Articles of interest to moi (2025)

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

MAYONNAISSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

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 15^th, 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 50^th 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 14^th 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 50^th 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 71^st 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 50^th birthday celebration in August for Thailand, and if it didn’t crash with mom’s 80^th 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 50^th 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 50^th 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.

I need more male friends

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 10^th, 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 5^th 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 20^th.

 

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.

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 (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.