Articles of interest to moi (2024)

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

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

Hola peeps.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

Tot ziens and God bless.

Bad man looking good in Diop

Hola peeps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Tot ziens and God bless.

Sometimes I whine slow, sometimes I whine quick

Hola peeps.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Tot ziens and God bless.

A short hop to freedom (aka Straight Outta Juba)

Hola peeps.

 

Welcome to 2024. I won’t make any promises about the frequency of my blog entries this year, but I am confident it will be better than 2023’s. You see, the problem with last year was not for a lack of stuff to write about, it was plain otiosity. I have been working on myself to curb procrastination, and though it’s early days the results have been good.

 

Now, I no longer bother myself at the end of the workday if uncompleted tasks are greater than they were at the start of the day. Once I am convinced I wasn’t whiling away for most of the day, I cut myself slack and prepare for the next day. For example, it’s currently 1722hrs (Juba time) on Sunday January 21^st. By now I shoulda published this blog entry and commenced my 10-page minimum read of An Immense World . I was done shaving, after calisthenics and kickboxing classes, by 11am, but chose to swim and lie in the sun for a bit instead of immediately diving into writing this blog. Why? ‘Ços. I enjoyed lounging by the pool so much I might make it part of my Sunday morning regimen. Greatly helps that church in Juba decided upon Saturday evening services this year, ‘cos I used to feel awful for falling asleep during Sunday morning services. But seriously, what did I expect after two consecutive sessions of calisthenics and kickboxing separated by an hour of rest before church? Told y’all I have been working on myself.

 

How’s your 2024 been so far? Any goals set? Any goals already accomplished? I reckon all signs are pointed towards my involvement in the music industry in 2024. For the past 2 days I have been struggling through a bad cough that’s made my voice sound like a cross between Darth Vader and Optimus Prime. While searching YouTube for more fallouts from the Katt Williiams’ interview with Shannon Sharpe, I happened upon a collection of Barry White’s greatest hits and realized I’d make a passable impersonation of his singing voice and release posthumous recordings that keep the conspiracy theorists guessing about his death, a la Tupac shouting out present-day rappers in songs released decades after his death.

 

Another sure sign that I am pursuing the music route was time I spent in a Juba jail on Monday January 15^th, 2024. If that ain’t sufficient street cred in the 90s to oughts gangsta rap genre I don’t know what is.

 

You know how as a kid you would marvel at how a movie’s protagonist – picture Bruce Willis in Die Hard – would always keep his sense of humour in the most dangerous of scenarios, and wonder if you’d do the same in similar circumstances? Ladies and gentlemen, I am glad to inform you your childhood selves can now live vicariously through me.

 

Last Monday, I flew in on the morning flight from Nairobi and was the first person in immigration line. Perks of business class travel, baby!!! As I am desperately short on passport pages, I greeted the immigration officer with the widest smile possible and pleaded with her to find a spot on a semi-filled passport page for the entry stamp. She obliged. As I attempted to walk towards luggage carousel after hand luggage was searched, she called me back and requested for passport. Passport was handed to her supervisor, who directed me to a waiting room.

 

My first thought was that she had noticed I had fewer than six empty passport pages, so would be subject to a $50 fine, as I have heard being applied to others in the past. While calculating how much I would have to fork over over the coming months until I can get a new passport in Nigeria, I was summoned to the back of the airport that housed the police station. Okay, what’s going on? The officer in charge asked if I knew a J.S. (name withheld to protect the very guilty), and that’s when I kinda, sorta figured what might be up…..

 

Gotta call for an intermission here to go brush teeth. I just realized I didn’t brush my teeth this morning as I hurried to calisthenics class. I stayed up last night watching the NFL playoffs and snoozed 6am alarm when it went off. Startled up when it dawned on me I had less than 10 minutes to make a 12-minute drive. This is redolent of other time I was late for kickboxing class and only figured I didn’t wear underwear under teeny weeny Muy Thai shorts when I got to class. My normally weak roundhouse kicks were even feebler to avoid exposing my balls to all and sundry. Brb….

 

Sorry, I took longer than planned. Had to microwave peppered guineafowl I brought along from Lagos. To be honest, one of my foremost concerns after I was transported to the police station directly from the airport was if the thawed peppered bird in luggage would still be edible. Priorities, eh?

 

First, some background on J.S.: My South Sudanese partners have certain management positions that are assigned to them based on the MOU. J.S. was seconded to one of these roles back in 2022. Sadly, sometimes these roles are not decided on merit and that appeared to be the case with J.S. “Incompetent” would not quite describe how dire this dude was. He hardly showed up for work and never did the barest minimum, even when we paid a consultant to train him. Once I realized what I was up against, I made formal complaints to the partners several times until he was finally replaced last month. Always wondered why his fellow indigenous colleagues never cautioned him or spoke about his shortcomings to his face. Now I know. Had heard something about his in-laws being zol kebir, but that never bothered me. All I wanted from the dude was to carry out the tasks he was paid to do. I never paid mind to his direct and indirect threats over the years until I was shown an arrest warrant at the airport. Charges? Unpaid wages amounting to $44,000. I wish I was kidding.

 

After my passport was seized, I directed my deputy (also from the South Sudan partners) to inform his CEO of my predicament. I was arrested at the airport at 745am and released nearly 11 hours later without any representative from the partners showing up. Towards the end of last year, for the first time ever, I started mulling how much longer I could live in South Sudan. With the protracted project delays and staff issues, I felt it was time for a change. The lack of support shown by my partners last week has sealed my decision. I was reminded that that though I have spent almost a decade in this place, I would always be regarded as a foreigner and treated as such. No way a South Sudanese would have been arrested and jailed under false pretenses without evidence. Okay, enough of my Academy Award-nominated soliloquy. Here's a play-by-play account of what is bound to be the most intriguing chapter in my autobiography….

 

By the time I was informed of the arrest warrant issued against me, my junior colleague had arrived at the airport to pick me up. I directed him to the police station from the airport car park. Once he arrived, he, the police officer in charge, and J.S. conversed in Arabic for circa 10 minutes. I was told I had to go to the police station for my statement to be taken, and then I would be released while J.S.’s claim is investigated. If only it was that simple.

 

Informed my company’s legal adviser to meet us at the station, but he didn’t show up until almost an hour later. Not that it would have mattered though, ‘cos after he arrived he had to let the police complete their “process”. The start of this process involved my sitting on the floor, crouched in the middle of three lines with other inmates. Yup, this is the tried and tested guilty-until-proven-innocent course that one never sees on Law and Order. Wait, I skipped a step. As soon as I got to the police station, my name was taken down, and I was told to hand my belongings to my junior colleague before being ushered towards the cells. Huh? What happened to being released after statement is taken?! By the way, you haven’t lived until multiple persons attempt to write your full Yoruba name in Arabic. It was hilarious.

 

Turns out I arrived at the station in time for the roll call of prisoners, hence, the aforementioned butt on floor experience. With all inmates crouched closely together, once one’s name is called, one motions, gets up and heads towards the cells; while others seated on the floor bunch up closer to occupy space left by the guy called up. This lasted for about an hour, once you consider that female prisoners were also part of the roll call. While on the floor I kept telling God I didn’t wanna be sent to the cells. I thought my prayers were answered once I sighted the lawyer. As if.

 

Once everyone else was called, I was summoned, and my name taken down in two separate books. Again, you had to be there.

Police offer 1: Isim munu?

Me: Babatunde

Police offer 2: Ba-ba-tun-dwe?

Me: Babatunde. B-a-b-a-t-u-n-d-e

I notice both officers spell my name differently in Arabic. Gave up trying to correct them.

 

While on the floor a guy seated to my left asked me what I was in for. Told him a disgruntled former employee made up a false charge against me for unpaid wages. He wondered why I was arrested since this was not a criminal matter but a civil one. Told me he was being held for something similar, but the claimant wants $200,000. Yikes. As I was being directed behind the counter and towards the cells, I spotted this dude and asked him to show me the ropes. I observed him squeezing cash into the palm of a policeman and he said I would need to hand over something to avoid getting put in the “bad cell”, i.e., the cell on the left with violent criminals. Told him my wallet was with my colleague and promised to reimburse him if he pays my way. Within a minute of this conversation, they instruct us to move into the cells, and that’s when I start hyperventilating. Probably caused by low blood sugar. I got dizzy and nauseous, while sweat poured profusely from top of my head.

 

The last time this happened was last November, in Lagos, after completing a 17km walk. I went to the barbers afterwards without hydrating or eating, and less than 5 minutes in the chair the apron secured around neck started feeling awfully tight and uncomfortable. Cue the sweats, nauseousness, and doodle pangs. Weirdly, the time before that that I exhibited similar symptoms was in January 2023, in the same barber’s chair. That was the start of a serious bout of food poisoning that took me 3 days to recover from. The symptoms were so bad I left without completing haircut. I dashed into the car, hurriedly drove myself home and clenched butt real tight until I let loose in the bedroom toilet. There was splatter on the floor, the doorknob, everywhere! That’ll teach me to consume dates bought from a wooden wheelbarrow in Lagos without washing them first.

 

My jail plug tried to alert the prison officers when he saw me stagger. The officers offered me some water and fanned me until I recovered….yeah right. I was forced into the “good cell”, where I tried to avoid stepping on people lying on the floor. One prisoner instructed me to take off shoes to avoid soiling the cardboard placed across the floor. I was directed towards the rightmost corner at the back of the cell, and found myself beside a guy with cuffed ankles, no shirt and loose-fitting brown shorts. Wasn’t this supposed to be the cell with non-violent inmates? What is a guy with shackled feet doing here?!

 

As I struggled to control my breathing in the hope of reducing the sweats and not triggering a bout of poop, I recalled that during the November 2023 incident I sprinted out the barber’s chair, sat on the steps and calmed down by slowing my breathing as the barber doused water over my head. Back then, I was able to return to the chair to complete the haircut, and successfully made the 10-minute walk from the barbers to my apartment without soiling my pants.

 

It took 15 to maybe 20 minutes until my breathing got back to normal. I started taking in my new surroundings, a 8ft by 11ft cell with fourteen other people. I hear someone being beaten in the “bad cell”. One guy in my cell tries to observe the action by grabbing hold of the bars across the 2 sq ft window between the cells and lifting himself up. I ignore him, and concentrate on praying to God to help me forgive J.S. When that didn’t work I found things to thank God for: the fact that I got arrested on my way into the country and not on way out, where entire travel plans woulda been scuttled; that I got arrested on a Monday morning instead of a Friday evening, when I might have had to spend a weekend in jail before being bailed; that I had sufficient airtime on phone to contact colleagues; and mostly, that I didn’t have any doodle pangs.

 

Speaking of the last part, I remember my last early morning trip from Nairobi to Juba where I was seated beside a Naija acquaintance who works for the World Health Organization (WHO). I dunno what I ate the night before ‘cos my farts were so loose that I would let a silent one out then hope against hope it didn’t stink. When that failed, I’d scrunch up nose and tilt head from side to side pretending to be searching for the source of the stench. Ah, such good times. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled blog topic.

 

The luckiest guys in my cell were those closest to the cell gate as they had greater access to air. Some guys stood, while others like me crouched on the floor so the guys across from them could stretch out their legs. They would then take turns crouching and stretching. Only the guy with the ankle cuffs was allowed to stretch unhindered. Pun not intended.

 

Someone with money would get food or cigarettes delivered and freely share same with the others. Two guys in the cell paid to have their phones smuggled in with them and readily allowed others to make calls. It was all so utopian, if the surroundings weren’t so dire. Every now and then, someone’s name would get called, the cell gate opened, and they would leave, only to return later. When an Ethiopian guy returned to the cell he informed me I’d be called next. The officer came to the cell gate and tried to pronounce my name. Cue laughter. He ended up signaling for “Nigeria” to come forward. The name stuck, so much so that after I returned to the cell after my statement was taken everyone called me Nigeria.

 

Oh yes, the statement. The officer who pulled me from the cell to the office where my statement was taken attempted in the little English he understood to get money off me. By the way, everyone was on the take. The investigating officer didn’t understand English so summoned an interpreter, who asked to be compensated before he commenced his job. I assured him he would be taken care of. I tried as best as possible to explain to the officers that J.S. was not owed any money, and even if he was, it is the company that should be held accountable, not me. After about 15 minutes of whatever I said being hopefully recorded accurately in Arabic, I was asked to sign the statement and the interpreter escorted me to my lawyer.

 

The lawyer suggests we pay J.S. the $44,000 he claimed he is owed. I argue vehemently against that. After some back and forth he and my deputy convince me that they have agreed with the public prosecutor to deposit half of that amount with the police as bond to secure my release. Thereafter, J.S. would meet with my deputy and the lawyer to review his claims. Sounded good to me. Anything to avoid returning to the cell.

 

As I am a signatory to the company accounts, I was allowed to proceed with deputy to the office to approve withdrawal of the funds from the bank. The police officer that was assigned to accompany us ensured I sat in the back seat of the car, between my deputy and the lawyer, to prevent my “easy escape”. Unbelievable. During the short drive from the police station to the office, I briefed the Nigerian embassy in Juba and my company in Nigeria on my predicament.

 

Remember how I told you everyone was on the take? The dude who escorted us to withdraw the $22,000 requested compensation from my deputy and the lawyer once we returned to the station. After their appeals to wait until the matter was resolved fell on deaf ears, they offered him something he deigned as beneath him, so he stormed off in a huff. This was to come back to bite us, well, me, ‘cos the police changed their mind on seeing the $22,000 and requested that $44,450 – the amount J.S. claimed to be owed - be provided as cash bond instead. Efforts to arrive at a compromise proved abortive, so guess who shows up to march me to the cell? Mr High and Mighty escort himself. He is in his element now, raising his voice while forcing me towards the “bad cell”. I tell him I was previously locked up in the “good cell”, he does not care. He relishes the opportunity to exact his revenge for my colleagues’ failure to compensate him adequately for doing the job he is already paid to do.

 

As I am pushed into the “bad cell” I recall the scream from earlier of someone being beaten. As I brace myself for this, I try to remember any kickboxing defensive techniques. I quickly get rid of that thought as there’s no way I am defending myself against a gazillion guys in a confined space. This time, my shoes are off before I enter the cell. I can’t make out any bodies for the first 10 seconds as the place is uber dark. Some guy walks up to me and starts searching my pockets for money. I assure him I have none. He then taps me on the head and takes my shoes. I don’t struggle. As he tries to harass me again, some guy takes my shoes off him, hands them to me and directs me to the darkest corner of the room. This cell is packed! I barely have any room to squat. I notice no shackled prisoners, though.  No one has a contraband phone, either. I keep praying for God to help me forgive J.S. Some guy comes around sharing peanuts with peeps. I tell him I am fine. He convinces me to take some, I politely decline. He steps away.

 

Some 20-25 minutes later, Nigeria is summoned to the cell gate. I struggle to get there. It’s my junior colleague who met me at the airport. He asks if I need water or anything. I hand him my shoes and tell him I am okay. As he walks away I realize I might be spending the night here and regret not requesting for drinking water for the other inmates. While using the opportunity to get as much air as possible before returning to the back of the cell, the guy beside me directs his cigarette smoke away from me. He asks for my name and why I was removed from the good cell. This guy’s probably 10 years younger than me, but I call him sir. He wants to know more about J.S. Look, at this point, if he had asked for my ATM PIN I woulda freely offered it.

 

As I am about to embark on the ballad of how I got put behind bars, one of the police officers opens the gate, and asks me to sit behind the counter. After 5 mins I get directed to his boss’s office where my colleagues and the lawyer are seated. The boss tells us we need to raise the full bond amount before he closes at 5pm, else he would have no choice but to confine me until the morning. With an hour left to the deadline and banks closed for the day, I reached out to everyone I know to help raise the funds. Once we confirmed we had sufficient funds we asked for a 30-minute extension to have the cash brought to the police station. He gracefully acquiesced to our request.

 

After counting $44,500 in cash, the replacement officer on night duty insisted on documenting the serial numbers to prevent any accusations of theft or replacement of genuine notes with fakes. It took a further 10 minutes to convince him of an alternative. The cash was placed in a sealed, embossed envelope until the following day, when my deputy and the lawyer witnessed the documenting of serial numbers of 445 $100 notes. The peak of excitement, surely.

 

After my deputy agreed to be a surety for me, the officers who took down his details also requested for “facilitation”. I left the police station at precisely 1817hrs. Got home, ensured the peppered guineafowl was still good, and ate a piece without bothering to heat it. Unpacked, showered, then wrote a long email to my partners detailing how I was falsely arrested by their staff. I asked for several assurances going forward, but it don’t matter if they agree to them or not. I am done here.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.