Grin and Bear it:
Before you jump the gun and have your barber imprisoned for crimes against humanity, or shave it off, you may want to think again. One man’s terrible is another man’s cool. If the odds are in your favour, your haircut may make the improbable journey from the former to the latter.

 
 When Serena was named Sports Illustrated's sportsperson of the year, I was pleased. She's still there, dominant at 34, an age when most in women's tennis would have called it a day. This year she played through obvious sickness and injury and still came out on top. She was so ill during the French Open that I wished she would throw in the towel and go home. She was painful to watch then. Every forehand winner seemed like it was being pulled from her life force.

This year, we were confronted with "the meaning of Serena." She had a year like no other, losing only one grand slam match out of 28. If you add that to her 69 career titles, her 21 grand slam wins, her $74 million career prize money, her 85% win rate over the course of her career, it is easy to see why several call her the greatest female tennis player of all time. However, her success is often dwarfed by the criticism that is thrown at her. She is trolled almost incessantly by fans of the sport, officials of the sport and the media.

What Serena has had to Endure:

 The president of the Russian Tennis Federation referred to her and Venus as the Williams Brothers.

After she won Wimbledon this year, the editor of the Atlantic suggested that she was on Steroids.
This is a difficult claim to make because all of her tests have been clean. In fact she's so determined to not fail a drug test that she didn't take flu meds during the French Open.

In 2009, right after she defeated Venus at the Wimbledon final, Jason Whitlock, a commentator on Fox Sports wrote the following.

• "With a reduction in glut, a little less butt and a smidgen more guts, Serena Williams would easily be as big as Michael Jackson, dwarf Tiger Woods and take a run at Rosa Parks."
• "there's an inescapable truth about Serena Williams: She's an underachiever."
• "I'm only knocking Serena's back pack because it's preventing her from reaching her full potential as an athletic icon."

Just before Wimbledon this year the New York Times published an article by Ben Rothenberg where he seemed to suggest that Serena's body was undesirable.

Serena Williams has a muscular frame. Her rivals choose not to emulate her physique http://t.co/IecMzg4AwV pic.twitter.com/gEGHd3NI3z

— The New York Times (@nytimes) July 10, 2015

 She's been heckled by racists mid match.

She earns $10 million less than Sharapova in endorsements despite being unarguably better than her. Serena leads their head to head 18 - 2, and no one will forget their London Olympic final where the scores were 6-0, 6-1, in favour of Serena.

To be Serena is to do exceedingly even when the odds are against you. Despite how quick everyone is to put you down, or discredit you. It is to surmount difficulty at every turn. So when Sports Illustrated named her Sportsperson of the year I was pleased. The interview that they did was brilliant too, but all of my good feelings died when I saw that some people thought that American Pharoah, a horse, should have won instead.
Behold some of the comments.

@SInow Seriously???? Did she/any win a TripleCrown (or sports event) not done since 1978? A joke @jazz3162 End of reading your mag! #AP

— HorseBelle (@seabiscuit7) December 14, 2015

@SInow @SI_ChrisStone @serenawilliams American Pharoah is the winner-hands down. You people are ridiculous.

— Looise (@Looise1) December 14, 2015

 One of the weird things about this is the comparison between a black woman and a horse.

I for one do not believe that a horse should ever win Sportsperson of the year. If anything, it should be the jockey. There is a reason why horses are ridden when they race. It is that left to them, they wouldn't be racing. They would be eating grass, sleeping, and gamboling on a field somewhere. When Jenson Button wins, do you put the car on the podium or the man? Sure, it's a brilliant car, but in my hands, that brilliant car is not a winner. It is an accident waiting to happen.

 Then there's the thought that this would not be happening if she were white. That allegation makes people uncomfortable but it is true.

When she wins, people would rather talk about her ass than they would the fact that she won.

When she plays well she overpowers her opponents. She hardly ever receives praise for her smart plays on the court. Why is she praised for her physicality and not her wit?

And even if she wasn't as amazing a player as she is, her endeavours off the court are nothing but inspiring. Particularly when she speaks out about social issues. In one of the most racially divisive years in recent American History hers is a voice that needs to be heard.

In the words of Sport's Illustrated:

"We are honoring Serena Williams too for reasons that hang in the grayer, less comfortable ether, where issues such as race and femininity collide with the games. Race was used as a cudgel against Williams at Indian Wells in 2001, and she returned the blow with a 14-year self-exile from the tournament. She returned to Indian Wells in '15, a conciliator seeking to raise the level of discourse about hard questions, the hardest ones, really."

This is something that a horse, no matter how brilliant, well trained, well ridden or genetically superior, could not possibly do. It is far easier to be inspired by a human being than it is by a horse. And if you think otherwise, chances are that you are a centaur in hiding.

Constructing an aesthetic for African women in an incredibly Western world without being reductive is no easy feat. Attempts at this range from the use of dutch wax fabrics in foreign aesthetics, to the re-imagining of traditional African silhouettes for modern use. The latter is what Iamisigo's Modern Hunters collection manages to do.

For SS16, the brand's creative director and founder Bubu Ogisi, took inspiration from Ghana where the label began. It used the Akan tribe's concept of "sankofa" where one must "reach back into the past and retrieve it", the literal Mande translation of Ghana: Warrior King, and the "Nwetoma" technique developed by the Akan tribe.

These themes were melded to create a 21st century interpretation of "Yaa Asantewaa", the Ashanti warrior queen who led the rebellion against the British in 1900 known as the War of the Golden Stool.

"The origins of the collection are feminist" said Bubu Ogisi.

"Women are subject to many elements put in place by men. I have always wondered why this is. Why should men tell us that we are weak, and that we cannot live as they do? For me it is all about equality. We may not be the same, but at the end of the day we are human, just as they are." She continued.

Some of the references were literal. The re-creation of the embellished "Nwetoma" smock favoured by the queen is one of them. Red was featured heavily to represent the blood of Ghanaian ancestors past. The collection also skewed itself towards athleticism and comfort. The clothes had an ease about them and were loose without being asexual.
This season introduced Iamisigo's first foray into accessories. They created a range of leather strapped neck pieces, "Bandahene neckpieces", consisting of welded warrior shaded heads in silver, gold, bronze and acid soaked metal.

A collaboration with Nigerian shoe brand Ethniks brought sandals and slips made of pvc and nwentoma.

It is clear that while Iamisigo remains obsessed with Africa's past it is not afraid of charting new territory in African Fashion. 

Photo credit: @Bintinlaye (Instagram)

I was going to open this week's edition of the things on my mind, with the written equivalent of a monologue about Trump and Dasuki, the National Security Adviser to President Goodluck Jonathan.

The former is a bigot who thrives on hate speech and the latter is alleged to be a legendary icon of modern day corruption. Sahara Reporters claim that he transferred state funds of Seven Hundred and Fifty million Naira to Reliance Hospital for special prayers.

As the year draws to a close, I find myself looking for silver linings and little joys. It is not that Trump's drunken ramblings are unimportant, because that is anything but true. I wonder if he thinks of all the acts of hatred that his words have inspired. And then there's the Nigerian Government in general, all pretentious passion lacking in commitment or reason; willfully negligent of the lives they hold in their grasp. Do they realise that every moment they spend trying to pass Bills that will only contribute to our suppression and oppression somebody dies because of the things they could have done instead? The people shoulder the cost of their broken promises and live the nightmares of their broken dreams.

And that my friends, is enough of that.

The blog that I think you should read is the one below.

Notes on Summer Love: The Importance of Fried Plantain

I wrote it when the blog was a few months old. It'll lift your spirits. That, I guarantee.

Music:

In the land of the sounds there's one man that really did it for me this week. He's genreless. He's safe for work, and his enthusiasm is infectious. This week, I'm listening to Sunday Candy by Chance the Rapper, who made history by being the first Independent artiste to perform Saturday Night Live.



Film:

My film of the week is Sleeping With Other People. It is a rather good romantic comedy that stars Alison Brie (of Community fame) and Jason Sudeikis. It's a little bit risque, so don't take the kids if you have any, and be prepared for the odd joke about drugs or anal sex.


Television:

Louisa Johnson won the latest season of the UK version of the X Factor - Yay! One Direction have gone on an indefinite hiatus. I don't know how to feel about this, but there's a lot in me that's screaming YEEESSSS. If it's any consolation they literally just had their last television performance before the break. It too was on the X Factor.

Also if you're looking for a new television show to sink your teeth into then why not try Jessica Jones. It's a netflix one about a failed superhero who has severe PTSD. PTSD stands for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Now you won't be an embarrassment at any dinner party when you don't know what it means.

The Things That Made Me Laugh
This one's easy and doesn't need me to say much.


This article right here about how to troll cleverly

and this tweet:

You cannot hide me oh. My yoruba will come out and thats how I'll just greet your mum from under the bed because I have home training

— Abike (@Jollz) September 23, 2015

The Thing That Made Me Awwww This Week

This letter to Nigeria is the sweetest thing you'll ever read about Nigeria. 

Thanks to me right? I am great right? I know. I know.


Closing Remarks:

This is the blog's third year. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you read. I cannot thank you enough for helping me find a corner of the world that I fit into. I cannot thank you enough for the dream that you've given me.

There are days when I'm overwhelmed with anxiety about where this will lead. After three years I still can't tell where it is going. I know how many dreams end in fire and brimstone. I pray that this isn't one of them.

I can only ask that you keep reading, sharing and spreading the word. You never know where your links will land. 

Call to Action:

 

I'm collecting stories about real experiences during the Christmas Holidays in Lagos. I want your accounts of exciting nights spent at night clubs, events, or doing the more mundane and chilled things. Send anything you've got to afam.a.o@hotmail.com and it will appear on the blog.

Happy days,
Afam

The furore surrounding Emmy award winning director Cary Fukunaga’s film, Beasts Of No Nation, starring Idris Elba and the new comer, Abraham Attah, has died down a bit, but most who have seen it speak for its quality. The film has a 90% rating on criticism aggregation website Rotten Tomatoes and 7.9 stars on the internet movie database. Even  comedienne of the moment Amy Schumer, has testified to its amazingness on twitter. However it would be a travesty to let the buzz of the film overshadow the issue at its heart, and that is the continued use of underage combatants in conflict around the world.

“The existence of child soldiers is one that remains extremely relevant globally,” said Uzo Iweala author of the book, Beasts of no Nation.

Iweala’s book provided much of the source material for the film which is set in an undisclosed African Nation. It follows the story of Agu (Abraham Attah) as he is conscripted into the Commandant’s (Idris Elba) vigilante group. The film is a fictional but realistic telling of the possible story of a child comatant but the issue cannot be said to be an African one. Iweala said “A number of countries have this problem. One way or another there are about 300,000 child soldiers operating in the world today from the Central African Republic to the Resistance Army to the Islamic State and the Kurdish Forces.”

This year alone, the Violations Documentations centre in Syria has recorded the deaths of 135 male and female child non-civilians. This number looks to be rising as the UK-based Syrian Observatory for Human Rights said that France’s first air strike at the end of September killed 12 child soldiers.
The situation will not be an easy one to solve, according to Iweala. “There are many processes involved. We can’t tell how people will act in situations of extreme crisis, and we have to take into consideration the effects of command and control.”

Iweala is pleased that after ten years of his book being published, it made it to the silver screen. He said: “It is an honour to have your work made into film by a director like Cary Fukunaga, and with talent like Idris Elba, and the young Abraham Attah.”

The film, Beasts of no Nation was screened at the London Film festival this year, is currently available on Netflix, and it opened in Nigeria last night. 

I have never been good at grief. Some people grieve really well. I tend to stop at depression and start over with denial.

This is especially true when I think of the sixty. I'd much rather believe that they were like the lot of you that I no longer speak to: doing well in some part of the world that I no longer have any access to. That Uzo Awaji is still playing pranks that I won't like. That Wole's still Wole, being too good for the world in some little corner of Canada.

My greatest regret then and now remains the things I never got the opportunity to do or say. If I had known that I would lose them, I would have made more of an effort to say the things I should have said or do the things I should have done. But what did I know, at 15? What did any of us know? We were so young that the idea of death seemed unworthy of thought or discussion.

We had been raised to believe in formulas, to be hopelessly optimistic, but that event was perhaps the first time that life told us what life was: A series of intersecting lives and incidents, that we can neither understand or control - all that would be left of them were the memories, and the should haves, would haves, or could haves.

I would have thanked Chidinma Nzelu for letting me pester her whenever I needed to learn how to draw or paint. Her talent was undeniable.

I would have hung out more with Peter, the one time that I saw him outside school. He had mastered the true virtue of silence. When he spoke he was listened to more often than not. Every word was well considered, every laugh measured.

I would have teased Busola more about his ears and his middle name if only to hear his astute comebacks.

Augustin Monago's name was a song in my head. Knowing me, I probably sang it to him. As impolite as that may have been it gave me the briefest glimpse into his sunny disposition.

Onyeka. Einstein. I would have thanked Onyeka for his patience, and his unselfishness. I would have thanked him for putting C class on the map. He challenged the A class book wizards mightily. I would also have thanked him for leaving his balls hanging out on the field one afternoon during inter-house sports. It's been the source of many a laugh since.

I would have thanked Richard and Chuka too, for holding Kenny back when he wanted to kill me for telling Folake something that I probably shouldn't have. I would have done well to have taken ironing lessons from Richard, and I would have done better to have been a student of Chuka's. Dating Faridah in Loyola was no small feat.

I would have thanked Chinweoke for saying it like it was and for having the balls and the ovaries to wrestle with Aboyeji in some of his more insufferable moments. She was the closest thing to an Amazonian I'd met then.

I would have thanked Uzo for her easy smile. She embodied the fact that the happiest person in the room was not necessarily the one that laughed the loudest.

And Chidinma Okafor who would never let anyone dull her shine. A master of organisation and leadership, I would have asked to help me be like her.

It is a pity that this all we have left of who they were: clips of lives that we once shared. In my year most of us were 15 going on 16. We lost ten. All of them too young. All of them too good to have died so cruelly. All are loved. All are missed. All are remembered fondly.

Afterword...

I spent six years at Loyola Jesuit College, Abuja. I studied there between 11 and 17. When I was 15 a Sosoliso flight from Abuja to Port Harcourt crashed and killed sixty of my peers. This was in 2005. Today in London, we had a memorial service for the sixty and I was the class of 2007's representative. The above is what I wrote and read. I was more shaky and emotional than I thought I'd be but that is neither here nor there. I didn't read the line about Onyeka's balls on the field. We were in a church. It was not the time or the place.

I would be remiss if I didn't say a word about Kechi, the sole survivor from Loyola. 

In the years since, she has been a bastion of strength. I do not know that many would have had the strength to go through the ordeal that her recovery was and come out as resilient. Her courage should be an inspiration to all. She is without a doubt, the strongest person I know.

For this one, where all names are named, it wouldn't be appropriate for me to call myself Afam. I wasn't Afam then, I was Dami.

It is 2015 and it has never been harder for a woman to lock down a good husband or even a responsible bae. You see not only do they have to contend with the Johnnys that only aspire to leave them for Cynthia, they have to deal with the Yoruba Demons (also known as Yoruba Princes) too.

Many years ago, people thought of the Yoruba Demon as they did the Vampire. They believed that such creatures were strictly confined to folk lore even though they walked among us. This year, the demons have come out of the calabash.

Yoruba Devilry isn't an ethnic trait as previously thought. It wouldn't be wrong to say that is is an evil spirit, and this means that it is an inexplicable tendency that some Nigerian men seem to suffer from. It leads to the creation of an irresistible lusty beast with an indomitable sense of entitlement with regards to God's creations. They are mostly good looking, fairly wealthy and well groomed with exception of their feet which are immune to the effects of any moisturiser currently known to mankind. This results in an undispellable condition commonly referred to as ashiness.

I spoke to a woman who was so traumatised by her last encounter with one of them that she declined to give her name.

She said: "It was love the moment I set my eyes on his Fila. After that my life became filled with monthly bursts of love and affection. I didn't realise that his love only bloomed once a month because it spent the other days of the month blooming for other people."

I asked another how they could be identified.

"The first two spirits of the Yoruba Demon are the spirits of arrant longerthroatedness and insatiability. If you want to expose a Yoruba Demon then apply more starch to your agbada than him and he'll show himself. He'll come and ask you who your tailor is and the next time you see him, his agbada will be more resplendent than the wings of an angel." She said while laughing bitterly.

While Yoruba men may provide a face to the problem of male infidelity, it should be noted that the stories on the Nigerian gossip grapevine have tales of wandering men from several ethnicities. Lagos, a historically Yoruba state, is commonly thought to be the centre of these incidents. This is probably because promiscuity has more opportunity to thrive at the expense of monogamy in cities. If a man had to walk 12 hours for a quickie with someone other than his dearly beloved, he would probably love his beloved more dearly.

Just heading out to buy some credit. If there's no traffic, I'll steal your girl on my way home. pic.twitter.com/Ub8vGFwrTc

— WALE LAWAL (@WalleLawal) December 6, 2015

Happy Hunting,
Afam

It's winter time and the living isn't easy. The cold is coming. It snaps with gales, and chills with rain. it isn't unpleasant when you're blue. There's a distinct self indulgent pleasure when you see that the outside looks exactly like your insides. Your feelings for your duvet deepen immeasurably, and your tolerance for random night walks diminishes infinitely. But even when you cannot feel the bones of your fingers and your toes, it is comforting to think of the cup of mulled wine waiting to be brewed. And then there's Christmas... Christmas is coming... Keresimesi Odun de O...

So here are the things that have been swimming around my head this week.

I won't lie to you, this week wasn't the best. My deadlines loom and all the news I hear seems to be bad. It isn't even the sort of bad that you can forget. It's the sort of bad that sticks with you and sinks you. Because I am Afam the happy, and the benevolent, I will refrain from telling you of the sad sharks swimming in my head until the end.

If you read the sad things and you are sad, then I'll direct you to this blog that I wrote three years ago called London Lunges: The Barclays Gander. I did not lunge in that blog. The image of me lunging is so truly horrifying that I hope I never have to lunge in public again. Heck! I won't even lunge in front of a mirror.

And so we begin!!

Bye Bye Tyra!
 
After 22 seasons of some of the trashiest television known to mankind we can finally kiss goodbye to America's Next top Model. In all truth, this one deserves a post of it's own but that'll have to come later. I'm just glad that it is over, even though Tyra Banks probably isn't.

Aww

Film
 
The film I quite liked this week was Angelina Jolie's latest venture in the world of directing, By the sea. The entire thing was a Brangelina affair. Angelina personally produced, directed, wrote, and starred in the thing. It was a little bit artsy, a little bit vain, a little bit off beat and she costarred with her husband. I loved it. They hadn't been together on screen since Mr and Mrs Smith. It wasn't the sequel to that, but it could have been the sequel to I'm Depressed Get Me Out of here!!! If you're ever in the mood to watch sadness compound itself then By the Sea is the one for you.


Books

This week I'm reading James Baldwin. He did a lot of writing about race in America in the 20th century. He's perhaps most famous for Go tell it on the mountain, which has been featured in quite a few best English language novels of the 20th century lists. I'm not reading that one yet. I started with a collection of his essays, Notes of a Native Son, Nobody Knows my Name, The Fire Next Time, No Name in the Street, and The Devil Finds Work. I won't lie to you, I've really only just begun, but it seems promising. Last night somebody told me that I reminded her of James Baldwin and I was offended, because though James was brilliant, he certainly wasn't brilliant looking. Furthermore, this person hadn't read my work, so she couldn't possibly have meant that I write like him. Mama Afam come to my aid! This mummy's boy needs an outpouring of compliments about his handsomeness.

Television

 

My television pick of the week is something I literally found right now. I was halfway through putting this all together, when I discovered that I hadn't watched any television shows this week. I rectified this immediately. It took about 2 hours and a bit of my life but no matter. What is time for if not to watch television. silent chuckle. 

You've probably heard it said or sung that everybody loves Kung-Fu fighting. Into the Bad Lands has all the Kung Fu you need. People fly around like evil spirits, blood sprays about like it does in any good Tarrantino film and all of this is supported by a perfectly adequate plot, and unrevolutionary acting. It won't win an emmy but it's won my heart. 

Music:

This one is hard, especially as the music I listen to isn't very often recent. This week I've been listening to Summer Time, and my Funny Valentine. Their simplicity is so profound. My Funny Valentine has been recorded by over 600 musicians and appeared on over 1300 albums. Now, that is what I call a song and a half. Here's a video of Michael Buble singing My Funny Valentine live.



Online Reading

I'm still reading Long Live Summons. How could I stop? The latest translated chapter's called, You dare? I will step on your head. I can't step on heads in real life, even though I'd like to sometimes, so it's really lovely to live vicariously through a villainous hero like Yue Yang.

However that's not the only online read I've got for you today. I've just finished reading Coiling Dragon by popular Chinese Writer, I Eat Tomatoes. Believe me, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. This one follows one Linley Baruch on his path to immortality. It's got so much Wish fulfillment that it deserves a wissh fulfillment award. Linley effectively tramples on everyone that crosses him from book 1 chapter 1 to book 19 chapter 64. It's translated by the lovely people at wuxiaworld.com.

Old Blog of the Week

This one is quite a good one I wrote in collaboration with the good people at Warby Packer last year. They emailed me asking if I'd like to do a piece on their spectacles. I said I would if I liked them enough, and I did, so I did. The thing you don't know about that post is that I was half hoping to get a freebie out of it and I didn't.  Bad Warby. Bad Warby! Just so that you know if you've got something to sell, and I like it, I'll blog about it for you, but I now charge for this service. Contact me some way some how, and we'll talk about it. At the minute, I'm most in need of a free haircut, so barbers far and wide come to me. I will blog for a shape up. To read that one, go here.

News Event:

Of these there are two...

A blogger whose pseudonym is sugabelly shared her account of rape at the hands of Mustapha Audu and some of his family and some of his friends last week Friday. This story sent my week spinning into disarray. I do not know that I have ever been so crippled by empathy as I was then. The tools of the journalist (black humour, and alcohol) could not protect me. I constructed a timeline from her blog. It took me two days to get it right and still there are problems with it.

I'm following up on the story, speaking with whoever will speak to me. It is fairly hard to do this as I have not the resources to chase it effectively. So far I've spoken to a relative of Mustapha's and someone that worked with both he and Sugabelly at the company when it all began.

You can call this my crusade for the month or the year. I'll follow this one to the end.

Syria:
The UK's started bombing Syria. I mourn for the civilians who will be reduced to arms, legs, and ash. It really is incredibly saddening. But what are we to do. Someone's damned if you do and someone else is damned if you don't.



That was a little bit heavy, so I'll leave you with a meme I made in my Online Journalism class.



 Papa Afam, if you see this one, that thing on the left isn't me.

Happy Days,
Afam

The clouds float past my window, gently. I've decided to take things easy today. I will not worry too much about the work I've got to do, or the decisions I've got to make. I will sleep as much as I need to and not regret the hours I've set aside for me.

I was filming on Oxford Street for a story I was doing on Black Friday. It was cold. I was hungry. I was tired. Those feelings mixed themselves into something unrecognisable. I could no longer figure out what it was that was making me so ill tempered. In spite of my foul mood I didn't dare leave. I had interviews to do. I had to contend with the unfriendliness of London face first. It was as it had always been: me against the world; me against the city; me against me.

It is wise to know when you've done enough, but it is wiser to know when you cannot do anymore. I have never been wise. I planned to stand there until my task was done, even if it meant that my candle was only a puddle of wax at the end of it.

A man sat down on the pavement's edge. He pulled out a bucket, a tin lid, and some other half broken things. He removed drum sticks from his pocket, and drummed.

I have always been fascinated by buskers. Where I'm from public displays of talent are not so common. I stopped. I listened. I filmed. I knew then that I couldn't do any more. I had done my best to report on black Friday. I hoped that it would be enough and even if it wasn't, I'd return to fight the world some other day.

It is remarkable how music even when unaccompanied by words has meaning.

A video posted by The Ramblings Of A Madman (@troambyafam) on Dec 4, 2015 at 5:05am PST

Happy Days, Afam

I like us now. I write fairly regularly and you're coming back slowly. I haven't quite fixed the blog to maximise your readership yet, but as we Nigerians say, "I dey work on am?" My broken English too is a work in progress.

I've decided to bring all the work I've done home. So here's an interview of Denola Grey that I did last year, the day before he turned 24.

Before we get into it, I'll say a bit about him.

His wit is acerbic. His intolerance for stress is legendary. To be friends with him is to be treated to moments of brutal honesty. He is the only one that I trust to properly discuss the journey of my hairline as it trudges toward the centre of my head. I know it will get there some day. On the subject of my hairline, he has said the following.

"You're not that ugly, so I don't understand why your hairline is running away from your face."

"You should be glad that your hairline does the moonwalk better than you do."


I called him on Tuesday (that is yesterday, the day before his 24th birthday which is today) to see what he was up to.

Afam: Hey. How’s it going?

Denola: I’m good thanks. How are you?

Afam: I’m alright thanks. Are you free right now? Can you talk?

Denola: Yeah!

Afam: Are you driving?