The Sense of an Ending

17:01:00



This is difficult to say, but something feels off. Maybe it’s that I expect too much. Maybe it’s that I contribute too little. Maybe it’s that I’ve let you down too many times. Or maybe our interests no longer align. Maybe it’s an ending and maybe it’s a beginning. Maybe it’s neither and I’m being paranoid. 
But if I don’t admit that there’s this thing I feel knowing full well that it might not actually exist, then I’ll have no way of understanding what’s going on. And maybe it would be better that way. But there is damage being done in the uncertainty and this is what I’d like to mitigate if I can. 

Or maybe all of this is for the best and speaking about it will only make it worse. The thing I most want to know is are you here or not here. But that I have to ask that at all is perhaps the only answer I need.

Happy Days,
Afam

The Island and the Sea

17:43:00



The lucky among us live on an island. There’s you, there’s me, our children, our friends, and some of the people we’ve rescued from the sea.

The island isn’t much of an island. There’s the sun, there’s rain, and I suppose there’s wind too but those things are everywhere. On the island, if there are palm trees, or any other sort of tree for that matter, then neither God nor nature put them there. And if there is sand, it is because one of us willed it to appear.

The sea too, isn’t really a sea. It isn’t strictly a large body of water with fish and sunken ships. However, it is possible to find a sunken ship, or two, or three, and water does feature frequently and often undesirably. There’s water when it rains. It remains on the streets in puddles, and sometimes the drains clog up so enthusiastically that the adventurous use it as an excuse to go kayaking. And sometimes there’s water even when it doesn’t rain because pipes do burst from time to time.

When a pipe bursts on an island, it’s fixed within the day. Islanders are a bit like gods. No effort is spared when shaping and molding our island to our standards. Men come in ships, some times from another island and sometimes from the sea to deal with it. The men that come from an island typically charge more. Their ships are clean and air conditioned so we islanders feel safer around them even though they may not do a better job than the men who come from the sea. But this is to be expected. Islanders have been known to flock together.

It isn’t too difficult to move from island to island or traverse the sea. All it takes is a ship, a couple of minutes, or hours; depending, on the roughness of your route, the time of day, an important figure passing by, anything really. When it comes down to it there is no logic to the sea routes here. Whatever we meet we take it just like that. And we don’t really complain. An islander’s ship is as close to an extension of their island as he or she can make it. It’s always reasonably new, and even when it isn’t it’s well maintained. But, it is impossible to tell an islander from a dweller of the sea simply by looking at the quality of the ship. You see, some dwellers of the sea have learned the formula and implemented it. Some of their ships are just like ours. This is why mothers tell their daughters, and fathers their sons, that it is only by titles and deeds that we may know the true measure of a man.

All islands are alike, but that should not imply that they are equal. Just as it is with all things some islands are better than others. Some are individual forts with more than enough agency to feed a village. Others are not so. People often pool their wealth to build an estate that matches the largesse of their betters but what they gain in comfort, they lose in solitude. These ones usually call their estates something that sounds like the antithesis of the sea like, Troy Court, or Goshen, or Living Gold. And even among these there is inequality. Some do not quite manage to stay unscathed from the scourge of the sea. There’s one called Dolphin, although it was once the haven of many an islander, time and circumstance have reduced it to something less than an island. Both its streets and its buildings are now largely indistinguishable from those that float on the sea. All it has left is its name and its reputation — Dolphin, the island that once was.

Islands are also safer than the sea. Situations that could be fatal on the sea aren’t on the island. Of course if you get shot in the head, then it doesn’t matter where you are. Dead is dead. Dead as a door nail or dead as rabies. But I once heard of a man — an island man, who fell from the penthouse of his island home. He smashed his face on the pavement, and if witnesses are to be believed, his brains just about spilled out from his nose. Everyone thought he’d die. He didn’t.

He was airlifted to a place where there are more islands than seas and was never heard from again. He didn’t die. I know that because bad news always travels. I believe he remained there, for they say his island in that new place is a lot better than his island here. Those that know his name don’t speak it often, because people from islands don’t like to explain how it was that a fellow islander pushed by no one fell 4 floors. The malicious say it wasn’t a fall but a jump, and once that’s considered the mystery of it makes sense. I do not believe it possible that an islander, no matter how gifted with rhetoric, could explain to the people from the sea whose daily experience is suffering that the comforts of the island were not enough to stop one of their own from from wanting to die.

The sea and the island are metaphors but at the same time they are not. I cannot speak of all the places that have them, but I can tell you that my city does. I was sailing home the other night through the overwhelmingly dark sea. I heard later that a pipeline had blown up somewhere, ending the supply of the stuff the steel angels rely on to guide the sleepless as they navigate the sleepless sea.

Mile after mile, I sailed on in the dark, avoiding unseen craters and fellow travelers, trusting that my familiarity with the route and the radiance of my floodlights would be enough to lead me. I continued like this until I got to the gate of my island; a lighthouse in the desolate Lekki sea.

Happy Days,
Afam

Notes on Falz' This is Nigeria: It's Brilliant!

12:32:00

This is Nigeria

It is likely that many Nigerians listened to and watched Childish Gambino's This is America with what I'd call an appreciative apathy. It's an eloquent essay on what it means to be black in America with imagery that borders on the grotesque, but however well put together, or however well executed, it is not Nigerian. Although we watch the news and sigh whenever racism rears its ugly head, that story is not ours. The blood that has been spilled is not that which pumps through our veins. It is a tragedy but it isn't our tragedy. This is important to remember when you think about Falz' This is Nigeria. Yes, it is derivative, and yes, it lacks the careful choreography of a slick Hollywood production, but those things take very little away from the value of what has been put forward.

Of course, because it is by Falz' own admission an adaptation, it cannot escape being criticised within the template set by the original. However, I would argue that this is the most basic form of criticism anyone should levy against it. The audience This is Nigeria is created for cares not for the original and if they do, no matter who, This is America cannot speak to our lives the same way This is Nigeria does. It may have been different if both were created 2 decades ago, when Western music perhaps had more sway on public opinion than Nigerian music, but this is not the case today.

In the beginning I wondered why Falz didn't make something entirely new - he clearly has the talent for it. I imagine that the lines had sat in his head for years. At the very least I do not think that any one who lives in Nigeria could ever be short of inspiration in this regard. Our suffering is generations long. But, what you must realise is this: had he created an entirely new song, with its own undoubtedly original video, he would have missed a window and indeed an opportunity. It wouldn't have seized the imagination the way it has. I wouldn't have gone up to Mama Afam and asked what she thought about it, because she quite frankly wouldn't know. And this is why any reference to This is America must be forgiven or even ignored.

Some may question the lack of an overarching narrative or message. This is America quite clearly tells black men to get their money regardless. But the same message is not applicable here for our problems are many and the solutions are all chicken and egg equations. There is no singular aggressor. There is no one tyrant. The issues play out like a battle with a hydra. For every head you cut off 2 or 3 sprout in its place. And even if you were to cut off one head and burn the stump, you'd still have 8 more heads to deal with. The song does point to a central problem at the beginning, a recording of a speech by Falz' father which says, "we operate a predictory neo-colonial capitalist system which is founded on fraud and corruption." As one pundit puts it, "Nigeria doesn't really have any new problems. We have new symptoms. The problems are all old, from before you and I were born."

With every headline you read in these parts, from the money swallowing snakes and monkeys to the many atrocities committed by the Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS), to the many headlines with numbers of the dead, our sense of apathy increases. I once said, in Nigeria all you can do is watch as the fucks you give simply bleed out of you. At the very least with this song and its derivative video, Falz has re-ignited the national conversation in a way that I have not seen in my lifetime, at least, not through music. And maybe, like all the conversations that came before it, it will end as collective murmurs of dissatisfaction which lead to nothing by way of change. But, every time we talk, one person among us grows closer to acting, and this is why our seemingly ineffective grumbling must continue.

I know a writer with whom it seems I will never agree, especially when we talk about Falz. Something can only be called mediocre when it is compared to other things in its category. It seems that after decades of silence, with Nigerian art sometimes trying and more often than not failing to evoke some sort of emotional response about the state of affairs in the country, someone has succeeded. Such a thing can never be called mediocre. It can only ever be brilliant.

Happy Days,
Afam










NOTES ON BLOGGING AGAIN

18:33:00



Another day, another beginning and all of that good stuff that you see on instagram, like instantly, and forget about the next second. I’m trying to be dark and sarcastic but I think I’m failing… desperately. Be that as it may, I’ve come to the realisation that the blog will never be what it was. I feel a bit stupid that I can’t tell you what it was, but that was the point wasn’t it? I don’t know that it was meant to be anything, or that I should have tried to make it be anything. It was what it was. 

The above is an immeasurably stupid paragraph but I’ll persist because I have wisdom to dispense. Or at least I think I do. Another random thought - So much uncertainty in such a formerly handsome young man. How will he ever get anywhere?

The other day, I was driving home. I had to change clothes. A banging suit jacket and un-ironed trousers won’t take you anywhere but home. I think I was half blind when I put them on and dashed out that morning. When I got to work, I was embarrassed. Dressing poorly takes up so much mental energy these days. You’ve got to spend your time… spiritual energy… qi? telling yourself over and over again that it’s okay when you know it’s not. And when people bring it up, you’ve got to find a self deprecating comeback that’s so funny it says, “Now here’s a guy who knows not to take himself too seriously.” Anyway, the trousers weren’t going to take me to the pool party I’d been invited to. Mid drive, some guy Oprah was interviewing  on some podcast that I only very rarely listen to said, “Set backs don’t mean go backs.” 

I love moments like that. Random words fly out of nowhere and knock you to Sunday school. So much truth in 6 words. Heart knots undone just because something said let’s see what Oprah’s got for us today. The same something that said, if you’re not going to delete the blog then you might as well write on it (there’s a brief note about this at the end). It didn’t stop there. When your heart finally talks to you it usually doesn’t stop until it gets the point across.  

So it went on. Dude it said, if you don’t write about something, anything, you’ll probably get so tired of your excuses that you’ll get depressed and try to boink yourself again. You either need to get it over with or get prepared to get nowhere in life. 

It had a point. Intern, to social media intern, to intern producer, to junior producer and digital analyst, to Anchor in one year has been pretty fucking fantastic (it’s the grace of God I swear) but if that writing aspect of the dream is unfulfilled then I’ll probably never be happy. 

500 words in under an hour. I’d say I was back but that’d be me jinxing it. 

Ps1-I know the url says I’m mad but if I ever do that then somebody needs to commit me to the nearest psych ward because your boy’s probably suicidal. And that’s not joke. I was once quite severely mentally ill and I live in mortal fear that if I slip up a bit too much I’ll end up there. I call it the sequelae of depression- that’s a pretty good phrase) 

Ps2- I’m never going to complain about the website again. I can’t do all things. People who try to do all things in Lagos get high blood pressure at birth. 

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