Is it too obvious to say that President Buhari isn't saying happy days or not?


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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Days,

Are you good? A story of the D and I


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you good?”

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

We walked off the court an hour later.

“Are you good?” He asked again.

“I am now.” I said.

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

Happy days,

Lagos Hotspots: Sip

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

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

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

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

Friends... There's no surviving Lagos without them

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Days,

One man's petty is a woman's destruction - On Izien and Ahunna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

The President Buhari Book Launch... frowns all around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the verge of tears,

Lagos Hotspots: Nitro


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

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

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

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

September in Review: It's all about the stack and restack.


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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Days,

Solange - A seat at the Table - Five days listening and we aren't stopping


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,

The Lawyartist and I: The Exhibition you need to see if you're in these parts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not the first time we'd spoken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Follow him on instagram:@TheLawyartist

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

Happy Days,

Lagos Hotspots: Is that a Lotus?


If you're into perversions of an oriental nature like Hentai and Octopus pornography the hottest club in Lagos is Lotus.

The club promoter is the cross between a Lebanese pangolin, a Jamaican swordfish and a Toyota, but he's got nothing on the architect. That one is a master of drunken technical drawing. He imported a cell from Guantanamo Bay and turned it into a haven for skinny biscuits, fat cats, obnoxious turtles and stanking skunks.

Found in the sky of one plot China Town, this place has everything: beached whales, little red riding Temitayo, rainbow beer on tap and the spectacular bar tender Airconditioning-can-just-like-to-decide-to-mess-up-anytime.

Head down there this weekend. Instead of bouncers and passwords, all you've got to do is gain the approval of a bamboo shisha pipe. She isn't half as discerning as she is hot.

Happy Days,

Writer's Journal: I'm no Linda, Wendy or Perez... Really. I'm not.


There's a trick to living in Lagos that I haven't learned. Here you must toe the line of civility without stripping your life of its vitality.

It is a thing I have struggled with for no longer than half a decade. And it started when I first learned that my life was mine to do with as I pleased; to dance where I fancied and do what I wanted. It was a freedom so great that it drove me to insanity and back again.

The last time I lived here, I was completely taken with weak prettiness and petty rebellion. It was a charmed life with tragic undertones.

I've been blessed with a reset button so now I shall do things differently. I'm not so mad as to stick to the same practices and expect that life materialise a different result. If momentum is my secret to productivity then I shall take care to keep it. If criticism is the diamond that hones this diamond I shall hear it and find a way to bear it.

Some of you think I'm the tell it like it is chap, but I'm not. It's just that sometimes you feel so strongly about a thing that it is difficult to pull your punches. Your words seem to believe they are the scribbled iteration of a sledgehammer, strong, unyielding, unforgiving. Sometimes, even in person, they seek to do the same. I tell a tale as if it were a blog and I banter without the benefit of the delete button. I frequently say things I only live to regret, but when I regret them, you'll never find a more sorry figure than I. My eyes make their best puppy impersonation and howl my doom and gloom to the world.

I'm not your Linda, Wendy or Perez. I'm just a guy with many opinions and an even more interests. My wit is sharp enough to survive subtlety, my spirit is full enough to survive tempering. I write like someone who could one-day author a book so good it'll win something more prestigious than money.

TROAM by Afam is a blog about Lagos, Nigeria, and then the rest of the world written mostly by an Ibo, Yoruba, Lagosian who's unhinged enough to ask someone who's apparently Ojukwu's brother, if they have any relation to the infamous Ojukwu. It is unbecoming of a man of my stature to be rude without intent. I regret that question too.

My friends believe one day I'll do something no apology will fix or say something that sees me on the highway to ruin. I'm in two minds about this. In person there is great work to be done. Loose cannons are things best left in lonely fields. In journalism, my code of ethics will see me through.

Happy Days,

The Bobrisky and Adesuwa Interview: Someone failed Ethics Class.


The truth is a thing I like to dispose of as soon as possible. If I sleep with it locked somewhere within me, it will become the knife of gossip which is only effective when tossed at the backs of the unsuspecting.

At one party or the other, I'd meet Adesuwa Onyenokwe and say, "Good Evening Ma! Your interview with Bobrisky was so revolutionary that I seek only to be your student. To learn from one as accomplished as yourself would be my life's greatest honour."

And then I will walk behind her, find the most indiscreet acquaintance with a natural flair for the dramatic and whisper, "That interview that Adesuwa the publisher of the Today's Woman magazine was fantastically bad. Not only does she lack the most basic understanding of what is ethical and what is not, her many years as an interviewer have failed to teach her that sweat patches and cameras are a match made only in the darkest pits of hell."

If this is a stab I shall do it in her front, quickly and without very much ado. It's a nasty habit of mine, one that will make me enemies far more quickly than it will make me friends.

The problem with journalists and all who serve in a journalistic capacity is the power we wield. We expose secrets that are probably better left unshared and say things that are easier left unsaid, and most of the time we get away unscathed.

You could interview a vulnerable person so brutally that when you're done they find the nearest noose and hang themselves. Their family will be left with a body to bury and you'll get away with murder. A word could ruin a man and we'll dance to the notoriety it brings us like its the sweetest music. Because journalists are mostly the harbingers of gist and not the wreckers of lives, we must think very carefully about the material we publish. And that material must be treated with care. Facts must be checked and events must be qualified where need be. We should be objective, and if not that empathetic.

It would be impossible to continue if I did not tell you all a little about Bobrisky. He's a man who's learned a very important thing: that the respectable are never quite as popular as the scandalous. If this were another country, he would be a drag queen. A bleach applying, make up wearing, cross dressing staple at a disreputable bar. In Nigeria, he's a novelty. The most consistent opinion is that he insane, which is to be expected when you consider that we often call those who do not believe what we do crazy. He speaks often of a Bae, a political chairperson that's responsible for much of his excess. As we do not know who this Chairperson is we cannot say if he is real or not, but the clever know not to read too much into it. If there is a Bae, then good on Bobrisky. For several Nigerians life is so difficult that any come up no matter how nefarious is a good thing. When I say this in public, many fools say something that amounts to:

"But why doesn't he get a job? You know? Do some other thing that offends us less."

And I say, "You do not know how lucky you are to have a job that affords you the luxury of a good life or a family that sees that you are sheltered, bathed, clothed and fed."

For many in Nigeria the only thing they hold true is the hustle and the knowledge that they must hustle. We the comfortable should know better than to look at the uncomfortable and apply our truly wonky sense of morality to their activities.

How is it that we burn Bobrisky at the stake of public morality and publicly celebrate those we know to be corrupt?

Their thievery has done more harm than Bobrisky will ever do. They've filched the nations coffers dry. People starve because of what they've done. Salaries in the public sector have gone unpaid for months!

The interview shows this bias brilliantly. A part of the description the magazine wrote said, "BobRISKY is at the centre of sending people, especially the youth, down a path that threatens the future of family as we know it." It is a sentence so atrociously shameless that I feel scoundrelous for repeating it. Anyone with half a brain knows the real threat to the future of the family as we know it is the nation that we live in and the recession that we're faced with. With unemployment higher than the polite should ever mention and inflation destroying the value of our Naira the family as we know it has bigger problems than Bobrisky's snapchat or instagram.

And then this so called experienced interviewer had the gall to ask him whether or not he is gay in a country where the admittance of such a thing is punishable by public lynching, 14 years in prison, or death by jungle justice. The first time she asked it, he denied it brilliantly, but his denial wasn't enough for her. She thrust the question at him so frequently in different iterations that at a point the interview became something of an outing inquisition. I will never understand why people are so interested in the sexual practices of men and women with whom they share no relation. It is an ethical disaster that she cannot atone for. If something were to happen to Bobrisky as a result of that interview, he'd be in dire straits and she'd be fine. I do not think she'd even be as civil as to pay for his funeral or his rehabilitation.

If we fail to call out the villainous for their wickedness then we are their tacit supporters. As this is not a brand of villainy I ever want to be associated with, I will never regret this strongly worded article. It shall be a tonic for Adesuwa Onyenokwe's ethical inadequacies.

Happy Days,

If you would like to watch this interview, here it is.

Lagos Hotspots: Vapoursssssss

If you're looking for a place to get gassed this weekend then no filling station will do, I've got just the place for you. Lagos' hottest club for all smokey adventures is Vapourssssssss.

Located on the island's mainland this random convention is the creation of the perpetually high interior designer, We-Ain't-Got-No-Ventilation.

When you walk in head straight to the Bauna - a bar which is also a sauna, and order a Champ-Vape; You'll literally watch as the stuff drifts up everybody's nostrils but yours.

Be that as it may, this place has everything: A bottle factory, midget shaped chairs, cupid fountains, at least two members of the almost famous boy band DRB dressed in a bong costume - they're both the pipe, and your future son.

Join in the fun on the dancefloor and you'll bust a move to the truly spectacular sounds of DJ Dead Sauce and light skinned Idris Elba. I all but guarantee that you'll never have a better time in the city.

Happy days,

Our bodies are sacred. All and any violations are Intolerable.


It would not be incorrect to say I never intended to write this article. At least not today, and certainly not this way. I cannot say when I'd have written it, but I like to think that I would have at some point. There are some issues that are far too important to be left uncovered.

A friend of mine has been met with a disaster so great that it has shaken me to the core. When I heard of it, I was wounded. I am wounded still. In between violent fits of disgust, confusion, anger and sadness, I thought that it would be wise to clear the blog's usual programming, and write about something that cannot be written about enough: the continued triviality with which many men treat the bodies of women. It seems that too many of you are in need of instruction.

Some of you beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics have come to believe a dangerous thing. You have listened to a villain who has made a villain of you. I for one never listen to villains or degenerates. I always feared that if I listened, even a little bit, I may be convinced. A man who allows himself to be convinced by the argument that he has the rights to use and abuse another's body without their explicit consent is no man at all. He IS something less than an animal.

Our bodies are sacred. It doesn't matter the part. If I tell you that you may only touch the polio vaccine scar on my right shoulder, then that is the only part of me you should touch. To do anything else would be a violation. I will not easily forgive you. My reasons are simple. There is nothing that is more profoundly mine than my body. I was born with it. I have carried it with me for 26 years. If you disobey the rules I set regarding its treatment you deny me my humanity. I become something less than you. This is why there is no such thing as a small liberty when it comes to my body. Even the slightest feel could drive me to complete distraction. Every violation no matter how small is a very big deal. I find that the same is true of most of us.

This friend of mine hugged a mutual friend of ours goodbye before she left a gathering of young people as the polite are known to do. He took the opportunity to slip his hand in her shirt and he didn't stop there. His hand continued its lightning quick journey till it slid underneath her bra. Once there, he took the opportunity to grab her breast and squeeze her nipple. She was so shocked that her senses departed from her. When they returned, she grabbed his hand, pulled it out and said, "no!" The miscreant was not perturbed for after that he asked her to come outside with him. His dedication to villainy and shamelessness is almost worthy of praise.

After a night spent blaming herself, showering, and scrubbing the offended nipple more times than a nipple should ever be scrubbed, she sent him a text in the morning. She said, "dude, I know we were joking around but you grabbing my nipple like that was TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE and I’m really upset." The villain was so committed to his scoundrelism that he didn't have the good sense to apologise properly. He said, "Loool sorry." She couldn't believe her eyes. I imagine that she thought, "How is it that I scrubbed my nipple with great violence and gnashing of teeth only for this harbinger of misfortune to laugh out loud?" She typed another reply. She said, "why are you LOLing? This is serious and I'm upset." And he said, "Ugh! I already said I'm sorry. I don't see what else I can do."

His replies were so atrocious that I was very nearly driven to madness.

To that she said, "You could not try and trivialise it by lolling for starters."

A reasonable response in my opinion.

He said, "Ugh! Why are you doing this?"

And then he proceeded to ignore the rest of her messages. It took an angry phone call from a friend of hers and the threat of exposure to get a half serious apology out of him, but the damage had already been done. It is unlikely that she will ever speak to him again, and that is a shame for she has the unique fortune of being Oxbridge grade clever, rather good-looking, and terrifyingly wealthy. Now she's telling everyone who knows her well enough to ask, exactly who he is, and what he did. If he is not more sorry than he has ever been in his life for this crime against her humanity by the end of the week I shall be very surprised. The next time I see him, we shall have some very strong words. It is not in my nature to let a molester of women roam the streets. He must be rehabilitated.

Convert the molesters you know as soon as possible. We must use everything within our considerable means to ensure that they see the error of their ways. Even a stint in jail isn't excessive.


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