If you're into perversions of an oriental nature like Hentai and Octopus pornography the hottest club in Lagos is Lotus.

The club promoter is the cross between a Lebanese pangolin, a Jamaican swordfish and a Toyota, but he's got nothing on the architect. That one is a master of drunken technical drawing. He imported a cell from Guantanamo Bay and turned it into a haven for skinny biscuits, fat cats, obnoxious turtles and stanking skunks.

Found in the sky of one plot China Town, this place has everything: beached whales, little red riding Temitayo, rainbow beer on tap and the spectacular bar tender Airconditioning-can-just-like-to-decide-to-mess-up-anytime.

Head down there this weekend. Instead of bouncers and passwords, all you've got to do is gain the approval of a bamboo shisha pipe. She isn't half as discerning as she is hot.

Happy Days,
Afam

There's a trick to living in Lagos that I haven't learned. Here you must toe the line of civility without stripping your life of its vitality.

It is a thing I have struggled with for no longer than half a decade. And it started when I first learned that my life was mine to do with as I pleased; to dance where I fancied and do what I wanted. It was a freedom so great that it drove me to insanity and back again.

The last time I lived here, I was completely taken with weak prettiness and petty rebellion. It was a charmed life with tragic undertones.

I've been blessed with a reset button so now I shall do things differently. I'm not so mad as to stick to the same practices and expect that life materialise a different result. If momentum is my secret to productivity then I shall take care to keep it. If criticism is the diamond that hones this diamond I shall hear it and find a way to bear it.

Some of you think I'm the tell it like it is chap, but I'm not. It's just that sometimes you feel so strongly about a thing that it is difficult to pull your punches. Your words seem to believe they are the scribbled iteration of a sledgehammer, strong, unyielding, unforgiving. Sometimes, even in person, they seek to do the same. I tell a tale as if it were a blog and I banter without the benefit of the delete button. I frequently say things I only live to regret, but when I regret them, you'll never find a more sorry figure than I. My eyes make their best puppy impersonation and howl my doom and gloom to the world.

I'm not your Linda, Wendy or Perez. I'm just a guy with many opinions and an even more interests. My wit is sharp enough to survive subtlety, my spirit is full enough to survive tempering. I write like someone who could one-day author a book so good it'll win something more prestigious than money.

TROAM by Afam is a blog about Lagos, Nigeria, and then the rest of the world written mostly by an Ibo, Yoruba, Lagosian who's unhinged enough to ask someone who's apparently Ojukwu's brother, if they have any relation to the infamous Ojukwu. It is unbecoming of a man of my stature to be rude without intent. I regret that question too.

My friends believe one day I'll do something no apology will fix or say something that sees me on the highway to ruin. I'm in two minds about this. In person there is great work to be done. Loose cannons are things best left in lonely fields. In journalism, my code of ethics will see me through.

Happy Days,
Afam

The truth is a thing I like to dispose of as soon as possible. If I sleep with it locked somewhere within me, it will become the knife of gossip which is only effective when tossed at the backs of the unsuspecting.

At one party or the other, I'd meet Adesuwa Onyenokwe and say, "Good Evening Ma! Your interview with Bobrisky was so revolutionary that I seek only to be your student. To learn from one as accomplished as yourself would be my life's greatest honour."

And then I will walk behind her, find the most indiscreet acquaintance with a natural flair for the dramatic and whisper, "That interview that Adesuwa the publisher of the Today's Woman magazine was fantastically bad. Not only does she lack the most basic understanding of what is ethical and what is not, her many years as an interviewer have failed to teach her that sweat patches and cameras are a match made only in the darkest pits of hell."

If this is a stab I shall do it in her front, quickly and without very much ado. It's a nasty habit of mine, one that will make me enemies far more quickly than it will make me friends.

The problem with journalists and all who serve in a journalistic capacity is the power we wield. We expose secrets that are probably better left unshared and say things that are easier left unsaid, and most of the time we get away unscathed.

You could interview a vulnerable person so brutally that when you're done they find the nearest noose and hang themselves. Their family will be left with a body to bury and you'll get away with murder. A word could ruin a man and we'll dance to the notoriety it brings us like its the sweetest music. Because journalists are mostly the harbingers of gist and not the wreckers of lives, we must think very carefully about the material we publish. And that material must be treated with care. Facts must be checked and events must be qualified where need be. We should be objective, and if not that empathetic.


It would be impossible to continue if I did not tell you all a little about Bobrisky. He's a man who's learned a very important thing: that the respectable are never quite as popular as the scandalous. If this were another country, he would be a drag queen. A bleach applying, make up wearing, cross dressing staple at a disreputable bar. In Nigeria, he's a novelty. The most consistent opinion is that he insane, which is to be expected when you consider that we often call those who do not believe what we do crazy. He speaks often of a Bae, a political chairperson that's responsible for much of his excess. As we do not know who this Chairperson is we cannot say if he is real or not, but the clever know not to read too much into it. If there is a Bae, then good on Bobrisky. For several Nigerians life is so difficult that any come up no matter how nefarious is a good thing. When I say this in public, many fools say something that amounts to:

"But why doesn't he get a job? You know? Do some other thing that offends us less."

And I say, "You do not know how lucky you are to have a job that affords you the luxury of a good life or a family that sees that you are sheltered, bathed, clothed and fed."

For many in Nigeria the only thing they hold true is the hustle and the knowledge that they must hustle. We the comfortable should know better than to look at the uncomfortable and apply our truly wonky sense of morality to their activities.

How is it that we burn Bobrisky at the stake of public morality and publicly celebrate those we know to be corrupt?

Their thievery has done more harm than Bobrisky will ever do. They've filched the nations coffers dry. People starve because of what they've done. Salaries in the public sector have gone unpaid for months!

The interview shows this bias brilliantly. A part of the description the magazine wrote said, "BobRISKY is at the centre of sending people, especially the youth, down a path that threatens the future of family as we know it." It is a sentence so atrociously shameless that I feel scoundrelous for repeating it. Anyone with half a brain knows the real threat to the future of the family as we know it is the nation that we live in and the recession that we're faced with. With unemployment higher than the polite should ever mention and inflation destroying the value of our Naira the family as we know it has bigger problems than Bobrisky's snapchat or instagram.

And then this so called experienced interviewer had the gall to ask him whether or not he is gay in a country where the admittance of such a thing is punishable by public lynching, 14 years in prison, or death by jungle justice. The first time she asked it, he denied it brilliantly, but his denial wasn't enough for her. She thrust the question at him so frequently in different iterations that at a point the interview became something of an outing inquisition. I will never understand why people are so interested in the sexual practices of men and women with whom they share no relation. It is an ethical disaster that she cannot atone for. If something were to happen to Bobrisky as a result of that interview, he'd be in dire straits and she'd be fine. I do not think she'd even be as civil as to pay for his funeral or his rehabilitation.

If we fail to call out the villainous for their wickedness then we are their tacit supporters. As this is not a brand of villainy I ever want to be associated with, I will never regret this strongly worded article. It shall be a tonic for Adesuwa Onyenokwe's ethical inadequacies.

Happy Days,
Afam

If you would like to watch this interview, here it is.

If you're looking for a place to get gassed this weekend then no filling station will do, I've got just the place for you. Lagos' hottest club for all smokey adventures is Vapourssssssss.

Located on the island's mainland this random convention is the creation of the perpetually high interior designer, We-Ain't-Got-No-Ventilation.

When you walk in head straight to the Bauna - a bar which is also a sauna, and order a Champ-Vape; You'll literally watch as the stuff drifts up everybody's nostrils but yours.

Be that as it may, this place has everything: A bottle factory, midget shaped chairs, cupid fountains, at least two members of the almost famous boy band DRB dressed in a bong costume - they're both the pipe, and your future son.

Join in the fun on the dancefloor and you'll bust a move to the truly spectacular sounds of DJ Dead Sauce and light skinned Idris Elba. I all but guarantee that you'll never have a better time in the city.

Happy days,
Afam

It would not be incorrect to say I never intended to write this article. At least not today, and certainly not this way. I cannot say when I'd have written it, but I like to think that I would have at some point. There are some issues that are far too important to be left uncovered.

A friend of mine has been met with a disaster so great that it has shaken me to the core. When I heard of it, I was wounded. I am wounded still. In between violent fits of disgust, confusion, anger and sadness, I thought that it would be wise to clear the blog's usual programming, and write about something that cannot be written about enough: the continued triviality with which many men treat the bodies of women. It seems that too many of you are in need of instruction.

Some of you beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics have come to believe a dangerous thing. You have listened to a villain who has made a villain of you. I for one never listen to villains or degenerates. I always feared that if I listened, even a little bit, I may be convinced. A man who allows himself to be convinced by the argument that he has the rights to use and abuse another's body without their explicit consent is no man at all. He IS something less than an animal.

Our bodies are sacred. It doesn't matter the part. If I tell you that you may only touch the polio vaccine scar on my right shoulder, then that is the only part of me you should touch. To do anything else would be a violation. I will not easily forgive you. My reasons are simple. There is nothing that is more profoundly mine than my body. I was born with it. I have carried it with me for 26 years. If you disobey the rules I set regarding its treatment you deny me my humanity. I become something less than you. This is why there is no such thing as a small liberty when it comes to my body. Even the slightest feel could drive me to complete distraction. Every violation no matter how small is a very big deal. I find that the same is true of most of us.

This friend of mine hugged a mutual friend of ours goodbye before she left a gathering of young people as the polite are known to do. He took the opportunity to slip his hand in her shirt and he didn't stop there. His hand continued its lightning quick journey till it slid underneath her bra. Once there, he took the opportunity to grab her breast and squeeze her nipple. She was so shocked that her senses departed from her. When they returned, she grabbed his hand, pulled it out and said, "no!" The miscreant was not perturbed for after that he asked her to come outside with him. His dedication to villainy and shamelessness is almost worthy of praise.

After a night spent blaming herself, showering, and scrubbing the offended nipple more times than a nipple should ever be scrubbed, she sent him a text in the morning. She said, "dude, I know we were joking around but you grabbing my nipple like that was TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE and I’m really upset." The villain was so committed to his scoundrelism that he didn't have the good sense to apologise properly. He said, "Loool sorry." She couldn't believe her eyes. I imagine that she thought, "How is it that I scrubbed my nipple with great violence and gnashing of teeth only for this harbinger of misfortune to laugh out loud?" She typed another reply. She said, "why are you LOLing? This is serious and I'm upset." And he said, "Ugh! I already said I'm sorry. I don't see what else I can do."

His replies were so atrocious that I was very nearly driven to madness.

To that she said, "You could not try and trivialise it by lolling for starters."

A reasonable response in my opinion.

He said, "Ugh! Why are you doing this?"

And then he proceeded to ignore the rest of her messages. It took an angry phone call from a friend of hers and the threat of exposure to get a half serious apology out of him, but the damage had already been done. It is unlikely that she will ever speak to him again, and that is a shame for she has the unique fortune of being Oxbridge grade clever, rather good-looking, and terrifyingly wealthy. Now she's telling everyone who knows her well enough to ask, exactly who he is, and what he did. If he is not more sorry than he has ever been in his life for this crime against her humanity by the end of the week I shall be very surprised. The next time I see him, we shall have some very strong words. It is not in my nature to let a molester of women roam the streets. He must be rehabilitated.

Convert the molesters you know as soon as possible. We must use everything within our considerable means to ensure that they see the error of their ways. Even a stint in jail isn't excessive.
Afam.

Source: Wikimedia Commons/Georges Biard

I'm a little too interested in gossip. I would feel guilty about it if the same weren't true of most of you.

I was sitting in the car, miserable at the fact that my twenty minute drive home from work had somehow turned into a scene from a disaster film. The Lagosians on the road today drove like they were fleeing some great non-existent calamity, forming lanes where there were none, and swerving like they were avoiding rivers of lava. When I got to the end of the traffic, I was shocked to discover that it had no rhyme or reason. There was traffic simply because there was traffic. There was no accident, or bottleneck or police checkpoint. This is one of the many reasons why I say that no one is capable of understanding Lagos. In Lagos, madness is so common that I do not think that any are unafflicted.

It was in the middle of this great inconvenience that I heard the news that Angelina Jolie had done the unthinkable. She'd filed for divorce from Brad Pitt, citing irreconcilable differences. It was a thing I believed impossible.

Hand on heart, I believed that they'd be together till at least one of them died, and maybe not even then. It seemed unlikely that people as pretty as they would ever do themselves the disservice of parting.

Hollywood has proved itself again. If Brad and Angelina can't make it then I do not think that we should expect any other couple to. They seemed to be there for each other through thick and thin. She loved him when he lost his looks, and he loved her when she lost the things this misogynistic society would call the signs of her femininity: her breasts and her ovaries.

The flames of love that originate in that city are so fickle that they're unlikely to last even a second. I suppose it is a shame that they are now the couple that loved and had that love end with a document that says, "No! Our differences are too irreconcilable for me."

Happy Days,
Afam

The weekend began like most before it. There was a week and then it ended. It went the way of most things in creation.

Friday
 

At this point I was two Long Islands deep in the sauce.

On Friday night, I ditched the Avengers for friends I'd made long before we became companions. Starmix had an Alice in Wonderland themed party in Ikoyi, and that ended in Vapours, a club of no great distinction. I danced enthusiastically to bad music. That I had a magnificent time says more about the quality of the company than it does about the club. Avenger 1 was meant to join me but he went home to change and fell asleep in his car. I suspect that he may be narcoleptic.


Saturday


I went to a workshop on style and confidence. Denola Grey was speaking. His rise through the Lagos media ranks has been so impressive that I believed I'd be missing out if I did not attend. The young man did not disappoint.

Have some Avenger feet why don't you

A few hours later, I met up with the Avengers at Hans and Renee. The cup of ice-cream I had made me unwell but I had it coming. When the lactose intolerant defy the rules given to them by their unique constitutions discomfort is to be expected. There was a rumbling in my tummy going boom badda boom badda boom but it was bearable. I clenched my butt cheeks and hoped for the best. We sat there for a little while after drawing up blanks when we thought about where to go next before we decided on Liquid Hub, a wine bar in Ikoyi. Avenger 1 fancies himself the connoisseur, so he made the choices. We don't get along wine wise. He likes his wines full bodied and tart, and I like mine sweet.

From there we went to dinner at Pattaya. Avenger 2 and I, brothers in lactose intolerance were quite finished after that.

Sunday

Avenger 1 and I went to Whispering Palms and it was glorious.

This is what I call the full body un-look. At that moment I feared for my hat and my glasses. It wouldn't have done me any good to get to Whispering palms both bare headed and blind!

I believe I made a funny. I like people who laugh at my jokes.

We tried their newest concoction: A Coconut milk and Malibu creation, served in a coconut. It is the most delicious drink I've had this year. Avenger 1 looked at me and said, "C'est Magnifique!" English completely incapable of expressing his excitement.

We concluded things at Funky Town. Avengers 2 and 3 joined us. The beers flowed as we made merry. I find it surprising that I dance more now than I did when I was younger. I suppose it is that I no longer care who may be watching.

Happy Days,
Afam

This is not Starmix, but that is me behind her. I must remember to thank Feyboo for the Bow-tie. I do not remember where any of the others are.

Forgive me if this one is a little rusty. I have not written about an adventure in some time. It is not that I didn’t have any, such a thing is impossible when you’re me. It is that everytime I tried to put something to paper, I was wracked with the fear that it was sub-par. This is well documented in the most recent addition to the writer’s journal. I’m overcoming my fear that my creative endeavours will never be quite good enough for sharing. I have let the perfect become the enemy of the good.

There is a girl in the world that I call Starmix. She’s named after a bag of Haribo sweets that she adores. However, even she is ignorant of the fact that she’s just like them; a variety of delicious confections, each one of them more delicious than the last. She’s one of the treasured few who I allow to breeze in and out of my life as they please. I ask no questions and she tells me no lies but we find happiness in every moment that we share.

When I heard she was having a birthday party from someone other than her I was struck with depression. “Could it be that Starmix has finally tired of me?” I thought. I do not know how such a thing is possible for I am uniquely lovable and lovely, but such things have been known to happen from time to time. I entertained thoughts of a Friday night spent alone before I remembered who I am.

I am Afam, the nerdy, the weird and the shameless. I subscribe to no standards that I do not set myself. I was going whether she liked it or not. There was no way that I would deny her the pleasure of my company simply because my invitation got lost in her head. Knowing all of that I made a well timed phone call, wishing her a happy birthday so charmingly that I was moved to tears. “Afam! You are truly great!” I exclaimed with tears leaking from my eyes. Ah! I tell you. It is not an easy thing to be moved by your own words. My invitation followed ten minutes later.

I was not happy with my costume, a boring to death version of the Mad Hatter. I would have loved to do more, but my imagination did something incredibly Lagosian. It failed to come to work when it was most needed. I am appalled that I managed to go to a costume party looking rather presentable. When Papa Afam looked at me dressing up in front of the mirror and smiled, I knew that something was wrong. If you’re going to a costume party and you do not manage to offend the sensibilities of the half the respectable people in attendance, you have failed miserably.

I walked in with all the confidence I could muster which is not very much at all but I hid it an overwhelmingly jovial expression, smiling as if I was under the sway of a pharmacy’s worth of drugs. I find that doing so is much more interesting than taking the drugs themselves. Drugs have a rather awful tendency to age a man far more quickly than time would dare. They are the most ruthless companions.

Everything was laid out beautifully, which was a shame because an hour after the party was due to start, only a mere handful had managed to turn up. I didn’t mind this too much. It’s the same way nobody minds when the profits are high and the staff are few. There is more booze for everybody.

One long Island Iced tea later I was deep in conversation with a terrifyingly interesting fellow called Seb. There was no topic that he did not broach. He even dared ask me about my tastes in film! A subject I only discuss when I genuinely despise the person I’m talking to. It is never advisable to talk off the ears of the people that you like. If you do, you’ll only have the people you truly despise for company, and that would be very bad indeed.

He said something like, “I’m quite thrilled with the Alice in Wonderland theme. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the truly satisfying film I saw the other day. It was so good that I had to commit it to both my memory and my hard drive. What sort of films do you like?” I was so appalled that I took his number immediately and demanded that he meet me for a game of squash as soon as he was able. As for my answer, I said, “questions are hardly ever indiscreet, it is the answers we must be wary of.”

The place had only just began to fill when the heavens unleashed a flood upon us. We fled indoors, and Starmix being a brilliant host got the waiters to hand out plastic cups and bottles of Henessy. I know of no better way to make people forget that they look like drowned rats than a near limitless supply of the amber stuff. As it is incredibly rude to turn down drinks that you do not pay for I made merry with my peers for an hour, after that every drink was placed on a table on the side, for people with stronger constitutions than I.

I didn’t know how drunk I was until it was time for the speeches. I listened as some of her best friends said words so full of niceness that the guests started to weep. Starmix is so marvellous that if I decided to dedicate a paragraph to her good qualities you would be very sad indeed. The vast majority of us are too detestable to bear the descriptions of the good. I came to the rescue instantly. I grabbed the microphone like a Nigerian Kanye West, and spoke my mind.

The Speech!

I said,

I have known the celebrant longer than any of you here. I was there when she was baptised, and I ignored her every Sunday that followed. At church, my mother, Mama Afam would say, “there’s Starmix, you should go say hello.” I always refused because back then I was more than a little bit of a snob. I believed myself too cool for everything and everyone. Starmix was no exception.

It wasn’t until I was 19 and in love with one devastatingly alluring girl called Frog. There she is over there. If I had a dollar for all the rejections I suffered at her hands I would be too rich to describe.


I turned to her boyfriend, an undoubtedly fantastic fellow and said:

Riba, you’re a very lucky man to have her, but I remain in the wings. If you drop the ball I shall pick it up and dunk it. She’ll get a proposal within a week.

Turning to the crowd:

I pursued that girl further than anyone has ever been pursued in this life or the next. It was Starmix that propped me up when all of this was going on, and that’s when I realised how strong she is. There is no burden I have placed on her that she hasn’t borne, and she’s so generous with her strength that she’d help me lift a feather if I asked.

If there’s anything that you need to know about her, it’s that in Manchester she could frequently be found in Sankeys dancing with reckless abandon. She loves a drink more than she’d like to admit. And she’s one of the best people I know. Yes, that means she’s better than most of you here.

I believe that there was some clapping after I was done. Some people chanted, “Rambling Madman!” I basked in their praise and lifted my head high knowing that I had blessed them with my brilliance. I felt like a living example of that Bible verse, “Let your light shine before men so they can see you works and praise your Father in heaven.” Matthew 5:16 I believe.

It should come as no surprise to you that the night ended in a ghastly club that reeked of cigarettes and bad behaviour. I for one danced like I was in a palace, with great flair and stamping of feet, for it had been too long since my Starmix and I had danced together. The entire thing was so enjoyable that I didn’t mind dropping her home. She will always be worth the fuel.

Happy Days,
Afam

Some of you old afamzers may remember Ogilvy, my partner in love and other disasters. He's the only one I know that's as hopeless as I in all affairs of the heart. Still, we remain optimistic looking for shared dreams of flowers, chocolate and valentine's with other people. It is a truly depressing thing to find yourself single on February the 14th watching Love Actually with your best friend. It is how we have spent every Valentine's day since 2007.

We haven't emailed  in the past year because we lived in the same city. Emails were replaced by games of chess with a glass of wine in a lonely flat somewhere in Pimlico. Now that I've more or less moved back to Lagos our traditional form of correspondence has picked up.

Dear Afam,

I couldn't possibly have imagined that I would one day be friends with such a fart of creation. You left London without a word or a whisper. You literally just buggered off in the middle of the night. I was sick with worry.

When you receive this email, reply at once! I have been struck by a calamity so great that I fear I will not live another day if it is not resolved. Sophie and I are done, and I am undone.

Yours,
Gil

Dear Gilly-weed,

You know all too well how I feel about goodbyes. I do not do them. It is better to arrive without fanfare and leave without celebration. Before I left I was struck by a wave of anxiety and melancholy so great that I looked at the moon and said, "Oh moon! What will become of this paltry life of mine?"

Praying to the moon was a near fatal error. She didn't do me the honour of answering my question and the moment I set foot in Lagos I was accosted by my mother. Her motherly senses immediately accused me of being a practitioner of the occult. She whisked me away to a Church to cleanse me of my sins and had me apologise to God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit while she stood beside me taking notes.

Finally, how are you and Sophie done? She was perfect for you. It was you wasn't it? What the hell did you do to that poor girl?

Afam

Dear Fam-Biscuit,

I literally died laughing. You should know better than to look to the moon for answers. I hope you have properly atoned for your Witchcraft and Wizardry. The security of your soul in the gilded mansions of heaven is of the utmost importance.

You guessed rightly. The disaster was of my own making.

I was out with mates at a club, when my drunken eyes descended on this angel! I descended on her like a man possessed. I was like, "What's your name? what's your number? I don't know who you came with, but you're leaving with me." We dashed back to mine in a haze of lust, and made the beast with many backs.

In the morning, I chucked the adventure off to manly exuberance and forgot all about it. It took a month before the loathsome event bit me in the arse. How it bit me I dare not say, but what should I do?

Yours in depression and anxiety,
Gil

Dear Gil the master of foolishness,

It is incredibly irresponsible of you to leave the story half finished. I was using it as light reading while I dropped a juggernaut of a shit in the toilet. It was the only thing that kept me from wailing like a dying pig. Now, the people in my office are looking at me funny and suggesting that I eat more vegetables to lubricate my systems.

I will attempt to help you. My African sensibilities give me a slight edge when apologising. You must alert your parents about the situation and show up with them at her doorstep. When she answers the door all of you must prostrate yourselves at her feet and give apologies so profound that the very skies part to bless you.

Yours should be something like this:

Soph, Babe, you're the light of my world. Without you everything is meaningless, colourless and ultimately pointless. I cannot, no I will not persist another day if I haven't got you. I was a complete idiot that night for not only did I get more drunk than a man should ever get, I ravaged another who was not you. In my defense, I was so drunk that I believed she was you.

That, I think will be enough to undo the harm you have done.

Yours in Youthful Optimism,
Afam

Dear Afam the sufferer of numerous ailments of the brain,

I am at least 90% sure that you are an idiot. What sort of advice is that? "I thought she was you?" What sort of villain would say that? I'm not nearly as treacherous as that. I shall send her some flowers, daisies and profess my undying love. Roses are really much ado about nothing. Only the unimaginative would send a girl the same flowers that every woman on the planet is given at least once in a reasonable life.

I'll end the note with something like this, "If you are not too long, I will wait for you forever." It's an Oscar Wilde quote. If she doesn't come to a decision quickly I'll return to the wilderness of singledom and ride every pony that will have me.

Your stupid plan snapped me out of my phunk, and returned me to sanity. Am I not Ogilvy the dashing? I have my whole life ahead of me, and I have the benefit of being both beautiful and good. If she refuses me I shall find another in a heartbeat.

You really should eat more vegetables. If you don't your journalism will take you to some great wilderness and they'll have to force an elephant to give you an enema, after which you'll get a bacterial infection and die.

Many thanks,
Gil

Dear Ogilvy,

Any type of love life that you like, have it! Come back to me when you've got real problems.

Love,
Afam. 

Source: Gidilounge.com

If you're looking to get numerically done in this weekend, Lagos' hottest spot is three hundred and fifty-five. That's a three, a five and an extra five.

Inspired by the collective mind fart of New York's Time's Square and a negative budget, this lounge is managed by a bespectacled prison warden who specialised in potions at Hogwarts before being expelled for dabbling in the dark arts.

Their wahalarita is so toxic that it'll have you, on the brink of disaster without knowing for certain if you're a mouse or a nymphomaniac mouse with a penchant for Malborough Reds.

This place has everything: green fairies, no fewer than 20 commenters from bellanaija.com and that fat mainland guy that no one invited.

So come on over! This weekend, they're having a tournament game of Wiz - Ojuelegba or Tekno - Pana.

The bouncer is the ram that you didn't kill this Eid and the password is Big Cassava.

Happy Days,
Afam

Source: tukesquest.com

If I ever said this to Feyboo in person I'd blush and then die of shame. She is the salt of the earth, a friend for the end of all things. It would be futile to ask myself what I have done to deserve her, because I know in my hearts what the answer is - not a thing. I count our friendship as a sign of my good fortune, and I am glad that the lot of you are not as lucky. If you were she'd have less time for me and that my friends would be my definition of a travesty.

Over the years we've developed a tradition. Once a month or thereabouts we meet up for a chat that lasts hours. Even when we're in company we find ourselves alone and talk about the things we have both missed. The conversation is easy and the words are sweet.

Last week we went out for dinner at the Pizze-Riah, but even before we had our first bite of what many call the finest pizza in Lagos, a cloud hung above our reunion.

When we arrived we were told there were no tables but that we should wait because they were setting up some more. I wondered aloud if the clientelle had always been so white. Feyboo brushed it off and attributed it to the luck of the draw. We sat at the bar, increasingly aware that the setting up of a table shouldn't take so long. After a little while we went outside to find that the tables that had been put up had long since been filled with people lighter than we. It was then and not a minute before that the racist question appeared in my head.

We started considering other options but kept an eager eye open for the draw of their pizzas was simply too strong. Soon enough we were repaid. A man and his friend were soon to vacate, so we moved to claim the table, but were quickly detained. The table that was barely empty had also been taken by a pair both lighter than we. A waiter had set it out for a man and his mate, who were nowhere to be seen when we first walked in that Thursday evening.

Hungry and angry, what some may call hangry, the question about racism appeared again. Could it be that the best pizzas in Lagos were strictly reserved for people lighter than Feyi and me?

I made for the exit determined to leave. Forty-five minutes had passed and we still had no seat. It was only then that a waiter perked up and sat us quite far on a table out of sight of the grill.

I asked it again, the question about race, but it lingered even longer than before. The pizzas were brilliant and the conversation sweet, however it isn't they I think of when I remember that date. It is the questions asked thrice about an evening not nice, that stay with me to this day.

Happy days,
Afam

There comes a time in every bloggers life when they blow... This is a lie. Most of you idiots should quit while you're ahead, and leave it to us madmen. Seriously, I don't want to read about how your reconnection with your African history has led you to disturb your ancestors peacefully resting in the after life, or look at pictures of you in some outfit that you really shouldn't be caught dead in.

I've done it again. I've literally buggered the beginning to thy kingdom come and I am not a good enough writer to fix it so I shall make like a goldfish and begin again.

I did not imagine that the good fellows at Daniel Wellington would ever find the good old, very neglected and under loved blog and think, "It'll be fantastic if that chap called Afam gives one of our watches a review." But that's exactly what they did! They emailed me about it, and I actually shat myself. They asked me if they could give me a watch for a review that they wouldn't influence. My eyes turned to dollar signs immediately. The plan was to pick the most expensive one, bang off a truly atrocious excuse of an article, and put the darned thing on Ebay. You know what they say don't you, "a watch may last forever but cash money is the king of all possessions."

I just made that up. Nobody says that. I apologise. It's 2am and the mosquitoes are making a meal out of me. Empathise with a brother.

When I got the watch, I realised that I didn't actually know how to review a watch. The only thing I had to say was that it told the time with fairly decent accuracy. So I decided to document my first day with it, doing all the things that I tend to do on a normal day.



I was sitting with the dogs when the watch appeared out of thin air at midday. They say that this is what happens when Santa drinks too much eggnog and passes out on a stranger's couch. It was so fresh and clean that all we could do was stare. That's what you do when something looks like a million bucks and it doesn't cost nearly that much. As for why Poopy 3 looks like he wants to become one with it, I have a few theories.

• Poopy 3 thinks he's an swarovski crystal not a living breathing pooping responsibility. 
• Poopy 3's sexual frustrations have uncorrected his head. Poopy 1 (the purple poodle) is distinctly out of his league. She's infatuated with Poopy 2, the tall dark handsome dog over there. 

Either way, I was not prepared to deal with him so I went swimming with some dolphins in the ocean. 
 
The stainless steel watch did quite well in the water. It's good old water resistant self didn't let a drop of water in, and it didn't get misty or anything. The dolphins were thrilled to have it grace their nostrils. They liked it so much that I lent to them for a hot minute. It was at that very moment that I thought, "Daniel Wellington, so cool that even the dolphins want a time piece."

I couldn't let them have it for too long though. I may be the 2013 male recreational swimmer of the year at the University of Manchester but I'm not nearly good enough to chasing after all the fish that swim in the sea. I extricated myself from that potentially troublesome situation and went home to treat the pets to some piano forte.

My masterful rendition of the insanely difficult, "twinkle twinkle little star" was so exquisite that even I was moved by it. My heron like piano playing was so moving that I began to question my initial thoughts about the proposition. "You can't possibly put Daniel on Ebay!" I said to myself. "He's met Poopy 1 and 2 and 3. It isn't good to introduce the pups to too many watches. They'll grow up to be degenerates and demons with trust issues."

After I came to that realisation, there wasn't much left to say or do. Daniel and I went on a magic carpet ride on a magic Chinese dragon.



It's a match made only in dreams.

If you like the watch or any watch on their website, I've got a discount code for you: theramblingDW for 15% off. 

Happy Days,
Afam.

Key Notes:

Why am I a clown?

Well, the idea of standing and posing in front of a camera fills me with dread. If something stresses you out, you've got to find a way around it, and that's what I did. Because I thought the pictures I took of me wearing the watch were horrendous, I decided to have my crystal manifestation wear it instead.

Where are all these crystal things from?

In the Afam household, there's a glass table filled with little bits and bobs from all over the world. We went through a crazy swarovski phase back in the noughties. We were buying more crystals with more dedication than a meth addict. Everytime dad went somewhere he'd get something new, and then he'd come back, and we'd argue for hours about where to put it. In my family, we bicker about silly things like that, but it's one of the things about us that I think is sweet.

What's more?

I like the watch. In the beginning I knew that it looked nice, but that wasn't enough. I like the things I wear to come from somewhere and have some meaning. I can tell you a story about everything that I have. Since the Dapper St. Mawes and I have been together, we've been to three countries and suffered and smiled in all of them. We won't be parting anytime soon.

I will begin this one which is meant to be about Project Fame by talking about the Nigerian iteration of The Voice. You cannot talk about talent competitions in Nigeria that involve down on their luck singers looking for a come up without mentioning The Voice because that show changed everything. The talent on it was exceptional, and it was produced so well that I wept with pride and patriotism. Before it, I didn't believe that we could produce reality television that was truly worth watching.

When I heard that Project Fame West Africa was returning, I was excited. I thought that they would be infected with the same National Pride that I felt and deliver a product that was miles better than the mediocrity they perpetually stuff down our airwaves, but I was wrong. They've stuck to their formula with the tenacity of the truly addled, and there is no one in all the world that is more confused than I am.

I went to a live taping of one of their shows over the weekend. It wasn't bad by any stretch of the imagination, but I need more than an "it wasn't bad" evaluation to be worth watching, especially if you're going to take three hours of my Saturday. What did they do wrong? Don't worry. This is why I'm here.

They had a comedian to hype the crowd before the contestants came on, but he really wasn't much of a comedian. If in 15 minutes, you tell three jokes that are capable of making me laugh out loud, then try as I might, I cannot see what the point is. I wouldn't have found him particularly offensive if he hadn't ended his set with what I can only call an abortion of a joke. Rape is not funny. Telling a joke that implies that it can actually be enjoyable for all parties involved is rude to the point of idiocy. The joke went something like this. A woman was kidnapped and taken to the great outdoors by her abductors. Her tied up husband then had to listen to her pleas for help which became tinged with notes of pleasure. At the end of it, she said, "Thank you kidnapper." Very good. You win all the laughs.

The show has two presenters, Bolanle Olukanni and Joseph Benjamin. With regards to Bolanle, I have no complaints, but things are not so easy with Joseph. He chews his words with so much enthusiasm that I'm sure they contribute to his recommended daily intake. I was so convinced by the end of it that I have started doing the same. My spaghetti limbs could do with some padding.

One thing that sets the show apart from most is the band. You see, with most shows like this, the singers are the only ones in the competition. In Project Fame, the band is competing too. What else am I supposed to think when the band is frequently so loud that the singing is lost?

It was all fairly dull until Dapo took the stage to deliver a cover of Michael Jackson's Liberian Girl. I cackled with glee because epic fails are usually even better than flashes of brilliance. I can't really tell you how I knew it would be bad. Let's just say that the universe told me. It's the same way it tells you when to look just before the class clown falls off their chair. He came out in this poorly bedazzled jacket that most of us would save for Halloween, and at least four dancers who got their wigs/extensions from either Donald Trump or a mangy horse. Their choreography was the sort of thing I'd expect to see in a musical about the underwater princesses (cafe au lait ladies aka mammy water sisters) of an underwater kingdom. From where I was sitting, Dapo was a victim of sabotage. I almost pinched myself for finding it hilarious, but I thought the better of it. Cheap laughs are scarce. I'll take what I can get.

Life is finite. When the hours disappear they're gone forever, and no amount of prayer or magic will ever get them back. Fun should be treasured wherever it is found because it is incredibly brief and almost intolerably rare. Project Fame will have to decide how it's going to achieve this. It could either decide to be so consistently bad that it is hilarious, or so good that naysayers like me have got nothing bad to say about it. As it stands the juice of Project Fame isn't worth the electricity your television will eat while you watch it.

Weekends make me insecure. At the start of the week, I typically tell anyone who'll do me the favour of listening that I'm perfectly happy spending my weekends at home, but come Friday, I can't sit still. My mind races through all the options like a crazed cheetah, and I remember the friends I haven't said what's up to in years. It's Friday night fever at it's worst.

Anyway here's a fairly detailed summary of my weekend as it occurred to me while I watched the U.S Open. 

Thursday

My weekend started on Thursday. It was a rather bizarre beginning. My cousins who are definitely not of age, asked me to take them for drinks at Churrascos. I don't have any real problems with Churrascos other than the fact that their stuff as overpriced as their service is rubbish. I've come up with a solution for the latter. Whenever I need something, I stand up and yell, "HEY!" I shout so loudly that my voice can be heard from across the lagoon. It isn't exactly polite, but it's better than sitting unattended for the better part of an hour.

This is the only picture I took at Churrascos. I don't know what's so interesting about my shoes, but whoop there it is.

Churrascos was good. Who knew that a 14 year old and a 16 year old could be fun? Kids really do say the darndest things especially after a mojito or two... or three.

The sister and I, mid dance at Funky Town.

After that I popped down to Funky Town with the Avengers. The Avengers are the friends, C and E. Funky Town is a brilliant bar that we found with cheap drinks, amazing service and a cracking DJ. In Funky Town, you come as you are, and dance as you like.

Friday

The Avengers and I started things off early with brunch. Brunch is important after a night out because that's where the blank spaces in your memory are filled, and the best laughs are had. A hangover shared between three is a hangover beaten.

I sped down to the mainland to pick up my suitcases because Royal Air Maroc didn't afford me the privilege of arriving with them. There'll be more on that later. I have to recover from the stress of flying with them first. Some of you will think, "Afam, why Royal Air Maroc?" If you're one of these people, I'll tell you what my grandfather said to me this weekend. "We may not be a very rich family, but we're an intelligent one." If I spend too much on a plane ticket, I'll catch the Oh my God, I just spent too much money disease. I fear that condition like I do Ebola.

When that was done, I sped back to the Island and popped into the 90s Baby Road Show Pool and Movie Party. The moment I walked in I knew I would be out in under ten minutes. There isn't much that frightens me more than alternatively dressed young adults who don't seem very skilled at conversation. When I go to a place and the people there don't look like they know what it means to have a good time, I thank God for my Kia. I said hello and congratulations to the people that put it together and bounced.

The Stranger Game Night is a Lagos treasure. It's N1000 to take part and N800 for a glass of wine. I had several. I do not believe that board games were made to be played without drinking. It was fun in a way that few things are. I struggle to find the words that describe it best. There were no illusions or pretensions. It was easy. I was home by 11:30.

Saturday
Let's see. There was a family lunch at Spice Route. The food was good and there's no better company than the people who are programmed to love you. My grandfather gave a lovely speech and I bullied my younger cousins. Two of them call me uncle and the most troublesome one asks me to drive him around so he can play pokemon go. Whatever stress I give them is well deserved.

A bunch of us fled the scene of the dinner to see a live taping of Project Fame West Africa Season 9. You'll be reading about that shortly. It's the next article after this.

As if all of that weren't enough, there was an Avengers meeting at our HQ, Funky Town. We answered the age old question, "How many Heinekens does it take to get you plastered?" The answer is, when you're having a good time, no one's counting. One turns into two, two turns into three and they bleed into each other after. A bottle on the table is a bottle for all. We were so high on life that when C said, "let's go to Obalende, E and I kept quiet and nodded like it was a good idea.

I have no idea what the bar we ended up in is called, and I doubt that I'll be able to find it again, but it was an unexpected dose of happiness. At the places that I usually frequent, people spend more time on their phones than they do dancing. The most telling thing is that I didn't stop to take pictures or snapchat. When you're really engaged in the present, those things don't occur to you.

Sunday:

The Avengers and I met up for a team debriefing at E's house. From there we went to Dominos. The Chicken Suya Pizza there is a waste of life. I shall not be repeating the error. Karaoke at Beer Hugz is similarly bad.

Home seemed like a good idea after that.

Chris Rock and Rosario Dawson in Top 5

Grandiose foolishness is a difficult thing to admit. In light of this, I will not declare that the reason for my silence is foolishness.

The lessons that life tends to teach are without compare, greater than any that can be taught in a classroom. They come to us in flashes, unexpected moments of truth. Those who listen and learn enjoy a certain level of contentment. Those who don't are struck with unique confusions that are incomprehensible to any but they themselves.

My grand confusion was that I had come to believe that I could no longer write. This, after one of my tutors, Roger said, "Afam you write really well."

His delivery was casual, but the words struck me like a bell. It was validation beyond any I'd heard before.I was struck dumb. My mouth squeezed out a thank you, but my hands froze. Everytime I wrote, I'd see the old white man who spent two decades at Reuters looking over my shoulder and wonder if he'd approve.

Every attempt to write something led to new failures and frustrations. They didn't even have the kindness to be selective. A paragraph about Ryan Lochte was as difficult as an essay about Lagos. All the while, I felt as useless as a spayed bitch in heat.

As I write this, there's a little monster kicking my chair. He's singing let it go as loudly as his pre-manly tenor will allow. I would be apathetic about his behaviour if I wasn't sitting between an Emporio Armani watch wearing man whose girth could have used an empty seat beside him, and a Nigerian business man who seems to be the brains behind a liquor smuggling operation. He has this list that says, Star - £1000, Gulder - £1500.

I was about to start gnashing my teeth and whining internally, when I remembered a line from Top 5, a film that Chris Rock both acts and stars in. His character said something like, "just think of who you want to sound like and copy them."

I did one better. I opened the copy of Anna Karenina on my phone, and began to write.