I don’t think many people believe fat meat is greasy

Hola peeps.

 

Welcome to 2025. How y'all been?

 

I could come up with the whole jaded “new year, new me” line, but I really feel 2025 is gonna be a pivotal year for me. Towards the end of last year, I’ve been itching for a change, and my reading has coincidentally lined up accordingly. Reading Falling Forward and The Obstacle Is The Way radically changed my thinking, and I am currently reading Million Dollar Weekend about starting businesses, any business.

 

Plus, I am actively taking notes while reading, unlike in the past, when I read a book and then satisfied myself in the knowledge that I had read it. For instance, one of the lessons I took from TOITW (or was that from FF?) was actively seeking out problems to solve. So, instead of hiring a plumber to fix the clogged bath in London, I went on YouTube and unclogged the bathtub with my trusty niece Dara's assistance.

 

Oh yeah, recall my 10-page-a-day book reading advice from last year’s blog? I have now emulated another mate by reading two books simultaneously, which works out to be a 20-page-a-day habit. The books are typically from different genres; so far, so good.

 

I think a significant reason for the need for change this year is that April 13^th, 2025, will mark 10 years in Juba. The company I run there does good work, so naturally, we get our contracts renewed year after year, but since 2000, we haven’t brought in a new business line. The whole thang is rather mundane, dry, unexciting. I need to do something else, man. Plus, if I am taking signs from “the universe” about the need for a change, I reckon I am getting major screaming headlines to leave Juba. Not only has the punk J.S. threatened to have me rearrested – dude musta spent all the money… haha – I received a call precisely 2 weeks ago from some dude threatening to deal with me for messing with his girlfriend. I wish I were kidding.

 

So, I arrived in London two weeks ago for my bi-annual visit with my daughter – more on that later – and went shopping after my dentist appointment. I have more than enough clothes – more on that later – so for the past couple of years, I mostly fill my luggage with stuff for peeps in Juba. Did I tell you that one of the bright spots from the jail experience last year was understanding the plight of typical prisoners in Juba and that I told everyone about it such that a lawyer mate of mine decided to dedicate a day every month towards helping free those jailed for minor offenses like owing sums less than $50? Yeah, so the guy who called to threaten me is/was her boyfriend.

 

I bumped into this mate before I left Juba for London after not seeing her in over 6 months. However, we never failed to hold a monthly call where I’d ask about her work with the prisoners. So, she called me on January 20^th on my way to the shops to ask if I gave anyone her number because random folk had been asking for money. I laughed and told her that had nada to do with me. Being January and all, folk had probably spent all their money over the Xmas holidays and were looking for some support. We laughed over it, and she said she’d call me later with her shopping list. I responded that I’d not be buying diddly for her.

 

A few hours later, when I saw a call from her, I presumed it was regarding her list, so I picked it up. This time, it’s a man’s voice on the phone. After confirming he was talking to Tunde, he asked what my relationship with the lawyer was. Now I am thinking she lost her phone or something, and this guy found it and is trying to reach out to the last set of numbers dialed.

 

Me: My relationship with W? She’s my friend. Why?

W’s Disgruntled Boyfriend: You are lying.

Me: Huh?

WDB: You are messing with her.

Me (*cracking up*): Wait, so you are calling my phone to accuse me of stuff I haven’t done? Who are you?

WDB: I am Paul mother%$&ker. W’s my girlfriend.

Me: Okay, Paul mother%$&ker, what’s your surname?

WDB PM: None of your business. I know you are messing with both W and your girlfriend Sandra.

 

Now, Sandra is my closest friend in Juba, the nicest person ever. Of course, folk automatically assume we are dating, and I’ll confess that I have leaned into that at times to dissuade unwanted female attention. Of course, I inform Sandra on rare occasions when that occurs, though I never reveal the females' identities. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

 

Me: Dude, you don’t know what you are talking about.

PM: Are you in Juba? I want us to meet.

Me (*like I would offer to meet this dude*): Nah.

PM: Don’t worry, I am waiting for you. You are Nigerian, right? %$&^…..further expletives…..more expletives…

 

I cut off the call and contacted Sandra since I met W through her. I asked if she knew who W’s dating. She asked why, and I told her about the call with Paul, the guy who seemed proud to announce that he’s having unnatural relations with his mom. Like me, she hadn’t seen W in ages. I suggested she call her to find out if she’s okay.

 

She called me back to say the Paul dude went off about her and her Nigerian boyfriend “pimping out W.” U what? She said she heard W in the background crying and trying to get the phone off Paul. Sandra traded words with him and promised to look for him when she returns to Juba from Nairobi. I advised her to try to see W in person to ensure she’s okay.

 

Throughout that week, Paul sent me threatening messages from W’s phone and did the same to Sandra. It wasn’t until a few days ago W reached out to apologize. It was a text, so dunno if it was Paul pretending to be her so I kept things formal by asking if she’s okay. Her response? “I don’t know”.

 

As part of my 2025 makeover, I have decided to try something new every year. Woulda tried a standup comedy class but can’t get that in Juba. Podcasting, seeing as I appear to be the only person on the planet without a podcast? Nah. What’s that about anyway? Do we have that many people with something worthwhile to say? Anyway, I finally decided to learn Juba Arabic and W was supposed to come by the office at 4pm on Mondays to tutor me. I reckon, for both our sakes, I’d find another tutor, no?

 

If that isn’t enough Juba drama for y’all, back in November 2024 I bumped into a girl I first used the Sandra-is-my-girlfriend-so-unfortunately-nada-can-happen-between-us line on. She was with a friend I had seen her with before. To cut a long story short, her friend lives near me and invited me to dinner at a spot in the neighborhood; she referred to the dinner as a “date” by the night's end. U what?! She started referring to me as “baby” during subsequent exchanges and made it clear that she wanted a relationship. Uh oh.

 

Since my jail experience, I have been even more careful in my interactions with South Sudanese, so when I found out Baby’s dad was a zol kebir, I knew I had to let her down easily. I kept making excuses to avoid hanging out until one fateful Friday when Sandra suggested we go out. As I planned to run the following morning, I intended to spend a maximum of 30 minutes at the spot. We arrived at 830pm, but I didn’t leave until 3am! Why? Guess who found Baby getting all lovey-dovey with some Lebanese dude at the same spot. See what happens when you serve a living God? Hee hee. I pretended not to see her at first ‘cos their table was behind ours. She came over to say hello and later sent me texts offering to “explain.” I responded that there was nothing to explain. Oh my, I was free at last.

 

The event we attended was an album launch, but by the end of the night you’da thought I was the one giving a concert. I danced the night away, and Sandra kept asking if I was okay, as she had never seen me dance that much. I drank only water that night but was so happy I ended up paying for drinks for the entire table, even though they ordered several bottles of champagne and other liquors. Oh my, it was a good day. I am glad to report that Baby has kept things strictly formal since I caught her being someone else’s baby. All’s well with the world….except for having to deal with J.S. and, possibly, Paul when I return to Juba. Small potatoes.

 

Re J.S., I am not as bothered he’d repeat the airport arrest thang, as I now have more contacts at the airport; plus, as part of the legal document he signed when he received the undeserved payoff, he agreed not to bring any further claims against me. Now, will that stop him from trying something untoward? I doubt it. However, I am ready to pull out all the stops this time. That said, the stops won’t include certain folk I thought had my back. It’s incredible to see that all the people who said something like, “Why didn’t you alert me when he arrested you”?  were informed after he threatened to have me re-arrested last December, and they did diddly. Again, that’s “diddly”, and not Diddy, as in the dude, who, unlike me, ain’t ever getting outta jail. Even Trump ain’t gonna pardon him.

 

Speaking of, I am typing this on my way to Cali to see family. Unlike previous trips where I spent max 2 nights in one city before jumping to another, this time, I am spending all 3 nights in Cali with Kemi. Haven’t seen her or the boys since February last year, so I am looking forward to it. Around this time last year, Chief went all gaga about his 85^th birthday celebration; this year, it’s mom’s turn to do the same for her 80^th birthday in August. The working idea is a cruise, though I insist on spending only 4 nights at sea as I intend to spend more time alone on vacation this year.

 

I was in Zanzibar last November for a friend’s proposal/engagement celebration – I know, right? I thought it was a wedding celebration. I love you Ben, but ain’t no way I woulda flown there if I had known it was just for a proposal – and extended my stay for three extra days working remotely after the wedding engagement party departed to their various destinations. It was bliss. I slept in, ate, worked out at the outdoor gym, chilled by the pool, sent emails, and walked on the beach, mostly solo. It convinced me to go on solo vacays at least twice a year, starting this year.

 

I didn’t swim in the sea in Zanzibar, though, so I decided to correct that by hiring a swim coach over the Xmas break in Lagos. I took four swimming classes and learned to swim on my back. Other than that, I spent more time listening to the swimming instructor’s stories than learning to swim. At the start of the classes, I told him I aimed to float in the sea without much effort. Dude said four classes would be fine since I could already swim. He did everything but teach me that. Now that I think about it, the dude spent only the first two classes in the pool with me.

 

Me: So, remember I said I wanted to learn to float effortlessly?

Mr. Sunny the swimming instructor: Yeah, yeah. But first, I wanna teach you to swim by moving just your legs. You don’t pray for that but imagine if you were kidnapped and they tied your hands, and you happened to escape by jumping into the Lagos canal. This way, you’d be able to swim away.

 

It reminded me of the early days of kickboxing classes, where I’d start a conversation on politics just to get a breather. Only this was the opposite. Mr Sunny would tell random stories until the 1-hour class was up. He would go on about all the kids he had taught, and how the parents would be so happy they’d buy him stuff whenever they travelled outta Nigeria. Hey, at least I learned to swim on my back, and I bought a cool pair of swimming goggles. I will try to find a better swimming instructor when I return to Juba next week.

 

Until I decide on the next course of action, I intend to spend more time in Juba this year than last year, when I was out of Juba every month. Even though I was still working - and have never taken a vacation where I haven’t worked - our partner there doesn’t believe one is working unless they can see you physically. Now you understand why I need a change, not only for work but for everything? It was during a run in Richmond Park last August when I saw folks picnicking, reading books, and just generally chilling that it dawned on me that I spend all my time in the UK and US visiting friends and family without really vacationing. Then, the Zanzibar trip further cemented the solo vacationing idea.

 

Coincidentally, during the Zanzibar trip, I met up with this girl from Juba, whom I had had a crush on since we first met in April 2024. I saw her more times in Zanzibar than I had in 7 months in Juba. Turns out she was also feeling me, and I must confess she’s the first girl I ever considered seriously dating since my last relationship ended. Man, she had me buzzing. Unfortunately, it’s past tense because I am getting shades of the tale end of my previous relationship where I feel like I am making all the effort, plus….this is where I would use the hands-over-eyes emoji…she’s 24. Yup, I am twice her age. I know she knows I am way older than her, but I don’t think she knows how large the age gap is. I was hoping to have the “talk” with her to see if we should give it a go, but as earlier mentioned, I don’t know if I have enough patience to guide her through the pitfalls of a relationship with me. She might need a few more broken hearts first.

 

On the other hand, the West African single mom I met in London last August really wants a relationship and is determined to make it work by visiting Juba. I informed her I couldn’t guarantee her marriage when we met last Friday. She’s so stunning that heads turn when she walks in the room, but I cannot give her what she wants at this point in my life. So, there you have it, one prospect’s based in Juba, so distance ain’t the problem, but she’s way too young. The other’s in her early 30s, lives in London, and is keen to give it a go, but something’s missing.

 

If you are keeping track, I am a 48-year-old bloke who can’t make his mind up about work or relationships. The only thang I seem confident about these days is my fashion sense. Really. It might be a mid-life crisis, but I have become more sartorially daring in the past year—so much so that random strangers stop me to ask where I get my outfits. Is there a fashion line in my future? Let's finish the Million Dollar Weekend first.

 

One thing that’s definitely a sign of a mid-life crisis is the incessant need to test myself. I signed up for the Comrades marathon in June yet again, and bizarrely, I chose to run topless in the dead of winter in London….twice. My newfound psychrolutic trait can be traced to my mate Zabdee, who went down the YouTube rabbit hole one day and came out the other end a believer in what I call Neanderthal running. For the past couple of years, dude’s chosen to run topless and shoeless ‘cos “our ancestors ran that way.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him our ancestors didn’t wear shorts either and that a leaf covering his lower extremities woulda been more appropriate.

 

We went running a few times last summer – he in caveman man mode and moi normal - and I was determined to see if he was crazy enough to repeat the feat in the cold. Sure enough, he was. We ran 3ice during my 2-week stay in London. The first time, we did 23km, and I decided to try going topless for the last 2km. The second time, I did 11km fully clothed and the latter 11km topless. Once I got home, I had a hot bath and slept for what felt like forever. The 3^rd time was before my second date with the West African lady I mentioned earlier, so I’d only do 11km. This time I was fully clothed.

 

Would I run topless in winter again? My immediate response is no, but who am I kidding, right? I might try running topless and shoeless the next time I am in the UK in the summer. Zabdee suggested I try running topless in Juba, it being hot and all. Yup, dude definitely wants me jailed again.

 

My daughter turned 13 yesterday. I got emotional (that’s manspeak for teary-eyed) when her mom emailed a pic of her all decked out in her party outfit. ‘Cos she was having friends over on her birthday, we hung out on Saturday. The day started great, and I felt warm and fuzzy when I helped this girl with her heavy suitcases from the Piccadilly Line platform to the Victoria Line at the Green Park tube station, even though I was headed to the Jubilee Line. I reckon God planned to make me leave the crib earlier than usual to pick up my daughter so that I could help this lady, as I had no clue how she’d transported three heavy suitcases across the tube station with no elevators. Even with that 8-minute detour, I made it to my daughter on time.

 

It was a crazy cold day, but we had a blast with our archery class before lunch, and then we took a trip to the Tate Modern before our hunt for an Oreo milkshake. The most surprising part of the day was my daughter holding my hand for longer and not flinching. In the past, she would allow me to hold her hand just long enough to cross the street or chart a course through the crowd. As soon as we were “safe,” she’d retract her hand so fast one would think I had M-pox. Well, not this time. She held onto my hand as we walked up and down London Bridge, searching for a Pizza Express and the elusive Oreo milkshake. Then, she rested her head on my shoulder on the train ride back to her mom. When we got to her mom, she capped off my stellar day by hugging me and thanking me for a great day, all without the prodding of her mom. Yesterday morning, when I called to wish her a happy birthday, she ended the call by telling me she loved me without waiting for me to say it first. U what?! Dunno if her recent affectionate actions are a fluke or a result of the oncoming teenage years, but I am all for it. Now, I am counting down the days until Sunday when I get to hear all about her 13^th birthday party. Can’t wait.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.

Articles of interest to moi (2025)

TSR vs COSR
The most searing self-examination I have read in yonks
To tariff or not
Ode to Jimmy Carter 3
Ode to Jimmy Carter 2 
Ode to Jimmy Carter 1

Articles of interest to moi (2024)

Skiplagging
Engineering solutions to solve climate crisis?
The 401k debacle
Understanding CBN policy moves
Mr. Dan Collins
A frank conversation
One person can make a change
South Sudan, o ye!
What are the odds?
The suffering never ends
We need more Matt Farleys in the world
Nigeria's Venice Biennale 

Desperately seeking non-African friends who do not require items to be transported whenever one travels outside the continent

Hola peeps.

It just dawned on me I was so consumed with detailing every exciting moment of my time as Interpol’s Most Wanted I forgot to tell y'all what I was doing in South Africa. Believe it or not, I participated in the 2024 Comrades Marathon. Yup, 86.6km of sheer pain. Bear in mind this is coming exactly 2 months after completing the Paris marathon in 3hrs 48mins. Why do I do this to myself? What am I running away from? What am I running towards? What am I trying to prove? If only I knew. It’s the same way I hold breathe during HIIT workout to make it more difficult. Why??? A childhood friend reckons I am trying to feature in the next phase of MCU. Ha. That’s classic. Until I discover the reason, I intend to take a month off running before prepping for the Lisbon marathon in October.

 

Some of you might think I chose to embark on these feats after breaking up with ex, but the joke’s on you 'cos I was still with ex at time of the Paris marathon. To be honest, both marathons are such a blur I cannot provide any advice for anyone thinking of doing something as insane as the Comrades. Okay, maybe two pieces of advice. One, lubricate as much as possible to prevent chaffing and sore nipples. I chose to wear my limited-edition JPG-designed bras  to help with the latter. The other advice is to change your nationality to South African. Those guys are clearly insane ‘cos of the 23,000 participants over 21,000 were South Africans. The Comrades is almost like a rite of passage in that country. While limping off the plane from Durban to Cape Town a day after the race I noticed South African limpers waving at each other and screaming, “see you next year!” U what?

 

You know the Mike Tyson line about everyone having a plan in the boxing ring until they get punched in the mouth, well, my lofty aim to complete my first Comrades without walking was thrown out the window after encountering the first hill. I just wanted to finish. Man, I ate and drank everything on offer at the refreshment stations. I just wanted the race to end. In all that though, I did stop to show some kids the proper choreography to New Edition’s If It Isn’t Love. C’mon, one’s gotta pass on valuable knowledge to the younger generation whenever one can.

 

The kids were on the lawn in front of a house of one of the thousands of spectators offering support and refreshments, and holding up hilarious home-made signs like, 1 in every 1,000 Comrades runners poops their shorts, are you THE ONE? and Remember, you paid money for this. There were also the motivational screamers: Hey, why are you walking? It’s supposed to be a “race”……They are called “running shoes” for a reason. Funniest dudes were those insisting, “you are almost there” at the start of the race. Amazing folk. Oh, I can’t forget the guy who was heralding the benefits of his organic honey in tackling Polly Shortts, the last major hill on the course. Did he expect us to pull out a wallet and purchase some honey while navigating the tough incline? Even now, I fail to grasp his marketing nous. Kinda like that time in Luxembourg I saw toothpaste for men. I mean, really?! It’s like moisturizer for female elbows.

 

What helped me in the latter part of the race was bumping into a Kenyan runner called Hillary. Dude was struggling with cramps and he sought the advice of a total stranger. I told him not to stop and to keep going no matter what. I decided to run beside him for the entirety of the race. We chose to walk up any inclines and run on descents. He helped me and I helped him. If God hadn’t brought him my way I most likely woulda walked all through the second half of the marathon.

 

After completing the race I went to the rest area for International Runners, which was like the graveyard scene from Michael Jackson's Thriller video. As I tried to make sense of what I had just been through I decided to watch the rest of the runners complete the marathon ahead of the 12-hr cutoff time. My heart went out to some guy in his 70s who was 20 meters away from the finish before the pistol went off indicating the official end of the race. This dude’s shoulders were about 45 degrees apart, he was basically running diagonally, as he struggled to finish. Man, it was brutal to watch.

 

I didn’t inform family I’d be travelling for the race as they woulda freaked out at the race distance. It’s hard enough being back in Chief’s good books after he saw me at the church service on April 4^th. I only decided to travel to Nigeria last minute after I was able to add a Juba-Addis-Lagos leg to ticket I had previously purchased from Juba to Paris via Addis. As such, I arrived in Lagos on April 3^rd, spent most of the day at the Interpol office, attended Chief’s 85^th birthday celebration on April 4^th, then departed for Paris that night.

 

You see, Chief only decided to mark his 85^th birthday at the end of January, thus giving his kids all of 2 months to make the requisite arrangements. As I had already paid for flights and accommodation for the Paris marathon on April 7^th I knew there was no way I was gonna cancel Paris plans. So when he kept asking if I was gonna make his party I truthfully responded that it would be difficult work-wise since his party would be a weekday, a weekend woulda been easier. ‘Cos of his Leslie Gore-esque tantrums, even after I changed flights with 2 weeks to go I still kept up the pretense to both Chief and rest of the family. You’da seen their faces when I walked into the church service. I later discovered from Nike and Kemi that Chief bruited about how I don’t value him and prodded them to make me change my plans. I won’t be surprised if he adjusted his will during that period.

 

Come to think of it, it’s not something to joke about. While in South Africa last week, I got word that another friend in his 40s passed way. That makes 2 mates in the space of a week. As the news filtered in while I was out with friends on Friday night, I spent the evening hunched over phone sending WhatsApp messages to people in my close network enquiring if they had a will in place. Most folk don’t wanna talk about it, and I ain’t suggesting it as a nostrum, but it’s necessary.

I completed mine last year and, as expected, left everything to my daughter. Based on Interpol situation and general state of uncertainty, I have committed to putting aside sums every quarter that would amount to covering her school fees up until post-grad. One never knows, man. Last night, I attended virtually the night of tributes for pal who passed away on June 6^th. Man, it was surreal.

All in all, the celebrations went off without any hitches. All guests remarked at how Chief looked more like a man in his 60s than an 85-year-old. That said, dude must really be feeling the rigours of his advanced years ‘cos he’s decided he’s no longer keen on foreign travel, what with wheelchair assistance at airports, etc. I am not sure I truly believe him. Chief not getting on planes is like moi not blogging about poop.

That said, on the flight to Joburg from Nairobi I dreamt I was taking a dump, but it was a urinal setup…for dumps. I kept waiting for the looo to empty out before dumping but nope, people kept coming in and dumping like it was normal. Maybe it’s aftereffects from the Comrades marathon that’s responsible for recent spate of weird dreams like one with WhatsApp convos being made public and one on the night after the Comrades where I dreamt of wearing a dress and woke up with cramp in leg.

Oh yeah, my fave new thing is farting in the swimming pool. Farting, not peeing. The bubbles up escaping from swim trunks and rising up lower back is exhilarating. It’s infantile I know, but hey, one can’t take life too seriously. For instance, I am not ashamed to say I spent yesterday watching YouTube videos on how to bounce my pecs. Once I master that and the Human Flag, there’s no stopping me.

Tot ziens and God bless.

Bad man looking good in Diop

Hola peeps.

It’s your friendly neighbourhood procrastinator. Y’all good?

How do I commence? Wait, lemme review where I stopped last blog post. Brb…oh yes, the issues at Juba International Airport. Turns out the case veered so off left field a Netflix limited series or, better yet, an NPR Tiny Desk session is required to properly convey all elements of my escapades.

Peep this: My dodgy ex-colleague never showed up at the airport to get my name cleared. You know the Naija saying, wetin you dey look for Sokoto dey your sókòtò? It essentially means what one’s been searching far and wide for has always been in front of one’s nose all along….

I gotta take a pause here to reflect on some terrible news I just received. A former colleague from Nigeria passed away a few minutes ago (late hours of June 6^th, 2024) after slumping while on a treadmill. Dude’s 44 years old and left behind a wife and 3 kids. Where does one start? What does one say?

The last time a close friend passed away I felt compelled to question my life and impulsively called up ex-girlfriend and proposed to her. This time I am not even considering that, particularly since same lady and I parted ways only 2 weeks ago. That got me thinking that maybe the idea of us was more appealing than the reality. She’s everything I ever prayed for, but it didn’t pan out. After such an event, the sane side of Tunde is contemplative, wondering if he coulda done anything differently, and after concluding he gave it his all, i.e., he was intentional this time, and vulnerable to boot, he is satisfied there wasn’t more he coulda done. Soon afterwards, the less rational Tunde started going over in his head potential girlfriend replacements. Thankfully, this lasted all of five seconds before melancholy set in, and the future he had envisioned for himself and the ex swamped his every thought. It didn’t help that he was listening to Lewis Capaldi’s NPR Tiny Desk performance on loop while struggling to try on the clothes she left behind in his apartment. Weirdo, much?

As I sit here freezing my butt off in the Joburg airport waiting on a connecting flight to Durban, I am tempted to unwrap luggage and don a jumper. A marked departure from the steamy weather I left behind in Juba yesterday. It’s supposed to be rainy season in Juba, but the rains have been few and far between. Due to incidents documented in last few blog entries I still get PTSD whenever it’s time to hand over my passport at the Juba immigration desk. As implied earlier, it took a pal I have known since my first trip to Juba in December 2014 to finally extricate me from the clutches of the Juba immigration folk.

 

After mate heard about my situation, and castigated me for not informing her earlier, she took me to the Inspector General of Police (IGP) – yes, of the entire country – and as she explained my predicament in Arabic I saw the IGP motion to another of the officers in his office. The dude he called upon was the head of police at the airport who happened to be in the IGP’s office on a separate matter. He confirmed he was familiar with my case and brought up my passport biopage on his phone. Didn’t realize I was that famous.

 

The Colonel indeed confirmed that their policy at the airport calls for any party that raises an issue to report to the airport when said issue has been resolved. After my friend clarified that numerous efforts to get my ex-colleague to return to the airport proved abortive, the IGP instructed the airport police Colonel to remove my name from the no-fly list if former colleague fails to show up. End of story, right? C’mon, does everything wrap up that easily in my adventures?

 

As my pal and the IGP turned their conversation to other matters, the Colonel called me to the side, showed me the passport biopage on his phone and again asked me to confirm it belongs to me. Following my affirmation his next question threw me for a loop, “How many passports do you have? I ask because there’s another pending case with your name, and this one is from Interpol.” U what?

 

He called my friend over, asked her how long she’d known me and mentioned the Interpol case. Apparently, I was wanted for travelling on another person’s passport. But how is that possible in these days of biometric authentication, I asked. The Colonel could not expatiate on the intricacies of the case, but requested we show up at the airport the next day.

 

At 2pm the following day, we arrived at the police section of the Juba International Airport and the Colonel calls the Interpol liaison to shed more light on the case. I was informed my passport number was declared missing and was since discovered to have been used by an Indian, a South Sudanese and yours truly. I wish I was joking. Again, I asked how this was possible with biometrics. The long and short of it was I was lucky to have met the Colonel at the IGP’s office the previous day else I may have attempted to travel out of Juba and been arrested after passport’s flagged for being on the “Interpol list”. Thereafter, I would be jailed until the investigation is concluded.

 

I forget to mention I had showed up at the airport with all the previous expired passports I had in my possession. My pal used this to demonstrate to the Colonel that I travel frequently and have never had any issues in South Sudan or anywhere else in the world until the recent case of ex-colleague. She suspected ex-colleague was up to his shenanigans and sought to know why the “Interpol case” only reared its head in the country, even though I recently travelled through the US, UK and Nigeria without triggering any suspicions. The Colonel directed that we drive to the Interpol central command in town for advice on next steps. As we departed my pal whispered to me to alert the Nigerian embassy. Ghen ghen.

 

We get to the Interpol office and the Director asks if I have ever reported my passport missing. He said the Nigerian Interpol authorities had declared my passport missing, so when the East African command recently did a sweep through their system it triggered a response that the “missing” passport was used to enter South Sudan. Nothing was mentioned about multiple persons travelling on my passport. The Director said they would write to the Interpol office in Nigeria to verify that I am the genuine recipient of the passport, and my passports would be released to me once they receive a response.  End of story, right? You must be new to this blog.

 

A week goes by with no response from Interpol. I start getting antsy as I am left with a week before trip to Nigeria on April 2^nd to surprise Chief for his 85^th birthday celebration. In another fortuitous case of the Sokoto-sókòtò principle, another pal turned out to be neighbours with the Interpol Deputy Director, the very officer in charge of communicating with the Nigerian Interpol service. The Deputy Director confirmed he had sent two messages to Nigeria but had yet to receive a response. I then set out to find someone in Nigeria with access to the Interpol service. After a few days, a friend I have known for circa 30 years introduced me to a fellow lawyer who had worked with the Nigerian Interpol branch. Dude promised to scour his contact list but assured me the Interpol doesn’t deign to concern themselves with stuff as trivial as missing passports.

 

With only 2 days left before trip, I reached out to lady friend and explained my predicament. As she was out of town, she directed me to the Colonel, who agreed to sign an undertaking that I would return to Juba after my trip. My passports were released to me 2 hours before flight to Addis and I was advised to visit the Interpol office in Lagos to ensure they respond to the correspondences from their South Sudanese counterparts. I had never been so joyous to takeoff on a plane.

 

I arrived in Lagos about 11am on April 3^rd and had no issues passing through Naija immigration. I headed to the Interpol office in Ikoyi directly from the airport and requested to see the 2^nd in command – he was the contact provided by the lawyer. After 2-3 hours of his subordinates contacting the Abuja office – where the Interpol HQ is situated, and major decisions taken – I deduced the following:

·       No one at Nigerian Interpol was aware of any dispatch sent to their South Sudan counterparts regarding missing passports, let alone mine.

·       The passport office in Ikoyi, situated next door to the Interpol office, did not report my passport missing either.

·       After a thorough search they confirmed receipt of the two messages from the South Sudan Interpol, though no one bothered to respond. Here’s the sliding doors moment: if the Colonel wasn’t at the IGP’s office that day and didn’t alert me to Interpol issue, I coulda been arrested and spent weeks in jail while the South Sudanese authorities waited for non-existent feedback from Nigerian Interpol.

 

Before I was directed to make a statement and allowed to depart, the Nigerian Interpol contact assured me there was no case against me, and insisted I provide his contact details to the South Sudanese authorities should they need to reach him directly. Good thing too because it’s been over 2 months since I returned to Juba and I am sure the Nigerian Interpol office has yet to formally respond to the enquiries from South Sudan.

 

Since my return to Juba in the second week of April, I have travelled outta the country twice but haven’t encountered any issues. Prior to this incident, only the airline and support staff at the Juba International Airport knew me. Now, even the security personnel greet me warmly. A pretty female police officer even flirted with me and “threatened” to handcuff me on her day off. Ooooh behave.

 

All’s well that ends well, right? Erm, let’s just say my experiences haven’t converted me to a Pejorist, but, as a precaution, I am gonna empty my Juba bank account in case it gets frozen.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.

Sometimes I whine slow, sometimes I whine quick

Hola peeps.

 

Happy St Paddy’s Day. Trying my utmost to ensure I blog every month. February’s already gone so I gotta make up with two blogs this month. Wish me luck. Geddit? Luck? Luck of the Irish? St Paddy’s Day? Oh, I give up.

 

Speaking of luck, I am definitely running in the Paris marathon on April 7^th and hoping to place better, rather, finish better, than I did last year. Thus, since I returned to Juba three Fridays ago, I have run 3-4 times a week, ensuring to do a 21km run at least once a week. Last week, I did my usual 21km run on Friday, then another half-marathon the next day, March 9^th, to coincide with an International Women’s Day celebration. Been soaking feet in Epsom Salt post runs and that stuff is magical, in terms of pain relief. Saying that though, I went to Aminarrggggh after the run last Saturday. The thang about her is never letting on to the part of anatomy that hurts because she’ll focus on that part until you hear your ancestors calling you home. This time, she worked on the arched part on soles so much that I felt poop was gonna come out of an orifice, and there’s no guarantee it woulda been from butt.

 

Speaking of poop, I ain’t sure if I am inadvertently sealing my butthole with scale from the bidet hose. You see, the water in my Juba apartment is so hard it routinely blocks off holes in the showerhead. It was the same reason I was forced to purchase a new steamer as previous one malfunctioned from the vents being obstructed from scaling. The telltale signs of white dust were impossible to miss.

 

Speaking of telltale signs, I invested in about ten pairs of underwear recently after I noticed erstwhile ones kept slipping down waist. Nope, I hadn’t lost weight in the decade or so since I first bought some of them. An in-depth jejune investigation revealed this was caused from having them around ankles while I pooped. Yup, it took slack drawers to prompt a replacement, not the holes or discoloration in the crotch area.

 

Speaking of discoloration, my recent excrement has had a tinge of purple in them because of beetroot I have been consuming. Weirdest thang about it is purple patch only seems to appear on the tips of poop droppings, kinda like dyeing the edges of hair. If I was more eccentric (read: so wealthy peeps would nod approvingly to everything I say/do, a la money-miss-road Elon Musk) I would exhibit various photos of my poop just to see how much sycophants would pay for them.

 

Speaking of intimate details of one’s life, I fear my work colleagues may have seen me in the nude. On Thursday February 29^th, I joined a company-wide Zoom presentation while I readied to jump in the shower ahead of the arrival of a business guest. I am sure I ensured the video and sound were off before the presentation commenced. I am at least 70% sure I checked and checked again because I have had near misses in the past, like time boss called my phone during a virtual meeting to inform me that video on iPad was on while I was changing for the gym. Then, I was only topless, so it didn’t bother me much.

 

In the recent case of Zoom discrepancy though, I mulled over it for over a week. I am still embarrassed as I write this. I have purposely avoided contacting colleague who alerted me to my indecent exposure. Don’t wanna know if lower part of body was there for all 200+ of my colleagues to see. Ignorance is bliss in this case.

 

Again, like my arrest in January, I tried to find the positives from the incident. Well, at least I wasn’t pooping with the video on…..at least it wasn’t like former supervisor in the UK who was heard having intercourse by her brother when she didn’t hang up her landline properly….or comedian Greg Davies. It still wrangles though. Now, when I am on a call I check and recheck that video is off and mute button is on. Obtw, the presentation was recorded, so I am praying the administrator’s deleted it and that it never comes back to haunt me when I run for political office.

Speaking of offices, you won’t be surprised to hear partners have done diddly to former colleague J.S. who got me arrested. Although I received an apology from the company MD, he chose the easiest way out by setting up a disciplinary committee to investigate the joker’s actions. Even at that, J.S. kept threatening to re-arrest me if he wasn’t paid monies deducted for non-performance, circa $19k. I conveyed this to the MD and the board of directors, yet diddly was done. Eventually, the legal representative suggested we pay him to enable me travel.

 

After being paid, the lawyer provided evidence to the public prosecutor that J.S. had been paid and an order was issued – written in Arabic - confirming this. Fast forward a week later to Friday February 2^nd: I arrived at the airport early enough for my flight to Nairobi, where I would take a connecting flight to Lagos for a weeklong work event. I said the usual hellos to airport staff, dropped off bags and headed to the immigration line. It was de ja vu all over again when I was pulled aside after passport was scanned. The same immigration police officer that J.S. got to arrest me in January came over with a smug look on his face. I asked what the issue was, he said the outstanding case against me hadn’t been resolved. I showed him the court document, and he said he doesn’t trust anything emanating from South Sudanese courts. U what? He insisted I would need to contact my former colleague to come to the airport and assure him of the case’s resolution. What if the dude refuses to come, or has travelled, or is dead, am I supposed to be prevented from leaving the country as a result? “Yup”, he said.

 

I contacted the lawyer, who rushed to the airport. He and the officer had a heated exchange in Arabic that went on for a while. During the lull in the back-and-forth, the policeman said I’d need to give him some money. I responded that he wouldn’t receive squat and loudly said if I missed my flight any re-booking cost would come from him. At this point he stormed away while the lawyer tried to placate him. I had had enough. I contacted the guys at the Nigeria embassy who arrived at the airport in quick time. That’s the advantage of Juba: one can pretty much get anywhere centrally within 15 minutes. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that all this while the lawyer had contacted J.S. and pleaded with him to come to the airport. Dude replied that he wasn’t mobile and requested that lawyer send the company car to pick him up. I warned my colleagues against that. I was determined to see this to the end.

 

Long story short, the lawyer went to the head of police at the airport, and I was handed my travel documents just as the Nairobi flight was boarding. Meanwhile, the police officer kept mouthing at me, threatening to have me deported for not according him due respect. Whatevs. The lawyer assured me that all was now resolved. If only.

 

With the unfortunate wardrobe malfunction incident still occupying prime real estate in my head, I got on a flight to Nairobi that evening and arrived in Juba at 2pm on March 1^st after a 6-hr layover in Nairobi. I was first off the plane, but didn’t depart the airport until almost 5pm because like a bad rash the police officer was back spouting fire and brimstone and threatening to deport me after my passport was flagged. Again, he insisted the case hadn’t been resolved, again I called my lawyer, again we went through the song and dance of going to the head of airport police. This time, though, I was made to fill a form (in English) with a portion left blank for my joker of a former colleague to complete. I also received an apology from the head of police, who assured me there would be no more harassment. The deporter-in-chief even managed to smile.

 

On our way to the car, the lawyer explained to me that since I departed Juba a month before, J.S. had not visited the airport because he didn’t wanna pay the officers he had arrest me. He promised to ensure my name would be removed from the no-fly list by forcing him to show up at the airport. That was over 2 weeks ago. As I type the lawyer has tried everything and even went as far as returning to the airport police to complain that J.S. has refused to pick up his calls. Their response? File a case against J.S., serve him a petition, and get him arrested. How is he to be served since he ain’t picking up his calls? Amazing how anything gets done if bureaucracy is this staunch.

 

The lawyer spent 2hrs last Tuesday making the same arguments to the airport police chief I made last month. What if the dude’s indisposed, does that mean I cannot leave the country? They didn’t budge. Last thing I wanna do is file a grievance against a South Sudanese because I know it would get misinterpreted. On Thursday, the lawyer obtained a signed statement – in English - from the investigating officer at the police station I was jailed at confirming the case is resolved. Then, he approached the head of HR at the partner company threatening to get J.S. arrested if he doesn’t convince him to get my name cleared at the airport. Let’s see what this week holds. Interesting times, huh? Hopefully, it’s resolved before my trip to the Paris marathon.

 

Speaking of the Paris marathon, my pal Tonny who ran the marathon with me last year has backed out because of a persistent leg injury. Poor dude. Meanwhile, it has been hard to run in Juba because of the intense heat (41-45°C). I doubt it’s ever been this hot in my 9 years here. It’s so bad the Ministry of Health released a circular yesterday for all schools to be shut down from tomorrow. It’s so bad that pastors don’t bother preaching anymore; their services now consist of singing songs outside for 10 mins, then advancing a standard statement along the lines of, if you think it’s hot now…., before shutting down the service.

 

Speaking of shutting down, I need to stop acquiescing to requests for money. Man, every stop at the Murtala Mohammed International Airport (MMIA) is like a toll. There’s the policewoman who kept calling me Osimhen as I got outta the Uber because I had a Nigerian football jersey on; the NDLEA and Customs folk who use the pretense of searching luggage – even though every bag is scanned on entry - as a scheme to solicit  funds; the guy who chooses to check boarding passes, even though there’s an automatic gate that opens upon scanning one’s boarding pass; the immigration folk; the airline folk who check one’s luggage just before boarding; the cleaners moseying about; the lounge staff; etc. It’s just as ridiculous coming in: the immigration folk, again; the otiose lady – it’s always a lady - who receives cash before issuing luggage trolleys and always tries to get one over passengers, well, me; again, the faux dance by NDLEA and Customs folk on searching luggage.

 

I know what to expect by now, but I keep falling for it outta sheer pity that their wages can’t go far with the state of the Nigerian economy. Nah, that can’t be it, because I have been doing this forever. It’s because I am a soft touch, that’s what. You know how I said I used to feel obligated into purchasing stuff from shops anytime a sales assistant offered to help? I thought I had overcome that until my recent trip to the UK proved me wrong. While whiling away time at Doha airport until boarding the flight to London, I ended up buying an expensive pair of brown loafers for that very reason. Maybe I am improving because unlike during uni days, I was in the market for a pair of brown loafers.

 

Speaking of loafers, I have surprised myself by refusing to send money to a high school mate who constantly requests assistance. At the end of last year, I decided to no longer budge, and I have kept to it. I think what has helped is that at the beginning of the year I paid off usual monthly expenses a year in advance. Yup, I saved up money and gave mom a lump sum to cover her monthly upkeep for 2024, same for kickboxing class, calisthenics class, and charity contributions. Now I know any incoming funds are strictly for necessities and investment. Well, my daughter’s requests are the exception.

 

Speaking of the love of my life, this was the second visit in a row I was able to take her out unsupervised. Yup. Whatever happened to the ex to make her comfortable enough to finally realize having some one-on-one daddy-daughter time wouldn’t presage the apocalypse, long may it continue. You shoulda seen the look on my face last August when we met at the designated venue and she said I’d call her to pick up my daughter when we were done, and she drove away. After Google assured me that hidden camera shows had gone the way of the Mexican wave and had long since been de rigueur, I settled down to a game of mini golf with my daughter. Afterwards, we went for a pizza and the poor girl kept glancing towards the exit expecting her mom to show up. To be honest, so was I. It wasn’t until we were done with dessert she showed up. Taking a cautious step forward, I suggested taking our daughter to see The Lion King musical in the theatre and the ex acquiesced. U what? Man, I shoulda played the lottery that week. She thoroughly enjoyed the musical and made me buy her loadsa merch afterwards. Okay, I was the one who insisted. Arrest me. Well, that’s already been done so…..

 

Anyhoo, during my UK trip last month my daughter and I spent our first visit watching Migration, then hanging out at an arcade, where she beat me at air hockey. The next weekend, I took her to see Wicked – it was probably my 4^th viewing – then, like after The Lion King, I treated her to a steak dinner. Our conversations on FaceTime are still stilted, but I don’t fret about it anymore. Obtw, she finally got to meet her godfather Miguel, who briefly joined us for dinner as he was visiting his wife in the UK then. Yup, Miguel finally found someone to take on his sorry self.

 

Speaking of sorry traits, I finally completed An Immense World and am now finally reading a book I purchased in April 2009, Critical Mass. What greatly helped was a discussion with a friend who gave me his hack of reading ten pages of a book daily; five pages in the morning and five pages in the evening before bed. Since most books he reads have an average length of 300 pages, he can complete twelve books a year. That reminds me, I haven’t read my ten pages today.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.