I am so sophisticated, I write numbers in CAPS

Hola peeps. Y’all good?

 

Told ya, I wasn’t kidding when I suggested that the Comrades marathon could make me lose the zest for writing. Can’t believe it’s been 3 weeks since I completed the race in 10hrs 14mins with a massive blister on left big toe and the sides of both soles hurting. The blister has disappeared, but the sides of feet still hurt, and that could be ‘cos I haven’t made it to Aminarrrgh since I returned to Juba on June 15^th. Although I saw a professional physiotherapist in Joburg the day after Comrades, he didn’t use a pestle or other kitchen utensil on my feet like Aminarrrgh does. One time, I swear I saw a blender beside her massage table. I didn’t bother inquiring further; I was just glad it wasn’t me she was going to use it on.

 

I initially intended to see Aminarrrgh two Saturdays ago, but stuff got in the way, and when I called the next day, she said she was busy and promised to call me back but never did. Or was she giving me attitude ‘cos I failed to call to cancel the day before? Man, if that’s the case, between her and my frustrated artist cum cleaning lady, I have two women in my life who gimme relationship-level attitude, even though we ain’t dating. The other day, the cleaning lady asked when we would be refilling the ice cream in the freezer, as the tub’s almost empty. Okay, that probably explains why my powdered milk is low, but not my Ijebu garri stash. Abeg, when South Sudanese begin chop garri?

 

I am in the field as I type this, and it’s weird ‘cos I purposely chose to spend the weekend here. By the time I return to Juba, it’ll be a total of 7 days on this field location - the longest time spent with any of my teams on my own volition. No regrets, though, but it’s time to return to Juba as I am getting tired of eating rice daily. Plus, a bottle of soda here costs almost $2 'cos we are in the middle of nowhere. What’s weirder is that when I knew I would be coming to the field, I started getting the buzz I usually get when I am set to fly outta South Sudan. Never happened before.

 

Anyhoo, I’m all buzzing ‘cos I travel to Nigeria in two weeks for work. Should be there for almost 2 weeks before returning to Juba, and hopefully, fly off to Thailand after a few days. I am yet to receive the visa, so maybe the Thailand trip mightn’t happen. No matter, I’ll be in the UK/US a few weeks afterwards anyway.

 

It’s July and my plan not to be outta Juba as many times this year as last year mightn’t be working ‘cos if I recall, it’s only May that I haven’t been outta the country. After the Comrades race, I traveled to Pretoria and spent 6 days there, mostly recuperating and hanging out with friends. On the eve of my departure, I attended the BAL third-place game and was pleasantly surprised. The place was packed! Had no clue they had such a massive following. If I do the Comrades again, and that’s a big IF, I must include BAL games in my itinerary.

 

Bought some merch at the BAL arena for my twin nephews in the States who played on their high school team. Forgot to tell y’all that I attended their Senior Day back in February, and it was like in the movies. I mean this was a friggin’ high secondary school basketball game and they had cheerleaders and electronic scoreboards and play-by-play announcers — my goodness. I lived in the States on and off for nearly 3 years, and I still can’t get over how everything is so… extreme, whether it’s kids’ sports or deporting migrants. Ha. You know I had to go there, right?

 

When I arrived at OR Tambo Airport in Johannesburg, the immigration officer was thrilled to see that I had traveled to participate in the Comrades, and he quickly stamped my passport and waved me through. “A Nigerian came all the way here to run the Comrades?! Eish, brother, that race is tough, eh. Good luck, brother”. Had secretly hoped he wouldn’t glance at my visa and ask what I was travelling for, so I could tell him it was to investigate Elon Musk’s claim of white genocide.

 

For real, though, EVERYONE I met in South Africa was supportive once they discovered I was there to participate in the Comrades; from the officer who asked to see my passport after picking up luggage who was frowning at seeing a Naija passport but turned that into a smile once he heard the C-word to the Uber drivers, to the guy at the Information Desk at the Durban airport to the hotel receptionist. If I do the Comrades again, and that’s a big IF, it would partly be ‘cos of the wonderful South Africans — utterly amazing people.

 

Yeah, but also insane people! Like I observed last year, the Comrades seems to be a rite of passage for every South African. There’s the viral video of a judge losing his rag at the temerity of a lawyer who wrote a letter seeking a postponement of a trial from the Monday after the Comrades because he would be running in the race. I kid you not. During the race, I sought other distractions after I grew tired of tracking the number of times fellow runners had completed the Comrades. The guy I sat beside on the flight from Joburg to Durban had only started running a year before he decided to do his first Comrades. See what I mean by insane? Everyone has their own story, and that’s what’s so beautiful about them. Some dude I sat beside while trying to keep warm before the race started told me he was running his first Comrades in memory of his late father, who had run it multiple times. Said he trained with his dad’s Comrades hat. Spotted tears rolling down his cheeks at some point.

 

For the race itself, after completing it, I wasn’t as drained as I was last year when a friend rightly joked that I aged 10 years over the course of the race. Like last year, this race was mostly a blur. I recall having the urge to pee after 5km, telling myself to hold on until the 10km mark, then holding it in until the 20km or 30km mark - not sure which, exactly. I do remember avoiding all the food on offer, including fruit, but drinking an obese family’s monthly intake of soda. Man, I was sooo drained.

Oh yes, I also recall hardly applying any “C’mon son” motivations and not untucking/unfolding my hands from normal running posture during the entire race. Usually, I unfold my hands intermittently during runs to stretch them.  

 

I was so antsy about the race that days before, I stopped listening to podcasts about the Comrades, as they were having the opposite effect of making me more nervous with each listen, rather than building up my confidence. On the morning of the race, I was confident I would finish after taking a massive dump before leaving the hotel for the spot where we boarded the coaches to drive us almost 1.5 hours from Durban to the starting point in Pietermaritzburg. Man, that poop was epic! I looked at it before flushing – as I am wont to do with my poop creations – and it reminded me of the inclines I would soon be surmounting. As I flushed the poop away, my anxieties dispersed.

 

David’s brother Biggie was in Durban to support a client running the Comrades, so I met him at the Virgin gym in the stadium near the Comrades’ finish line. As the direct route was closed, I shuffled through the circuitous route for 15 minutes before arriving at the gym. I declined his offer at an ice bath, shuffled some more to the shower, where I spent what musta been an eternity letting the water wash over me and thanking God that I made it through. Due to road closures, Biggie and I waited for over an hour for an Uber, and eventually walked 10 minutes to get one.

 

By the time I got to my hotel, it was way past the time I usually call my daughter, so I ordered food from across the street and repeatedly tried to contact my daughter to show off my medals – a Finishers and a Back2Back – to no avail. In retrospect, I’da eaten at the restaurant instead of taking the food to my room, as they had great music and the cute hostess Thandi, with impeccably white teeth, seemed keen to hang. That’s it, screw East Africans, I am shifting my gaze to South African women now. Ha.

 

By the time I spoke to my daughter on Father’s Day, I wasn’t pumped to show her the medals anymore. She apologized for not making our usual Sunday call the weeks before, while wishing me a happy Father’s Day. Aww, chuffed she remembered that.

Earlier that day, some mates and I had exchanged funny anecdotes about how no one gives a hoot about Father’s Day. One guy said he expected to get a pair of socks “as usual”, another congratulated him on at least getting a gift. He added, “The kids are looking at me like today is a Monday. If it was Mother’s Day now, they would have been running around.” The luckiest among us boasted about how each of his sons had made him a card, and his wife prepared brekkie in bed and gifted him a mani-pedi session at a spa. Just as we were about to start sticking pins in his effigy, he added, “As soon as I got back from the spa, my wife said, ‘Oya, back to work. Our garden needs mowing and the older son needs prepping for his exams tomorrow.’ I didn’t even get time to relax.” We cracked up. Misery loves company.

 

I have one more night in the field, and I'm leaving just as my body is acclimating to being here. By that, I mean I have stopped waking up in the middle of the night to pee. On my first night here (Friday, June 27^th), I woke up three times, the next night twice, and on Sunday night once. However, last night I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to pee in a bottle either during this trip - well, apart from Sunday night - as I was mostly lucid enough to walk outta my room down the walkway into the row of bathrooms. Haven’t had any of the weird dreams that I usually have out here. I told you this field visit was weird, didn’t I? Wait, I did have one dream where I was teaching ants to jump rope. Yeah, that’s the only one.

 

It's about to rain. The weather here has been generally better than Juba’s. On Sunday night, it rained the entire zoo for 3hours non-stop. I coulda sworn I saw an ark come into focus from my window. I hope today’s isn’t as serious ‘cos I like working outside. I have been more productive here than in Juba. I work ‘til late without disturbance, wake up late if I don’t have online meetings, don my scruffiest tee, open my laptop, eat a meal with rice, take a dump in the second bathroom from the right, shower, work ‘til late, and repeat. It’s like Groundhog Day but without women.

 

Speaking of a recurring nightmare, there is still no progress on loan repayments from debtors. Regarding IGI Limited, in my last blog, I mentioned that on June 1st, the solicitor informed me, “the case came up for judgment, but the judgment was not ready.” I still don’t even know what that means. Last Thursday, he came back with, “The judgment would be made on Monday, June 30^th by God’s grace”. You see, it’s the latter part of the sentence you gotta pay attention to, “by God’s grace”. This perfectly captures what my friend Sandra observed after she visited Nigeria when she said, “Wait, is every Nigerian born again? Everyone I meet spouts something religious, yet in the next breath they are trying to fleece you.” Amen, sister.

 

The DSS agent who was initially enthusiastic has gone quiet. The delay in debt payment has caused me to move around money I never intended to, but I thank God there’s sufficient reserve not to cause a panic. I am now so jaded with Nigerians that when a mate I lent money to called on Monday to apologize and offer to pay the funds a day later than promised, I was genuinely shocked that someone was willing to repay a debt without my prodding them. Had expected her not to call in the first place, or even if she called, to make up some lame excuse as to why she couldn’t pay on the due date. Hopefully, she doesn’t disappoint.

 

Confirmed tix for my bi-annual UK trip, so I’m all geared up to show off the fancy white jacket I got in South Africa when I take my daughter out. I’ve informed her of my UK dates so that she can come up with plans, and I can make reservations ahead of time, ensuring we avoid last-minute bookings, which we experienced in February. I also bought a pair of green pleather pants in South Africa that will have me looking like a Temu-esque Lenny Kravitz at mom’s 80^th birthday celebration next month.

I keep pushing my boundaries, man. Last Monday, I wore a peach suit to the office, which got men and women complimenting me. If they keep these iatrogenic compliments up, I might end up wearing a suit without a shirt soon. Once I combine that with the Tabi boots I plan to reward myself in August, imma look so fly I might just spontaneously combust.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.

Articles of interest to moi (2025)

Standing by one's beliefs
The most honest sports article ever
Greatest movie quotes
Man's inhumanity 2
Bravo, Harvard
Man's inhumanity
One way to go
We choose to do things not because they are easy
The art of the tariff deal
Poop science
TSR vs COSR
The most searing self-examination I have read in yonks
To tariff or not
Ode to Jimmy Carter 3
Ode to Jimmy Carter 2 
Ode to Jimmy Carter 1

My cleaning lady is a frustrated artist

 

He puts the C in CTE

Hola peeps. Y’all good?

 

Man, I have not felt this rested in a long time. It’s weird ‘cos I fell asleep about 9pm last night while reading, woke up at 3am to find the lights on and that I hadn’t brushed my teeth before bed. Dragged my stanky breath into the bathroom and after brushing teeth, I did 3 Duolingo lessons, then went back to reading essential articles on the phone like how Tom Cruise was able to execute that bi-plane stunt in the latest Mission Impossible movie, before nodding off again and waking up at 730am.

 

Yesterday, I went on my last run before the Comrades marathon, and it took all my effort to finish the 20km. The hot weather didn’t help, and wasn’t surprised when I found myself already exhausting two “c’mon, son!” exhortations and one Jonathan Majors pout within the first 5km. That caused me to doubt my ability to complete the Comrades again, even though I had done it last year. That anxiety persisted throughout the workday until after another disappointment, stemming from the lack of drive among some work colleagues to complete the simplest tasks. After one guy had the temerity to ask about taking two paternity leaves in the same year ‘cos two of his wives are preggers, it quickly dawned on me that I’d rather endure a 90km run any day than deal with these guys.

 

You know my crazy Belarusian friend Liza, who psyched me into doing the Comrades last year and declared it “fun” afterwards? Unfortunately, she wasn’t issued a visa by the South African authorities this year, so she had to cancel her flight and hotel booking. Normal people would moan or, like me, would be relieved at having a ready excuse to avoid running 90km. Instead, crazy Liza found a 100km race near her and crossed the finish line (after 11 hours and 43 minutes) as the top female competitor. I need saner friends.

 

So, how have y’all been? Thought I’d shoot out this blog before the Comrades marathon in case I lose all will to communicate afterwards. Just so y’all know, like last year, I intend to take a month off running after the marathon. I deem it necessary, as I have noticed my pants falling off my waist over the past two weeks, and a friend I bumped into on Friday said my cheeks had sunken. Could that explain why I can no longer open my laptop by facial recognition? As is now my norm, I treated myself to a mani+pedi and haircut ahead of the marathon. I was gonna shave off all my beard, but if the last Comrades is any indication, I’ll need a way to hide my post-race uber-sunken cheeks.

 

In addition to the “no running for a month” stance last year, I tried to include a “no YouTube for a month”, but messed that up a few times to watch 90s boy band videos and crack up at their longing looks at the camera during slow songs. Trust me, if you are ever in the mood for a belly laugh, watch a 90s boy band video with the sound off.

 

I am glad to report that the “wahala dey o” guy in Juba finally paid back the debt, which I subsequently lent to someone else on the same day. Ha. I never learn, do I? Following the last blog, I contacted my lawyer in Lagos for an update on the debt recovery process, and he informed me that the case is currently at the Serious Fraud Unit (SFU) of the Nigerian Police. Still, they were requesting about N650,000 for “mobilization”. He said he was currently negotiating with them to reduce the mobilization fee to N500,000 and was seeking my permission to furnish them with the funds. While lamenting about this to my mate Miguel, he told me it might be best to reach out to the SFU HQ in Abuja, as, from his experience, the SFU guys in Lagos have been known to collect funds from both the claimant and the debtor. He even mentioned the names of the SFU officers to avoid. Ha.

 

I therefore reached out to mates in Abuja, and one of them told me he knows a guy at the Department of State Security (DSS) who has been known to help recover funds from intransigent debtors. I contacted the officer concerned, and he balked at the mobilization fee being requested by the SFU in Lagos. Long story short, the DSS officer demanded N300,000 for their mobilization and, like the SFU, their MO is to get a 10% cut of the amount reclaimed. You gotta love the Nigerian justice system.

 

Speaking of, my case against IGI Ltd that was due for judgment on May 20^th was moved to May 26^th as the “court did not sit”, and on the new date set the case was postponed as “the judgment was not ready, so a new date will be communicated for the judgment”. Nothing shocks me about Naija anymore.

 

I was shocked though to wake up two Sundays ago and find four missed calls – between 207am and 2018am – on my local number from W. Well, it’s likely from her boyfriend Paul ‘cos there’s an SMS sent between the missed calls that read, “Pls I will get you criminal”. Awww, so polite of him to use one of the three magic words. I wasn’t shocked at this threat, just that he usually makes them via WhatsApp. I reckon Paul is South Sudan’s version of Beetlejuice. Instead of calling his name three times, one must only mention him in an obscure blog post for him to reappear.

 

I went to Aminarrrgh after church on Sunday ‘cos my left shoulder’s been killing me due to my weird sleep positions. I should record myself when sleeping to see how to correct for this, as since the last blog, I have tried everything from tucking my hands under the duvet to sleeping with my hands tucked inside my PJs. No dice. One morning, I woke up to find that I had gone to the other extreme by having my hands crossed over my chest. I must be performing Tom Cruise-like feats in my dreams, huh?

 

Since I couldn’t attend the carbon capture and utilization conference in Dubai, which I mentioned last time, I have committed to attending my mate’s 50th birthday celebration in Thailand, if I secure the visa. There’s a VFS office in Juba that claims to be able to help with that. If that doesn’t pan out, there’s my cuz’s 50th in Tunisia in October, which I’d love to attend, but I haven’t the foggiest about obtaining the visa since there’s no online application option. A fallback is another mate’s 50^th in Cancun in November. Man, I was really hoping to revisit Zanzibar in November, just like last year. Was planning to stay at the same hotel and possibly the same room to see if the TV is still wonky.

 

You see, the only disadvantage of the Zanzibar trip was that there was no footie on TV. You won’t believe this, but the hotel had 10 betting channels, some of which featured virtual sports, such as virtual dog racing, but no regular sports channels. I mean, what gives? Funniest thang, though, was the two US channels that were supposed to be dubbed in Swahili and French, respectively. However, all one heard on the supposedly French-dubbed channel was spoken English, with a voice repeatedly saying the word “French” every 2 seconds. I kid you not, I still have the recording on my phone. The Swahili one was even worse ‘cos it showed images, but no English was being spoken. All one saw was the word “Swahili” flash across the screen every other second. This debacle musta been the result of some dude, probably the TV station owner’s new trophy wife’s brother, who the station manager was forced to contract to dub voices with language translations through AI.

 

The failed Dubai trip also made me sign up for a virtual 2-day leadership conference. What did I get out of it? My main takeaway was that I talk too fast and should s-l-o-w down when presenting to ensure the audience understands what I am saying. That’s as veridical a statement as there ever was, and I wasn’t surprised at this ‘cos at various points over the past months, Vicky complained about the same, and a friend hilariously commented about my “talking in small letters”. Now, that would be the perfect title for my autobiography.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.

My former favourite sports-related word was Repechage. My new favourite one? Remontada

Hola peeps. Y’all good?

I come to you a broken man. The back problem I mentioned in my last entry has kicked off again, and even worse, I have a painful friction burn on left arse cheek resulting from a misaligned underwear label while performing ab exercises during kickboxing class earlier today. Thus, I am sitting weirdly as I type this. See what I go through for you guys?

 

Btw, before the back injury was re-aggravated, it got progressively better. Though I think I may have happened upon a gem during the healing process: For guys forced to get up in the middle of the night to pee, get yourself some sort of injury that makes it challenging to get outta bed and voila, your body adjusts. At least that’s what happened to me. Wondering what I’d do to halt the gradual decline of my ability to read small print without getting glasses? Perhaps, get someone to punch me in one eye so the body compensates by making the other eye bionic?

 

I cannot believe it’s been over a month since I corresponded with y’all. I was supposed to type another entry on the plane to Naija for Nike’s 50^th, but stuff came up, as usual. Since that trip to Naija, I travelled to Kampala for the Easter break but haven’t left Juba since. Next trip is in less than 3 weeks when I will be heading to South Africa for the Comrades marathon, which has been officially announced as 89.98km. Oooh, thanks for being so considerate and not making it 90km. Those extra 20 meters woulda made it even harder on my feet. Just the thought of the Comrades is making me sweat, but I suppose I must since I received the visa last Tuesday and have already planned loadsa activities – like catching a BAL game in Pretoria - for the extra 5 days I will be spending in SA, post-Comrades.

 

‘Cos the race is coming up soon, I have had to keep running with the aching back. I plan to see Aminarrrgh the weekend before I travel to SA. Hopefully, the massage relaxes me better than last time, when I tried to pee during the pace and nada came out. The same thing happened when I felt nasty doodle pangs. Nerves, I suppose. Unfortunately, my Belarusian friend Liza is still unsure about running as the South African authorities have refused to issue her a visa, and she cannot reach anyone there for an explanation.

 

I was supposed to attend a conference in Dubai just after Easter, but as it turns out, though the Emirates airline has resumed flights to Nigeria, the Emiratis still aren’t keen to issue visas to Nigerians. The various means I tried weren’t fruitful, so I had to forfeit the exorbitant registration fee paid for the 2-day conference. Man, I got so upset I seriously considered signing up for citizenship from those Caribbean countries that guarantee visa-free entry to over 120 countries for the low, low price of a six-figure sum and a 9-month screening process. The company I contacted also sent me details on Uzbekistani citizenship. Ahan, e never reach that one na.

The sticker shock of the price got me thinking of jumping on a plane to Heathrow airport, where I’d abruptly set up a reality show to see who’d marry me for a British citizenship for a cash price of 5% of what the Caribbeans were gonna charge. It turns out that, like my Rent-a-driver idea from 2006 that preceded the launch of Uber, the smart alecs at the US Department of Homeland Security had already thought of something similar.

 

What else happened since my last blog entry? Hmmm…well, some familiar intrepid investigators in Juba have discovered this here blog. Thought about stopping or starting a new one, but I am too stuck in my ways to change. The good thang is I can defend whatever I publish here, so it is what it is. That said, if you don’t hear from me for a while, I may have just been abducted and tortured. I kid…..well….

 

Guess what? Paul the mother%$&ker is backkkk. W reached out to me outta the blue the Friday before I travelled to Naija. She wanted to catch up, so I invited her along while I was having a mini-pedi. I could tell she didn’t wanna talk about her relationship with Paul, so I didn’t bring it up. I was just glad to see she was okay. Fast-forward to the Naija trip, when W reaches out and I send her pics of Sandra and the crew painting Lagos all colours of the rainbow. Yes, Sandra tagged along for Nike’s birthday and chose to spend a few extra days in Naija to conclude her search for a Naija politician beau. On the morning of my departure, I received a WhatsApp message from W, “I told you not to talk to W”. Usually, I’da taken the bait and responded as I can’t stand bullies, but since W has chosen to go back to him, there’s nada I can do about it. Plus, there’s another popular Tunde in Juba, one even more extroverted than moi, so chances are Paul would get to him before me. Hee hee.

 

Back to Naija trip, Sandra and another mate, Timmie, chose to come with me from Juba, and since we flew through Entebbe, David joined us from there. WASMIL arrived in Lagos a few minutes before us as her flight was delayed getting outta Gatwick airport, so we rode to the apartment together. It was only 4 nights, but I was beat by the end due to hosting and ensuring everyone was okay. Some guests had such a blast that they mooted returning for Detty December. Well, I am glad they all made friends in Lagos ‘cos I ain’t gonna be there then. I’ll go to Ghana or somewhere. Nope, ain’t hosting again anytime soon.

 

Nike had a swell 50^th, and I have never seen her dance as much as she did at the night party. I tore up the dance floor as well, and so did Vicky. These days, poor Vicky keeps trying to find some sorta straw to grasp onto to improve our deteriorating relationship, going so far as to leave me 9-minute voice notes on WhatsApp. 9 whole minutes! When I sent her pics taken with my daughter last February, she remarked on how my eclectic fashion style was like hers. As if. Would Vicky ever wear a pair of baggy multicolored cotton dungarees that my daughter once called a “circus tent” and so-called mates referred to as a “Teletubby costume”? Exactly.

If she had said I got my dancing feet from her, then maybe I’da agreed. You’d have seen her at the party; Chief basically had to drag her home. She’d be/act all frail when walking from her seat to take pictures or head to the stage, but once music started, this same woman who thirty seconds before struggled to walk 10 feet would suddenly begin bending down so low I was sure she was about to attempt a split. Talk about a dual personality.

 

I feel I may also have a split personality, at least when I am asleep, ‘cos I noticed my back kicked in after falling asleep on the couch. The lats on my left side have been hurting for the past few days, and it’s probably ‘cos of how I slept. I mostly wake up with my shoulders aching, as I find that I must yet again separate my interlocked fingers from behind my head. It’s as if while sleeping I am doing star jumps or posing shirtless for a magazine shoot, a la Prince in his halcyon days. Again, ‘cos of the proximity to the Comrades marathon, I cannot take any days off to rest my back and shoulders.

 

What I can do, though, is go after my debtors. I dunno why I keep falling for sad stories ‘cos folk ain’t got no shame. On Thursday, I showed up at a guy’s office unannounced so the dude could tell me to my face why he hadn’t paid back the money I lent him. Dude came by my office last December to plead for a loan, as he said he had spent money that was erroneously paid into his bank account. When the sender discovered his mistake, they contacted the bank, which put them in touch with my debtor. Dude didn’t want the sender to alert his employers to his disingenuousness, so he sought my help to save him from a likely reprimand.

 

At the time, this dude promised to pay back the money by the end of March, and when I contacted him then, he said he meant April, not March. We both knew he was fibbing, but I told him I’d wait until the end of April. When I contacted him on the agreed date last month, he said, “wahala dey o”. I lost it. I was meant to give that money to someone travelling to Naija that day, and ‘cos of this punk I was forced to transfer Naira to them instead. He asked for another week to make good on his promise, but that was 3 weeks ago. When I showed up last Thursday, it wasn’t to cause a scene, as I don’t do that; it was to let the dude know I wasn’t above informing his employer about his dodgy antics. As soon as he saw me, he quickly ushered me aside, and, maybe due to the asperity of my tone, promised he would pay the money without fail tomorrow (Monday, May 19^th). We’ll see.

 

On Tuesday, May 20th, my case against IGI Ltd is set for judgment, following countless adjournments. These punks banked my premiums for 15 years, but when it came time for the payout after the expiration of the term period in 2021, they started coming up with all sorts of excuses. After they stopped responding to my emails and my visits to the HQ provided no headway, I decided to sue them. At this point, I wasn’t keen on the payout anymore; I had hoped that the threat of a suit would cause them to sit up, but it appears they are well-versed in the dilatory tactics embraced by the Nigerian judiciary system.

 

Sadly, I am experiencing the same frustrations with someone in Lagos; I lent them a substantial amount of money for a real estate venture. I didn’t ask for collateral ‘cos he’s a neighbour of a good friend and she vouched for him as a young man who required support. This is particularly upsetting ‘cos I’d have received more bang for my buck by fixing it with a commercial bank and reaping the interest. I was trying to do my bit to support the indigenous industry. Alas, it’s the same sad story of folk being grateful once you give them the money but start avoiding your calls when it is time to repay. A part of me wanted to damn the consequences and pay the Naija police to get him jailed, but it ain’t in me to subject anyone to jail conditions just ‘cos of a debt.

 

Now I am stuck with going through the slow grind of the Nigerian justice system to recoup my funds. It’s okay, I have learnt my lesson now. I’d rather spend the money on my street dogs ‘cos they are appreciative…...well, kinda. In the past few months, I have noticed that whenever I leave food out, one alpha dog (literally) snaps at the other dogs, and they shy away. Even after I had parceled out separate meals, and Alpha was busy with his portion, the other dogs were still too scared to touch their food. Once I return from South Africa, I plan to take the bullied dogs under my wing and train them to assert themselves and challenge Alpha. I can already picture the Disney movie about my life with a training montage like one of my all-time faves, Rocky IV.

 

Tot ziens and God bless.

PS
I just happened on an idea for an AI app that would help people decide who’s credible enough to lend money to. I plan to call it Intuition.

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.