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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I for one remain skeptical and wary.

Take Care,
Afam

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

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

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

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

Enter Afam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exit Afam

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Happy days,
The troamteam.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy days,
Afam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Many thanks,
Afam.

"Are you hungry enough?"

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

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

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

"Are you hungry enough?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you hungry enough?

Obviously not.

Happy Days,
Afam

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

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

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

Afam: Dude! Experience was lit!

Troam team: Really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

So why did you go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why do you think the execution is wonky?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How does a Christian smile?

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

And this is a good thing?

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

What were your most memorable moments of The Experience 11?

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

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

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

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

Happy days,
Afam and thetroamteam.

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

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

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

In 500 days of Summer,

“I just woke up and I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“What I was never sure of with you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maria with a west-side story.

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


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

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

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

Happy Days,
The troamteam