There's a manic pixie dream girl I'm in love with. Her name is Kah-lo. She's the sort of person that makes you believe in magic and fairies and unicorns. Her hair is green, her skin is brown, and her eyes twinkle with mischief. She is one of the few people on this planet that drunk me and sober me love with equal amounts of fervor.

Now, I must backtrack here, because some of you are a little bit cross with me. You're thinking, "Afam, the next blog you promised was the one about your kidnapping and valiant escape. What is this piece of nonsense."

To this, I have the following to say.

I will not speak of, or casually refer to that traumatic incident until my therapists and I have dealt with it completely. As most of you know, I took a break from my exceedingly successful career as a journalist to become a full-time Demon Slayer. And just today, or was it yesterday, I realized that I'd given my demons such a thorough thrashing that I could return to my journalism career. However, we must never forget where that career started: the blog.

In any case, Kah-Lo is a wondrous creation. She's a lyricist without compare, a songstress with an eye for trouble, and a hard worker. Now, I must say, I don't know her very well. On the few occasions that I have met her, I have never once behaved well. I would apologize for this, but love is love. With my consistent declarations of casual affection, I have weaseled my way into her heart. Just the other day, she jumped on twitter to defend my honor.

It all started when I tweeted the following...
And then that led to this...
At the time I didn't really want to discuss my tweet further. In as much as twitter is a source of joy, it's also very often a source of stress. I find some debates stressful, and debating with Timi, who I quite like, is exhausting. It's far better to do peaceful constructive things like sleep. So I followed that tweet with this.

Fight Club is an extraordinary film that came out 20 years ago and like all good films, its relevance exceeds its date of release. Timi had the following to say about my tweet.

But Kah-lo, the defender of my musical dreams and sanctified ears struck him again.



Timi refused to stay down. He was hell-bent on defending his position. If Kah-Lo was a lesser being it'd have worked, but Kah-lo isn't a human being, she's a spiritual being, I knew it the first time she said, "It's time to make the club go up, it's time to shut the club down." My girl came through with a sledgehammer of a retort.

And before I could dance a merry dance because Kah-Lo had put down my wayward but ultimately lovely assailant she followed it with this. A Ginger sized 1, 2 punch. An "open close faster faster" if I ever saw one.


I danced a merry jig when I saw that one. When the agents of Jesus fight for you, all but the monumentally troublesome dare fight back. Timi tried to steal a win but he was ultimately unsuccessful.

And then, Kah-Lo made me love her forever and ever.


I love it so much I'm going to put it on a t-shirt and give it to myself for Christmas. After that, I'll put it on my underwear so anyone that's lucky enough to see me in the semi-nude (typically my parents) knows the way I swing and lastly... If you do not already know who Kah-Lo is you must educate yourself. She has a brilliant single that's perfect for Detty December (The Nigerian way of saying in December we party to the death). And with no further ado, I present to you, the work that my Knight in Shining Armour has made:

There's a chune so magnificent that when I first heard it, I stood in front of my mirror shirtless and danced a very African dance. I basically shook my very tiny behind in a scandalous fashion for over 3 minutes. I wasn't drunk or anything like that. It was just that the song I was listening to was so good that I couldn't help myself.

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

When people say that they do not like Beyonce, there is only one question to ask.

When did your fave ever?

If you do not like her work, then you cannot like work. If you do not like what she does, then you cannot like popular music. Her performances are singularly stellar. She sounds as good live as she does on her records, and she's probably the only singer alive today that can sustain a full belt through an incredibly intense dance break.

In Hold Up she sings, "what's worse being jealous or crazy?" And then she answers that she'd rather be crazy. That's clear because only a crazy person would release an album on the weekend that Prince died. Anyway you think about it that is something that most people know not to do. We only have room for so much. This weekend I only had room for Prince. I only wanted his extra time and his kisses. Everything else and everyone else was irrelevant. In the thick of my youtube Prince education, I forgot about the HBO promo that she'd made a week before.

I'm a tangential member of the Beyhive. I'm the prodigal Bee. Some of you live there all year round, in years of bounty and in years of drought. I only come round when there's new material. As a result it is no surprise that I wasn't among the first to write, but I'm fairly sure that I won't be the last.

There's an essay on the Daily Mail where Piers Morgan writes that he believes that Beyonce's a born again black woman using her new found blackness for commercial purposes. This opinion isn't just wrong, it's racist. For as long as there has been music, musicians have farmed their personal experiences for material. Some have formed entire careers off the premise that they've been shot nine times. Rags to riches stories are as common as the discovery of sex or a new found love of the powers of marijuana. Why should stories of blackness be treated any differently?

I can all but guarantee that if Beyonce had began her solo career by wearing her blackness on her sleeve she wouldn't be as huge as she is. At best she'd be Azealia Banks and at worst her career would be a gravestone in the realm of the hasbeens and the no longer relevant. Instead she hid her black girl magic in very catchy but relateable riffs about being crazy in love. Themes so relateable that her race was invisible. You may ask why she's chosen 2016 to come out with it, but the truth is you wouldn't have listened if she'd done it in 2003. In 2003 you could have ignored her, now you can't.

There is no one in this generation that could have done it as well as she. No one can tell stories about the black woman like the black woman. It is unfortunate that there are so few mouthpieces left with as much reach. When she speaks she turns the world into her echo chamber. You'll see the black power symbol at the Superbowl, and stop shooting us will find your eyes on MTV. On HBO you'll hear "if it's truly what you want, I can wear her hair over mine, her skin over mine, her hands as gloves, and her teeth as confetti."

In that you'll get a glimpse into what black girls the world round think before every job interview, as they think about the weave they'll have to wear, or the perm they'll have to get. It's what the girl that wrote to Lupita thought about while she considered buying Dencia's Whitenicious bleaching cream.
Maybe now that she's revealed her black heart, other people won't try so hard to hide theirs.

There are two ways to enjoy Lemonade. You can watch the hour long film with its black girl magic and pride, or you can listen to the songs in isolation. Both offer different experiences. When you listen to the music on its own, it's a similar Beyonce to the one you've always known. Her voice is still impeccable, her range is still breathtaking. You will be surprised that its the most genreless album she's ever made. There's rock, country, reggae, pop and R&B. It makes sense. One as gifted as she should not have to exist in boxes.

When you watch the film, you see it for what it is. Stories that touch from a black woman to the world.

Whenever I talk about Temi Dollface, I tend to go a little bit mad. The last time I did, I dressed up like what my father would call an orphan, and jumped around the garden like a March hare. These are things that I will no longer do. I am no longer in that magical place between 18 and 25. I now acknowledge that all my bad internet decisions will come back to haunt me.


If my memory serves me correctly, a thing it almost never does, this is Temi Dollface's second music video. At this point I would be at fault if I didn't write a disclaimer in the name of objectivity.
I know Temi Dollface and I quite like her. She's a friend of mine. I'm literally incapable of having a truly terrible thought about her. However, I have separated my rather public love from the task at hand. I was born to be many things (a son, a deeply unfashionable individual, a hobbit) but I wasn't put on God's increasingly brown and smog-filled Earth to be one of the many press release echo chambers on the internet.

A press release is what the PR people send you, and an echo chamber is what you get when everybody seems to be talking about the same thing, and nobody bothers to tell you anything different. 

The music video grew on me. I had the thing that happens when you see someone that you know in a movie. I cringed like a madman. I imagine that this is what Rihanna's mother does whenever she leaves the house. She's bound to be thinking something along the lines of, "Why didn't anyone tell me that I would never stop seeing my daughter naked." Or something like that.

By my third watch, I could watch it without spasms, and by my fourth, I was positively enchanted by it. It is cute, and weird and then it is cute again. It also has a certain unrehearsed quality about it that lends itself to the afore mentioned cuteness.

As I stepped off the London Underground this evening, I thought, "She'll never be a Pop Princess will she?"

It's her second music video, and I still have no idea what she looks like in a bikini. I don't know if that's progress or regression, but I like it.

The clouds float past my window, gently. I've decided to take things easy today. I will not worry too much about the work I've got to do, or the decisions I've got to make. I will sleep as much as I need to and not regret the hours I've set aside for me.

I was filming on Oxford Street for a story I was doing on Black Friday. It was cold. I was hungry. I was tired. Those feelings mixed themselves into something unrecognisable. I could no longer figure out what it was that was making me so ill tempered. In spite of my foul mood I didn't dare leave. I had interviews to do. I had to contend with the unfriendliness of London face first. It was as it had always been: me against the world; me against the city; me against me.

It is wise to know when you've done enough, but it is wiser to know when you cannot do anymore. I have never been wise. I planned to stand there until my task was done, even if it meant that my candle was only a puddle of wax at the end of it.

A man sat down on the pavement's edge. He pulled out a bucket, a tin lid, and some other half broken things. He removed drum sticks from his pocket, and drummed.

I have always been fascinated by buskers. Where I'm from public displays of talent are not so common. I stopped. I listened. I filmed. I knew then that I couldn't do any more. I had done my best to report on black Friday. I hoped that it would be enough and even if it wasn't, I'd return to fight the world some other day.

It is remarkable how music even when unaccompanied by words has meaning.

A video posted by The Ramblings Of A Madman (@troambyafam) on Dec 4, 2015 at 5:05am PST

Happy Days, Afam

As I write this one I'm literally listening to Demi Lovato's Cool For the Summer which sounds like what sex looks like in 2015. At first you're looking and thinking about how interesting they are, then you're talking or dancing and you're thinking about how shaggable they are. And the next thing you know there are feathers, you're on top of a car, there's a finger in every hole, you're being whipped, there are people everywhere, you see Bill Cosby, there's a nipple ring, toes are curling, there's a swing, camera's are flashing, there's a video and in the morning, you're appropriately hung over and bruised.

All I'll say about that song is, the Disney kids have grown up and they don't look like Disney kids anymore. When I see them I think, "Hot damn! When the twenties happen they happen!"

So it's officially summer time. I can see August from my window. Typically I'd be out there prowling the streets with bodies on my mind and minds on my body. But I can't this year because I missed the summer body memo. I didn't read the million and one articles on GQ about splitting the one pack six ways, and I certainly didn't read that spaghetti strands were best seen on plates and not on torsos. As if all of that weren't enough, I fell ill recently. A five day bout of malaria had me looking like I'd been living on a diet of crumbs, dirt and coffee for the past year. All of this means that I will still get shirtless because I have the soul of a nudist and I won't care that I'm not your body type because it's my body: your thoughts don't live here.

Anyway, the other day, I started thinking about how good it'd be to be fit again. I'd like to be able to do things fit people do like:

•  Run a five minute mile - If I did this I would drop dead and die. I can't handle it. I actually cannot. 
• Jump over a 6 foot fence - If those hyenas come down from the savannah it'll be Afam for dessert. I currently don't weigh enough for a main course. 
• Swim a kilometre - when the river and the ocean gods get mad at us for all the sand filling we've been doing I won't be able to swim to safety. I'll die. 
• Not have 25% body fat. This is true. It is terrible but understandable. Yesterday I had ice cream for breakfast. This is what happens when you wake up and your first thought is vanilla, two scoops.

 Because of these feelings I decided that it was time that I went to talk to a running professional I chose one of the most famous ones out there. I chose the flash. It was an interesting conversation. Once he started talking, I couldn't get him to stop, so I'm going to be lazy and tell you everything that he told me.

Enter the flash. 

Afam my dear chap, you want to start running don't you. It's a good activity. I quite recommend it. It'll tighten up all the bits of you that are more fat than anything else at this point, and when you walk down the street you won't look like you've run a marathon.

The first thing that you want to do is stretch.

Yes. Just like that. I know people would say that I look like a pervert but look at that form. Just look at it. If I look like a pervert then I look like a pervert god and anyone who knows anything about anything knows that looking like a pervert god is better than looking like a mortal. And I know that this pose isn't really thought of as stretching but it is. The butt cheeks are clenched, and the abs are tense. As far as I know, this is the best stretch for the core. 
The next thing you want to do is sniff your pitts. You're meant to be stinky after you've begun the run and not a moment before it. Believe me. You know how hard you've worked out by how smelly you are at the end. If you're not smelly at the end then you haven't done nearly enough.  After this you're good to go.
Set off with a bang, or a flash.

Watch out for Okadas.
Let them overtake you. Your mother's vagina did not open the gates of life so that you would spend your life hustling with okadas (scooters). 

When you're done, wait a second, take a minute, and take a shit. I mean it.
Like that.

I feel quite proud of myself now because not enough people talk about how important it is for your bowels to work efficiently. This is prime outside poopoo technique, and it's good for your thighs. It's like the plank, but for your arse. And this is one of the reasons why I love Lagos. All of it is a toilet. Whenever you need to go, just go. Make like Shakira and go, "Whenever, wherever, your poo and the ground were meant to be together." After your run you can chill. You could go to the beach and sit like so
or do some yoga like stuff like so
 and you can definitely lean back and think about your life like so.
Or you can take a relaxing swim like so.

As the flash said those words he died. Right there. He died. I couldn't even call an ambulance or anything. The good thing is we'll never see that costume again, and the bad thing is I lost a friend like that. Everyone needs a flash right?

Happy Days,
Afam

Hello. Hello. Hello. Life is extraordinary! My name is Condoriano Thatcher, and I'm jolly good friends with Afam. We met in the summer of 2012 and I knew then that we were destined to be friends forever and ever. We're fellow Unicorn bros and we're going to dance on rainbows when everything's said and done. Sing it with me!

The only thing I can say about this one is, why the dororeekado was he wearing a Kaleidoscope shirt darling? Every time the shirt changed colour I had a seizure. I'm far more interested in the dancer on his right. We could open a brothel together. She'd be the talent, and I'd be her madam. And please, a more believable car next time dahling. That was the first time Reekado child had stood so close to a Bentley, it should have been a Kia.
Tiwa actually looks good here dahling. She should marry the stylists that helped her dahling. Maybe now, my eyes won't implode everytime I see her on youtube. Now she only needs to stop rubbing herself so much, if she did it any more one would think she has ebola dahling.
This is a woman that I never want to see again darling. She shook her bum bum at me! How rude! How vulgar! I was traumatised. I think I might have post traumatic stress disorder.

Me: Yeah, that and fag ash breath. Don't you think you're being a little too harsh?

Gozzy: Shut up dahling. I told you not to interrupt me, you criminal.

 I was so happy for Dr. Sid here. I actually smiled. Can you imagine it dahling? Me, smiling? It was incredible dahling!

Me: Why were you smiling?

Gozzy: Because this is the most action the good fake doctor has gotten all year.

Me: Gozzy I think he's engaged!

Gozzy: Really? he's probably still a virgin then. I am always right dahling. I know it. I live in his attic.

Me: Stop lying Gozzy!

Gozzy: Did you say something, you imbecile you. It's good that you're cute, if you weren't I would have used you as my cat's litter basket dahling.

Me: But Gozzy, that isn't Dr. Sid!

Gozzy: Oh it's not?

Me: No.

Gozzy: Well whoever it is, is definitely a virgin.


Ah the good doctor looks good. I have no complaints about the sexy man. Yes, he's my landlord. I live in his attic, and this doctor is so far from virginity that he borders on being a man of the night.

Me: Gozzy, he's engaged!

Gozzy: If he's engaged, I'm sane. Stop playing games with me Condy dahling. I know what I'm talking about.
I just want to take this one home and ravage him. Then I'll put him in my brothel, and I'll be his pimp.  I'll change his name to Cougar bait, dahling. His Hausa sounding whine is just so sexy dahling. I'm quite sure that he's into BDSM. All he needs is a she beast to dominate him.

Me: Erm Gozzy. Isn't this a little bit inappropriate.

Gozzy: Enough, dahling. I know what I am talking about. Just the sight of him makes me want to purr. Yes, purr dahling. Miaow. There is only one thing about him I would change and that is his wardrobe dahling. He looks like a clown, albeit a sexy clown.


When I saw this one Condy, I was a little scared. She's a predator dahling. We must protect the sexy clown from her. I felt like she was about to eat me. Eat me Condy! All of that womanly hatred aside, I'm quite glad that she's a Northerner. We need more Northern musicians in the Nigerian pop genre. There are far too many Yoruba people in it, dahling.

Me: I'm getting tired of this Gozzy. You're too negative. You're messing with my chakra.

Gozzy: Stop it dahling. Your chakra is as black as mine. I throw the shade and you drink the tea. That's how it works honey sweetie cutie pie.

You can tell that all the confetti came from his nostrils dahling. They're just so big and dashing. I imagine that that's where he keeps his infamous goody bags dahling. Such a fine specimen of man. Also, all the women here are welcome to join my new entertainment establishment.

Me: You mean your brothel?

Gozzy: Don't be silly Condy, I could never be a madam. I am simply a provider of luxurious entertainment.

Me: Right.

Gozzy: Would you like to join it Condy baby? I know a woman or two that would use you well.

Me: Err no thanks.

Gozzy: Or you could be mine and mine alone Condy. It will be delicious dahling.

Me: Thanks but no thanks. Have you got anything else to say about the video?

Gozzy: Only that the next time the Mavin crew has money to burn, they should burn it on me. The Iamisigo resort collection is coming out soon. I need to be ready. I'll see you later Condy, I've got to go shopping.

And with that she walks out the door and hopefully out of my life. 

And Cut!
C.T (Condoriano Thatcher)
Call me Condy!

Live performances are the final frontier of the Nigerian music industry. It is shocking that the vast majority of musicians are content to singing along to their backing tracks, complimenting the digitally rendered vocals with their amateur hoots and yells, but this is changing. The talent pool is improving. This is helped in part by the increasing number of talent competitions in the Nigerian mediasphere. We watch them, we listen to them, and we judge them. We know what they're capable of. This is better, and if not better, then at least more original and sincere than the Dbanj's, and Davido's of the world. And this is one of the reasons why the Ndani spot on performances on the Juice are incredible. Take this performance by Tekno below.

Yes, she kills it. It's soft and clean, and even when she strains she keeps it under control. You can tell that she's got a sore throat or something, but it's still great. This is the standard, and it's time that the industry met it. I am thoroughly impressed. She will go far.

Happy Days,
Afam

It's been four days since my last blog and I feel terrible. Well, I don't feel that terrible, but I don't think there's another adjective that'll do the job effectively so terrible will have to do. Truth be told I only feel mildly bad. If I was a millionaire and a blogger, maybe I'd have the time to feel very very terrible, but I'm not and so I don't. Between the 70 kilometres of driving I get through every day driving to my 9 to 4 and back, and the bags under my eyes, I can't feel guilty. Guilt? For who? All my feelings at the moment are reserved for Self pity. Yes, I pity myself goddammit! I'm tired, and I want to cry, and I touch my face like a chronic masturbator touches his penis. It's a coping mechanism.

Hey Famzers! How you doing? I know that it's uncommon for me to be so prolific, but my dog died, so bear with me. I'm throwing all that ennui into the blog, and its betterment. And as I took a ten day vacay in the middle of February, views are down, and my blood pressure's up. So come one! Come all! I'm back and I'm taking prisoners. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the competitive aspect of blogging and writing didn't turn me on. And I am very much turned on. Whenever I see someone, more popular than I, I get a little bit angry because there shouldn't be anyone, more popular than I; my tender heart tends to start to bleed. When someone's beating me silly at the blogging game, I see that I need to up my err'thang game and kill them dead. And as per usual, the opening paragraph isn't an opening paragraph at all. I'd think you'd be tired of this sort of writing by now, but you aren't, and for that I am eternally grateful.

The more devoted amongst you will undoubtedly recall that while I was in Edo cultural dancing my life away, I brought in a guest blogger to keep you fickle famzers from straying. This amazing totes amazeballs guest blogger (Olaisblogging), created something so brilliant that even after he's gone and got a job, I am inclined to continue his good work. So without further ado, I present to you the second bread review on the ramblings of a madman by Afam.

You've got to remember that I occasionally feel the need to name drop my good old blog, inside my good old blog, so that when you people google The Ramblings of a Madman, I Afam, the Rambling madman, am the only thing that comes up. 




I must admit that I'm a more than a little bit biased where this song is concerned because I spent a great deal of my time in Edo State (NYSC camp) dancing to it. Yes! It was what I was sashaying to when I tore up the mammy market in that god awful leaf skirt that left nothing to the imagination (you mustn't think that I mind leaving nothing to the imagination. I'm selling my market one awkward body part at a time) 

Yeah! That's the skirt. What can I say? Medicine man chic?

 The song starts with the lyrics, "I fit die on top your matter eeeeeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh!" You have to admit that it's a lovely sentiment even if it is more than a little bit dishonest. Chances are you won't die for the person that you're thinking of when the song is playing. But we must forgive his youthful idealism because he is young and because his face is the freshest face I have ever seen. His skin is like a baby's bottom pre-heatrash. His face has probably never sprouted a pimple and at 23 he remains suspiciously devoid of a beard.

The song continues with the lines, "baby girl!! God bless your mother eeeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh! you too fine pass mammy water eeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh!" That bit of it made me laugh. It's got a great sense of humour. Yeah why not tell the woman of your dreams that she's hotter than a she beast that lives only to seduce men and carry them away to unheard of underwater kingdoms eh? She'll take it in her stride. She'll smile at you and tell you that you're more important to her than her morning shit. LIES!! She will go to her room and cry like my best friend Wonwon did when Royodeboyo told her that she was sweeter than fried meat.

ps! I don't know that she actually cried, but I do know that the compliment caused her far more grief than any insult. 

After begging God to bless every member in the girls family, Wizkid goes on to explain that love isn't selfless or kind or unconditional, it's largely dependent on reciprocity.

"love me make I love you baby oh"

But we can't judge him too harshly for that because he proves that he doesn't support rape and sexual violence in the next line.

"kiss me make I kiss you"

If you follow this advice, you shall never be guilty of any impropriety.

All of that lyrical floury goodness is carried by a yeasty beat so effervescent that one cannot listen to it without being blessed with a hint of happiness. Like most Nigerian bread it's more than a little bit on the sweet side. And like all sweet things it can only be endured in small doses. The song suffers from a nasty case of diminishing breadness, where your enjoyment of the baked product diminishes with every bite. It doesn't become unbearable until the second verse by which time even the most staunch Wizkid supporter slams his head into the floor and screams, "WHEN WILL THE BLOODY SONG END?" or delivers a life ending slap to the music playing device.

In conclusion, the song features crumby and crummy lyrics super imposed on a spectacular beat produced by Del B. The beat, and Wizkid's whiny vocal embellishments save the song the way shitty bread needs more nutella than bread to be edible. The song is the musical equivalent of factory produced agege bread, and while this certainly suffices when one is in need of a bout of constipatition and some nostalgia, it is not healthy. As a result of this it gets three loaves out of a possible five.

Happy Days,
Afam

So I was walking about in my garden this morning

Yes, that is me. And yes, I dress like this when I'm in my garden, because it is my garden.

Now you can see me properly. I'm wearing my Afam Strawhat. The more discerning of you will have realised that I've changed my name on twitter from Afambewbew to Afam Strawhat. That's who I am now. I'm the straw hat wearing fisherman of the city that doesn't have a fishing rod. Attend me. Where was I? The shades are Cartier's, the necklace thingy is nameless, but it's flawless. I got it from the crafts market near where I live. The shorts are Muay Thai shorts, and the trainers are from the Yohji Yamamoto collaboration with adidas. They're Y-3's.

ehem...

Yes...

I was walking about in the garden feeling myself

If you didn't know how to feel yourself, learn your lesson. This is how you do it. I can't explain it. You either get it or you don't. You get it? You gerrit? I can get it? I know.

When the Universe struck me with news.

I was like NO! I'm not ready. HEEEEEEEEEEEH!!!! HAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!! Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Slow down.

But the Universe waits for no man. Shehe (because the universe is both he and a she) said to me, "Afam, Temi Dollface just dropped a new song."

I removed my hat from my head, clutched it to my chest and screamed the scream of a crazed fanatic. Errr Maaa Gerrrrd I wasn't ready! She told me she'd been working on something a few weeks ago, but I was still unprepared. I hadn't even heard the song at that point, but I was freaking out. ERRR MAAAAR GEEEEEEEEEERRRRD AFAM

I clutched my balls to steady myself. But even that wasn't enough to calm me da fuq down. OH MAAAAAAAAAEEEEER DAAAAAAAAYS AFAM

And then the excitement escaped from me. I couldn't contain myself.

I said "REGGIE", "CAPTAIN REGINALD ODI!!!!", "TEMI DOLLFACE JUST RELEASED A NEW SONG!!" "YEAH! SHE JUST RELEASED A NEW SONG NOW!!" "LIKE NOW!" I'M GONNA TELL ERRBADDDY AFAM

That's captain Reginald and I. There I'm wearing my Slazenger swimming shorts from my University of Manchester swimming society days.

....
Captain Reginald didn't say anything back because he was sleeping and farting somewhere. It was at that time that the Universe took the initiative to download the song, its video and the behind the scenes documentary of the video which shows how she and IBK Spaceship Boi wrote the song into my head.

While the download was happening, the sky went dark and everything turned blue. This is what happens when the universe is doing magic. It was quite painful. It was like taking a dump while being severely constipated but in your head. Yes. It was like taking a constipated head shit. TAKING A HEAD SHIT AFAM

When the magics released me, I sprang up like a champagne cork. "THANK YOU UNIVERSE FOR BLESSING ME TODAY!!"  I yelled. I also waved goodbye to the universe because you can't keep the universe about you at all times. Heshe can be quite wicked. Heshe isn't a good friend to have.

And then from that position I,

I jumped up and got my eagle on. That is to say that I spread my wings... My legs are spread aren't they? I yelled in ecstasy for the song is brilliant. this is how I feel when the people I like do good work. It's light and it shows Temi's voice to great effect. Its production is minimal. Most of the time she's accompanied by a piano, and even when the drums, claps and maracas come in she isn't over shadowed. It's certainly more intimate than her last offering, Pata Pata. The harmonies she does with IBK Spaceshipboi are tight. They've got such great chemistry. I don't believe that we've heard all she's got to offer. She belts, she squeal, she's husky and then she's full. I for one look forward to her album. And let's not forget IBK Spaceshipboi. His falsetto is incredibly successful in this track, and those who watch the behind the scenes video will marvel at his talent. They both make it look so easy.  And as if all of that were not enough, the song has got a great message. It's got my stamp of approval.  Give it a listen will you?

Happy Days,
Afam

I was having a little bit of a shitty day, but it's better now. I'm in Stranger with a half pot of coffee I can scarcely afford and Yegwa the proprietor, is reading an article out loud about how Ted Talks lie to us. I wish you could be here. This is a sort of home for me.

The time has come for me to drop a line or more about Beyoncé. I was hoping to avoid it but I have read so much rubbish over the past few days that I cannot bear it any longer. She's been swimming around in my head, and I must exorcise her. You see, my traditional stance on Beyonce is that I am not a fan of hers. It is not that I do not like her music, or that I do not like her as a person. It's just that I'm not sure that this is enough to be a Beyoncé fan in 2013. In fact there are no Beyoncé fans, there are only stans. They're the ones that stand on the ready to decimate anyone that dares criticise their king. They buy her albums twice or thrice, and talk and tweet about her all the time. I would know. My twitter live feed is filled with people like this. These are the people that saw her twice in London during her Mrs. Carter tour, and still bought tickets to see her again in 2014. It isn't a bad thing to be a stan. In fact it's quite a lovely thing. I like Beyoncé. I really do... but not that much.

Beyoncé is an enigma for me. I do not feel that we know who she is when she stops being Beyoncé. There is nothing about her that we know that she herself didn't tell us. She's probably one of the most guarded celebrities out there. What we hear and see are things that she herself puts out there so they could not be real. She more than most others makes it clear that what she does is a job. And she's very good at it. She's perfect celebrity for such an imperfect world. She's black, but not so black that white people can't relate to her. A friend of mine from Uni once told me that while he wasn't racist he couldn't imagine shagging a black woman. I asked him if he would shag Beyoncé and he said yes. I informed him that Beyonce was a black woman and he kept quiet. We never spoke about it again. Her body is black-esque. She celebrates her curves, but she really isn't that curvy. She's curvy enough that black girls with phat booties can identify with her, but at the same time her booty is small enough that white women don't feel like they're left out of the conversation. When she's on stage she doesn't wear a lot, but you cannot call her a slut, or a whore, because when she's not on stage she's fully covered up. Beyoncé's Christian, but liberal. She supports the LGBTQ movement. She's feminist but at the same time, she's chosen some of the things feminists have fought against. Of course, if a woman calls herself a feminist it is impossible to say that she isn't. Feminisms cannot be compared with one another. Different women will want different things, and who is anyone to say that one of them is righter than the other? She sings about love, and sex, but then she's happily married. She's the perfect balance between Conservative and Liberal. She plays both sides of the fence. She is a blank wall, the people that support her take from her what they will. She stands for so much that it is impossible not to find one facet of your life that she supports. 

Beyoncé dropped her latest album on Thursday night or early Friday morning and it set social media afire. People were quick to say that there was no marketing for it but there was. It wasn't obvious, but it was there. It started late last year when she signed that $50 million dollar deal with pepsi. The internet didn't blow up, but I remember reading several articles about how she was somehow supporting child obesity. I disagreed with the sentiment. I love pepsi. I drank a 50 centilitre bottle of it earlier today. I know enough that I shouldn't drink 20 a day. Then in January, there was Beyoncé-gate. She sang the American National anthem over a backing track and it blew up. Everyone covered it. It was impossible to miss. We knew then that she was going to be headlining the Superbowl halftime show and what's more during the press conference she gave for the Superbowl half time show she belted out the National Anthem acapella and silenced even her most determined critics. The year before, Madonna headlined the show, and she released a single (Give me all your luvin) shortly before it. The Superbowl halftime show is the perfect promotion vehicle. I expected Beyoncé to take advantage of this. I was waiting for the single. There was none. Her Superbowl performance was epic, but that was almost a sure thing, she scarcely puts a foot wrong live. After her Superbowl performance she announced that she'd be going on tour. I was surprised because there was no new album to promote. It seemed like a tour from out of the blue. In March, Ryan Tedder, the man who penned Halo, said that he'd been in the studio with her, but that her album wasn't ready. In the same month  I've Been on/Bow down leaked, so we knew that there was definitely new material out there. That too caused a little bit of a buzz because of how vulgar it was. She said nothing. Writers said everything that there could be said about a song, and her fans pined. On the fourth of April, she released her pepsi commercial with a clip of her song "Grown Woman." Her fans were pleased but they were also disappointed. She'd announced that there'd be something new on her youtube page with #BEYHERENOW. They were expecting a new single, but they made do with 30 seconds of a song that was good enough to be one, and 20 seconds of their queen dancing with past versions of herself. And then she went on tour.

While she was on tour, her H and M commercial that featured the song, Standing on the Sun was released. It too was good enough to be a single. After that she performed Grown Woman live, and we all heard it. We all watched a fan's recording of it. There was no way I could escape it because I follow pop culture so closely. I longed for her to stop dominating my radar. I wanted her to drop her album and be done with it. If I felt like this I can only imagine how her stans felt. They must have been starving for something new, something they could buy, something tangible. A bit after that she performed Standing on the Sun live as well. We would have continued talking about her if Miley Cyrus hadn't happened. After Miley's antics lost all of their shock value, she was back. She wasn't as news dominant as she'd been before but she was there lurking. As late as a week before her album was released I was reading articles that said her album could be expected next year. These articles were followed by the news that she would continue touring in 2014. Her hive almost died. They'd endured a year of tantric foreplay with no release.

They'd been teased mercilessly with the hope of new music  so when she made it available all at once, complete with videos, they gorged. It isn't marketing or promotion as my generation has known it, but I think it still counts. It's like when you go through a period of immense poverty and then you receive a windfall. You always splurge. You gorge yourself like a starved lion. And that's exactly what her fans have done. Has it changed things? Not really. She probably won't be able to do this for a while. In fact no one will be able to do what she's done for a while. She's put her name on the surprise release. Anyone that does it now will be mentioned together with Beyoncé. She'll steal the story. I imagine that she and her team's busy now, working on her next move. There's one thing that's clear, Beyoncé is the annoying child in school that never sleeps. Rihanna's partying, Katy Perry's shagging John Mayer, Miley's twerking with Mike Will Made it,  Lady Gaga's being weird, and Beyoncé's working. 


Happy Days,
Afam

Like a master baker advising an apprentice,  Afam  suggested I (Ola) review Justin Bieber’s latest musical offering. I am neither a baker nor a music writer, but I thought I’d give this a go anyway. Life is too short* for overthinking. So, without much ado or any thought, here is my review of ‘Hold Tight’.  


But first, let me explain the (admittedly tenuous) analogy in the first sentence.  Afam  asked me to guest blog, a request which I didn’t think twice about  accepting. In fact, I’m not even sure I thought once, because I had literally no idea what I would write about. That night, I dreamt (dreamed?) I blogged about bread**, and the next morning, an  idea was born.  Never one to turn down an idea that isn’t 100% awful, I decided to take on the  bread  idea  and attempt  the first in what is bound to be a long line of 'bread reviews'. 




The opening few seconds  of 'Hold Tight'  are pleasant enough. For a brief moment, I find myself pleasantly transported to the 90s R&B scene due to the song's stop-start beat. This feeling is immediately replaced by what can only be described as audio-revulsion, as Bieber wishes a mystery girl "happy birthday". That's a pretty stale move if you ask me. The whole birthday thing is played out; it may have been fresh back in 2003 when you could find Fiddy 'In Da Club', but by the end of 2009, the whole world was well aware of (and bored by) Jeremih's buttery pleas for celebratory intimacy. I know fashion is cyclical, but I don't think this trend needs to be brought out of the oven just yet.  


Anyways, I digress. 


The song rolls on, and JB implores this mystery girl whose "lips won't let him go" (freaky) not to let his kind words go to her head - you see, she is "the best he's ever had". In one fell swoop, he manages to come across as half-baked and overcooked at the same time, which is pretty impressive. While this doughy piece of lyricism is sinking in, he progresses by comparing kissing to food storage as he rhymes zip-lock with lip-lock. What crumby lyrics. From this point on, it's pretty much 'repeat ad nauseam' until the end. All in all, 'Hold Tight' comes across as a hurriedly whisked together mixture of lazily sourced ingredients.  


This is vital, because Bieber doesn't seem to appreciate that making music is exactly like baking bread (true story). If you get the ingredients the tiniest bit wrong, the end result tends to be awful. He's gone heavy on the cheese with 'Hold Tight', and the result is gag reflex inducing.  Sorry JB, but this effort gets one out of five loaves.  


P.s. Not sure if you can tell, but I really am not a fan of Bieber's. His face is smug, like those artisan breads in boutique bakeries that silently judge you from atop their high shelves as you purchase Asda's smart price.  


P.p.s I feel a bit bad for this scathing review. JB is going through a lot and doesn't knead all this loaving.  


*Lies. It is the longest thing you do. 
**Yes, bread. Not a typo.

Is this 'bread review' feature ever going to take off? Is Afam ever going to let me guest blog again after this? Please let me know your thoughts below!

Hello. This is Afam. I don't know why Ola didn't put up a link of his blog. But I suppose it's good that I get to sweep in like Don Quixote and save the day. Ola blogs here http://olaisblogging.wordpress.com/