How to dress like a blogger… DIY Apparel from Stranger Lagos… And dancing with yourself

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,

1 comment:

Louis Vuitton speedy said...

The dress is perfect for my sisters! I was worried about sizing because they are adults. I used the sizing chart provided by the vendor and they fit everyone very well.

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