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.

To say President Muhammadu Buhari has had a bad week would be putting it mildly. Now that I think of it, he has had a catastrophe of a year. Of course it isn’t very good to say or think such things because it’s me stating the obvious, and anything that can ever be said to be obvious must be banished to silence. This is why only a true disaster of a human being would comment on the wetness of water.

Last week the good president said that his wife Aisha belonged to the kitchen, the bedroom and the other room, after she told the BBC and the rest of us that she didn’t quite approve of the way he was making his appointments. It’s a fair observation. It pains me daily that Solomon Dalung is still the Minister of Sports, but this is Nigeria, shamelessness is the virtue we honour the most, and there is no scandal that cannot be weathered.

The President’s comments about his wife, Aisha, are mostly a symptom of him being the terrible face of Nigerian male patriarchy - he is a man so deeply rigid, unbending and seemingly vindictive that every move he makes looks to be taken from the dictator’s bible. Nigeria was so eager for change that it failed to consider what  it would be changing to. Blessed with the clarity that only a recession can bring, the country seems to be coming to its senses and saying, “This man has not done anything remarkable or anything new.” 

He doesn’t even have the advantages that Donald Trump has. He can’t send a wife with a designer habit in front of a camera to help him fix his shit. The last time she sat in front of the media, she effectively threw him under the bus, and Buhari being a true son of the military dropped a bomb on both himself and the bus.

Through some extraordinarily bad PR and the curse that is a mouth that both refuses to accept responsibility for his political failings or bend to the demands of modernity, he’s invited a storm upon his household and his government. Now, we know why the President has spent so much time abroad. It’s because the turbulence brewing in his marriage has created so much commotion that he can no longer bear the trappings of the presidential mansion.

The greatest shame of it is that we’ve all but forgotten that his administration has effectively defeated Boko Haram, and rescued 20 of the 200 Chibok girls from captivity. But, is it not our failings that define us most clearly? This could explain why our First Lady Aisha has raged against the political machine. The present government strikes me as a sinking ship, all who fail to speak even a word of criticism must be prepared to sink with it. It’s either that or the sequence of words many Northern women fear to hear: “I divorce you once. I divorce you twice. I divorce you thrice.” If that’s the case she’s positioned herself very nicely. But for the rest of us, we can only wish ridding ourselves of political baggage was so simple.

Happy Days,
Afam

There will be a moment today when I remember 2012. I’ll think of the nights spent contemplating death and its certainty. I’ll think of the days with the calendar contemplating dates.

April? No not April, it’ll be a truly terrible thing to do on the birthday that you share with your father.

May? You can’t do it in May. It’ll ruin your sister. The celebration of her birthday tied to the memory of your suicide. You may be depressed but that does not mean you should be cruel.

June? You’re booked to fly to Lagos on the 28th, so if you do it on the 27th, there’ll be a greater chance that they’ll think you are missing. And thus the plan was formed. Fly back on the 27th. Take a taxi to the beach. Swim hard, too far. Swim good. Swim so well that you can’t make it back. Your body won’t be found and if it is found it’ll be all but unrecognisable. Your parents won’t be the parents of the guy that met his untimely end by his own hand. They’ll be the parents of the son who vanished. It is infinitely better to be thought of as missing than it is to be thought of as dead.

My logic was flawed. If I were to go missing, the parents, Mama Afam and Papa Afam would wreck themselves to find me. Papa Afam would find solace in the bottle and Mama Afam would find courage in religion. They would be estranged within the year for religion and Hennessy are not usually the most compatible companions.

This is what depression does, it wraps you in a haze so thick that you can’t see anything for what it is. You cannot see that you are ill and you cannot appreciate how much you’re loved. Your world shrinks until there is only you, the sadness that won’t leave and the anxiety that accompanies it.

Today, when the working day is done and I am tired, there’ll be a moment when I sigh and say, “I am not strong enough. I cannot continue.” It is the depression talking. I’ll wallow in my weakness for a minute, and I’ll remember 2012. I’ll remember the therapy. I’ll think about the anti-depressants. I’ll think about all that it cost, and those went far beyond the financial. I lost a life that I never had the chance to live, relationships, and opportunities I’ll never be fortunate enough to know.

But that doesn’t mean there weren’t benefits. I’m so scared of reliving that year that I’ve been forced to develop coping mechanisms. I always want to know where I am in relation to the depression. If I know where I am, then I know when I need help, and that is important. Sometimes, help is a conversation with friends about real problems, and sometimes it’s a hug that lasts too long. Sometimes it’s hearing a difficult truth you haven’t confronted, and even more frequently, it’s not being alone.

The stunning thing I’ve learned is how far the people who really love you will go on your behalf. The parents have learned to read my silences even better than they read my words. They know the drill. A silent Afam is an unhappy one. When they ask about my day, they will never be satisfied with, “It was alright.” They’ll never keep anything as dangerous as a gun around and the medicine cabinet is well supervised. It isn’t that they think that anything tragic will happen, it’s that they know what all the wise know: it is always better to be safe than sorry. The friends are just as good. I make sure to have at least one of them with me at all times for good things are best kept close. If those measures fail, there’s the new therapist in Victoria Island who I haven’t had to see, and the very discerning doctor ready for an out of office consultation, more than keen to print a cocktail in his unintelligible writing if need be.

These are the things that work for me, they may not work for anyone else, and they’re certainly not fool proof. The other night I walked into an event so anxious that I shook more violently than anyone with any sense at all should ever shake. The day had not been kind, and I was scheduled for an even worse night. I didn’t drink there. No amount of drunkenness will ever change the fact alcohol is a liar. It tells you it’ll make you happier but it can’t. It is not a happy drug. It is a depressant.

I left 30 minutes after I arrived, and called a friend for a game of squash. When he saw me, he asked a question that cannot be asked enough.

“Are you good?”

I didn’t answer because I didn't have to. After a decade, he knows me well.

We walked off the court an hour later.

“Are you good?” He asked again.

“I am now.” I said.

My life is not the one I dreamed I’d have at 20, but it’s a life and that’s always something to be thankful for. It’s been 3 years since the end of that terrible year and I’m pleased to say I’m not Afam, probable cause of death suicide anymore. I’m Afam, needs to eat better, work out more, make cash money, probable cause of death, cancer.

Happy days,
Afam

  
It’s a random weekend in October, with no great holidays and absolutely no great events. I do not doubt that many of you Lagosians are looking for something to do or at the very least somewhere to go. While both of these things are similar people in Lagos seem to prefer the latter to the former. Anyway, if you’re chronically addicted to stress, and in need of a sip, I know the place for you. The hottest club in Lagos at the minute is Sip.

The bouncers here are retired orcs from the now concluded film series the Lord of the Rings. They’ve traded in their pointed ears, and bad dentition for inconclusive pregnancies and a notoriously irrational door policy. Be that as it may there is reason in their madness. To get in you must apply the scent of corruption and old age, Eau de Chairman without reservation. If you cannot, then you must find it’s cheaper and infinitely more accessible cousin, Eau de Future Chairman, but that has no guarantees.

Built from the ashes of a sadomasochist, this defunct meat locker has everything: Bob’s your Uncle, Nigerian promiscuous daddy, exposed arm pits, ruptured ear drums, and the widest age range of aesthetically pleasing people you’re ever likely to see in the city. Although this could be my alcohol goggles talking.  

Found in the middle of Lagos’ centre of Excellence, it is the only club that is as busy outside the gates as it is inside the club. So head down there this weekend if you’re a hippity hopper with a penchant for beating afros. Standing and sitting are guaranteed but dancing is decidedly not.

 
In Lagos, the greatest danger to your impeccable skin, your thousand dollar wig or your incalculably precious life is loneliness. I don’t mean loneliness in the way so many of us are afflicted. The nights we spend throwing pity parties for ourselves contemplating suicide and sipping 70 year old bottles whisky like they were Hennessy. While both are expensive one is quite clearly the other’s chairman. I mean loneliness in its truest sense; the affliction of those so committed to orphandom that they do not posses a cousin to call on, and those who have found themselves marooned on the island that is profound isolation. It you’re one of the former then you’re merely unfortunate, and if you’re one of the latter you’re in immediate need of correction. If a nasty little piece of work like me can have friends, then anyone can. You must spend time doing the tricky work that is building a not completely offensive personality.

I cannot tell you how it is that I have the friends I have. It is one of the greatest signs that I am not in fact cursed to be unfortunate and poor all the days of my life. It is even better that mine are so good than I can never hope to be their match. It is they who keep this loose cannon sealed at all times. I wanted it that way. When you’re a character that’s prone to all excesses available to the living it does you well to be encumbered by voices of reason.

The other day a dreadful thing happened to Avenger 2. That in itself is a tragedy, because I have never met anyone as undeniably good as he. A paragon of morality and politeness, he judges a man’s character with such dedication that one would think there were no other qualities worthy of note. It is he who calls me on the Sunday after the Saturday and says, “your conduct last night was deplorable.” Anyone who can say that to me and not nurse a verbal bite laced with acid and furnished with poison is truly exceptional. His car did him the grand dishonour of stopping on the run up to third mainland bridge at midnight without so much as a warning. I do not know what number I was on the list of available persons to call, but I’d be stunned if I wasn’t very close to the top.  Some of you who know nothing of life in Lagos will read that and think, “But what’s the big deal. He should have called AA or a tow truck.” In Lagos, things are never that simple. It always pays to have someone who cares about whether or not you’re alive come get you. That way if you aren’t there when they arrive they can kick up a fuss. It’s the least they’ll do if you’re murdered and dumped in the lagoon.

I was in bed, dreaming about cheques above the $1.8 million mark when I got the phone call. I didn’t hesitate. I ran out of the house half naked and drove like a criminal, while mentally preparing his obituary, and his eulogy. At the inconvenient traffic stops, I pulled on a shirt and grabbed a pair of slippers. This is one of the good things about living in your car. There’ll never be a situation that you aren’t prepared for. In my backseat you’ll find a pair of loafers, an ironed white shirt, a distressed grey long sleeve t shirt and a pair of boxers. Am I not the best boy scout who ever lived? Still living out their good motto at the grand old age of 26. When I got to him, I was relieved that my eulogy writing services were entirely unnecessary. Avenger 2 was alive and in great shape. A tow truck had stopped, performed some vehicular voodoo to get his engine running again and chased the gang of area boys who had been swarming about Avenger 2 like hyenas away with hotter Yoruba than I have ever heard. The words were delivered so furiously that they managed to penetrate the haze of Arizona (cheap weed) lingering about them and set them to rights.

I was grateful that night. If I am the worst of my friends and I went through all of that effort to see that one of them was safe, then what wouldn’t they do for me?

Happy Days,
Afam

 
Last week, Nigerian twitter was taken over by a tale so scandalous, I was rendered open mouthed and speechless for nearly 3 hours. A woman called Ahunna claimed that a man called Izien was a truly deplorable character. She alleged that he was a bedroom fiend in the habit of blackmailing girls for sex with their nude pictures. She said, “Over the last couple of weeks I have been gathering accounts from different women who have complained about Izien. In the last couple of years, there has been more than one occassion of him threatening to leak nudes because he wasn’t offered sex.” She went on to share screenshots of conversations with Izien’s alleged victims where they told their stories. At first the girls were blamed for being so foolish as to send nudes, but the conversation changed rapidly and focused on Izien. New accounts of his atrocious behaviour came up despite his attempts to threaten Ahunna to silence. He released a statement denying most of the allegations, then he published a poorly constructed cease and desist letter from his lawyers.

There is a thing only the abused understand. That they will bear the burdens of the crimes of another as long as they live. They may never speak of it, but the wound will lurk there all the same. It may be fine for months at a time, and life may go on as if the incident never happened, but there’ll be a moment. It will come back to you with more clarity than you believed yourself capable of remembering. It may be something as slight as seeing his face on television in an episode of Shuga, as someone claims is the case in this story. The girl that saw him had to leave the room, to relive her torment in silence. Time won’t heal that wound. It may stitch it shut, but stitches only last so long. This is the problem with abusers. They get to walk away unscathed sparing no thought for what they’ve done. If only the abused could be so lucky.

It is why Izien, after being faced with allegations of rape, blackmail and emotional abuse feels the need to deny rape and blackmail, but apologise for emotional abuse. In a statement published on his twitter account he said, “in the past, while in a relationship, I lied to women that I was single, I lied to them that I had more than I had. I agree to being petty and even throwing tantrums during quarrels.” Even more damning is his phrase of choice. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” The perpetrators of wrongs should not have the power to declare what is petty and what isn’t. One man’s petty is another woman’s destruction.

One of the lightest allegations by a victim of his sexual predation says, “He threatened me. Not with nude pictures because I didn’t send any. He said I was a ho and that he was trying to help my life by even sleeping with me.” By his own admission he said, “I know I have hurt women and used abusive words on them when I was angry. I even called some mad, stupid, prostitute. I am sorry.” Those who are loose with their words do not have the right to decide who should be offended, how they should be offended, and how long they should be offended for. Forgiveness is a gift. It is not an obligation. It is not unreasonable that some apologies fall on deaf ears.

Without this understanding, I find that it is difficult to believe him. When he says that he didn’t rape, blackmail or pressure anyone into sex, I wonder if he knows what he is talking about. Our definitions of these things are likely not the same. Izien would like us to take some of his tweets from 2010 to 2015 as examples of youthful folly but how can we, when they read like this.

“Do you think saying stop it actually changes anything? Laughing my ass off.”

“Some girls do deserve to be raped you know?”

“Fuck shit up when you get a no though.”

“If you want to fuck, don’t say it. These girls prefer being lied to.”

“Would like to watch a real life rape scene… a one on one case though… certain questions I can’t get out of my head. I really wonder if a one on one is possible.”

They do not read like the unfiltered musings of someone too young to know better. They read like the fire to the smoke. They speak to his character. It is the same problem many have with Donald Trump. A man who says, “I just start kissing them. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything.” Men such as they cannot expect to be given the privilege of innocence when allegations of sexual impropriety arise. What means do we have of judging a man if not his past?

Usually it is wise to believe someone innocent till they are proven guilty, but in all things it is important to consider the where. Women in Nigeria frequently do not speak out against abuse sexual or otherwise because they bear the brunt of the blame. They have very little to gain. There is little or no justice to be had. One of Izien’s alleged victims said she took him to the police station after the nude pictures she’d sent to him appeared on social media. They asked her to apologise to him. It is a story that anyone with any knowledge of the Nigerian Police Force would find plausible. When Nigerian women speak about assault, abuse or rape, we must take extra care to listen to them. They pay too high a price for their honesty for us to insist that they are making it up. If she talks at all, it is more likely than not that it is true. In situations like these some people tend to think that there’s a financial incentive, but that isn’t the case here. Izien is yet to make his fortune and he has not been so fortunate as to have had fortune thrust upon him by birth.

As for what Ahunna has achieved, she’s sounded as loud a warning as she can. Not many women will approach him for anything more than a hello. And now, he says he’s sorry, but that isn’t enough. He’ll have to cry them rivers. They cried rivers over him.

Afam.

The tweets and quotes were edited for the sake of decent grammar. Their meaning was preserved.

 
Whenever anyone in in the Nigerian government says anything closely resembling the word “youth”, my lips turn downwards and my ears flick upward, exposing their waxy hairy holes. There are two reasons for these physical reactions and sadly none of them are good.

First of all I’m irritated at the fact that they nearly always say, “youths.” As youth is a word that often needs no plural the action irritates me beyond belief. It gives me that feeling you get when someone shits atop your grave. Secondly, I know that I’m about to be fed a pile of rubbish. I have long been of the opinion that one must be very particular with the rubbish one is fed. It is the only way that you can tell that it is in fact rubbish, and thus completely useless. 

A week and a bit ago, President Buhari presided over the launch of a book about his esteemed personage, called Buhari A New Beginning by his personal photographer Bayo Omoboriowo. Its very title is enough to alert all but the most determined of idiots that it is nonsense. The beginning of Buhari’s Presidency has been anything but new. And even if it is new, it has been a beginning so dire that the only thing to be done is sweep it under the carpet. If the economy was booming, and champagne bottles were bursting at the prospect of being popped, I wouldn’t complain. But things are so bad that Papa Afam banned me from stealing the odd sip of his brandy because by his estimations, I cannot afford it. No, this has not been a beginning worth celebrating. The country is eating the glass that is an economic recession, and the people that would have traveled to forget their troubles if only for a week cannot because the very thought of spending foreign exchange is likely to depress all but the most optimistic.

I suppose it would have been different if the event was so spectacular that it made me green with envy, but it wasn’t. It was a disaster, made worse by Nigerian Television Authority’s coverage. I had always heard that the only purpose the Nigerian Television Authority served was as a mouth piece of the government, but I never quite believed it. That event changed my opinions about them rather effectively. I do not think I have ever seen coverage so bad. At this juncture I will leave an incredibly brief note for the very good fellows at the NTA. The creative industries are insanely competitive. I am not sure how you are funded but by subjecting your audience to over two hours of that, it is clear that your money is not delivered by the impartial forces of capitalism. After watching the darned thing, it is likely that I’ll only watch your channel if I want to cut myself. That way, I’ll be able to cause myself irreparable damage without actually bleeding. As I hate the sight of blood, I think this is a brilliant plan.

To be fair NTA cannot be said to be responsible for all the things that made the event terrible. The first thing that ruined it, was its premise. Was it an event to encourage the young creative people in Nigeria or to announce that there was a book promoting the president about to be delivered to the resilient now banned but still operating hawkers of Lagos? If it was the former, don’t do it and be unserious about it. Broken promises are always more painful than unmade ones. And as I do not think that anyone that’s mildly creative or clever expects anything from the government, the best bet would have been to launch the book and fill the hall with members of your government. At least that way I won’t think about the support that will be coming until I meet my timely end. This may sound unduly pessimistic but the Nigerian government will always be free to surprise me.

The second thing that made it horrible was the lack of entertainment. If you’re going to have an event that is going to be broadcast live, then the very least anyone can do is make it entertaining. Let there be fireworks and pyrotechnic wonders, bring on a line up of Nigeria’s best entertainers. I want to see Tiwa Savage wind her African Waist, and P Squared dance till they are delirious. And while you’re at it, bring out Awilo. He may not be the most politically correct character but he has never been dull. The Book Launch used dancers of no renown and they depressed me so greatly that the beautiful rendition of our excellent national anthem did nothing to lift my spirits.


The worst thing was that the event felt like a waste of time, which I have now turned into a blog that I'm not very happy with. I just want to be happy with the government, and all that it does. And if not happy, then I want to see the logic in its actions. If it cannot do something as simple as hosting an event to a reasonable standard, then isn't asking them to run a country too much to ask?

On the verge of tears,
Afam

If you’re a fan of the obese franchise, Fast and Furious there’s only one place for your nightly meanderings and Hennessy parkings in Lagos, and that’s Nitro. Club owner, Otunba Red Light has built a neon paradise from nothing but radioactive strobe lights, manly musk and the discarded pieces of the always coming back to life villain of the Transformer cartoons and films, Megatron.

This place has everything: exchange students from the premium strip club university down the road, Silver Fox, pyromaniac lighter fiends, small chops, Rihanna’s birthday cake and the answer to the question is that the pussy that Donald Trump grabbed? The answer is usually no. The last time I went there it was a cockfest; which is what happens when all the cocks fest for anyone who doesn’t have a cock. The number is typically more than one but no greater than six.

With all of this going on it is quite possibly the best club in Lagos. DJ Looking Hungry and Hype Man, Snap-Ma-Pisho form a musical partnership so strong that it renders all who go there near epileptic… but then again that could be the lack of a warning that exposure to flashing lights at the Nitro intensity can trigger seizures.

So come on down this weekend. The experience of paying for a long island iced tea that’s actually a vodka cranberry will blow your mind.

It may seem silly that I have chosen this very moment to talk about the month of September, but, it isn’t, and I’ll explain why this is. When a writer with a website comes to the realisation that the website isn’t some sort of fuddly duddly hobby, he or she will try a great many things and experiment with even more. This is both the way of the successful and the way of life. We cannot go a day without doing things that are both ill advised and ill considered. The only caveat is that we learn from them. This is my current philosophy. Of course, it must be noted that I change my philosophies like I change my underwear, daily and sometimes I forget them altogether.

My current philosophy says that I’m in the business of building a life, and as I never really thought I would live as long as I have, it is a truly terrifying prospect. Every aspect of my life is susceptible to an inquisition. What are my values? Are they good? What lies do I believe are true? Am I a good friend? How will I make an income? How can I be better? Are my friends good? Have I been lazy? Am I too hard on myself? I could go on, but if I did, I suspect that this article wouldn’t be very fun to read. As I am in the business of fun and leisure, if you, my dear readers, are not entertained by at least one sentence in a blog, I have failed miserably.

September was a difficult month. The move back to Lagos was so abrupt that I was shell-shocked. Like with most moves I’ve made in my life I turned up at the dreaded and dreadful Murutala Mohammed Airport in Lagos without my luggage, broker than a young man should ever be, and smelly! This was not quite the plan. My plan was to remain in London, live the life of a baby boy without responsibilities, somehow find a job that paid enough for suitable accommodation somewhere in Zone 1, and remain there until I believed myself strong enough to ride the bucking stallion that is life in Lagos.

Life made other plans so I turned up in Lagos, without much word or notice, and began work at a broadcasting house that’s really rather respectable within the week. At first I was resentful of the fact that I’d gone away and come back again, but I came to appreciate it. If my life plan is to be taken seriously, then I need to be in Lagos for no fewer than two years while I build the blog into a serious media platform for those who’ve had the benefit of a reasonable education. It is said that you write what you know, so this is what I shall do. The fact that I couldn’t at this very moment run a blog that speaks to the masses is my greatest joy. It would mean that I’d have to know what it meant to suffer economically and that would kill me. I am quite convinced that poverty would look very poor on me.

So what’s happened in September? A couple of things, I did work that I actually delivered roughly on time, and got paid poorly for. It is a great step forward. Some of you may turn your noses up at me, but I’ll do you the honour of not paying attention. Being paid poorly is the first step in the plan. It is the thing that comes a good five stages before being paid handsomely. I am in the process of cultivating a new gang. The new friendship scheme is called the Avenger series, I am rather pleased with this one. The maintenance is easy, the conversation is scandalous, and our proximity to one another is almost astounding. I live beside one, work beside two, and I’m never more than a 20 minute drive away from three. Lastly I have started going to prayer meetings at my therapist’s office on Mondays. I cannot quite believe it myself, but after my first session, Avengers 1 and 3 got a contract that’s worth more money than I have ever seen in Naira, and Avenger 2 didn’t die when Lagos tried rather hard to see him off. Of course I cannot say for sure that it is God that brought this good fortune, but if it is, I would never be so foolish as to do myself the disservice of ending a potential stream of rather visible blessings.



The way I see it, I'm in the process of building a life. I have the blocks I need to do it. So all I have to do is stack them, restack them, and shuffle them around until I get something I'd like to live with. It is a thing that is easier said than done.

Happy Days,
Afam

Solange one of the best faces of the slogan, melanin popping you’re ever likely to find. I would never complain about anyone’s expression of their skin colour but there some expressions I appreciate more than others. Some people like to listen to songs that seem to say, “I bust a cap in that mother-fucker.” but I usually don’t. Those things feed into a stereotype that does not include me, and I don’t like that it’ll lead to someone somewhere taking one look at my dark brown orangeish face and thinking, "Here stands Afam the black man. He calls all his friends nigger, and he has a hand gun tucked away in his crotch. Don’t look at him the wrong way because he’s volatile and angry."  If there is a song about guns and shooting things that speaks of me, it’ll say something like, “I bust a cap in that clay pigeon. Bang bang I shot that clay aerial rat down.”

In Solange’s, A Seat at the Table there’s only individuality. Everything about it is hers, from the light airy vocals to the beautiful touches that each song seems to have. There are no ballads or club bangers in it. It’s an honest to God expression of musical creativity from her heart to yours. And it all lands. It doesn’t matter if you’re not particularly into Soul or RnB, music is a collection of notes, rhythms, and melodies that collude to produce an effective result. You’ll find yourself appreciating the details that are so carefully applied to every song and some interludes. Even the one minute forty second long album opening half song, Rise is praise worthy.

For me, Solange is a one song per album Afam hit wonder. That means that on every album  she’s ever put out there's one song I’ll find myself listening to for years. On this one, that song is Don’t You Wait. With a chilled beat and baseline that excites the nethers, it’s a hit any way you look at it. I have listened to it for two days without stopping and today is looking like the fourth. I bob my head, and sway from side to side. I would like to do more but that’s what you get when the bulk of your dance training happened on a dance floor with more white people than any establishment with a reasonable expectation of good dancing should have. I lift my head to the ceiling and close my eyes. It isn't a happy song by any means, but there's a vibe about it that feels like my life now.

The next thing after Don’t you wait, is an interlude called Tina taught me. Her mother Tina Knowles says,

“I think part of it is accepting that there’s so beauty in being black and that’s the thing that I guess I get emotional about because I’ve always know that. I’ve always been proud to be black. Never wanted to be nothing else, loved everything about it just there’s such beauty in black people and it really saddens me when we’re not allowed to express that pride in being black and then if you do it’s considered anti-white. No! It’s just pro black.”

It’s a brilliant all lives matter take down and an effective encourager of white tears. Much of the album is like this. Heavy material delivered with a falsetto, synth, and a stuttering baseline. It is always lovely when music is more than a pretty melody, and while this album has pretty melodies aplenty it’s a non-fiction novel about what it means to be a black woman in 2016.

Happy Days,
Afam

If there is anything good about the Lawyartist it is that he both knows himself and is himself. When that expression and others like it are used, they generally describe people so odd that the ordinary man or woman cannot tell where it is that they come from or where it is that they’re going. It is my greatest pleasure to say that the Lawyartist, Tunji is nothing like them - the people so fantastically creative that any idiot can tell that their day is not the ordinary nine to five.

In person he’s rather unassuming. I would not have known it was he if I had not spotted what looked like an interesting watch from across the bar. I walked up to him immediately and bent till my eyes lay level with his wrist, completely ignorant of the fact that he could possibly require a degree of a thing the anti-social call personal space.

The watch’s face was a gavel dueling with a pencil. It was him. I knew it without a doubt. In Lagos, the people you’re most likely to find wearing the merchandise of local creatives are the creatives themselves.

I looked straight at him and said, “You’re the Lawyartist aren’t you?”

He looked right back at me and said, “You must be Afam. I imagined that your madness was a front you kept up for the purposes of the blog. I was wrong. You carry it with you always.”

I find that I'm almost entirely incapable of being ashamed of being called mad. So I said,

“It is only the truly insane that bother to hide their madness. As I am only merely talented beyond compare, I wear my brand of it like it's my first skin.”

It was not the first time we'd spoken.

I'd seen a rather good drawing of one cartoon character or the other, and I was desperate to say something about it. I wanted to say brilliant, but my fingers protested fiercely and they were right to. It has always been my policy to be as stringent with my praise as possible. Men and women who do so are generally more trustworthy. If you speak highly of everything it gives the impression that you have no standards. A human being without standards is a truly terrifying character. I myself pretend that they do not exist. If my eyes were to linger on them my immune system would collapse and I'd be on the verge of destruction within the week. With all this in mind, I said a single accusatory "perv."



The accusation caught his attention and he asked a question. "Me or the person who likes this?"

I had the best retort. "The creator is the biggest perv. Everyone else is a student."

And thus our relationship was born. Every time he drew something and I saw it, I would point out something that could come across as sexual if framed the right way. It is a habit that endures to this day.

In the beginning he was good, but not exceptional. It has been my greatest pleasure to watch his art improve. Now, he has an exhibition in Ikoyi club, Lagos' greatest collection of its top ten per cent. He has done very well and I am pleased. I went to see it on Tuesday and I thought,

"Here's Tunde. Once he was my favourite pervert on Instagram and now he's everyone's favourite illustrator."

Like I said when this began his greatest credit is that he both knows himself and is himself. In the years that I've known him, he hasn't strayed from his calling. Something led him to draw some of his favourite characters in geeky pop culture. I dare say that you'll find no blogger, writer or journalist happier than I at his success. The Ikoyi club exhibition is only a stepping stone to the greater things he'll do in the future.

Follow him on instagram:@TheLawyartist

The original picture I took was the worst thing I'd ever seen so I had to repackage it.

Happy Days,
Afam