Calling Home:

My parents are probably the only reason I find phone calls useful. Everyone else can IM me on whatever platform we’re both connected on – unless there’s an emergency or we haven’t spoken in forever and absolutely have to talk.

On the off chance that I have to call someone – and it is not an emergency – I secretly hope that the phone rings out without an answer. So I can send a text and say I tried to reach out. Easy, ball has left my court. Over the years, making a phone call has become like an unpopular chore one has to occasionally deal with. I find I’ll much rather text a long winded essay when interacting with someone than have the conversation over the phone. Texting is easy. Talking that isn’t face-to-face is… well, it’s not hard; just exhausting.

Texting, on the other hand, really only works if the other person is smart and/or interesting enough to be worth the time. There’s nothing more torturous than trying to carry on a conversation with someone who can’t be bothered to type like they had some basic education without coming off as a condescending ass grammar nerd. Sometimes, it’s even more painful when they don’t get the hint even when you’re one. Ugh. End of chat. Be gone.

People who think K or kk is an acceptable response should be sterilized. In any keypad, the letters O and K couldn’t be placed nearer each other than they currently are. How do so many people not realize and respect the sexiness that comes with conversing in good grammar? Carrying on texting like you’re retarded is so pervasive that people who make the effort to converse like they have some education are the ones who seem retarded. Madness. While I may enjoy a person’s company or find them interesting, I find myself judging and correcting their grammar in my head when we communicate. Can’t be helped, sorry.

Calling home is easy. My parents don’t use the internet and they don’t have to talk for very long on the phone – even though I don’t mind if it comes to that. Calling home, especially if my nieces are around to chime in is therapeutic for me, sort of. In the often pulsating voyage that sums up my day-to-day life out here, occasionally talking with folks back home is very soothing.

Next on that ladder is the person I am enamoured with at the time. Sadly, even I tend to cower and follow the script when I’m in love with someone. It’s almost like they’re and my family are in a constant jostle on my speed dial. They win every time – if only in frequency, though. Even with them, after a while, I tend to ease back into texting more often than placing a call.


Here and Back Again: ChattrBoxNg and The Big Story 

The last 3 months have been a roller coaster on all fronts. Last night, I and my team recorded the 12th episode of the ChattrBox podcast and it dawned on me that we’d logged 3 months on this thing already. Incredible. 

Now, some backstory. 

It all began on some Friday night, late in May,  when my friend Henry Igwe – Copywriter and Editor at – showed up at my house in Yaba. He was in the area to meet up with some folk to record some other podcast he was working on at the time. Recording didn’t happen. Logistics nwhatnot. It was too late to head back home so he came over to my place. We talked about work and stuff and memories and trajectories from Uniben. When he tried to sell me the idea of us starting a podcast together, I kinda shrugged it off. Like, I was too busy with work at the moment and I’d not-too-recently started managing a new team. There were KPIs to be met. Too busy, maybe later, I said. We left it at that. But Henry is a marketer and, by the next weekend, I was heading to a studio in Lekki to record a podcast whose name we hadn’t even decided on yet. We figured out the name just minutes before recording began. The Chatterbox Podcast, by Henry, Solomon and Cyclone. (Cyclone is a singer and an actress. She was in uniben too) 

Fast forward to the first weekend in August. We had put about 8 episodes out already on SoundCloud and were getting some good feedback. Then we went on Ebony Life TV as guests on The Crunch. Henry was basically working his media connects and marketing the podcast with the single aim of getting us to do it in the big leagues: on radio. Ebony Life TV was the first crack at the good stuff. 

We moved on from that and progressively got better with the pod. Better traction too. Owen, friend and classmate of mine,  joined us the next weekend and became a regular on the  pod as Cyclone got progressively more preoccupied to continue with us. By mid August, radio came calling. Henry’s connects had come through and we answered the call to do a “clean” version of our podcast on radio. You know, for the NBC nwhatnot. Can’t have Henry cursing on radio and getting us corporate flak. Lol. 

Getting on radio was massive. LagosTalks 91.3fm is the sister station to Naija102, Beats and Classic fm. We got a 1 hour, prime time slot for the show on Saturdays. Couldn’t get much better than that. And the feedback has been great. Now, we do the radio show and still record the  podcast every weekend. Whew.

I still do my 9 to 5, working at Nigeria’s best and foremost Travel-Tech start up and that is a massive experience all on its own. Now, media is part of the mix as well. Was speaking with Stanley Azuakola (Editor/Founder of The Scoop and good friend – and classmate of mine) a few weeks ago and we joked about how I always manage to end up being on radio and/or TV, no matter where I go. Three years and three cities after, same trend. There’s no escaping this stuff.

On The Big Story, we do a quick run down and analyse the biggest stories that make the headlines every week. Same thing for the podcast, except it’s not particularly radio prim and proper nwhatnot.

Lagos is intense. There’s hardly ever any free time but we do what we must and scale the hurdles every day. We are young now anyway. Might as well expend the energy well now before our time in the sun is up. I’m eager to see how this all pans out though. Should be good.

The fifth episode of The Big Story airs today at 11am, Nigerian Time. Tune in to LagosTalks 91.3fm to catch it. Or stream it online. You can also catch up on previous (and subsequent) episodes of the ChattrBoxNg Podcast on our SoundCloud page.

Follow me on Twitter for real time updates on what I’m working on. 

Firers and Heartbreakers: The Nature of Pain

My first real heartbreak came a few days to the defence of my final year thesis in college. One last call that drove the final nail to a coffin which housed an already comatose relationship which I was hell-bent on keeping alive.

She ended it and ripped a hole in the space time continuum. My heart was fine. No, I’m kidding. It went numb but my mind quickly went into overdrive and I worked on my thesis and aced the defence. OK, I got a B. Things could have been much worse. The aching resumed right after and took about 12 weeks to completely go away. Experience has hardened or deadened that feeling over the years though.

I have always been curious about the nature of internalized pain and how it affects both those who bear it and those who inflict it – whether directly or otherwise. (The person who ends a relationship aches too, to some degree. Unless they weren’t really vested in it, to begin with.) I have watched people wither away and be withdrawn from everything for a while as a result of a heart break. And then the pains wears off and things normalize.

Fifteen months ago, I got fired from a job I had worked at for 10 months before. The global price of crude had tanked and market forces forced the company to downsize. When it came down to it, my department got the axe.

When HR handed us our letters that day, I felt nothing. No grief or sadness. No pain. I had mastered heart breaks from experience. Or so I like to think. I and my friend, who also got a letter, went out and celebrated at some new fancy restaurant that had opened down the street a couple of weeks before. (We both have since moved on to better things.)

The ache that comes from firing is weirdly like the one from a heartbreak (they’re both, essentially, a termination of a relationship). At least from the perspective of the person pulling the plug. It is not easy to deal someone a crushing blow without taking some sting yourself.

I had to fire a member of my team recently and I, too, ripped a hole in the space time continuum. It was my first “official” firing and the phone call left a sick taste in my mouth afterwards. It was literally heartbreaking to pull off (I imagine he felt worse and that ruined it further for me). I swore I was never doing that again, but I know the odds are against me. I can only hope it is a long, long way into the future before the chance presents itself.

Ending an emotional relationship is a tad easier than ending a professional one, in a sense. When you don’t call, text, reach out or respond to the other person for an extended period, they start to get the hint. Keep that up properly and you both might be lucky enough to not have to go through the torture of a formal, tedious call to wrap things up.

On the other hand, there’s really no buildup process for firing someone. They won’t suddenly get a hint if they get no emails or Slack messages from you for an extended period of time – it usually bodes well for an employee when this happens. If you don’t send them invites to collaborate on a spreadsheet, it means nothing to anyone – just less work to bother about. There’s no avoiding the formal call or face-to-face chat and secretly hoping they get the point and walk away. The confrontation will happen. Whatever the circumstances, it will never be easy to do and, unless you’re some cold-hearted robot, you’ll diminish a little from the experience.

Naturally, the people on the other end of the spectrum bear a bigger weight of the pain than those who pull the plug. They also often take longer to recover. But those who inflict the pain will have to live with it too for a while.

One way to avoid having to go through this pain – whether from having to fire someone or having to break up with someone – is  to do all the hard work at the start. Hire better. Choose better. Going with your gut may sound like a good advice when choosing or even hiring someone, but it mostly is just gooey advice. The signs are always there if you look hard enough. Do the needful and stave of the pain for as long as you can.

Language & Communication: My Journey Through Lagos


I went grocery shopping this morning and had an interesting chat with the lady who owned the shop. She spoke in Yoruba and I spoke in English the whole time and we both left off feeling like, “Yeah, good talk.”

I don’t understand Yoruba at all – and, if I didn’t occasionally ride the bus to work, I’d probably not know “owa”, which I use to signal my stop point. The grocery lady probably understands English but is unable to (or won’t?) speak it, apparently. But I’ll bet she understands English way more than I understand Yoruba. Yet, this obvious language barrier seemed nonexistent when we talked today. Because we both agreed on one thing that transcends language: the rising price of goods.

I basically expressed my shock at why a small bowl of fresh tomatoes had quadrupled in price in the last 5 weeks. She responded with something along the lines of the economic dynamics at play in the market lately (at least, that’s what I hoped she said), coupled with the whole “Change” agenda getting in the way of young, single men like me being able to do our grocery shopping in peace without having to toss whatever shred of dignity we have and haggle over prices. She said all of that in Yoruba and I understood.

I chipped in the occasional “ehen?” or “Mm-hmm” expressing surprise or agreement with her thesis – also, to kind of get off of my English-speaking high horse and whatnot. But she never compromised, not even once did she switch to English. Well, after a long chat, I made payments and left with one thought reinforced in my mind. The need for me to learn a new language.

Well, not necessarily Yoruba, please. I’m not exactly interested enough to commit to it nor do I consider it critical to my survival in Lagos. I spent a year in Abakaliki – where virtually everyone converses in Igbo – and learnt only two, maybe three Igbo words and lived out my time there just fine. I think I’ll survive Lagos as well.

But I do want to learn another language just for the heck of it. German, Spanish and French are my top three choices, in no particular order. Also, it’d be cool for the voice in my head to not be English for a change. Maybe we’ll even role play at some point.

I think I might pick up more Yoruba, the longer I stay here. Only snag is that I never get to hear it unless I’m riding the bus or shopping for groceries in Yaba. Also, if and when I stop riding the bus and when I no longer shop for groceries, the chance will be gone altogether. I may have to befriend and marry a Yoruba girl to remedy the situation if it comes down to it. Like I said, I’m not sure I’m that vested in learning the language. Yet.

The Life of A Schizophrenic Traveler

“Karen likes to pretend like she’s better than the rest of us. That’s why nobody likes her. Anyways, as soon as these fellows sort us out for the night, gimme a call, alright? We should meet up later for drinks.”

Ugh. It’s the same old attention-seeking drama every time. Nessa can’t sit still for five minutes. If there are people within earshot of her, they have to be burdened with her essence. And there’s always that one moron of a man who falls for her antics and then proceeds to dote on her. Okay, usually more than one, but who is even counting? I am exasperated. I just want to sleep.

When the Captain announced that we would have to turn back due to some technical problem with the plane, you could almost taste the collective feeling of disgust seeping through the plane as sighs echoed from different corners. This was the last flight for the day. Some guy in the adjacent row to mine swore in German – or what sounded like it, I really don’t know. He was completely bald, had no beard, and his face was contorted into a scowl that seemed like he might want to hurt the pilot if he got the chance.

As soon as we landed, we all filed out onto the tarmac. Nessa’s seat was 5 rows behind mine – she never seats close to me when we travel. Something to do with freedom to meet new people. My sister is an attention whore. Ouch, yes, but I’ve come to terms with it. When she and Greg came down from the plane looking like a couple heading to their honeymoon the ache in my stomach hurt just a little bit more. You wouldn’t think they’d only just met on the plane. Ugh.

“Hi, I’m Greg. What’s your name?” “It’s a shame what’s happened, right. I mean, When will these airlines learn?”


Look at this one. Please go away, with your overcooked smile and fancy jacket. Yes, you’re handsome, but I don’t really care right now. No one cares, please move along. I look away at the other passengers scurrying into the holding area where we’re all supposed to get some form of debriefing and whatnot ahead of the next flight in the morning. Everyone is sufficiently pissed. Well, except Nessa and this Greg fellow. They seem rather carefree, like this whole thing was a non-issue. Nessa is whispering something in his ear, and they both giggle.

The airline official saddled with the unfortunate task of addressing us apologizes profusely on behalf of the company and assures us we’ll be put on the morning flight. There’s a couple of people haggling over lodging plans for the night. Nessa and Mr Hi, I’m Greg are huddled together at the back smirking to each other, like they know something the rest of us don’t. I give Nessa the “let’s go” eye and she takes the hint. They share a long hug and I see him looking at me, eyes filled with longing. Prick. I suppose you want the entire world for yourself, then. He keeps staring as we walk away, Nessa’s grin as wide as that time we were at Don Jazzy’s birthday party in Victoria Island last year.

I go online and book a room at a hotel near the airport for the both of us. As soon as we check in, I shower, change and lay on the bed. Nessa is on the phone the whole time. No prizes for guessing it’s her new best boyfriend on the other end of that call obviously. She then lectures me on how I should loosen up and try to make the most of the bad situation. The hotel bar is nice, she says. There’s no need to allow these Nigerian airlines ruin your entire day. We already missed the flight; might as well find something to smile about today. I hate that she is right.

Last night was a blur. I recall realizing it was a bad idea to go down to the bar as soon as we got there. There, as if on cue, was that fellow from the flight. I should have known Nessa would tell him which hotel we were staying at. Drinks and some reluctant dancing after – well, it all is a bit hazy now that I try to recollect it. I went up early to catch some sleep, only rousing a bit when Nessa came up later and snuggled up in bed beside me. I’m not even trying to remember now, there’s a flight to catch and we’re not trying to be late.

The cab ride to the airport is brisk. The driver keeps looking in his rear-view mirror at us as we argue in hushed tones about all that transpired last night. Soon as we arrive, we head to the boarding area. The flight is in 50 minutes.

“Sorry, ma’am, your flight was for last night. It says so on your ticket.”

“I know, we were here. Your plane had issues. The pilot had to reverse the plane because of some technical issue. You people were supposed to put us on this morning’s flight. That’s what you said last night.”

“Madam, I don’t understand. This plane left last night as scheduled. It landed already in London.”

“Can you believe these people, Nessa? Where’s your Greg, by the way? He’s not traveling anymore?”

“Please ma’am, you’re holding up the line. Please let this gentleman attend to you, instead.”

Wow. This isn’t happening. I want to throw a tantrum and shake up this place but my senses get the better of me. That’s kind of Nessa’s specialty, by the way – throwing tantrums, that is. She’s awfully calm now, though, just looking forlorn. Maybe because Greg isn’t here to dote on her. I now have to call mum and tell her we missed the flight after all. We’ll have to book another flight for tonight.

Mum is surprisingly calm and I’m a little angry that she doesn’t share my frustration at the airline for messing up our flight plan. She says to wait at the lobby for her. She and Dad are coming over to get us. I tell Nessa they’re coming to get us and she just nods wistfully. This one is obviously still thinking about Greg, who apparently changed his mind about flying this morning, I guess. The bald German-ish fellow too, I wish he was here now. Maybe he’d have broken something or make these airline pricks pay for their scam. I am tired.

“Honey, Karen has finally called. She’s missed her flight. Again.”

“Sigh. Did she stop taking her meds again?”

“See, I’m tired. Please let’s go and get our daughter.”



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