When I was in primary school, there was a story we read in English Comprehension called, “The Money Doublers.” I cannot say why it is that I remember this story, but I do. It is one of life’s many inexplicable wonders that I can’t be counted on to remember what happened yesterday but I can always remember inconsequential details from twenty years ago.

In this story there was a very poor sad little boy. He was sad because he was poor and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t figure out how to make money quickly. One day, he went to a market, where he met a man that promised to do the one thing he couldn’t do, make money like it grew on trees. He called himself a money doubler, and our dear Akin believed him.

At first the money doubler asked for one naira. He said that he’d somehow turn it into five naira. Akin had his doubts but he decided to believe. After all, if it all went to shit he’d only lose a solitary naira. As luck would have it, the following week Godwin the money doubler came through with the five naira. Akin was ecstatic. He was so pleased that when Godwin asked for six naira so that he could turn it into thirty naira, Akin said, “why not” and gave him six naira. Like clockwork, the following week Akin went to the market and saw Godwin standing there with thirty naira.

The next time Akin saw Godwin he gave him N100. It was difficult to put the sum together. He borrowed from friends and fools and anyone that would listen. He expected N500 back, but the next time he went to the market Godwin was not there. He had disappeared.

I remembered this story when I heard about MMM Nigeria. Money making magic on a website. A dream wrapped in optimism and a severe departure from reality and common sense. In the scheme, users were promised 30% month on month gains made from nothing. To get involved you sign up and offer to help another user who is trying to get their money out of the system. After your desire is registered by the system, you make a bank transfer to the person that you offered to help online. Your help earns you a virtual currency called Mavros. After 30 days you can claim your mavros with the 30% interest added to it, and it will be transferred to you by another user looking to get into the system.

It will only work for as long as more money is poured into it. The moment this pool of money dries up, everyone that’s contributed money and hasn’t pulled it out will lose it. It’s a system with a fatal flaw; destined to fail from the moment it begins. It is possible to play the game and win, but it’s like the rapture or death. You know it’s coming, but you don’t know when.

Yesterday, MMM announced that operations would be frozen for a month because there is panic in the system. They said “the system is experiencing heavy workload.” They blamed this on “the constant frenzy provoked by the authorities in the mass media.” MMM plans to return on the 14th of January but it will probably fail on that day. Users are frightened that what they’ve heard about it being a ponzy scheme is true.  One user, Olawale Quadri said on twitter, “This is what makes the public say it is a scam. I need my money and you are just doing as you wish.” Come January, people will withdraw from the system on an unprecedented scale, but it’s likely that there won’t be any new users to contribute and that will be the end of it. Chances are that it will go the route of its South African counterpart which failed and was forced to start over.

It is unfortunate. My boss told me of a friend of hers who lost his entire pension to MMM South Africa. When stories like that circulate it is hard to say I told you so. The only thing to do is empathise or sympathise. It won’t get anyone their money back but it’s infinitely better than mockery. The year has been hard. The recession continues to bite. This Christmas will be one of the bleakest in living memory. Companies that once threw parties are not, and the bags of rice that were once given out to all members of staff have been reduced to half bags or disappeared altogether. Be that as it may, there’s a lesson in all of this: anything that sounds too good to be true usually is.

Important Note:
This morning, MMM changed its tune. They called their previous statement a google translate error. “Please forgive Mavrodi (the founder), you know he doesn’t speak English. Many words were probably lost in translation.” They say that all they meant by the freeze was that users would have to wait 30 days to withdraw any money put in.

I for one remain skeptical and wary.

Take Care,
Afam

As you know or as you will know very soon, at The Ramblings of a Madman aka Troambyafam, we’re all about you guys. If you aren’t reading, Afam is depressed. If you aren’t sharing, Afam is anxious. And if you aren’t commenting, Afam will make excuses for an afternoon beer. The rest of us are pretty much fine. We’re concerned but we don’t tend to throw ourselves pity parties on the scale that Afam does.

Luckily, you’ve been reading, sharing and commenting at a truly ridiculous rate. There were 16 comments this week alone, and that’s a Troambyafam first. We’ll take a moment to say a massive thank you for showing us that our dreams are valid. Our hearts are full, and our good vibes runneth over.

Reading the comment section is always interesting. The alerts come in by email. It’s lovely when they’re sweet and it’s painful when they’re not, but we love them anyway. Each comment will be replied to individually, but before we get to that we’re going to reply to some of them front and centre where everyone can see.

A year ago, Afam wrote about the 60 Angels. He went to a school in Abuja called Loyola Jesuit College. While he was there, a plane with several of his peers and friends crashed. Sixty of them died. Because of the comment’s gravity, we’ll leave its reply to Afam.

Enter Afam.

This time of year is always painful. It’s ingrained in my flesh. Whenever the eighth of December rolls around I feel it. It’s a longing, a pain and a regret. It just lingers in the air. Every year without fail, I’ll ask myself why, and the answer is always in my calendar. December 10th is round the corner. I’ll think of Wole Ajilore, we roomed together for 5 years and I loved him. He hugged me that morning, fiercely; a hug of never letting go. Bare chest to bare chest; I thought it inappropriate at the time. Now, it’s one of the memories I cherish most dearly. It was as good a goodbye as I could have hoped for. Wole was so badly burned that he was identified with his dental records. I remember his teeth too. They were white, and they had small gaps inbetween them. The sixty are gone but all that knew them will never forget.

We will never forget what they were worth. They were bright. They were good. They had great futures ahead of them.

We will never forget how they died. Nigeria killed them with its petty foolishness, endemic corruption, and its general I don’t give a fuck about anyone nature.

We will never forget our duty to them, to make it so that such a thing does not happen again.

I was moved when I saw a comment from Tee Hillz, Uzo Egwele’s older sister. Like so many others Uzo died that day. She said “Thank you Afam for remembering our 60 angels. I miss Uzo Egwele (my immediate younger sister) terribly and on this day I pray that God continues to give us all the strength to carry on their legacies.”

Thank you. I hope that you know Uzo was loved by us. She had a perfect smile, and she was generous with her time. I wish I could say more, but much of that life is lost to my shoddy memory. I remember her walking down the hallway, green skirt floating in the wind. And Amen.

Exit Afam

Afam’s post about his battle with depression caught second wind recently. So we weren’t surprised when we woke up to this lovely comment by Mr or Miss Anonymous. “Are we really good. We all have our struggles thanks for sharing yours. May the universe be kind to your friend and papa and mama Afam. They are the best for you.”

We agree. Although, they did keep him from the weekly Friday night shenanigans this week. They say that it’s because there are some spirits that come after him in December and that the only safe place they know is their house. We’ve been working to get him back home before midnight as a result, Papa Afam is not a man to be trifled with.

On the blog’s about page, Teni wrote, “Sexy Beast. Yea; Definitely got a crush on this man and his writing. PS: Cougar Alert. Not so cougar though, if you are into women 3 to 5 years older than you.” We approve of this. Afam needs a lady to take care of him, he’s absolutely useless at it, and we’re tired of doing all the heavy lifted. Any assistance would be appreciated.
Sarah Gadau on the other hand was laughing hard at the post about NYSC. We laughed too. We asked him to flee from camp but he was forming hard guy. So we laughed. We even laughed when an insect flew in his eye and scratched his cornea. The quack camp doctors gave him Vitamin C for his condition.

When Chukwudi read that Afam graduated he said, “Congratulations man. Best of luck with all future endeavors and may this degree open better doors for you :-).” Chukwudi is the best guy. In good times and in bad times we can count on him to read this blog. Thank you for your kind words man. They mean everything to the man-child.


On the post about Izien and his fiendish ways, Anonymous said, “What means do we have of judging a man if not his past? - Church agbasala.” What does Church agbasala mean? It sounds good so we’ll take the compliment.

   
And then Ms Anony Mous struck again. Quoting a line from our article about what you go through when the one that got away gets married she said, "I laugh at anybody that thinks that I, Ms Anony Mous, is holding my breath for them.” She’s clearly got the right idea.
   
On Death to the Mumu button, abCDeeO wrote, “When do we march? Lol. I’ve missed you. ***Tiny correction- On the blog, we wrote, “space is the request of the confused. You cannot both want me and *NOT* want me.” Thanks so much for the correction. Sometimes, you can’t help but miss the errors, so thanks for picking up our slack. On the same post Oga or Madam U know me said, “I’m in total support of this! Lord! My mumu-ism is out of this world! This needs to stop.” Ah! You need help fixing this. Don’t let any undeserving human being destroy your destiny all because of mumu.

A lot on the blog is drawn from deeply personal moments in Afam’s life, Are you hungry enough is a fine example of this. We’re glad it resonated with one reader who said, “Lord God, if this isn’t my life. *tears*.”

And then on the post about the experience which I wrote with Afam’s help, Anonymous quoted a line, “I kept looking at myself and saying, “is this really you Afam? You’re smiling like a fucking Christian.”  and said “Bless you.” We all need blessings we can get don’t we!

Finally we got a question from Kanmi on our Who's Afam page. She/He asked, “Hi Afam! how do i subscribe to your newsletter or something?!” We’re going to put up a portal that doesn’t pop up and ask you to sign up at some point, but until then, you can do it here.

Happy days,
The troamteam.

One of the best and worst things about Lagos, is that it's so small that it's almost impossible to go a year without seeing anyone be they friends, enemies, or the  the unfortunate people that lurk somewhere in the middle. The last time I saw Adeolu Adefarasin, the new guy on the hugely successful Skinny Girl in Transit (60,000 youtube views per episode on average) was at Starmix' 25th. He was largely the same way, he was when I met him. The only difference was that he'd added.

When Nigerians say you've added it almost always means that you've gained weight, and while it's true that the dear chap has now got something that's closer to dad bod than lad bod, he's added much more than that. For one, he's not a student anymore, and for two, he's done a good job of racking up some professional experience.

Back in the day and by back in the day I mean a little over a year ago, I watched this show called Skinny Girl in Transit. At first I thought I liked it. It was hilarious. It seemed like one of the most realistic depictions of adulting in the Nigerian media space. Our parents are almost uniformly insane and bipolar, and it's surprising that more people aren't turning it to comedic gold. Skinny Girl in Transit does this very well, but after five episodes of the same old stuff, I was tired. When you see the gag coming from a kilometre away you can't laugh when it arrives. The show I liked slowly but surely became the show that wasn't worth watching.

All of that changed the moment Adeolu said, "Oh! I'm in the new season of Skinny Girl in Transit." I don't know about you, but I like to support my acquaintances and friends. If you're in something, I'll give it a blog. If not that you'll get a retweet, and failing that I'll give you a shout out. Creative people in Lagos work too hard to go unacknowledged. The moment he said it my intestines re-arranged themselves. They said, "We the suffer-head intestines of Afam who only knows how to eat rubbish declare that from this day till Adeolu Adefarasin is not in Skinny Girl in Transit, this body will watch the show." I attempted to rebel, but they stopped me dead. I didn't shit for three days. To understand what this means to me I'll have to tell you a little bit about my family.

My father, the dearest, the most troublesome, Papa Afam lives his life guided by a solitary principle. He believes that a man who does not shit once a day is unwell, and a man who does not shit for three days is on his death bed. He doesn't care about vomit or fevers or diarrhea but the moment you inform him that you're experiencing system back log prepare for a week in the hospital.

Lesson learned, I watched it the first episode of season 3 and the stuff flowed from me like a fountain.

When Adeolu told me that he'd be in the third season of Skinny Girl in Transit, he asked me what he thought, and I told him. I said, "The plot is a disaster. It moves as slowly as a Range Rover sport pushed by a singular area boy. The jokes are overwrought. The acting is painful. Quite frankly there's nothing about the show that isn't stressful." During my moment of brutal honesty, I didn't realise that he had his co-star with him, and she wasn't pleased with my criticism. The co-star was Sharon Oja and she was defensive. If you're a fan of the show, you'll know that she plays the sister of the main character on Skinny Girl in Transit.

She said something like you're unqualified to criticise the show since you haven't watched the show's second season. Adeolu agreed, and I did too. But there was another bit of me that thought, "This conversation is pointless because Skinny Girl in Transit isn't my jam. I'm never going to like it and I'm never going to follow it religiously. Deal with it." And that's when my bowels stepped in.

So in order to appease my bowels and keep Papa Afam from confining me to a hospital bed, I'll be recapping every episode of the third season of Skinny Girl in Transit, with my buddies, the troam team, who aren't me. I swear they aren't. For the most part, the troam team is Avenger 2 picking up my slack. This is what happens when your friends are literally God-sent.

Happy days,
Afam

Why is it that many of us find ourselves struck by thunder at twenty something? It’s a crisis of life and purpose. The prospect of a life ahead finally understood. A fear of the future settles in. It’s the quarter life crisis. You know what you want. It’s a career, a feeling, a thing, but getting it seems impossible. This was me a year ago. I had big seemingly un-executable dreams. Any idea that wasn’t mine was rejected because I didn’t know if it was a solution or the beginning of a new problem.

I went away for a Masters in International Journalism at City University London. On my first day, I did the most excessively indulgent thing you could imagine. I threw myself a pity party of spectacular proportions. I called one of my friends and described how terrified I was of chucking another degree to life experience. It’s when you fail like a failure and the people who love you console you with words that say, “Well, every moment is something to be appreciated because it’s a lesson learned.”

What dirty lesson? A lesson in becoming poor and unaccomplished?

Bottle of wine drunk and a kilogram of egg fried rice consumed, I dragged my ass to class the next morning. I was late but I was there and I didn’t hate it. In fact, I quite liked it. I was good at it. Sometimes, I was good without trying too hard. It was then I knew I was doing the right thing. I smiled because I knew that on this degree, there’d be no 18 hour sessions in the library trying to understand the tiny bit of econometrics I was supposed to be cramming. It was a glorious feeling.

I won't lie and say it was all rosy. No. A degree cannot fix the problems you carry to it. There was one time my dad said, “You’re like a car. You know? You’ve got a spectacular engine, but you don’t have tyres for shit.” He paced around a little bit before he said, “You think you can kill me but I’ll kill you first. You don’t have tyres ba? Don’t worry I’ll be your tyres.” You’d have to be Nigerian to understand the gravity of that conversation. Our parents are almost uniformly crazy. They love you most when they insult you, and the harsher the diss, the sweeter the love. They’re the masters of the carrot and stick. But as determined as he was to see me on the civil path, he wouldn’t be there to be my wheels.

At first, it was tricky. I was late to everything but my work was good. It infuriated my lecturers to no end. At least four of them sat me down for a come to Jesus. By the fourth one, I was tired. Their stress was too much, so I stepped up. If time was tight, I’d sprint down that long Angel road. It was better to get to class sweaty than late.  If my morning was a disaster, then showers were optional. On days when things looked particularly dodgy, I’d go to uni with my toothbrush in my bag. With those villains and hawks, it was far better to be filthy and homeless-like than tardy.

Before I knew it, the end was nigh and it was time to do my Final Project. At first I wanted to do something on Mental Health. It’s something I care a lot about. Depression or anything like it shouldn’t be a death sentence, or an explanation for a life half lived. My plan for that got shut down by my project supervisor and she was right to shoot it down because what I had in mind could not have done the issue justice. I would have come up with some half baked thing that was only worthy of a passing grade. I reached into my head full of dreams and came up with another, drunk driving in Lagos. At that point all I wanted to do was go back home, to a life I love, surrounded by people that love me to distraction. But that story got shut down too. There were no strong facts to prove that it existed. Finally, I opted for something safer; the rise of the fitness culture in Lagos. That one worked out.

While I was home getting my ducks in a row, it occurred to me that I could do more with my time than book interviews and chill so I interned at Channels and CNBC Africa, where I currently work. The pieces of the project came together brilliantly. Filming it felt like I was finally coming into my own; like destiny. Editing it was not the same. The opening sequence, which only lasts 7 seconds, took a day to get right and it’s still not as right as it could be. I voiced the script no fewer than 10 times. It was too fast then it was too slow. My voice was too deep then too high; too slow then too quick. Filming it took two weeks, but editing it took four.

In the end, the work I put into it paid off. The project got a 77, a distinction. My highest grade of the year and I get to graduate with a merit. If I said I was happy I’d be lying. Happiness is too trivial a word to describe the feeling. I am accomplished, I am Blessed, and above all I am content.

So I’m pleased to share this tiny mini-documentary with the lot of you.You were where the dream started but you are not where it ends.

Many thanks,
Afam.

"Are you hungry enough?"

That's what my mum just asked in an email. I hate questions like that, and I hate answering them even more because the answer is never going to be pretty. I like pretty things. Problems that have only one solution and ends that tie themselves up nicely. Stories that neglect to mention the awkward parts. The part where you're not sure if the life you've chosen is the one you want. The part where you're not sure how to live without offending anyone else. What you do when you realise that the only problem with your so called dreams is that you're a dreamer? And what you do when you realise that as you your world isn't what you thought it was. It isn't some small one tracked and one sided thing. It is vast. There is space. There is space for everything, but at the same time there's space for nothing. The awareness of space only makes you aware of how much space there actually is.

Where do you go from here? Up, sideways, down, left, right? Maybe you stay where you are and look up, sideways, down, left, right. But you know that staying is bad. You can't stagnate. You should be moving somewhere, anywhere. You should be living and learning and growing. It doesn't really matter if down is where you're headed or left is where you're drifting, because left and down, our two least favourite directions, may be where you need to go before you go up.

Attached to the email was a brilliant article by Akwaeke Emezi about her experience at Chimamanda's Farafina workshop. She'd crowd sourced funds so that she could pay for her flight ticket to Nigeria.

"Are you hungry enough?"

The question rings again, only this time it's would you crowd source funds so that you could afford to go to a workshop half the world away. No. I would die of shame. It isn't who I am. I'm not celebrating my snobbery. I don't think that it's a good thing to spite your face for the sake of a pimple, but it's true. I was not raised that way. I wasn't raised to seek the future on my own. I was raised to entrust it to daddy after prior consultation with mummy. The question is unfair.

But at the end of it the question remains, "are you hungry enough?" It's what I'll ask myself when I don't email introductions to the blog to everyone that I meet. It's what I'll ask myself when I sleep. It's what I'll ask myself while I dance. It's what I'll ask myself with every word I write. I'll cripple myself while I think about whether or not every decision that I make reflects my hunger; my burning passion; unquenchable, unrelenting, unquestionable. It's what you'd ask a horse that you thought would win the Kentucky Derby. And at the end of it, that's exactly what I am; a horse. Only that I'm not a very good one. Even the talent that is praised is sacrificed at the altar of propriety.

Everyday I'll think, would it not have been better if I was a banker, or a lawyer? Would it not be better for everyone if I was something other than what I am; something other than who I am? I'll look to the heavens and pray, not for forgiveness, or for favour, but that someone else could be put in my body. Someone with the chops to answer the question about hunger that I'm meant to be asking myself.

Let's imagine that I was hungry in the way that the question implies.

"You're not an orphan." They would say.

"You're meant to take advantage of everything around you!"

 "You're meant to use our name, our wealth."

"You're meant to use your good fortune that you were not born poor."

"From today, I have nothing to do with you. You're my son in only name."

I'll pale. I'll shake. I'll worry. And then I'll ask myself if it is my hunger that is lacking and then I'll equate my hunger to my lack of internet blown-upness.

The one thing I don't do enough is turn the question on it's head. If someone only presents a problem without the solution then what good are they actually doing you? Of course you'll know that there's a problem - Thank God! Your inadequacy will make your heart explode with profound delight!

I don't say, "Is it because I listen to you that you think that I'm not hungry?"

I don't say, "Is it because my hunger has not been a good enough reason to sacrifice you along with everything else?"

There comes a time when you realise that you'll never be enough; that you'll always be wrong. I'm not there. Not by a long shot. I didn't ask to be born. If you'd asked me beforehand, I'd have told you to save us both the strife. Now I must contend with the fact that I'm not Akwaeke enough or that I haven't embraced a support system that loathes the thing it's supporting.

Are you hungry enough?

Obviously not.

Happy Days,
Afam

It's funny the things you find in your drafts. This one has been sitting pretty for over a year. 

You know where I am at the moment don't you? If you don't then where the hell have you been? I've been going on about it for ages. I've said it so many times that I'm fairly sure that if I say it again I'll die. I'm in Okada, a little town/village in Edo State, doing compulsory paramilitary service.

On Saturday morning, at about 11, Afam called me. Our conversation went a little like this.

Afam: Dude! Experience was lit!

Troam team: Really?

Afam: I swear. I was lost in the damn sauce.

Troam team: Aren’t you the same person that called me yesterday and whined about how you didn’t want to go?

Afam: I know! But I can’t deny it. I had the best time.

Troam team: So you’ll write about it right? The blog only got 479 views yesterday. I know that isn’t bad but it’s below target.

Afam: Yeah sure thing. I’ll start working on it.

He went about trying to write the article, but he never seemed to be able to finish it. At one point there were over a thousand words, but there was a problem. All of them were about how he didn’t like talking about his faith publicly, and how annoying he finds it when strangers try to force him to. Conversations that begin with, “Are you Christian?” never get very far at all. In fact, I guarantee that he won’t remember your name or face when you’re done.

Those thousand words never made it in. He deleted them a couple of hours later. Seeing how hard he was struggling with the whole affair, I decided to help him out a bit. So in this article I’m going to ask Afam everything about the latest edition of The Experience.



The Experience is an interdenominational (cough... Pentecostal) Christian concert hosted by Pastor Paul Adefarasin held yearly in Lagos that features some of the best gospel musicians of our time.

Why didn’t you want to go to The Experience 11?

This one is simple. The Experience is the most stressful enterprise. It’s free so everybody and their mother goes. So it’s crowded, the logistics are a nightmare, and you have to go through all the stress stone cold sober.

Stone cold sober means that you’re tired and bored at 2 and sleeping somewhere in the back at 3. Of course, you try to make the nap look like you’re having an intimate conversation with the Holy Spirit, but still it’s a lot to go through for an uncomfortable nap in a white plastic chair.

So why did you go?

Because Mama Afam asked. She does so much and asks for so little that I think I owe it to her to show up for her every once in a while. And I keep hoping for a moving moment with God. You know? I keep longing for that transformational moment when God appears to you and you get your happily ever after. I admire people with faith because I find it so difficult to have hope all the time, and they don’t. The people who are truly Christian really do believe that tomorrow will be better because God’s got everything under control. It’d be nice to feel that, even if it’s only for a night.

Where do you sit when you go?
The bit for the VIPs. Mama Afam’s a Reverend, so it comes with some perks. If I had to sit with the masses in the trenches of Tafawa Balewa Square I think I would die.

What was different about this year? How is it that you enjoyed what sounds like your least favourite night of the year?

The last time I went was 2 years ago, in 2014. I’m not the same as I was then. I’m older and for the first time I feel a little bit wiser too. I’m more confident and I definitely have more self esteem. I don’t have to drink to dance, and I don’t feel so ashamed of myself all the time. Back then I would always wonder what so and so thought of me, and why they thought such and such. Now, I care a lot less. So, dancing in front of a over 700,000 people isn’t as daunting a prospect.

But isn’t Experience the one place where you should feel free? Shouldn't it be just you and God?

Technically, yes, but practically no. Nigerians are incredibly judgy and no one excels at this more than the Christians. And I have issues. But this isn't all that there is to it. I think that the idea of Experience is brilliant but the execution is more than a little bit problematic.

Why do you think the execution is wonky?

What’s up with VVIP and VIP? That’s a question that needs to be asked. Places of worship aren’t meant to be split according to how wealthy you are or how famous, or how important other people think you. Now, because I’m sitting there, up in the front, due to no achievements of my own, and I feel a little unworthy.

And the organisers make it worse. When anyone with any post in government shows up, the MC comes up and announces them, like they’re different in the eyes of God. What does God care that Minister such and such is here or that Governor who and who is here or that the Vice President is there? It’s even worse when you know that the people they’re calling your attention to have not done a good job. It says that even at The Experience, a place of worship, the only thing that counts is your pocket. And what’s more, The Experience is what I’d call a populist event. Everyone goes, from the filthy rich to the dirt poor. So, every time they announce one of the politicians I think, “Why should the Church celebrate the people keeping the poor in their terrible condition?” Even if you say that this government is good, then what of the last one, one of the most corrupt in living memory? This is something The Experience has done for years!

And the weirdness doesn’t stop there. They display celebrities in the middle of their worship on the television screens. I saw Toke Makinwa and Don Jazzy. I get that they’re famous but why the attention? I would excuse it if they only did it once but they did it over and over and over again. It makes the atmosphere of it odd. I believe that when most of us go to The Experience we don’t go for the who’s who. We go for the music and the spirituality of it.

From a business angle, I can see why House on the Rock would. I mean, it’s great press and it’s good for publicity, but from a spiritual angle I can’t reconcile their actions with the message of the concert. So it isn’t just you and God. It’s you, the Vice President, the Minister of Trade and Investment, and Don Jazzy, who are better than you, because they’re sitting in the front row and not because they came early.

All I’ll say is that in the world of The Experience there’s a VIP section in heaven.

But it couldn’t have been all that bad. I mean, we didn’t see your snapchats, but you sounded so pleased the morning after that you must have had a good time?

You didn’t see my snapchats because I’m no longer on snapchat. I deleted it the other day. And even if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have posted anything. My battery was dying, my power bank was dead, and there was no internet.

But I did have a good time. The music was fantastic. Travis Greene was a revelation. I literally danced the whole time. It was like that time I went to that festival in Brighton. At the festival I was drunker than a man should ever be, but here I was drunk on the Lord. I kept looking at myself and saying, “is this really you Afam? You’re smiling like a fucking Christian.”

How does a Christian smile?

Quite frankly, they smile like they’re retarded. Their eyes are somehow looking upwards even when they're looking right at you, and they don't stop. They smile like they literally give no ducks about anything happening in this realm.

And this is a good thing?

Yes! It's an amazing thing. It’s like you’re on drugs only that you're not. I mean can you imagine me singing something about there being enough blood on Jesus' cross for me? Dude, I was insane in the best way, and it hasn't worn off. I'm still singing about the blood of Jesus without an ounce of cynicism. I’m feeling very great and very good.

What were your most memorable moments of The Experience 11?

Well there was a joke about farting in the beginning. The comedian whose name I can’t remember said something about Benjamin’s mess being five times greater than anyone else’s and that being why he got blessed the most. It was a license to fart and I abused it.

Then one lady sang the second verse of the Nigerian National anthem and fainted right after. I mean, she dropped like a rock. But I didn’t blame her. Singing the second verse of the Nigerian national anthem isn’t an easy task. It asks God for a lot. It says, “O God of creation direct our noble cause. Guide our leaders right. Help our youth the truth to know.” Well first of all God would have to transform the Nigerian cause into a noble one, and that’s a hard ask. Then it’s asking God to guide our leaders right, and that’s a very difficult task. You see, if there’s one thing Nigerian Politicians have in common it’s how they seem to delight in making life more difficult for the common man. She had to get some backlash from a prayer like that.

There was this other time when the Pastor on the stage was saying pray for the country, and pray for the people, and I swear I think I might have heard a civilian scream, “PRAY FOR TOKE MAKINWA!” I had a very guilty laugh.

Lastly I think my most memorable moment came when Chioma Jesus was performing, and she started screaming, “GET RADICAL FOR JESUS!” And what did the Nigerians do? They lifted their chairs above their heads and danced with them. Mama Afam even joined them in the madness. I don’t think anyone can forget the image of their mother dancing with a white plastic chair raised high above her head.

Happy days,
Afam and thetroamteam.

A fact of life that has built many a career is that we love. We love deeply, strongly and disastrously, and more often than not to no point or wholesome destination. When it ends we come up with words that summarise the relationship and why it must end. Beautiful reductive sentences that cover up how hurt we are, or how hurt we will be.

On the blog, we wrote, “space is the request of the confused. You cannot both want me and not want me.”

In the film, Annie Hall they said, “A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we’ve got on our hands is a dead shark.”

In 500 days of Summer,

“I just woke up and I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“What I was never sure of with you.”

Relationships come in various shapes and sizes. Sometimes they’re sweet nothings, and sometimes they’re destructive toxic somethings, either way when they must end, they end, in a beautiful fight, with a cutting line and a series of blocks on multiple social media accounts. Such is the reasonable way.

When a relationship doesn’t end when it should to preserve the sanity of one or both parties, it is likely that the mumu button is at play.

The mumu button is a thing that exists in the hearts of most of us. Once activated we become emotional or physical masochists. There is no cruelty orchestrated by the person we love we won’t endure. We’ll be unhappy, but happy that we’re in love. And we’ll be broken but we’ll celebrate the fact that the reason for our smashed up heart is there even if he or she continues smashing and breaking. Your friends will ask, “Why is he an idiot?” or “How could she be so daft?” The answer is usually the same, it’s that you’ve given your mumu button to your personal devil and they’re pressing it like its a remote control.

After our review of Toke Makinwa’s book went up we got a few messages asking us why we thought she stayed in her relationship with Maje Ayida for so long. After a heated debate, we came up with an answer. He had her mumu button and he hammered at it like a carpenter.

If the person you’re with is sensible and good, they’ll realise that they’re destroying your destiny and end it with you. But, more often than not they won’t. Human-beings are love addicts and good love is hard. It involves difficult things like sacrifice, respect, and consideration. So it’s a good deal when someone gives you all the love you could ever want and you don’t have to give any of the hard parts back.

We asked a couple of friends about their experiences with the mumu button and this is what two of them said.

Maria with a west-side story.

“I used to see this guy. He was the one that let me know I could be a bloody moron in the right circumstances. He was older and I was convinced that he was the one, and he may have been but I wasn’t his one. We dated for a month then he dumped me. I found out a week later that he’d got back with his ex. A month after that we started hanging out again and before long we were fooling around. He was still with her. When they broke up I was happy, I went from side chick to main babe. We were six months in when he went on a trip to the States and got married. He came back and broke up with me. His marriage didn’t last long. When it was done, he came back to - you guessed it, me. Me too I agreed, but the Mumu button had been broken. Two weeks later, I walked away. Two years of my life.”


 
I think this dude may be Jhene Aiko’s ex husband.

“I was talking to this girl… No, let me not trivialise it, I was with this girl for like 3 months, and it was good for the most part. There were times when she’d disappear on me, but apart from that it was fine. My mates started hearing stories about her and they told me. Apparently, while she was with me, she was fixing to hook up with some other guy. I didn’t do anything because I didn’t believe them. The shituationship continued until she broke up with me and hopped on him like that same day. Fam, I was distraught but I’m glad she ended it when she did because I’d have been there like an idiot before I realised that we weren’t working.”

From stories like these it’s clear that the Mumu Button must be feared. And one way or another, we must be able to identify when it’s being pushed, lest we lose months or years in emotional hell holes all because of the crazy stupid thing we call love. If there’s one thing worth asking for at Christmas this year, it’s the death of the mumu button because ain’t nobody got time for that.

Happy Days,
The troamteam

I worked in entertainment news for six months. I enjoyed a certain proximity to the people many call stars. I cannot say that it did much for me or my ego. Their resume’s weren’t so impressive that their names dropped from my lips at the first opportunity. In spite of my snobbery, there were a number characters I thought note worthy. Toke Makinwa was one of them. She said no to some scandalous segment I was planning. I can’t remember what it was exactly, but I know it was nothing good. It was one of those things that would have stoked a fire better left doused.

When I went about asking people about her, one said, “She’s the worst sort of social climber: one utterly without taste. A shameless social climber.” I have read this opinion and worse in the comments section of many a blog. However it isn’t a sentiment I could ever subscribe to. If people remained where they were when born then life wouldn’t be worth living at all. It would be an inconvenience; utterly without purpose.

It is this sort of thinking that inspired On Becoming, Toke Makinwa’s book. In the prologue she writes, “Welcome to a world of me, on a mission to find out who I am. I am Becoming.” It is this sentence that gives the book its agency, its definition, and its freedom. The vagueness it implies allows her to talk about almost anything.

We must never forget that we are her enablers. If we did not demand to know the sordid details of her failed marriage to Maje Ayida, then the book would not be the 4th best selling memoir on amazon.co.uk’s kindle store, or the 24th best selling memoir on amazon.com’s kindle store. Under the broader biography section which doesn’t distinguish between e-books and physical copies, it is in the top 100 of both markets. Furthermore the people that bought it love it. On amazon.com it is rated 4.9 out of 5 stars, and on amazon.co.uk it is rated 4.8 out of 5 stars.

In Nigeria, we have cultivated a culture of silence. The horrors of life are locked away in irretrievable boxes and forgotten. They repeat themselves with alarming frequency because we do not share or acknowledge that they happened. When they are mentioned, words that encourage endurance and continued silence follow. With this guidebook it is no wonder that we suffer many tragedies in silence and shame. Failure, Divorce, Mental Illness, Sexual Harassment, all swept under the carpet with one totalitarian brush.


This is one of the reasons why Toke Makinwa’s book is good. She talks about her relationship with clarity. You’ll read what happened, what she was thinking while it happened, and why she let it happen. The prose is not beautiful, and the grammar is dodgy, but it is not vindictive, or bitter, or hateful. You do not come out of it hating her ex-husband. It is far too introspective for that. There are parts of it that could have been left out. The revelation about her itchy nethers after sex with Maje was one of them. It distracted from the narrative and did nothing for the plot.

Even more note worthy is the fact that it is as much about her relationship with Maje as it is her relationship with God. In true Toke fashion it doesn’t come across as high handed. She never assumes the moral high ground. Instead she writes about her struggles with her faith while all of this was going on, and it makes for a compelling story.

However, the book is not without it’s problems. It could have been deeper. I do not believe that it is possible to condense two decades in a hundred pages. She leaves several story lines unexplained and unaccounted for. In the absence of detail readers have no choice but to speculate.

Its biggest failing is that it too is “becoming.” It is on its way to becoming a more complete book, but it remains a must read in spite of all its flaws and maybe even because of them. More often than not, it is a shallow look at the shallow marriage of a middle class working woman in Lagos. Be that as it may, it is the most honest Nigerian book about the failure of a marriage this year. It is the first sound in a world of silence and this is its most commendable feature.

Happy Days,
Afam.

If you're pre-diabetic and in the mood for a party fit for vampires of cake and calories, there's only one club in Lagos for you. Velvett. Not to be mistaken for the fabric that you only see on Lagosians who have a definite love for sweat patches and body odour or velcro, the reason I nearly murdered my last tailor.

Opened in the Harmattan of 2014 by the fatter, older, infinitely blacker, less hair having, but just as single Nigerian version of Russel Brand, the restaurant cum bar cum nightclub can be found bang in the middle of Lagos' Little Lebanon (it's definitely little something vaguely Middle Eastern. I can't tell where exactly. That A I got in my Geography A level clearly had a great impact on my life.)

This place has everything: A cash money stealing ghost that's taken up permanent residence in the drinks menu, vibing and vibalicious Afropolitans, shooting stars, the 30 year old guy that failed to adult (we love him anyway), and the impossibly beautiful girls of the yet to be formed theatre and dance troupe, Ruffles R Us.

As far as I know, this joint is utterly devoid of bouncers because they drove off in DJ Cuppy's new G-Wag. It does however have a password: I will chop your money like wan-tin-tin.

So run on down this weekend. It's lit!

Happy Days,
Afam

 
In 1963 Martin Luther King Jr. said “there is nothing more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.” This is particularly true when you’re a media platform. It is important to understand that the words you publish break far more quickly than they’ll make. As Napoleon said, “a journalist is a grumbler, a censurer, a giver of advice, a regent of sovereigns, a tutor of nations. Four hostile newspapers are to be more feared than a thousand bayonets.” All of this amounts to power, and power is a dangerous thing in the hands of the irresponsible.

Before anything is published on TroambyAfam, we think about it, we explain it to ourselves, and we defend it. Before we published the Sugarbelly timeline, Afam spoke to his tutor in journalism school, then he spoke to Mama Afam, and then he spoke to Wale Lawal. And before we published the Adesuwa and Bobrisky Interview: Somebody failed Ethics Class, conversations were had. We took care to ensure that our position was defensible and our choices justifiable. At the point that we clicked the button that says, “post” we were ready to say, “this is why we did what we did.” These processes are necessary. We may not always get it right, but at the very least we’ll weigh the noughts and crosses and we’ll explain. When an argument that we may not have considered wins the day we’ll print a retraction, and an apology. This is accountability. We acknowledge that at that point we may have done more harm than can be rectified with an “I’m sorry”, but we’ll apologise all the same and take care to not repeat the action. This too is accountability.

However, there are parameters. On a good day, this blog will be looked at 500 times. The damage we can do is limited, but if we were to by some stroke of luck go viral, then that damage would be amplified a million times or more. If we were as large or as popular as Linda Ikeji, or Bellanaija, our process would not be as simple as consulting our code of ethics, or speaking to friends, families and fools about an article. There would be a chain of editors, and a practice of lawyers. It is shameful that websites as large as the afore mentioned two do not agree. Their actions are far too frequently deplorable for the truth of it to be any different. Actions have always had a tendency to say more than words are able. In the case of Linda Ikeji’s blog, there is some leeway. It is a gossip website and almost nothing more. In the case of bellanaija the same brush cannot be applied.

Bellanaija is at the best of times a source of well curated news stories and a collection of some of the best social pieces you’re likely to read in the Nigerian media space. Afam has written several articles on the website, but as keen as he is on their vision, even he cannot deny that at the worst of times it is trash. Because they are often reasonable, we hold them to a different standard. If they are to regain their once illustrious reputation they must make better choices. They cannot forget that behind every news story there are real people with real problems. Before they publish anything they must ask themselves if the article is in the public interest. They must consider the accuracy of their sources. They must not publish rumours simply because they are out there. They cannot invite the world into the lives of a family who are not in the public eye simply because there is an allegation that one of them is involved with someone that is.

The Troam team is firm on this. We aspire to be better than trash. We are not borne of the gutter. If bellanaija chooses to descend to those depths it is free to. But if it does, it would do well to remove all the rhetoric about inspiration it wears like it’s the most fashionable perfume. Nobody likes a liar.

The troam team.

Dear friends, enemies, and Afamzers, who we love dearly,

It is our greatest pleasure to announce ourselves, the first employees of troam by Afam. We dance in the forests of Lagos like flickering candles and run wild like the flower children of the 70s.

Source:Wikipedia

In a moment of complete sanity our resident madman realised that the only way he could cope with the work load of the blog was if he forked out some cash from his exceedingly paltry earnings and paid someone else to do the work. He doesn't pay much, but we cannot deny that the extra cash goes a long way.

Now that we've got that poor excuse of an introduction out of the way, we'll get on with the October review.

In life we must never forget to celebrate the good. If we do the world will be colourless and horrid. Eyes will not shine with glee, and beers will be shared with sighs and wailing. The good things, no matter how small, are our only respite from life's tyranny. So we'll take a moment to appreciate the good things that happened to the blog in October.

The blog was read a thousand more time than it was in September, a delightful development if there ever was one. Every view is like a kiss on the cheek from someone you hold dear. As we work to improve our consistency and quality we can only ask that you subscribe to our newsletter and share us with your friends every now and then. In fact, do it everyday if you can manage it. Any action that you take to see us grow would probably send us on a rocket-ship to Summer-land, the sunny place where hearts don't get broken and heads swim in the sky.

A great many things happened in October but nothing that we say or do can overcome our present realities. It is 10pm in a restaurant called Blowfish and if there are smiles, we can only look on in envy for it would mean that we look upon faces whose hearts did not bleed when they learned Donald Trump won the United State's presidential election.

We are filled with despair first for ourselves, brown as clay, Nigerian's who feel like the world just got a great deal smaller and infinitely more hostile and only because our hair's kinky, our lips are thick, and our passports are green. And we despair for Hillary, with all the feeling that mourners are known to display when they look at the coffins of their friends.

It is indescribably painful that we live knowing that the most powerful man in the world was elected on a mandate that implicitly supports racism, misogyny and fascism. It is heartbreaking that Hillary's 40 years of dedication, sacrifice, and service were not enough to defeat a selfish, lying, grotesque joke of a candidate who took up politics as a hobby a year ago. Our grief is palpable. It's almost physical. We hear speeches asking for unity, but the feelings the election stirred are not easily forgot. His victory smells a lot like our history, centuries of oppression, colonisation, and slavery.

For us at The Ramblings of a Madman by Afam, it feels like a break up because that's what it is. Be that as it may, the struggle for a kinder world does not stop with this loss. We must cherish the lessons learned and find a way to move on.

The Troam Team.

I walked through the gates of the Federal Palace Hotel in Victoria Island nervous. The prospect of covering my first fashion week in two years put me in a state. I was equal parts excited and distress. I sought to distract myself from my mental tyranny so I looked at the hotel properly and wondered if it had the right to call itself a palace. It's an interesting question to ask because as nice as it is, it cannot shake the fact that a building whose only qualities of note are ugliness and depreciation lies behind it.

I got there at 6:15, forty-five minutes after the event was meant to start. It didn't start till 8:30. I thought the wait cruel but that is something you grow used to when you live here. Time, the most precious of things treated like it costs nothing but very few left even when the cruelty of it assumed artistic genius.

It began with Belois couture. Their beginning was promising, a deep red dress that showed off the white model that wore it beautifully. The next one was alright too, a frilly boxy slip of thing, and after that it died and I was weary. It's the same feeling you have when you realise that your boo of two weeks is a non-starter. And then the brand showed a jumpsuit that had what looked like a vagina on its top half. It made me uncomfortable but I was glad because of it. The aim of these things I think is to feel something. If not for that jumpsuit I thought vulgar to the point obscenity, I would have forgotten about the collection altogether, and that is never a good thing. Too much work, and love, and life goes into creating these things for them to be struck from memory.

Wanger Ayu followed Belois, and that, could have done with an edit, or at the very least a second, third and fourth opinion. I say this for two reasons. The first is that in all my years in Lagos, I have not had the pleasure of meeting the woman she had in mind. A woman, who would wear the checkered print that's almost only restricted to house-girls and unfortunate students with confidence could only be a treasure. The second is that everything else was so full of detail, that they very nearly blurred out all that was good about them. She closed her show with a performance by Waje. The clothes sang on the talented performer in a way that they did not on the models.

The problem with Divine Endowments is that there is very little to say. I have seen everything the label showed far too many times for them to feature in what I like to think is an interesting discussion about fashion. I kept glancing at my watch as if the action would speed time up. I found myself thinking of how Mama and Papa Afam had just returned from China and how I probably wouldn't get to see them before they went to bed. You mustn't think that it was bad, because it wasn't. If you needed something to wear tomorrow that would raise no eyebrows,and lead to no double takes, then I doubt you could do better than the quiet conformity of Divine Endowments.

Titi Bello reminded me very much of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. It opened with a short dress that had a neckline that plunged to just above the navel; a sexy image the brand did not burn into my mind. In any case, I think the world has tired of vampires and the vampy for just a bit. In about 4 years it'll be all the rage again, but that's another thing about fashion; sometimes the greatest crime is being in the right place at the wrong time.

I was pleased to learn that Lagos Fashion and design week gave the designers of clothing full figured women and men a platform. The models walked with confidence, energy and confidence, with looks that seemed to say "we've beaten the system." As my friend Feyi Adesanya put it, "I'm happy for them. It is a shame that they're not represented in what Nigerians know as high fashion even when they are fashion's largest market." It is more than a shame, it is a travesty; one that many a designer will learn before too long. The model's body is a rare one, it is far better to think of a bigger sized customer than it is to fight for the thin. In the previous collections there were blouses so tight that I turned to Feyi and said, "That piece looks like torture." This section was good even though it did lag at times. There was a blouse by Maki Oba that I thought exceptional.

At the point when my resolve to cover Lagos fashion week was weakest, the models walked out in Style Temple. The brand took traditional shirt collar, blew up its proportions and turned it on its side, revealing clavicles and shoulders with the determined sex appeal and avoidance of tackiness that every good socialite exudes. In hind sight there were parts of it that weren't quite successful, the shirt skirt at the end was not as luxurious as it could have been, but it was the first collection that I thought interesting. The line between practicality and experimentation was walked finely.

When you're a fashion insider, it's surprising to see how many stories you become a part of. You support them even though you know it's tough, and you long for them to do well with everything in your being. This is how I feel about Rayo. She made a paradise for any straw hat lover, and showed the commercial pieces with the concept ones. But there was someone there who was more pleased about how good her collection was than I, her sister, Reni Somoye. She said, "I'm super proud of her. She's shown tremendous growth. I think she's finally overcome a boundary that every designer seems to face, the gap between what you think you have to make, and what you want to make. She's finally making what you want to make." I will own one or more of those straw hats, no matter how many installments it takes.

T.I Nathan was my best of the night. Believe it or not most of us have better things to do than look at clothes. If I wanted to do that, I'd stare at my wardrobe till my eyes bled. He made it an emotional experience for me. First there were pieces printed with what Lagos calls vices. There was a bomber jacket on a girl that said give me your money, and a white t-shirt that said, "Hey I need a job." The latter moved me beyond belief. Unemployment is a condition too abysmal to be so common. And there's the hypocrisy in the supposed shame of it, when the truth of things is that in this country, you could do everything right - get go to school, get good grades, finish National Youth Service and still end up unemployed. T.I ended it with his suits, which are always cut brilliantly. However, some of the crotches were a bit busy. As my mum always says, pack like you'd like to be addressed. I'm not sure that many would appreciate meeting anyone penis first.

Kinabuti stayed true to her customers and presented clothes that were mostly beyond my capacity to understand. Fur in Lagos? For who? For what? For where? For why? In spite of that there was a shirt or two that was nice and that I think is progress.

After this came Tokyo James. The brand conjured images of BDSM which isn't bad at all, but some of it was far too vulgar. I get that fashion designers must push the boundaries of style but a t shirt that says, "SHUT UP AND SUC IT" is a push too far in the wrong direction. To the brand's credit, their tailoring is impeccable.

Before the show began there was much excitement around Onalaja, a brand that's helmed by the young Konyinsola who is yet to complete her masters in fashion design somewhere in Italy. Her clothes looked expensive but sometimes they seemed to move with great difficulty. There were a lot of ideas here, and several risks were taken. This is always more commendable than not taking any risks at all. Some say they'd like to be buried in a metallic coat that she made. I think it's far too good for a shroud. There's great promise here.

The last collection that I saw was by Sisiano. His showing was without a doubt the best of the evening but was only merely good before a male model walked out in a pale pink dress. As he turned the corner I gasped. It was scandalous in the best way possible. You feel it in the air when someone articulates a contrary thought so completely that all must stop consider it. The piece itself seemed to say break the patriarchy, and with it, throw out every vile thing we've come to believe that men are. This one spoke to me of mental health which is a clear example of how perceived notions of masculinity can be fatal. It is believed to be the thing that stops men from seeking help. We're meant strong and independent, but in truth we're not. Our tears are just as transparent and our blood is just as red. However even this collection that made me think of all these things wasn't enough. I want to be astounded. I want to know what it is for clothes to make you weep. It came close to the profound, but there's still ground to be covered. At least Sisiano and a good few I saw last night are moving in the right direction.

I left after this for there is only so much of my time I can give. Staying till the end would have been more expensive than I could afford.

Happy Days,
Afam.

Nigeria is a nation so rich with problems, minor cataclysms and major misfortunes that I believe it a miracle that life goes as smoothly as it does. Some way, some how, with very little support, we get by. All of us working too hard, and getting paid too little. Most of us functionally depressed and too fed up with the system to really truly change it. Our issues are so numerous that they have made it necessary for some us to form well meaning groups that want nothing more than to see the country move forward, because if things continue the way they are, our tremendous population will hobble on till we all fall in a ditch and die.

One of these groups is Enough is Enough Nigeria. They’re a collection of well meaning individuals and organisations who boast of their commitment to instituting a culture of good governance and public accountability through active citizenship. Naturally I haven’t any real idea as to what any of that means. When you're Nigerian, you become very accustomed to big words that sound sexy together but mean absolutely nothing. If we were to be judged by the things we said in public, we would all be sainted, but as actions generally speak louder than words we are all terrible.

Before today, I thought very well of Enough is Enough Nigeria, but now, I only blame them for starting a conversation on my twitter timeline that I think dreadfully inconvenient. And what’s more, all of it was completely avoidable.

The group planned to have an event on Thursday the 27th of October 2016 called Rights and Responsibilities; Engagement Unusual: Unconventional uses of new media. They invited Bashir Ahmad, the special adviser to President Buhari, Femi Falodun of ID Africa, and Subomi Plumptre of Alder Consulting. If the reports I hear are to be believed, Olanrewaju Idris Okuneye aka Bobrisky was the last addition to the list, and they added him without first alerting the other speakers about it. After his surprise addition, Bashir Ahmad pulled out quietly, but Subomi Plumptre, a woman that probably has more pomp than circumstance did so as loudly as she could manage. A press release written by Alder Consulting, published first by Alder consulting on their twitter account with 8,847 followers and then retweeted on her account on the same platform with 13,400 followers.

My gripe isn’t with Bashir Ahmad or Subomi Plumptre for choosing not to sit and talk to Bobrisky. It is their right to decide where they go, and who they engage with, and nothing should ever take that away. And my gripe isn’t with the snap chat famous, skin bleaching, skin bleach selling, cross dressing, Bae having  Bobrisky for being more spicy than many Nigerians can handle. It is with Enough is Enough Nigeria for their sinfully unthinking event planning. If they had bothered to tell,Subomi or Bashir that they would be sitting with Bobrisky in advance then they would have been free to refuse, away from prying eyes or wagging tongues in the comfort of someone’s inbox and Bobrisky’s good name and self esteem would have been wherever it was when they found him.

It does not strike me as terribly polite to have a panel without telling the people on the panel who they are panel beating with. If they had done this Subomi and Alder Consulting wouldn’t be bashed for being conservative, and Bobrisky wouldn’t be bashed for being liberal. If they really aim to commit to instituting a culture of good governance and public accountability through active citizenship, then they must make like charity and begin at home. At this very minute, they can only watch as the chips fall where they will, and no one is the better for it.


Happy Days,
Afam

If Enough is Enough Nigeria did tell the panelists about it before they published the flier then they should please say something. If they did, then, the blame doesn't lie with them, it lies with the other panelists for not keeping what was a private matter, private.

Events are a thing I nearly always look forward to. A fact I may not have known if my first and best therapist, had not said:

"Afam, you are so delightful that you must share your spirit with the world. It would be a crime against all that is good if you only attended your solitary pity parties."
 
And even if that wasn't true, I've discovered that I have a profound attraction to drinks I do not pay for myself. It is the only way to really enjoy outings in these difficult economic times. Everytime I have a drink that comes without a corresponding line in my bank statement, I do a little shimmy much like the one Hillary Clinton did in her first presidential debate.

I received the invitation to the Heineken Lagos Fashion and Design Week press day with great joy. The moment it arrived in my phone's inbox, I called up Avenger 2, and we decided that we would go together. When the working day was done, we made our way to the Heineken establishment in Ikoyi to do them the honour of depleting their stock. Heineken tastes as good as champagne when it has nothing to do with your money.



That's what the place looked like from the great outdoors. Look at it, sticking out like a leprechaun in the Lagos night. But that's what happens when the good people at Heineken happen to a place. It will flash blue, then red, then green, forever and ever and ever. Amen.


When we walked in we were stunned because we were expecting a cocktail party, not a series of lectures. As someone who has only just come out of education, it is not a format I enjoy.

I downed the beer I was handed like the champion of the drinking game Arise Oh Compatriots, and worked the room, abandoning Avenger 2 in the corner.

The drinking game Arise Oh Compatriots is the finest example of Weekend Patriotism you're ever likely to find. You must finish your big bottle of Star or Heineken in the time that it takes to sing the first verse of Nigeria's national anthem or less.  

Also how stylish is the man in front of me. He's the sort of person that would make Papa Afam have an aneurysm and die on the spot. This is the main reason why I do not allow Papa Afam accompany me to all the events I go to. If you're ever invited to my house for a birthday or a random Sunday night barbecue, google posh public school boy and come like that. You are not allowed to kill my father, who I love dearly. 

 

As I made my way around the room, I bumped into these four. On the extreme left we have Noble. I don't know what sort of look that is, but I'll say a prayer for him so that the next time he sees me, he'll look like he's genuinely happy to see me. Next to him is Mai Atafo. That is the face you make when anyone asks you how you're coping with the recession. And then there's Zinna. This is how I know I've really fallen to the bottom of the barrel, I almost want to beg her to give say Heineken and smile but I'm far too broke to beg for anything but money. Last but not least is Tosin of Ebony life fame, doing his best impression of the Ibo fine boy pose.

I learned a very important thing from them:

That if not smiling and looking away are the things that cool people do, then I shall do them with so much aplomb that my face and neck are never be same again.

 
It should come as no surprise to anyone that I was in great need of a drink after that unfortunate encounter. I found the nearest Heineken girl and demanded that she hand me a brew.

Above is Omoyemi Akerele, the founder and artistic director of Style House Files, a creative and development agency for African designers. That night, one rather interesting character called her the Anna Wintour of Lagos. I hate that he said that. I hate it when we feel the need to equate the stars of our local industries to Westerners. What's wrong with being Omoyemi Akerele, the woman behind Lagos Fashion and Design Week? Would anyone call Wizkid, Nigeria's Chris Brown. Wizkid is Wizkid just as Omoyemi is Omoyemi.

 
And here we've got Bolanle Olukanni. The magnitude of her smile reveals the truth about her. She's one of the best people in Nigeria's entertainment indusry. I like her so much that even the unnatural blondeness of her hair is adorable. The tree that is my affection for her casts no shade and its leaves brew no tea.
 
Now we've got Bayo Oke-Lawal, the Orange Culture man. I have it on good authority that his shirt is an Orange Culture shirt, which is lovely because I get panic attacks when designers don't wear the clothes they make. I have a theory about this. It's called the if you can't wear your own shit, how can you expect anyone else to theory. It's one of the reasons why I will some day hopefully own something that he's made. In fact I had thoughts about buying the jacket below.
But if I did, dear old Papa Afam would have a stroke and die. He is of the opinion that a man's back outside the context of sport is something like a woman's nipple, never to be exposed in public.


Here we've got Bidemi Zakariyau. It was rather difficult to get this picture. She wasn't very thrilled by the prospect of taking a picture next to a portrait of herself but I wore her down with my charming smile and we're all the better for it. She looks lovely doesn't she?

This is Akin Faminu. He's a blogger and a medical student. I would say that he's studying the wrong thing but I could never be that rude. I mean the combination he's got on is so astounding that it would be a crime to hide it underneath a doctor's scrub which is essentially a poorly tailored bed sheet.

I do not quite understand how my iphone managed to take this picture. When I saw it on my phone's screen, I looked to the sky and asked the Lord if his ancestors had sent spiritual people after him.


On the left we've got Funmi Daniel, and on the right we've got Ivie Omenai. Ivie is the human equivalent of jollof rice. She's spicy, sweet, and there's something about her that makes you feel like you should be drinking coke. Apart from all that, she's got entrepreneurship in her veins. Would you believe it if I told you that she's the CEO of four companies? The first is Raya Sanarti, a company that provides original art deco jewellery with semi precious stones. The second is the Weave Hat company. That one does what it says. If you've got a weave and you can't find a hat that can accommodate the Brazilian head of hair you've added to yours then look no further than the weave hat company. And then she's got Beach Bum, swim and beach wear for the West African Market. If you'd like to get in touch, drop an email here:info@theweavehatcompany.com, and visit her website, theweavehatcompany.com

You won't regret it, Ninety-nine and three-quarters per cent guaranteed. Everything her hand touches is golden.

And here, we've got the terrible children of Lagos. The one on the right, Ed, provided the inspiration for that name. He's wearing a skirt. There was a time when I thought I could also wear a skirt, but I went for deliverance and came back born again.
Last but not least is Ijeoma Ndekwu of Redrick PR fame. I won't say anything even remotely controversial here because she's a PR woman and PR women are powerful. If I say anything dodgy the invitations to these free drinkathons will slow and I will be unhappy. She sorts out most of the press related details of Lagos Fashion and Design Week and I think she does a rather brilliant job. I have no complaints. It is always a pleasure to see her. I apologise for the terrible picture, but it is what I found on my phone when I looked at it.