Posts in Logs

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 Naij.com – 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.

Neverwhere: Tale of A Nomad

I hate that I don’t drink Coffee.

It’d probably help with me feeling cranky every time. I had no taste for sweet things when I was little and now I can’t stand things that are bitter. My parents missed the window to teach me to drink coffee or any of those shitty bitter things that are supposed to be good for you and whatnot. But what do you do when your kid hasn’t got a sweet mouth like they should? You strive for normalcy.

Normalcy sucks. But it is efficient.

I haven’t been home in a really long time. It’s funny how we keep longing to go home but never quite get to make it there. Because what’s supposed to be home isn’t by the time you’re grown. The people and the bricks are pretty much the same but the feeling isn’t. You return now, every once in a while, only to catch a wisp of the fond memories now buoyed by the faces of the people you love and in the eyes of those you must.

This is the third city I am settling into in the last 3 years. I have averaged a year in all three, going where work takes me. When I left home for university a decade ago, I was a precocious teenager seeking the thrill associated with unravelling the mysteries of the world. Six years and two majors later, one was not nearly as keen about the world as one once naively was. I’m not quite sure precociousness applies to teenagers anyway.

I am not rich yet and it’s hard to not be a tad disappointed at the universe for not taking its cue – we should have already moved past this. Three years ago, when I hosted a breakfast TV show in the East and juggled a radio show in tandem, I was some kind of rock star. People would fawn at you in street corners, at events and market places that you’d have to keep up appearances. You had to be the guy who has got it all together and was really just waltzing through life. You’re on TV and you had it all figured out and had to be rich.

I’m still that rock star. No longer on TV though. I’ve broken into two other industries since – and changed cities twice in the process. It all sounds pretty remarkable when you hear me tell it. I even almost believe it when I see how some react to it. Maybe it is, I’m not quite sure. I just know my nomadic proclivities aren’t quite cured yet, albeit I am slightly more at rest at this current stop.

I am compromising my health on the regular now. Skipping on breakfast is a way of life for a lotta young people like me who have to wake up early and beat the Lagos morning traffic rush to get to work. Sodas and snacks for brunch, an undignified lunch, more Sodas and noodles or some other shitty dinner like that. That’s how a typical day goes. Then you try to get a really good meal at some point – usually over the weekend for me.

One barely gets enough sleep. But it’s been that way since University, so one has come to terms with that, somewhat. Exercise? Lol… now, there’s something that gets romanticized every now and again. The only sporting activity one does now is the Soda can Slam Dunk at the office – a really competitive pseudo basketball game, except that we’ve replaced the ball and hoops with soda cans and trash baskets respectively.
Someday soon, I’ll just actually walk into that gym up the street and register myself, I say. Sweet nothings my mind whispers to my muscles already mired in mild atrophy, to keep them hoping that it isn’t quite the end of the world for them.

There’s way too much to learn still. As one grows, you find out you’re not going to have all the time to learn everything you want or need to. So you focus on the ones you need to do your job better or to survive, with little time left for others. I think that’s the sad thing with the way adult life is set up – you come to terms with the fact that there are some books or skill sets you’ll never have the time to absorb, regardless of interest. Because necessity takes a stronger hold on the mind than interest does when you’re grown.

Having never actually left Nigeria, it is pretty ridiculous that I tend to feel what might pass of as an immigrant experience. I read books that depict actual immigrant experiences of people long and far removed from what they used to call home and I kind of feel a tad guilty for being able to relate to it, somewhat. Maybe I just really miss home and the early years when life was simpler. Technically, home is only a couple of hours away, but you get the point, I suppose.

Lagos grows on you and then quits. I don’t even look out the window on the bus ride back from work in the evenings. My phone or an unfinished book (usually on the phone, or just the phone, mostly) take any attention left to give after a long work day.

It is only five years ago, when I had my internship in this same city, that I looked forward to bus rides everyday. I basked in the sights – the lights on the ships docked at or leaving harbour in CMS, the Nitel tower in view from Third Mainland Bridge when you’re approaching Lagos Island and the sheer beauty on display across the city, mostly at night. I used to feel sorry for the other passengers who couldn’t be bothered to look out the window to take in the sights. No wonder you’re all so glum, I used to say in my head. Now, I know.

Morphing into a man in Nigeria is tedious. Too many things trying to get in the way of those who are making the effort. Moving out of your parents home and foraging out in the world on your own is kind of the ultimate rite of passage – bigger than graduating college, apparently. As you get to grapple with and slay dragons like housing and other bills, you start to think your parents may have been secret superheros for being able to raise a home and hold down the fort with such little money! One is not even married yet and is basically grasping at straws with this being a grown up business.

One is gradually approaching the time when being aloof about goings-on around the country and the world is no longer cool. Soon, someone in your age-group is going to hold public office and either shame us all or do well. Those are the only two options, I suppose. Although one has grown up in this country with public office holders marvellously bereft of the latter.

The world is going to shit. War looms every now and again in some corners of the world and here at home. There’s not a shortage of people willing to take other unsuspecting humans with them to their miserable deaths. You kind of have to constantly repress the news info on atrocities around so your mind could still function without breaking down at the sheer horror on display.

Life is tedious enough with the crazy schedules, Lagos traffic and the many sides to eking out a living as a young man. Now, I also have to try to not die while at it. Who’s to tell one of these guys in the bus or in the mall doesn’t have a death wish they’re looking to reach for today? This isn’t how to live.

I hate that I don’t drink Coffee.