Greatest movie quotes
Man's inhumanity 2
Bravo, Harvard
Man's inhumanity
One way to go
We choose to do things not because they are easy
The art of the tariff deal
Poop science
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
Hola peeps.
Y’all good? I must be sticking to my 2025 pledge to blog every
month ‘cos I am typing this in severe pain. I pulled something in my lower back
during kickboxing class yesterday, which necessitated skipping calisthenics
class afterwards for a massage from Aminarrrgh. It didn’t help much, though.
During the massage, well, more like during the hammam treatment
that preceded the massage, it occurred to me that Aminarrrgh has likely seen my
shlongmall more times than most of my exes combined. That’s what happens
when one’s given a towel loosely bound around one’s waist. Might be time to
invest in one of those disposable underwear sets that one gets at fancy spas
during my next trip to the UK.
The good thang about Aminarrrgh is she’s professional, unlike
the place I went to a fortnight ago where I rejected the offer to get, ahem,
finished off. I was shocked, as it’d been a while since that sorta offer was
put on the table. Geddit? Massage table? I had hoped whatever invisible sign
inscribed on my forehead that appealed to such masseuses had been wiped off. O
poor, naïve Tunde. Okay, back to the back pain…
Yes, where was I? You see, three guys I work out with on the
weekends went to Thailand for a global Muay Thai tourney and came back with two
championship belts. As I was on my way to the field when they returned to the
country last Tuesday – I departed the field on Friday – I was so chuffed to see
them that I didn’t stretch before the class, and I think that may have
triggered the back pain. Then again, it might be my body’s sign telling me to
ease off.
On Saturday the 15th, I overdid things so much that
during calisthenics and kickboxing class the next day, I was beat. Even my
soon-to-be-patented Jonathan Majors pout that I go to when I wanna get in the zone and envision myself working out like
in Creed 3 didn’t help. Later that day, while relating to a mate the reason for
my tiredness, it occurred to me I do some form of exercise e-v-e-r-y day! Nah,
nah, that’s unhealthy. I need a rest day where nada is done. Once my back is
healed, I will stick to my rest day religiously, much like I do on my no-work
Saturdays, which I have kept to this year so far. Sadly, ‘cos of the back pain,
I spent the latter part of yesterday watching, nah, more like praying for sleep
while watching the latest Captain America movie. It suckeeeeedddddd. Not a
single redeeming feature. Harrison Ford musta been behind on multiple mortgage
payments to agree to star in that movie.
Just got off the Facetime call with my daughter buzzing. Lately,
our calls have become longer, and she’s no longer as eager to get off the phone
as she used to be. On Friday, while talking to an ex who had reached out to see
if I was safe following news reports of the recent skirmishes in South Sudan, I
asked her to think back to her teenage years to what she loved to do with her
dad, as I was looking to sustain the recent surge in my daughter’s interest in
me. She suggested I find out what books she’s reading so I’d read them too and
we’d talk about it, or her favourite TV show. So, I did that earlier tonight,
and, what would you know, my daughter’s a big fan of the sapid series Elsbeth like I am! God is good.
We chatted extensively about our favourite moments in the episodes we had seen.
Can’t wait for our call next week.
By the time of our call next Sunday, I should be in Kampala, en
route back from Lagos. Yup, I'm travelling again, this time for my sis Nike’s
50th birthday. I wasn’t gonna travel initially ‘cos I’m a bit overstretched
financially now, but I was guilted into it. While chatting with the West
African single mom in London (WASMIL) I told y’all about, she complained about
being stressed and needing a break, so I invited her to tag along. Surprisingly,
she agreed to fly down from the UK for two nights in Lagos, so guess I’ll be
taking her along to a family event. Good thang family knows me, so they won’t
make a big deal of it. I hope she doesn’t either since we have already agreed
to be strictly platonic. Besides, some mates from Juba, yup, females, are also making
plans to attend. David was gonna come from Uganda if it weren’t for a
conflicting schedule.
I felt somewhat embarrassed last month when WASMIL said she
received flowers on the 14th from a secret admirer and assumed it
was from me. I sadly let her know I wasn’t responsible. It ain’t like I hadn’t
thought of sending her flowers, but felt it was too close after our “talk” and
didn’t wanna raise her hopes. And, no, the invitation to Nike’s 50th
wasn’t a way to assuage my guilt for Valentine’s Day. She was having a
stressful time, and I thought a break, however short, would do her good. I am
nice like that.
For primo chivalrous stuff, look no further than my crush Mrs.
Bimbo Oloyede’s 71st birthday earlier this month. I discovered that
she would be in South Africa for her birthday, so I obtained the address of her
accommodation from her daughter and sent her a rich, multilayered chocolate
cake. You can bet whatever old geezer is trying to get her attention has no
chance when compared to how far I am willing to go. Yup, Mr. Romantic
Fashionista is taking no prisoners.
Speaking of, I've taken to rocking a pinky ring since I returned
to the UK last month. For some reason, since last year, I have had this craving
to add pinky rings to my eclectic fashion ensemble. I felt like a plain band
and, at first, had the bright idea to resize my wedding ring since it ain’t like
I’m ever gonna use it for another purpose, right? However, I had forgotten how
blingy it was, and quickly realized any attempt to wear it in Juba would be
advertising for my pinkie to get chopped off. Weirdly, while talking to an ex
about it, she said she was surprised I still had my wedding band. Why? Was I
supposed to toss it away after the end of my marriage like they do in the
movies? It’s an expensive ring, dude; getting rid of it was never an option.
This time in the field – different from the other bottle-peeing
field location I detailed in the last blog entry that had an ogbanje
cock that used to crow consistently at 217am - with my staff was memorable ‘cos
on the eve of my departure, a new staff from the local community decided to
honour me with a goat. I kid – geddit? – you not. The gesture humbled me,
and that’s what makes it uber frustrating when folk like J.S. tarnish the
reputation of the country. Case in point, a Ugandan lady from the church
fellowship has been jailed for nearly two months ‘cos they couldn’t locate her
boss. What was her boss’s crime? He fired an employee for non-performance, and
even though the Ministry of Labour calculated the employee’s gratuity at less
than $4k, dude’s insisting on being paid $26k. Thus, the poor foreigner has
been banged up ‘cos her boss is rightfully staying away from the country to
avoid being arrested. Kinda reminds me of what’s going on in the US now. It’s
so hilarious that naturalized Americans that I talk to are scared to mention
Trump’s name during our calls. One typically gets “the guy who just came in” or
some similar sobriquet, uttered sotto voce. Hilarious. I won’t lie; the
general uncertainty has prompted me to reconsider my usual trips to the States.
I always wanted to explore other places like Asia, so might be time to
concretize those plans.
The main barrier to such travel plans is the visa application
process. A mate’s planned his 50th birthday celebration in August
for Thailand, and if it didn’t crash with mom’s 80th I’da jumped at
the chance. However, the visa application process ain’t smooth, considering
that there’s no embassy in South Sudan. The last time I travelled to nearby
Indonesia in 2019, I was forced to return to Nigeria to apply, and the process
took nearly a month, despite being a business trip. If that’s not bad enough,
my cousin’s celebrating his 50th birthday in Tunisia in October, and
I still don’t know how I’m getting there, as one cannot apply online and I
haven’t been able to locate a Tunisian embassy in the East African region. Wait,
when did it become de rigueur for Nigerians to start having destination
birthdays? Mate who’s hosting his 50th in Thailand? Lives in the US.
Cousin who’s doing the Tunisian thang? Lives in the UK. Am I supposed to allocate
money from my budget for peeps’ birthday fantasies? Ridiculous.
Perhaps it’s best that I avoid those destination parties, as it
seems that being in a strange location causes me to wake up multiple times to
use the bathroom. It happened again during the last field visit. This time,
though, it was accompanied by strange dreams. I can’t recall the dream on the penultimate
night, maybe ‘cos of the sumptuous goat meat, but on the first night, I woke up
to the theme song from Bertha playing in my head. The
next night, I was the subject of a comedy roast hosted by Kevin Hart, Stephen
A. Smith, and Jennifer Tilly. I am set to return to the field a few days after
I get back from Nigeria. Can’t wait to see if I feature in Jennifer Hudson’s
spirit tunnel with my Jonathan Majors pout.
Tot ziens and God bless.
Hola peeps. Y’all good?
It’s been nearly 3 weeks in Juba, and I am glad to report no significant
drama. Well, not on my end, anyway. Last Friday, I received a call from a pal,
Annie, who stayed at mine for a few days. She had always talked about visiting
Juba and had planned to arrive on the same day as I did on Monday, February 10th,
but I suggested she wait in case J.S. went through with his threat to arrest me
at the airport once more. It wouldn’t be the ideal first visit to a country to
have one’s host in jail.
After I passed through the immigration desk with no issues, I
asked if she’d still wanna visit, and she said yes. She chose to arrive on
Friday, February 14th, to Wednesday, February 19th, and even after I alerted
her to the significance of traveling to see a member of the opposite sex on
Valentine’s Day, she laughed and said it was just a coincidence. Fast forward
to the 21st, when she called to ask for a favour. She mentioned she was in a
similar situation to W – I had told her about the call from W’s
ex. Turns out she’s dating this dude back in Nairobi, and when she agreed to
come to Juba, she thought she was done with the relationship. They made up
following her return, so she confessed to him that she spent the weekend out of
the country with a platonic friend, albeit a male one. As expected, the dude’s
pissed, and though she told him we are just friends and nada’s ever happened
between us, the dude has requested she call me so he could listen to the tone
of our conversation. She asked me to pretend that she had told me all about him
- in a subsequent call when he would be listening. I wish I were kidding. Good
thang I am reading Al Pacino's autobiography, eh? This is the last I am hosting a platonic female friend at mine. Memo to
self: Get more male friends in Juba.
Something occurred to me over the Christmas holidays; I was
driving my sis Nike and her two sons to the annual family Christmas lunch when
Nike and her oldest son Zane started going back and forth about the quality of
the Christmas presents Zane got for her. You know how we always say we don’t
wanna act like our parents when we grow up, but we end up repeating their
actions? Nike’s got major traits from Vicky, though she continues to deny it.
Critiquing a gift instead of accepting it in the spirit in which it was offered
is classic Vicky. I cracked up at this spat and told Zane and his
younger brother Otu to accept that women are never satisfied. They could be
your sister, mother, girlfriend, colleague, or wife; it don’t matter. Once one
comes to the realization that one will always be not quite there when it
comes to pleasing the fairer gender, then one can fret less and take it all in
stride.
Later that day, while stuck in Lagos traffic and listening to
oldies on the radio, it dawned on me that I may not be setting the best
examples for my nephews. They love me to bits and are always keen to hang out
at my crib, especially Otu, as soon as I arrive in Lagos. Apart from last Christmas,
they have met a different woman with me each year since moving into my
apartment. Zane asked if I would ever get married again, and I cackled. Yes,
they are too young to think of marriage, but shouldn’t I make them less jaded?
Goodness knows the world needs more men who will respect and treat women better.
I tend to think I am that, but if the young’uns who look up to me see me with a
different female “friend” each time, what should they believe? Oh, snap. I just
recalled I brought a new friend to my bro Kinzo’s crib on Xmas day. Drats.
Here’s hoping their dad has more of an influence on them than I do.
I am not quite back to the grind of things in Juba. For
instance, I skipped the Hash run and kickboxing class last Saturday ‘cos I
needed to catch up on zzz. Plus, I couldn’t dive back into the regular schedule
last week ‘cos Annie was visiting. One positive outcome of Annie’s visit was
swimming at night. She spent most of her time in the swimming pool at my
apartment building, and it got me thinking about why I had never swum at night,
especially now that the temperature in the afternoons has been topping 42C. The
last time I swam in the pool in the afternoon, I nodded off as I dried off on
the lounge and woke up with a sunburnt upper lip.
Annie’s visit also brought my unconscious habit of holding my
breath to the fore. An ex-girlfriend used to bring it up all the time, and a
cousin in the UK did the same some years ago when I visited him. “Wait, you
still doing that thang when, as kids, we’d have to remind you to breathe?!” I
honestly don’t know how/why I do this. If I learned to breathe correctly, I’d
improve my performance during kickboxing sparring and marathons, no?
I have run twice since returning to Juba but hope to resume my 4x-a-week
regimen from Monday. I need it too ‘cos my pants are getting tighter around the
waist. I wish I were kidding. My run last Friday wasn’t too bad as the sun
wasn’t at its peak by the time I was done. It was good to see that the
neighbourhood stray dogs still recognized me. Oh yes, I haven’t regaled y’all
on this fine, quality blog about my Dr. Doolittle moment, have I? O Tunde, you
procrastinator you.
You might recall these are the same dogs that growl at me when I’d
leave my house to run in the morning, causing me to fend them off by feigning
to throw stones in their direction. This was an unwelcome start to the morning;
I mean, who wants to deal with mangy dogs at the beginning of one’s day? Well,
last November, I hosted a BBQ at my place and set aside the bones and other leftovers
for the stray dogs. Who cares about the cats loitering about the apartment
complex? Screw them.
On the first day, the leader, whom I shall refer to as Patches, sees
me walking up, resumes his growling pose, and walks toward me. I opened the newspaper
I had the fresh bones wrapped in, set it aside, and gestured at Patches to
attack the sumptuous meal. As I walked away, Patches kept staring at me while
glancing at the food, almost like it suspected it was poisonous. Besides, it
musta survived on scavenging food its entire life, and here comes this human
offering food on a silver platter newspaper? Nah, there must surely be a
catch.
Two days later, as I walked towards the main road to run, I
noticed Patches had three pals, the regular growling crew, along with him. This
time, he darted towards the food as the others partly growled at me and partly
followed Patches.
The third time I laid out food, there were 6 to 8 dogs, and none
bothered growling. After an hour, I returned from the run and saw Patches lead
the dogs towards me. Now, it’s daylight, and I am wary as the dogs are usually
cowards in that they growl at me in the morning when the sun is not yet out,
and people are sparse, but they go into hiding when the road is teeming. As the
dogs charged towards me, I picked up a pebble to scare them off while muttering
how ungrateful they are to wanna attack me after feeding them. However, I noticed
they weren’t growling, so I put down the stone. You won’t believe it, but the dogs
surround me and stare. A neighbourhood restauranteur who prepares meals before
I set out in the mornings deciphered that the dogs were trying to thank me for
feeding them. U what?! He was right. Patches and his fellow Samaritans escorted
me home. I felt all warm and fuzzy throughout that workday at the fact that the
very dogs who used to bark at me every time now appreciated me enough to wait an
hour to see my return from the run before dispersing to their various haunts.
The next time I stepped out of my apartment, Patches and his
pals charged towards me with tongues wagging. Not one bark was heard. They
usually wait until I get to where they hang out, but they now know where I
live. I was now confident enough to instruct them to halt and wait patiently
until I laid down the food. That’s been our relationship since. It’s so crazy
that I now set aside a zip-lock bag when eating so I remember to collect the leftovers
for them. I usually freeze this and set it out before bed, so it thaws
sufficiently before my morning run. I left them some bones and two slices of pepperoni
pizza the other day, you know, to help refine their palette. I am in the field
as I type this and have already instructed the chef to set aside bones so I can
take them to Juba tomorrow.
I spoke to my daughter on Sunday after her week-long school ski
trip in Italy. She loved every minute of it. I reckon I insufflated her with my
love for adrenaline as I cradled her in my arms on the morning of her birth. She
told me she fell only twice during 5 days of skiing and that her roommate held
the record of falling 62 times. Who keeps track of stuff like that? She and her
friends, apparently. When I mentioned I was getting back to running and that I ran
nearly 17km last Friday, she remarked that the distance was nearly thrice as many
times as her friend fell. I am sure she didn’t get her competitive trait from
me.
I asked if she felt homesick during the trip, as it was her
first time being away from home for that long, and she confessed that she did a
tad. I told her of my own experience in boarding school, where I’d cry from
homesickness. I am glad I am more vulnerable with her, and our conversations
last longer than they used to. This marks a welcome change from last August
when I took her to watch Arsenal against Brighton and Hove at The Emirates Stadium.
She was hesitant to pose for pics with me. Still, after meeting an ex – not to
worry, she’s married with a kid - during the half-time intermission, she suddenly
brightened up, readily posing for pics with her and even made me buy her
mementos from the Arsenal merch store so she could gift them to her. Who was
this girl, and what had she done with my daughter?
That musta been my 2024 pre-teen daughter ‘cos the 2025 version
loves spending time with her dad. The weekend before the archery class I
mentioned in the last blog entry, we had an uber-packed Saturday. First, we did
an Escape Room, then saw the Mufasa movie, and then she beat me at air hockey
after a fancy steak lunch before we ended the day with indoor skydiving. When I
returned her to her mom, it was past 9 pm, and she was beat. I may have
overdone it. I guess I was so chuffed to see her having fun with me that I didn’t
want it to end.
I am glad I visited my colleagues in the field, but I cannot
wait to return to Juba ‘cos my system is outta whack. My body must know I am
somewhere unfamiliar ‘cos I get these urges to pee multiple times in the middle
of the night. ‘Cos the bathrooms are away from the rooms, I devised a means of
peeing in empty plastic bottles and disposing of them in the morning. Don’t judge
me. I did worse while at Bradford when I lived on the 5th floor of
University Halls and would pee outta the window instead of groggily walking to
the bathroom. These would be the scenes of comic relief when the story of my
life is dramatized.
Oh yeah, the movie must also include the scene earlier this
month when I got upgraded to First Class on the Emirates flight from Heathrow
to Dubai. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I developed an attitude I didn’t know I
possessed. With my chest out and ten toes down, I proudly farted as I walked
past the Business Class passengers and didn’t give a hoot. After all, that
might be their only opportunity to experience a taste of First Class. You know
what I mean?
In my humbler days, when I still flew with the plebs, I saw Girl,
You Know It’s True on the flight from LAX to LHR, and I am glad I didn’t pay
to see it in the cinema. Apart from the awful title, it was a good trip down
memory lane. Kinda like Robbie Williams’s Better Man, which I loved. While
boarding that flight, one of my favorite songs as a kid was playing, and I didn’t
know who the singer was until I Googled “I Know Corina 80s song”. It turns out
it was Quincy Jones’s Ai No Corrida. Ha. Talk about mangled lyrics, eh? Ai
No Corrida had always been I Know Corina in my head for over 40
years. I recall a mate who refused to countenance that he got the chorus to Snoop
Dogg’s Serial Killer wrong. He would swear it was Snoopy Dogg July,
as “Snoop Dogg was born in July”. He’s lucky we didn’t have the internet back
then, as a quick check woulda revealed that Mr. Calvin Cordozar Broadus Jr. was
born on…hold on…October 20th.
By the way, my search revealed that Ai No Corrida can be
roughly translated as the practice of strangulation during intercourse. Yup, we
readily danced to that as kids. I sorted, kinda understood what Lisa Lisa’s I
Wonder If I Take You Home meant as a kid, but over Xmas, I really listened when
Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee from Grease was playing on a friend’s phone. The
… Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee, Lousy with virginity…. line blindsided
me. I might need to rethink my youth. Maybe some, ahem, assistance, as proposed
in Michael Pollan's How To Change Your Mind,
which I am currently reading, could help.
Tot ziens and God bless.
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 13th, 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 $50? Yeah, so the guy who called to threaten me is/was her boyfriend.
I bumped into this mate before I left Juba for London after not
seeing her in over 6 months. However, we never failed to hold a monthly call
where I’d ask about her work with the prisoners. So, she called me on January
20th on my way to the shops to ask if I gave anyone her number
because random folk had been asking for money. I laughed and told her that had
nada to do with me. Being January and all, folk had probably spent all their
money over the Xmas holidays and were looking for some support. We laughed over
it, and she said she’d call me later with her shopping list. I responded that
I’d not be buying diddly for her.
A few hours later, when I saw a call from her, I presumed it was
regarding her list, so I picked it up. This time, it’s a man’s voice on the
phone. After confirming he was talking to Tunde, he asked what my relationship
with the lawyer was. Now I am thinking she lost her phone or something, and
this guy found it and is trying to reach out to the last set of numbers dialed.
Me: My relationship with W? She’s my friend. Why?
W’s Disgruntled Boyfriend: You are lying.
Me: Huh?
WDB: You are messing with her.
Me (*cracking up*): Wait, so you are calling my phone to accuse
me of stuff I haven’t done? Who are you?
WDB: I am Paul mother%$&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 85th birthday
celebration; this year, it’s mom’s turn to do the same for her 80th
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 3rd
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 13th birthday party. Can’t wait.
Tot ziens and God bless.
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 4th. 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 3rd, spent most of the day at the
Interpol office, attended Chief’s 85th birthday celebration on April
4th, then departed for Paris that night.
You see, Chief only decided to mark his 85th 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 7th 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 6th. 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.
