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

Hola peeps.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Tot ziens and God bless.

Bad man looking good in Diop

Hola peeps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Tot ziens and God bless.