This one's a little bit of a nothing post because try as I might I cannot settle on a theme that suits my mood. What's my mood at the moment you wonder? It's a quiet smile and a wicked glint in my eyes; it's a dead pan face with vicious truths and strong convictions and; it's a soft anger that's borne of constant disrespect.

I don't want to dwell on the disrespect part of things, but over the weekend a writer friend of mine came to my house for the get together I threw for my 24th and shat on me in public. He literally pressed my nose and called me bastard in front of my brother and his good friend, Iapetus. Because I write and I'm so passionate about it, I try not to talk about it unless I'm asked explicitly because I can be a little bit overbearing with it. The struggle rises to the surface and overwhelms me. I can't stem the flow of stories I've held back because I can't find an appropriate deposit for them in my life. You'll be treated to the, "Err mar gerrrd nobody understands me" whine and that will be closely followed by the "following your dreams is so hard" wail. Sometimes I fail to keep from offloading my emotional baggage on complete strangers but I try very hard indeed. I try so hard that I'm proud of myself in spite of my failures. It's progress.

So this writer turns to my brother, Gbaddy and says..

Enter writer friend, Iapetus, Gbaddy and me, Afam, the competitive.

Writer Friend: Afam and I used to compete back in the day.

Gbaddy's really only feigning interest. He really couldn't care less about the competition or lack there of, but Gbaddy's nothing if not polite, so he puts on his most interested face and joins the conversation.

Gbaddy: You did?

Me: Yes we did. I defeated him.

And I did. I churn out content at a pace he cannot match, I have a greater following and he's been on hiatus for six months or so. Anyway you look at it, he's been buried. I don't like thinking about it like this because his race isn't mine.

Writer Friend: Well all he does is insult middle aged women about what they wear, while I write introspective and interesting poetry and articles laced with my unique brand of dark humour.

Silence...

His words hurt. They were an icy dagger in my breast. At that point I just wanted him to leave. You don't come into my house and chat shit like that. It's just rude. As he left he tried to apologise, or smooth the troubled waters but I wasn't having any of it. I delivered the most cruel line when he broached the subject again. I said, "By June I would have B for Blown and you'll be exactly where you are now, nowhere."  

And that's all I guess. I can't say that I will have blown by June but I hope so. The thing that's awesome is even if I don't I'll be okay. Dream chasing comes with a satisfaction that's unmatched by anything. I don't even know that this is my dream. The bit I like best about all of this, is that it's something that's mine and mine alone. Nobody gave it to me. Nobody can take it from me. Papa Afam didn't make any magical internship granting calls. Anyway you look at it, it's all me. There are mistakes, and there are bad calls but I can't help but feel a little bit proud of it.

And that's all for tonight I guess.

Happy Days,
Afam

Every once in a while, I find something that I'm so excited about that I can't keep my shit together and I don't mean that literally. I was going to say that I meant it literally but you don't need the imagery and I'm turning 24 soon. I've got to behave myself. A 24 year old that can't keep his shit together is like a 7 year old dog that can't sit on command, a mistake that's gone on for too long. I am Afam am not a mistake. Mama Afam and Papa Afam told me that explicitly. You're probably wondering what it is that's got my tummy rumbling and my heart beating like it's fit to burst. I'll put you out of your misery.

I have to say, the grey's the only detachable sole I'm not crazy about. Why wear grey when you can wear  yellow, and tangerine, and light blue, and teal?

Gone

Gonner

Gonnest

I spent part of my evening in the art cafe - a new coffee house in Victoria Island - writing about it. I was quite keen on going there because I thought it'd be a great place to write. I've been looking for a space that's quiet, with great vibes, that encourages the flow of words from brain to screen or paper. So, I was happy when an assignment led me there. I can't say that I'll ever do much writing there because I don't quite feel comfortable there. We just didn't click. My heart didn't beat. I didn't feel like myself there. 

I ordered a frappucino with baileys in it. As I sipped it, I could see Stranger Lagos - the micro cafe and concept store that I adore - in my mind's eye saying, "tell me you love me, tell me I'm better, tell me I'm the only one, even if you choke."

I had unwittingly applied some of the lyrics that inspired Maki-Oh's newest collection to my life. You might think it funny that I feel so strongly for Stranger Lagos, but I do not. I did not realise how destabilising the move back to Nigeria would be. I lost a fully formed life with routines, and constant gardeners, and gained an incomplete one with empty spaces, unfamiliar faces and more unstructured time than I could stand. When I found Stranger, I grabbed unto it. It stopped me from being as adrift as I was. One thing that Lagos has taught me is, when you find something that works you seize it. You don't wait for your idea of perfection to present itself, you make do with whatever's on ground. But you mustn't think that the frequency of my visits to Stranger are as a result of a decision to settle. You cannot say that you're settling when something is quite literally the best of its kind you've ever had. 

Maki-Oh's fourth collection toys with the themes of madness and unmadness, and love and anti-love. These are states that are so fluid, and transient that it is often difficult for the bulk of us to distinguish where exactly between the two we lie. And even when we are sure, we're always aware that the other is just around the corner. 

What I love about Maki's clothes is that they're always so intelligent. You can see the story there. They're more than just things you put on your back. They mean something. It's a little bit mad, but I appreciate the story almost more than I do the clothes. Before I consider their wearability or how fashionable they are, I think about the story, and how genuine it is. The madness of the collection presents itself clearly to me in an off white dress with tassles that's vaguely reminiscent of a straight jacket, and in the awkward lengths of some of the dresses. That's the more obvious line of thought in the conversation she has presented. 

Can you see what I mean? It's longer than midi, and it's incredibly straight jacket-esque.

This one isn't straight jacket-esque but it's still a bit longer than midi.

This is the dress that I like most. I love the colour and the seams. This collection lets you know that Maki knows her girl.

I turned up at Stranger for a social media week event they were hosting. On my way inside I bumped into Uju who asked me to help her unzip the phenomenal dress she was wearing. She told me in between gasps that I had stumbled upon the video shoot for Maki's 2014 fall collection. 

Strange things happen at stranger don't they?

Arri Esiri and Uju.

The skirt received the tassel treatment as well, and the blouse has a sheer panel on the side. I think the blouse is refreshing. It's sexy, without being sexy, and it's so easy. I know the baggy but translucent blouse has been quite popular lately but I'd be lying if I said that I'd seen it done like that.

Click here to watch the video on style.com

Happy Days,

So we hit 20,000 page views in March… Is this what making it looks like? I suppose my head would be a lot more swollen if my views weren't coming from spambots and robots and all the other bots that abound on the internet. On a more serious note, I'm profoundly grateful. I know there are things that I haven't delivered yet. The working titles section is looking less like a to do list and more like a list of things I'll never get round to.

Anyway in true The Ramblings of a Madman fashion this blog post isn't about my booming statistics - And they are booming aren't they? They're literally twice what they were in February, and three times what they were a year ago - it's about the effect that living in Nigeria has had on my temper.

I do not know what it is about Nigeria. I really don't. There must be something in the water. During my four years in Manchester I only lost my temper twice and that's pretty good in my opinion. In the short time that I've been back I've gained the ability to go from calm to murderous in no time at all.

A week or so ago, I was stuck in go slow on my way to the Wheatbaker for supper. The traffic moved a little bit, so I inched forward. That's how these things work. The car in front of you creeps as close to the bumper in front of it as possible, and you do the same. I wasn't expecting the car behind me to ram into me. I didn't see it coming. The accident came at the worst time as well, as some benevolent danfo drivers had just sorted out whatever mess it was that had caused the go slow. I got out of my Mitsubushi Outlander to survey the damage. It wasn't too bad. There was a dent in my bumper stained with the white paint job of the offending mustang. As I wondered how I would go about fixing the damage, the female driver sauntered out of her car haughtily with her phone in her hand and her headphones in her ears. I was preparing to be the gracious accepter of a profound apology when she said, "Why did you stop in the middle of the road?"

That was it. My head blew off. I would have slapped her, but my hands were held down by my love for me. I had the upper hand. If I had hit her, I would have lost my advantage. While the combined powers of my selfishness and conscience were enough to stay my hand, they had little or no effect on my mouth. The words flew from me in an explosion of spit that I delighted in. I had succeeded in spitting on her without actually spitting on her and it wasn't just a droplet of spit either. I counted six sizeable drops as they sailed through the air and landed on her face.

"You rear ended me in go slow, and you are asking me why I stopped in the middle of the road? Can you not see the cars in front of me?"

"You spat on me. Why would you spit on me -"

"Shut up! Are you crazy?! How can you accuse me of causing the accident! You are rude! You hit me and you didn't even have the good grace to apologise!"

"All you needed to say was that we were in traffic -"

"Shut up!" I screamed, cutting her off again. "How did you not realise that we were in traffic? You were on your phone, weren't you?!"

She started to deny it, but I had drawn blood and I wasn't letting up.

I marched to her car eager to prove my theory, but what I found there was much worse than the evidence of a quickly terminated phone call. It was a still burning spliff of what smelled like Arizona.

(Arizona's low grade weed. It smells like the devil's shit, and it's smoked by only three sorts of people, the desperate, the broke and the poor)

I had found my scapegoat. She would become the sacrificial lamb that I used to quieten all my aggravations about life in Lagos.

She started to say that it was a cigarette, and I lost it some more. 

"Shut up! Do you think I'm stupid? I am a degree holder! You were smoking IGBO! Getting high and driving! And after smoking cheap drugs you came here to blame me for the accident? You are a shameless woman!"

I was frothing at the mouth.

Area boys circled me to soothe the fine anger she had stirred but it was to no avail.

"Just beg him" they said to her.

She started to beg but it was too little too late. I was prepared to push the matter. butI knew that if I made even more of an event of it, I could see her to a police station where she would have been thoroughly embarrassed. The Nigerian Police Force can do that much. I have full confidence in them in that regard. But I let it go because I saw that I had stopped being the person that I was before I got here. I couldn't reconcile my actions to my perception of self. I had entered the fray and gone native. You never go native. You're not supposed to go native. Have I gone native?

Happy Days,
Afam

Sometimes, I wonder if this has been the wrong way to go about writing. I've been reading a forum that says, you must never ever write for free. They say you're only ever allowed to write letters for free. I'm not griping about not being paid now, I'm just thinking out loud. Does writing for free cheapen it? It certainly makes it more difficult for any writer that comes after you to make a living off it. For instance I do not think that Bellanaija would ever pay someone who writes like I do, and thinks like I do, when I was out there gifting moderately well written articles. I chose to write for them for exposure. "I need to get my name out there" I thought at the time. "I need to court their audience and steal it for my own" I continued. "If I have even a fraction of their audience, I can monetise it. I can take it to a bank and make something of it." That was the plan. It's still the plan, but I'm not sure if it's a very good one. It's all well and good to be a decent writer, but what many don't realise about writing is that you're a living business. You're exactly the same as a consultant, or an entrepreneur, except that where a consultant sells a service, and an entrepreneur sells his products, you sell the results of your creativity. A bad business decision will fuck you no matter how artistically viable or satisfying it may seem at the time.

Okay so it's 12 in the morning and Papa Afam's watching the tennis. I really want to jam while I write this one but if I dare, he'll come down the stairs and break my coconut head. The conversation will be something like this...

Enter Papa Afam (may he live for a long ass time) and Afam (the man-child behind the blog, the ramblings of a madman by Afam. Is he really mad, is he not, find out within)... (Forgive me, I am trying to sell my market, and optimise my search engine rankings. It's not easy being the top rambling madman on google and yahoo you know? Bing! I'm coming for you) 

Papa Afam: My dear chap, what are you doing up so late?

Afam: I'm working on something extraordinary.

Papa Afam: Are you on drugs again?

Afam: No. I'm not! Why do you always call me a drug addict?

Papa Afam: Because you act like one. How can I send you to school to do economics, and you come back and tell me that you're a blogger? You must be on some cheap drugs!!

Afam: (You cannot expect that I'll have a reply to that. Papa Afam is like a train. He's building up steam. He will not stop until he reaches his destination. He isn't like the American Police. Everything you say during a tirade, can and will be used against you. There is no statute of limitations either. Papa Afam has been known to recount twenty year histories in five minutes. 

Papa Afam: Now, you're listening to music at 12 in the morning, when your mates are studying and resting for work! You are clearly mad! Those cheap drugs have blown your mind.

Or something along those lines. 

But all of that is morbid and dull and issue full and imaginary, because it didn't happen. It might have, but it didn't. In any case it isn't time for that story. It's time for another.

A little while ago, I wrote a piece called, How to dress like a blogger. It wasn't tremendously popular but no matter. I don't obsess over the numbers. If a post isn't doing well, I move on to the next one. Anyway, It just occurred to me, that because I am a blogger, I would need to update it from time to time. You see, I'm not some stagnant fashionisto, I evolve with the times. As a rule, I am not very fashionable. I can be stylish when I put my mind to it, but most of it isn't very good style and that's okay too. There's a chap on Instagram who thinks I'm becoming a style icon, fourteen07style, but I can't fathom it. I suppose that's the way of these things, you don't name yourself. It's always other people that do you the honour or the disservice.

And that's enough of that. I must begin.

My dear Afaminators and Famzers, you cannot sit behind your mother's laptop, bleed words unto a page and call yourself a blogger. No! You must look the part as well! Yes if you are depressed Sheila writes, then you must dress like a depressed person, and if you're a sohosister, then you best dress like a sohosister. I'm the rambling madman, Afam, so I dress the part.

So what the what am I wearing? The trousers are from FCUK. When I got them, they cost a certain price, and the week after, they cost half that. I was devastated. The shoes are Russel and Bromley black tasselled loafers. Every man with smallish feet should have a pair. I like that my feet are small. You see I'm not very tall, so I think it's a good thing that my feet don't protrude to far in front of me. Now let's talk about the shirt, because this one's all about the shirt. The shirt is actually the cloth bag that the lovely people at Stranger Lagos give you when you make a purchase. I shit you not. My make up artist friend, Imoteda, said that she wanted to make hers into a crop top. I immediately attached myself to the idea and declared that I wanted to make a slutty wife beater of a tunic. That is what that is isn't it?

I look like I have decently sized and appropriately well proportioned arms in this one. It is a lie. I am substantially weedier in real life. I think this is my new turn up shirt. I'll reserve it for when I go to Elegushi beach on a Sunday night and I don't care about who's watching or who's there. When you're out there getting your life (that's when you're out there living and all systems are a go) it's important that you're really out there getting your life. It's impossible to get your life when you're wondering about what everybody thinks about you getting your life. Sometimes, that's why I dress like a madman. It's my form of peacocking. If I wear that very very questionable shirt, or those abominably bad muay thai shorts that I love so, then I already know what you're thinking of me so I don't need to agonise about it. Does that make sense? Clothes aren't just clothes you know? They're deep. They're deeper than deep.They're balls deep, and that's very deep indeed.

Where was I going dressed like this? Well, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't going anywhere, but since when do you need an excuse to dress up? I suppose this is my brand of madness. Why do you have to follow the curve? Say you wanted to dance, but you didn't have anyone to dance with, would you stay at home on a Friday night, or would you take the leap and see where the night takes you. There's a magic to living in the present. When you live in the present every moment's just so pregnant with opportunity.

Happy Days,
Afam

When I wrote this one, I was writing some copy for a client. It was a little bit weird that I was writing two completely different things simultaneously. Who said men can't multi-task eh? Anyway, I was disturbed by the shocking number of "take care of your man" articles out there. I cannot fathom why a man is essential. Sometimes we make deals that are senseless. Yes, you have a husband but now you're depressed. Yes, everyone thinks you've got everything but you know you've got nothing. And then you'll die. That'll be it. There has to be more to life than walking on eggshells for the sake of someone else. So, I took all the advice I'd heard over the years, and I wrote it down. I stripped it down and presented it as I saw it. That's what I generally try to do on the blog. The result was caustic sarcasm that covered its ass. As a writer, you must cover your ass. It's particularly essential when you're dealing with controversial issues, that apply to so many people. 

Mama Afam didn't like it. She thought it was too real. She said she knows too many people who lived like that to find it funny, no matter how ridiculous the writing got. I didn't want to stick the disclaimer on the end of it, at first. I thought my feminist credentials would show everyone that it was satirical, but my editors advised me to cover my ass, and so I did. 

This one was very well received by the Bellanaijarians who read it all the way through. I did however enjoy some of the comments from the people that didn't.

Luis Garavito: Admitted to the rape and murder of 147 young boys. Pedro Lopez: Accused of raping and killing over 300 girls across South America.

I quite liked this one. It made me laugh. Dog god alien fucker... it's very very very catchy.

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.