Funmi Iyanda

Another manic Monday, I'm not in the mood to talk about our many "the rich also cry" wahala. Today I am going to walk around with a smile plastered to my face no matter what, l will not assimilate, I will not process and I certainly will not comment. What l will do is my usual Monday at the cinema ritual with my co conspirators' Remi and Jide. Why Mondays? Ticket is half price, popcorn is free baby! Cheapskates? Na you know o. Now Jide is a walking film encyclopedia, heck walking everything encyclopedia, the oversabi so and so. Remi is the delightfully dizzy, clueless one always asking you to explain a scene right in the middle of the film. I am the anal one studying the movie and compulsively quaffing bags of sugared popcorn. How will you recognize us? Jide is the eccentric one in his daily work uniform of black jacket, pants (Armani only, owns only 2 pairs by choice and will only replace them when threadbare, usually every decade since they are Armani) and regulation white marks and Spencer shirt. He harasses Remi everyday to begin doing a men's' black and white capsule work wardrobe applying her unique sense of cut, structure and detail. Remi is of course always in black skirt and top or the occasional kaftans, never trousers, never jeans. I always dress like an upmarket bag lady and harass Remi to go back to making monochrome jersey dresses and top. We are democratic film snobs, as we only demand that a film be true to itself, its genre and high production values. We will watch anything from anywhere and in any language as long as it meets those non-exacting criteria.
In an ideal world I and Jide would only got and watch movies at cinemas like the brilliant Ritzy (strange name for a place so cool and edgy) in Brixton. Now that is a true film lover's cinema. An upstairs bar, lounge, restaurant and bandstand. Comfy sofas in the seating areas. A wildly diverse (they have organic dark chocolate in Soya milk shakes!) food drinks and sweets menu. The films shown are just as intelligent and diverse from smart blockbusters to art house Indies usually preceded (on opening night) with some kind of gig. I always travel from whatever part of London I am to see movies at Ritzy.

Back to Lagos, it is Silverbird for me, granted it has a brassy, trashy aura but l like it there. I prefer it to the nu metro one at PALMS, which is just soulless and colourless. They both show similar movies and the selection is all round (understandably) poor in quality but at least Silverbird has a happy energy. So today, we will go and watch Rush Hour 3 (poor selection to choose from remember?) We have seen everything worthwhile on the line up sometimes more than once. I usually don't like to watch movies again unlike Jide who sees each at least twice and then buys the DVD of the exceptional one.

Recently we added Ratatouille to the buy in DVD list. Yes I know, animated film about rats in a kitchen? Improbable is the tamest word I can find now. The thing however is that ratatouille is bloody good; first, it is from Pixar, love Steve Jobs, love Incredibles. The animation is excellent, the dialogue is funny, the characters are a hoot and an improbably plot is made almost believable. I love it.


So as I pull out my sweater, (gosh, why is that cinema always so cold) on my way to a work lunch, I am mentally preparing for my Monday cinema out with my friends. Of course l will smuggle in extra food, (doesn't everybody?) Silverbird has no soy latte and ginger muffin (hint hint).

I wonder if the rush hour duo can stretch the joke to cover a 3rd movie, I shall have the answer in a few hours

As I read about the Etteh wahala last week, I found the picture above of three first ladies amusing. Perhaps l should share this admittedly irritatingly (age and hindsight) strident article I wrote in 1999 for Tempo magazine.

I dislike chain mails(this has been around a while) and l doubt if this letter truly changed hands between so called Dee Lee and the receiver but are some of the issues raised valid to black nations (especially Nigeria) and communities everywhere or is it all ranting of a deluded mind?

What do you think?

It was supposed to be a quick, 'blink and you miss it' business trip. There was no reason l should have missed you on this page, and it all seem like it would work as planned. Arrived Johannesburg Sunday morning, went on a drive around the country side with my friend Dele, Monday to site see in preparation for my meetings and Tuesday, short successful meeting, Wednesday gastronomic and nature exploration and Thursday back in Lagos by 3pm. Right? Wrong! Now l must tell you a bit about my friend Dele. He is the very definition of that Yoruba term omoluabi (child born of the god of values), one of those hard to find, fine human beings l like to collect. A lovable, slightly nerdy, thinking human, Dele is one of the most non egoistic, non-chauvinistic, unselfish, giving and effective people l know. I arrived jbourg burnt out and apprehensive (our creativity and expression stifling space, the insecurity, the police dress drama and a death threat) and was ready to leave renewed in hope and vigour to keep plugging away at my part of the equation. You see Dele is a fellow "perplexed at our crase situation but determined to not just deconstruct the Nigerian space but to construct his part of the space and encourage others to do so" spirit. We spent our time looking at what works in SA and why it works and how we can apply base principles to make something work in Nigeria or at least develop something Nigerian in roots but global in perspective.

We devoured our books and videos (Steve jobs in Stanford, Chris Abani, Ayittey and Ngozi Iwealla Ted talks as well as back dorm boys and other innovation driven phenomenon) as well as rubbed minds on what we need to do and the order of how to do them fully aware that it is a journey, one that we might not see to the end in our lifetime but one which is crucial. I know Dele's humane and ethical values not only in his work but in his personal life because l have seen them tested in the extreme and by some of the most unbelievable "respected" members of the Nigerian society. We did not forget to laugh and have fun too; the only area we differ fiercely is on food. Watch ratatouille, lets just say that l deeply understand what the grim eater food critic Anton Ego meant about not swallowing unless it is of certain quality. I like my food fresh, rich, colourful and flavoursome with all the goodness and nutrient sealed in and l don't care what corner of the world it comes from once it meets those standards. Dele likes his food Nigerian and cooked period! Aside the superb egusi soup at commendable Nigerian restaurant homebaze in rosebank, l did not see him eat anything with fruit, vegetables or water in 6 days! Only the good lord knows how he digests it all.

The short of this rather cheesy monologue is that after spending time with Dele l was ready to return home to fight the good fight and focus on highlighting and supporting the Nigerian people, brands, products and services that are doing well. That is until Virgin Nigeria slapped me in the face. Now note that l am still of that mindset and l tell this story and take whatever action l choose against Virgin Nigeria from a place that was hurt badly by what is becoming of them but also one that seeks to jolt them out of complacency into action. We need as many super brands out of Africa as we can build and Virgin Nigeria, which l used to champion is loosing the plot.

I usually just write aje (witch) and the date and location of purchase on every book l buy. The above is what l wrote in the book Dayo Foresters’ Reading the ceiling l bought from exclusive books at the OR Thambo international airport in jbourg, a place l know now like the curve of my friend Bose's cheek. It's a very apt description and it all happened like this. Thursday, August 23rd l leave early to check in (avoid the 9ja flight luggage battle, what the heck do we always find to buy?) and to get a good seat with legroom. 7.30 am and there is a crowd already, l take my place quietly on the queue and l hear people whispering, it grew louder and l eventually heard that the 10am flight had been delayed till 10.30pm! There were many wild reasons given, l looked for a Virgin N staff and got a confirmation of the delay but was advised to check in. After an hour l checked in and was told to clear security and get a day food voucher worth 75 rands ($11) from News café, me a certified foodie!

Since my ancestors never sleep l went to the domestic wing (if you are ever stuck at that airport the food and restaurant choice is much better on the domestic wing) and had a nice warming (its spring in SA) breakfast then decided it doesn't make sense to wait at an airport eating greasy food for 13 hours so l caught a cab ($50) to sandton City to window shop, eat nice food and take a nap in the cinema. 6pm, Dele gets off work, picks me up and drives me back to the airport. There is no sign of an impending flight so we began a fruitless search for any Virgin N staff, we found their office on the 3rd floor and it was empty and firmly shut. Eventually an airport staff informs us that the airline had unloaded our bags at the arrival baggage claim and cancelled the flight! At the baggage claim there was confusion as passengers with tired kids milled around looking for their bags. I found mine and the lock had been broken. In all of this l did not hear a word of apology, in fact when an older distraught lady complained that she had no money and accommodation for the night, the Afrikaan (didn't catch his name) Virgin N ground staff snapped at her to use her credit card! They provided no accommodation or allowance for the passengers and were rude to booth, insolently handing out this truly insulting letter to all.































Dele drove me back and l only caught 4 hours of sleep before a quick shower and a return to my now grubby airport clothes. We arrive the airport at 6.30am to passenger info (no virgin N staff around) that the flight has been delayed till 7pm. I tried to get on another airline even if l had to buy a new ticket but all were fully booked. I was told to wait for a certain LUCY to endorse my flight to SAA if l prefer. Getting the endorsement off the surly LUCY (got her name) was like talking a Victorian maiden into taking off her damned chastity belt before a swim in the ocean! I was wait listed on SAA and spent $25 storing my bags. I walked over to domestic and had a good breakfast (never skip brekkie) during which time Dele and my office in Lagos had confirmed that the aircraft had finally left Lagos. I didn't want to risk a waitlist situation so l went back to the eyeball rolling LUCY who gave my ticket back to me. I checked in and passed passport control where l joined other passengers in this exhausting wait during which my priced 8g, life time music collection nano and powerful sennheiser ear phones where stolen. I did eat one meal at news café and it cost 150rands 86 rands more than the proffered voucher. I also ate two more meals and a few snacks in between. The plane did eventually take off at 9.30pm by which time I'd caught flu. I swallowed a sleeping pill and slept through the flight but l was alert for take off and landing and not once during these did the pilot or anyone else apologize to us. I had lost a job scheduled for Friday night, a visa appointment for tomorrow's trip to moderate a conference in Oslo, 6 months of work and my reputation at stake. My box was broken, my nano stolen and health broken but my story is nothing compared to those of some of the others on the plane.

We filed out of the plane and l watched us from a distance. There is the odd businessman and visiting families, the church group, the traders, and the football team. I don't know why but people tend to tell me stories thus in the long wait at the airport l knew quite a bit about some of the passengers, maybe too much for my peace of mind. As we filed out l could identify who belongs in what group by their hang luggage. I had my ever-present Mac book, a novel and a bag of exotic African spices and dips (I know food again). The footballers wore a lot of diamante bling, colourful hairstyles and had bought a lot of electronic gear which l teased their coach about. The traders had huge Ghana must go bags bulging with god knows what "wosiwosi" (bits and bobs), the families had confectionaries and business men had duty free perfumes and alcohol. One lady stood out with a truly humongous Gucci carrier bag concealing no doubt the latest oversized IT bag. Had spoken with her earlier, pretty face, lovely smile, bubbly personality, related to a recently indicted (for corruption) public official. There is the young lady who had a leg problem from an okada accident; the long wait and flight had caused her leg to swell to scary proportion. I saw her go by too, obviously ill but courageously smiling, her face ashen and gaunt from the disease that ails her. She had told me earlier of how she was thankful that she carried an antiseptic lotion with which she wipes the leaks from her breast every 30 minutes whilst the long wait persists. She was worried about not getting home a second day as she had run out of her medication, l suspect she has cancer but l am too humbled by her little revelation (the other in her party didn't know what ailed her) and too Nigerian in my sensibilities towards taboo subjects to probe further, suffice the bit she revealed without prodding. I know she is with the church group and l silently prayed that god answers her. She more than any should sue the airline. I also saw her. Her revelation had rocked me to my bones not only in its content but the matter of factness of delivery. Valium popping since 16, sexually abused by male neighbours since childhood, father also started sexually abusing her and her mother (resentful of not being allowed to work by her husband despite high qualification) who on discovering choose to maintain" her perfect family façade by ignoring the abuse and starving the young girl. The abuse continued with her younger sister and god knows who else, the man, a well-respected pillar of the society. Then I watched us pick our bags and the Abuja passengers depart, strangely l missed them we had spent two days together in a strange human union. The rest of us retired to the bar at arrivals to wait for daylight, the plane landed at 3.30 am and no one in their right minds would leave at that time and run the risk of violent armed robbery. So l watched us at the bar, the attendant is lethargic, the food was dead even before it was cooked, and the place smelt curiously of condensed urine and fried food. The TV is on but he picture is faced black and white playing African music video back to back. I watched as the passengers slumped on the stools, their luggage and the floor. The traders buy beer, the families; biscuits. Soon the traders are chirpy and nodding to Olu maintains yahooze. l walked into the toilet and l recoil in horror and quickly resume my perch on my bag. After a while the gloom and doom of the plane gets to me so l tell my driver to let's leave, I'd rather face the robbers. This was 4.30am.

Fortunately, the car pack attendants tried to extort money off the driver and the ensuing arguments lasted 30 mins, enough time to reduce the risk of certain death from armed robbers. 5.10am we headed home and l watched Lagos awaken. It is yet another day in the city of god.

Funmi is away for a few days. Here is her interview with the Lagos State Police Commissioner, Muhammed Abubakar.

This week, ended with the interview of the police commissioner yesterday, my post and video on that will be ready by Monday or Tuesday. Since l work like a donkey, l decided to party like a rock star. To test the denials of all concerned in the dress arrest "crase", l don an Emmy Collin short shorts, my fav bad attitude tee also by Emmy with the inscription, "fashion rules are for fools" and stepped into my four inch congealed blood maroon platforms, wrapped a long multi coloured knit scarf by Ebun Olatoye around my neck which drops all the way to the floor in a noughties hippie style. l joined Collin Khumalo of Multi choice and designers Remi Lagos and Emmy at Picolo Mondo in celebration of Enzo, Zizi Cardow's partner's birthday. It was an unlagos like, unpretentious, fun party with a hip mix of happy party people and fabulous DJ. I can happily report that l didn’t get questioned or arrested at the many police checkpoints (beefed up security) we passed. Now l don’t know if that was because of Collins' obvious officious expart 4 wheel (oh the carbon trail shame!) or the fact that l didn’t leave the island but there was no incidence. As l prepare to leave for SA, let me leave you with these two admittedly cheesy but funny jokes sent to me by my talented, crazy funny newspaper editor brother Mighty whose usual retort when I whine about stressful situations is "thats why god created stout". Have a great weekend.

Heres a push

There was this very rich Ibo man in Nnewi who had only one daughter. When the daughter was of marriage age, the father sent news around town, that all the eligible young men should come out on a particular day to compete in a test which would determine who was fit to marry his daughter.

On that set day, all the able-bodied young men came out. Some came with paper and biro and others with cutlasses and swords. The rich man took them to his swimming pool and addressed the men: "any of you who can swim from one end of this swimming pool to the other would marry my daughter. In addition, I'll give him 50 million naira, a car and a house so they can start of life well. I shall be waiting to meet my son-in-law at the other side. Good luck!" As the young men, all very excited at the prospect of winning, started taking off their shirts, a helicopter came over the pool and dropped snakes and crocodiles into the pool. Immediately all the men turned back and started wearing their shirts again.
Disappointed, some of them said "make de man go marry im pikin joo!". All of a sudden, they heard a splash in the pool. Everybody watched in amazement as one gentleman struggled his way across, avoiding the snakes and crocodiles.
Finally, he made it to the other side as the would-be in-law, panting. The rich man could not believe it. He asked the man to name anything he wanted. The man was still breathless, panting uncontrollably. Finally, he got himself together and made his request, saying, "...show me the pesin wey push me inside di swimming pool"
Moral of the story: "You don't know what you are capable of doing until you are pushed.


Cover your ass
One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well. The animal cried piteously for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do.
Finally, he decided the animal was old, and the well needed to be covered up anyway; it just wasn't worth it to retrieve the donkey. He invited all his neighbors to come over and help him. They all grabbed a shovel and began to shovel dirt into the well. At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly. Then, to everyone's amazement he quieted down. A few shovel loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well. He was astonished at what he saw. With each shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey was doing something amazing. He would shake it off and take a step up.
As the farmer's neighbors continued to shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up. Pretty soon, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and happily trotted off!

Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt. The trick to getting out of the well is to shake it off and take a step up. Each of our troubles is a steppingstone. We can get out of the deepest wells just by not stopping, never giving up! Shake it off and take a step up.
Remember the five simple rules to be happy:
>Free your heart from hatred - Forgive.
>Free your mind from worries - Most never happen.
>Live simply and appreciate what you have.
>Give more. Expect less NOW ...........

Enough of that crap . . . The donkey later came back, and bit the farmer who had tried to bury him. The gash from the bite got infected and the farmer eventually died in agony from septic shock.
MORAL FROM TODAY'S LESSON: When you do something wrong, and try to cover your ass, it always comes back to bite you.

As you know I am often engaged in deep internal battles which I occasionally spew forth as sometimes clear but more often jumbled narratives with which l bore you to death on this page. As l prepare to fly to Johannesburg tomorrow for some meetings l was once again engaged in a never ending conversation with my prospective host Dele on the African question i.e. why are we so fucked up? It may also be rephrased as why are they so fucked up that they cannot see that we are not fucked up. As l descend into internal disunity, l invite you to download this talk by Chris Abani at the last TED conference in Aruba if you have not heard it before. Funny and incisive, actually I don’t invite you, l beg you to download it, sit back to listen to it with the speakers turned up high. Afterwards, tell me what you think, not only about the talk, but the issues raised and finally answer this question, did you know about Abani prior to this and how much do we know of ourselves and about ourselves?

Thanks Natasha for the link.

l had read the ThisDay editorial on covenant university's pregnancy and HIV testing with dismay although Funke Aboyade's law pages did calm my nerves last Tuesday. This excellent article in the ThisDay finally restored my peace of mind. This is why it is important that the rational speak up. Thanks Dayo for the link.

Whilst at it the minister of education has also waded bearing sanity at hand.

Monday morning and in typical bipolar Lagos fashion, l have been raised from the lows of depression to near ecstatic highs of hope. I do believe it is these addictive extremes of beastly realities in quick edit flows with utterly beautiful possibilities that keep us going here.

A little story.
Walked into Emmy Collins shop on Awolowo road on Saturday to talk about his upcoming show and possible charity initiative. He detests the sight of children on the street and has an idea of what he can do to help. My first ever TV show was about street kids and l spent a couple of years picking them off the street before volunteering and raising awareness for orphanages so l guess l know the subject and in an hour we had streamlined Emmy's delightfully zany ideas (true to his nature) to something achievable in the immediate future with timelines for expansion. I had noticed the two young men who were with him before l came in. You couldn't ignore them, they were good looking, dressed in hip crisp white shirts and low slung non-brief revealing jeans. Their hair was in clean short locks and they had a polite air about them. Turns out one is a 20 year old aspiring designer, 3rd runner up at Ade Bakare's design competition and the other a 22 year old aspiring model. What stuck me was that given their powerful presence and good looks, they both seem so unsure and retiring.

Suddenly Emmy pips up, tell her yourself, Funmi is down to earth and will tell you as it is. So the 20 year old turns to me and without looking me in the eye whispers that he'll like to make me some clothes. Why l asked. Still looking anywhere but at me he says well, l know you can wear my designs well and will help me get it known. Ok l said but do you have capacity to produce the stock you will need to show once your work is known? No he said. Now a little background, this young man's work had been my favourite during the competition (l was a judge) but perhaps his creativity was a little too avant garde for our sensibilities. Earlier he had been talking about how he had started studying medicine but is now thinking of leaving Nigeria to study computer technology. I looked into his design book and his unschooled sketches where superb in the detail and creativity. I looked him in the eye and said, let me tell you this, from all l have seen and heard from you and perceived of you l can tell you are no medical doctor, computer technology is not rocket science and can be acquired as you go along. Unless you want to be a programmer or work with the science of it, l don't see why you want to go study that. Computers are tools not a destination. Now you whom l see here is bloody talented, gifted and creative imagine how much so if you let you mind loose and learn your talent. You need to go and study the art, science and business of design and fashion. You need to acquire the knowledge, skill and network for your obvious area of core strength and natural flow. Don't just make a few clothes and get publicity without deep content or knowledge in our usual Lagos e dey happen way o. Also, don't worry about people not getting you yet, they will eventually and remember Nigeria is your root but she is not your only or final destination. Be so bloody good that no one, whatever colour, creed or nationality can deny your abilities whatever else they may have a problem with. I saw him light up from within and look me in the eye for the first time. I then gave his aspiring model friend the number of a trust worthy model scout and they both left armed with information and a little more confident, a little more assured. I looked at Emmy and said, I am reminded of why I am here, we can't leave these young ones to the ignorant, superstitious, bigoted and undiagnosed demented.

Through out the weekend I talk as I tend to do with mothers and their children at cinemas and malls, taxi drivers, hawkers in traffic and young people hanging around and l am struck by the innate goodness of our people even as l can see the general limitations placed by poverty, ignorance as well as misinterpreted culture and religion. It is important that the few voices of reason keep at it, stay in the trenches and smoke out the enemy, the reward is immense, it is a more knowledgeable, freer, prosperous self-perfecting human society for our children and theirs.

Must thank all for the emails and petitions, please keep them coming, I know that civil society is also mobilizing on this as l have got many calls, l will join them and if need be invite those of you based in Nigeria to do so too.. We are compiling the emails and will send them round media houses. Over the weekend l spoke with Mr. Frank Mba of the Nigerian Police PR who swears that there was no such order from the Nigerian police and that the initial arrest of prostitutes (conversation for another day) was misreported by some uninformed reporter. I have insisted that the police come out on as many media platforms (including mine) as possible with strongly worded statements of deterrence and disclaim. My friend Stella Din of MBI has also spoken to the commissioner of police who she says also decries it; l will speak with him this week. We are also working on getting Gov. Fashola of Lagos to issue a public statement on this. I do not believe that it just genetically mutated into existence, someone gave a go ahead.

I know this will not go away soon as the root cause of such intolerance and ignorance remains unexplored but what l say is that it is an illegal distraction and complete madness. If we must have future conversations on dress the it must be on what is appropriate dressing not indecent dressing because once dressed you cannot be indecent. Even that is subjective, open to abuse and unimportant in light of our real national issues. If you flash or expose complete private parts (unless mentally disturbed) then you might be guilty of indecent exposure, which is a completely different ball game and something unheard off in Nigeria. What l perhaps see is that many are genuinely unaware of what sort of clothes to wear to where, what fits and flatters what body type and how to wear tricky fashion. For example many women l see at exercise in gyms and at the national stadium do not wear sports bra, when l raise the point, l find that they do not know that they should so we can start to educate each other on how to make the best of our bodies both men and women but as regard those whose intolerance is driven by perversion, fear, ignorance or religious fundamentalism, I'm afraid l am not much inclined to give heed.

Here is some more interesting education on the subject from the lovely Pamela.

Just so that we shake the feeling of the helpless sitting duck, here is some advice being circulated by private security experts. In addition l suggest we all mobilize into citizen pressure groups and start to insist on a non fraudulent (note that the last 2 IGs did get lifelines which ended up in private bank accounts) total overhaul and reform of the police as well as the possibility of a decentralization of the police.
Its going to be a great week!

l beg no vex my people. l have spent the week in contemplative silence, first about my own future and the real possibilities of ever fulfiling my real potentials in this country. l did not want to blog and come across as the "angry black female"although my sister Chimamanda assures me that if the anger is justified then the label is not to be feared. What is there to be angry about? Not much really except that three of the hottest bars, hotels and clubs on Ozumba were robbed last Saturday with the open rape and abduction of a well dressed, corporate type woman in front of her weeping fiance. This is not hearsay, the lady who told the story still had scars on her legs and was shaken as she recalled how an entire bar was headed into a toilet with people trampling on each other and injuring the weaker and less fleet footed. In 10 days they have robbed two so called 5 star hotels, a major supermarket chain as well as 5 bars and clubs. None was reported in the papers as the places concerned had bought media silence to protect their business. The victims didnt report to the police in our usual culture of silence. They dont trust the police, dont believe they will get justice and want to avoid futher ridicule and shame. The robbries on the road and in traffic is of course norm now. To combact it all the police continues to arrest women in jeans because they are prostitutes, the rationale is that robbers lead immoral lives and follow prostitutes so if you catch the prostitues you catch the robbers. Of course all women who wear trousers, jeans or thin strapped blouses, form fitting long dress or above the calf dress and skirts are prostitues whether they are on the road or in their cars or busses and okadas. So are women out on the road post 9pm.

Why get angy at that when the largest most attended church in Nigeria the Redeemed Christian church has given tacit support to such by banning trouser wearing women from all their churches. There was this story of the new convert who came to a certain big church wearing earings and how he was mercilessly beaten by the church's morality police, a jouranlist friend was following the story until it was killed because the boy was threatened by the church, some church whose bus killed a child harrased the family into silence without so much as a condolence visit from the church overseer. All this before the convenant university began the compulsory, non consentual pregnancy and HIV testing on all graduating students. Why be angry when you see peity being used to disguise open and flagrant crime, corruption and depravity, after all our problems were caused and will be solved once we brow beat women (the original sin bringer) into barely seen, heard or considered existence.

Did many of the governors and government officials who lead services and contribute generously to church cofers in many of these churches not produce multiple children outside of wedlock in the past 8 years? Were those by immaculate conception? l cant tell you how many so called top pastors have hit on born again and sometimes married friends of mine in the past. l,m afraid l may be getting incoherent as l cant shake the deep sense of despair and worry about where it is this nation is heading. Its friday so perhaps l should lift the blues by going out to dance bata at a dance club...shoot! l cant, l may get robbed, raped or arrested for being female and daring to be happy.

Its Friday night, l leave the gym at 10pm, l didn't get there till 7.30pm because of traffic, l don't head off after 10pm because there will still be traffic on the 3rd mainland bridge and people get robbed in traffic. So myself, my friend Bose who is a consultant gynaecologist, a lecturer and a research scientist with LUTH join her husband Jide a lawyer with his own thriving 12-year-old practice and famous fashion designer Remi Lagos. We went next door to Cactus to have dinner, we would have gone to News café but it was robbed recently as has been many busy Lagos hot spots. Afterwards we went to Piccolo Mondo to unwind and left around 1a.m. when hopefully the robbers will be off the road (at least you can out speed them if they are not) or now robbing people within their homes. Jide is a teetotal; the rest of us can only handle the occasional half glass of wine. We dropped Remi at her Ikoyi home and headed for our mainland homes.
At the barracks bridge (so called because of the adjacent notorious area C police station and barracks) just after the stadium in Surulere we were stopped by the police. Now the rule with police checkpoints is that unless it is one you are familiar with or any one under a bridge after 10pm, you duck and speed through them because they are either robbers or off duty policemen, which in 9ja speak is same difference. This checkpoint is unusual at this spot but it looked real so we stop. Jide who was driving was ordered to open the booth by one policeman whilst another came around and ordered us to come out. I force my sleepy eyes awake and step out. The next set of questions and answer is so surreal my bleary eyes went into instant sharp auto focus.

Policeman: where are you coming from?
FI: work, we just dropped off a friend and are going home.
Policeman: So why you dress like this?
Bose and FI: like how?
Policeman: (shouting and waving a copy of PM News) una no hear wetin Fashola (gov of Lagos) talk abi? Una no hear?
FI: (keeping tight rein of rising bile and anger) hear wetin?
Policeman: (jabbing his finger at us and spitting the words out with disgust) na so una suppose dress, why you dress like this?
FI: what do you mean? This woman here is a doctor, a mother and wife, this is her husband.
Policeman: If na married woman why she no dey her house, all these useless women!
By now Jide is asking what is going on and the others are coming around. Suddenly one with a guttural Warri accent scream that he will deal with us and that in fact they should take us all to the station. Jide is annoyed and shouting, Bose and l are shaking in anger whilst l think of whom to call to stop the madness.
Suddenly one of the plain clothed one recognised me and says ha this is aunty Funmi ke! Aunty Funmi New Dawn isn't it? Yes l said. Don't be annoyed he said in rapid Yoruba, please you can go. Jide and Bose are still arguing with the other two as we get back into the car.

As we drove off we hear him shouting defiantly, What if you be barrister and she be doctor, na only una read book? Warn your wife and all these asewo women, we go deal with them for Lagos.

As we drove away in silence, l felt a deep sense of anger and degradation. I looked at Bose. My bespectacled friend was wearing jeans and tee shirt with a scarf wrapped around her neck. Her shoes are flat; her hair is streaked with specks of grey, permed and combed back. She wears no make up. I am wearing a free flowing A-line above the knee black dress with a huge brown scarf wrapped around me all evening because of the cold. (note phone camera pic of me eating at cactus and the other taken at home after the drama) I am wearing flat ballet pumps no make up and my hair is in thick braids. I didn't sleep that night nursing my injured dignity and wondering if l wasn't doing my daughter injustice by raising her in a society that so denigrate women. One where a policeman is resentful of the educated and hateful towards women.

For years, l have told the morality brigade that the average uneducated person who is resentful of his poverty and blames all above him does not know the fine line. Therefore, the subject of indecent dressing is so subjective and potentially prone to abuse it should not be trifled with. Indecent exposure (flashing your privates) yes but indecent dressing? By what standards, religious, ethnic, class? Are these not seeds of discord and disintegration? There was a TV show recently where the respondents, older semi literate women were asking that women should not be allowed to wear trousers. In fact the number of people of all religious and socio economic persuasion shouting themselves hoarse in support of this move is alarmingly worrisome, eerily similar to the clamour in pre Taliban Afghanistan. What right does anyone have to impose his or her moral (often hypocritical) standards on others? For a lot of these the universal uniform of the 21st century of men and women i.e. jeans and tee shirt is immoral and any dress which is not floor sweeping and Mormon like is unacceptable which in their little minds makes 80% of women (including my dear female pastor friends in their knee ("sinful") length skirt suits, red lipstick and weave extended hair) prostitutes. The result is the demonization of women which then makes it easier to exploit and abuse them. The first public official who started this assault on young men and women a few years ago is well known to me. He is a political jobber with a pea-sized brain and penis (l suspect) who is a serial adulterer, sexual predator and abuser whose long suffering wife is almost out of her mind and whose children hate him. A former top female official who also spearheaded the campaign is married to a pastor who was hitting on a young born again woman close to me whose universal uniform is huge bell bottomed jeans and long sleeved proper buttoned up shirt. The hypocrites and liars demonizing young people to either hide their own frustrations (the women) or perversions (the men).
The recent situation is so weird; they are picking up young men with dreadlocks, tattoos and earrings. They also pick up women with more than two earring piecing.

Two weeks ago they picked up my assistant Bill for holding on to two phones whilst in my car and according to the policeman, on account of how he was dressed. We just left he studio and Bill was wearing slacks and a proper shirt! Imagine if it had been two nameless women in that car Friday night. What do l mean imagine, they are going around picking up women for various reasons of dress and jailing, molesting and/or extorting money off them. As l write my petition to the IG, l wondered whether l should start spending the night at any reputable boutique hotel (cost an arm and a leg) on the island after work to avoid robbers and police, oh hang on they are robbing those too now and if the police catch me in one then l am definitely a prostitute.

My question, are the youth and people of Nigeria so brow beaten and/or brain washed that they will accept this? Where are the voices of reason?

Now Hear This
Whilst we are at it, listen to this with your speaker turned on loud and tell me what we are doing about 419ners such as this as well as the robbers, rapists, murderers, embezellers, death trap roads and hospitals and infrastructure. How far back are we going to keep moving that wall?

Its only a little story but l wrestled with telling it at all. In the end it told itself. His name is Tunde and last Thursday l stood watching him in the sunlight, he drawls his words through mouth slackened and crooked by the accident. Spittle dribbled through his yellowed teeth as the words gurgled out of his mouth. His body is completely emancipated in the manner of the famine survivor stumbling through the gates of a refugee camp. His skeletal finger makes slight jabbing movements seemingly to lend power to his feeble speech. His death mask face is immobile but shockingly his eyes are bright and clear, his manner weak but matter of fact. Those around us stare in confusion, l suspect less at the sight of Tunde but at our manner for we carried on as though in contemplation of the lairy weather. I can smell his ailment even as l leaned closer to him; my face remains expressionless, experience has taught me not to display ineffective sympathy, pity, fear or anger. I focus on the facts even as my core weeps.

Tunde came to me 3 years ago, as a budding freelance sports reporter, he had been in a ghastly accident that broke his ribs and punctured his lungs. When he came he had already been mauled by our ailing health care system and his family impoverished by his travails. He was not so thin then and his mouth was still in front of his face, he is one of the many who come. We turn back the most hopeless cases, harass, beg, and solicit support for the bad cases. The fair cases we solve ourselves, we don’t accept money directly. Tunde’s was hopeless but he is a friend to two boys whom l mentored and who are successful full-fledged sports journalists now so he is like aburo (younger brother) to me. You don’t give up on an aburo.

After 2 years and some operations we were told he only requires a last corrective operation in Luth so we got support for him from Lagos State government who part paid directly for the operation, case closed or so l thought.

Many of the people who are assisted never come back to me, they don’t need to, the knowledge that they are on their feet again suffices so l assume Tunde was back doing what boys do until last Thursday when this shell with Tunde’s soul visited me.
Apparently the operation was half done, the other half had been delayed because he was waiting for equipment which LUTH had taken delivery of, but not started using.
I know the story of those equipment. Perhaps you read about it in the papers too, the last president commissioned some multi billion-naira overhaul of the teaching hospital. As happens here, the equipment arrived and sat in containers until such a time when the president can make time in his schedule to commission them. They waited almost two years. Post commissioning in the last days of Obasanjo, it was discovered that some had become faulty and some were substandard. There are whispers that the exorbitant kickbacks demanded occasioned the need to subcontract. That of course might be a lie. Now in all of this someone forgot to train the staff so another year of training is in the offing. The maintenance contract is for 5 years so add the 2 lost years to the 1 (conservative) training year and you get the picture. In all of this drama Tunde is dying, many more Tundes have died, much more will die.

So as we both stood casually considering his options, we did it with the unemotional matter of fact ness of the lost. Our sanity is dependent on it.

Just in case you need to get away from the insidious stress of life and just have good clean mindless fun. Go to the cinema and watch DIE HARD 4 which l have renamed die hard patapata. Bruce Willis (whom l have watched from his moonlighting days and whom l admire for his Alpha male without the crouch cradling ego persona and lifestyle) returns in a nifty, digital, even witty feast of high jinx and excitement. Look, it can’t get louder, tighter, more testosterone driven but surprisingly it has a modern, geeky and slouchy cool.

It is like Steve jobs meet Sly Stallone. I like it so much l saw it in New York and Lagos and the reaction of the audience was the same, a lot of spontaneous clapping, exclamations and air pumping. Think of your ultimate modern hero feat and Willis' character surpasses it; l mean the man even kills a plane with a car and out maneuvers a fighter jet to spectacular destruction!
From the laconic, asthmatic, and hypoglycemic hacker sidekick to the beautiful ass kicking Asian Villan and the Barack Obama like agent, the film is a bit like riding the raging bull whilst watching your favourite sit-com. It does not try to be intellectual, unduly emotional or preachy, just plain old spectacular crashes, explosions, ass kicking, and baddie extermination in an effort to save America. Just the way you want your summer mindless sun. Whilst you are at it, continue to unleash your inner child with Transformers. As GM cars and trucks (wink) unravel into good and bad robots from my innocent comic devouring childhood, l sit enthralled.

Never have l seen sexier or nastier robots. They are fit, swift, flexible and cool beyond belief. What out for the parents of the lead actor, pure hilarity.

Okay l know l said l would hold my piece but this one takes the akara.
Last week, a lady told the story of how she and others were robbed under carter bridge on Lagos island by six burly men, two of whom even felt her up under her appropriate long skirted work suit. A few days later she recognized three of them on duty as policemen at a bank also on the island. Her blood has not defrosted and she is sure as hell not going to report them to the police especially not to a police who's new commissioner in Lagos is combating crime by arresting "indecently dressed" women. If l no laugh l go cry so l beg go read the story on Jeremy's blog.

It's the last day of my periodic, self imposed news fast and as expected l am getting more angry as l do my quick glance (most of the writing is unreadable) through the papers. From the horror stories and opinions to the horrific journalism, there is little respite for the rising temperature behind my ears. So Alams walks free and some pseudo university is imposing a mandatory pregnancy and HIV test as a condition to collecting degrees post graduation! I am frowning fiercely when the shrimp saunters into my study and noticing an alien object amongst her knick knacks (pictures, painting, letters, songs) on my wall, pull down the offending picture. I watched her face as curiosity turned to awe and then a grimace. "Mummy look, this man must be a fake man". Why do you think so l asked. Look at his body, how can a body be like this and look at all these things (veins) on his body, he is a fake man she declared with certainty. No darling says l, this is not a fake man, he is an athlete they are called body builders and they do a lot of training and disciplined eating to be like this.

Ohhh, she exclaims in wonder, can girls do this too? Certainly l said, in fact there are many girls who do it. At this point l show her pictures and stories online of body builders. At the end she exclaims, cool mummy can l do this too? If you want to l said but the problem is your body is naturally androgynous and might not be able to attain such proportions without drugs, which are bad for you. What means that, she says mischievously. Oh common miss you and l know you have outgrown the "what means that" stage so try again. Okay mummy what do you mean? I said your body is naturally long and lean and you might be better off as a long distance runner, tennis player or high jumper, if you force your body, you will need drugs and drugs can make you sick and even kill you. Okay mama, she says now looking at Muritala Idowu with newfound admiration and respect. In 10 minutes, we went from
ignorance driven fear and distrust to knowledge based respect.

Last Thursday Chimamanda Adichie joined myself and the other ladies on the women's panel edition of the show to interview the frankly awe inspiring Muritala. He told of the sort of immense discipline required to not only build and maintain that body but three months to competition the will required to step up on a quelling diet and exercise regime. To understand his motivation perhaps one need to know his background. This is a naturally muscular young man who as a carpentry apprentice in Ajegunle and Amukoko started bodybuilding with the flywheels of abandoned cars. His journey from Amukoko, through escaping the gangs and crime of Ajegunle to self training at the national stadium, to enrolment at the institute of sports (sans much formal education) to gym instructor at proflex, to competitive body building and eventual top 10 of the Mr. Universe competition (Gov Arnold's starting point) is a tremendous awe inspiring story. He currently lives in Belgium and competes around the world holding titles such as top 10 Mr. Universe: Mumbai India 2003; top 5 European winner: St. Petersburg, Russia 2003; Winner Heracles Super Cup International; Best Belgian Bodybuilder 2003-2004. His goal is to win Mr. Olympus.

As l returned to the papers and continued to read more stories of the true fake men and women in Nigeria in the papers from the vainglorious to the criminal and the cacophony of sycophantic voices propping them up. I pay a silent homage to the likes of Muritala in different areas of life in Nigeria who against all odds achieve the truly extraordinary. I am also happy to be in a position to show young minds, starting with my own shrimp, the ability to recognize the difference. It is going to be a great week.

This week l am reading Baldesar Castiglione's HOW TO ACHIEVE TRUE GREATNESS.

A little video clip of the interview with Muritala Idowu will be
available on New Dawn Videos from Thursday and pod cast of a one on one with him on this blog in two weeks.

Its official. l'm over the hill. Its my birthday today and l'm now firmly on the wrong side of 30. l have found an errant gray hair and my butt response time is increasing with each breath. l have also recently become terrified of teenagers and can no longer digest a dinner of suya, bread and coke. To mourn the loss of my youth and elasticity, l'm taking my close friends out to dinner and later to dance like rock stars. l look forward to age 70 and beyond as l fully intend to grow old digracefully. My dream is to be a wrinkly old woman in tinko emrbrioded kaftan sipping palm wine through cracked red lipstick as l hold court with bright young creatives in my queen of the night drenched garden even as we nod to Fela classics.

Battling a flu and crazy deadlines so let's have fun. As l and my
fellow "FUNBOBS" (tell you about them one day) fervently believe, always stick a cheeky tongue out at bad times and tides not only will they pass, you would have pissed off the gods of ill luck so royally that the gods of fortune have no choice but to chuckle at you in approval. If it happens that you pass before they pass, oh well you would have had a bloody good time.

I always get the how do you put is all together, you must spend a
fortune and humongous amount of time and thought on it question. The answer is hell no!

I've got a perfect example for you. Came back from America with ruined skin, ratty hair, latent flu and heavy workload which l promptly threw myself into, no rest for the wicked o. By last Friday l was beat but there is no way l can avoid going to Dele Momodu's mother's burial for the simple reason that l saw the lady in her last months and in her fragility, l saw strength, l wanted to honour her. Also l had been unable to attend any of Mr. Bobdee's milestone events in the last 4 years.

Trouble is, how was l going to go from frump to fab overnight, l have no time or inclination to do nails, hair, skin wax, polish and professional makeup plus my aso ebi is unmade.

I called a friend to make anything she likes out of the Ankara which (God bless her) she did in four hours. This is what l then proceeded to do.

I had not been able to fit the dress so it hangs loose and unflattering.




It needs a little drama so l pull out a full lace wrap skirt and tied it on low hanging (for proportion) beneath the dress


and cinch my waist with a huge black belt to disguise the poor fit and hold the look.




Next l wear 5-inch ankle tie platforms to distract attention from my claw like, chapped toes and bruised heels.

























With my hair, l simply cut two yards out of the Ankara and wrapped it high and up (emphasizes the neck and cheekbones).

I never wear make up unless working or going out but I’m not crazy enough to drag my friends Bayo, Nenim or Kazy out of bed at 6am to put make me up. So l put a bit of liquid concealer on the acne scars, ignore the fresh zits and brush on some of my friend Bose (wrong shade)'s loose powder. I had lost mine and not noticed; l would have gone bare if she didn't have hers. I can’t do eyes or brows and l have sleep deprived dark circles so l plunk on my cheap (drug store bought) huge dark shades to hide all.

I put on my trusted reddish lip-gloss, oodles of self-acceptance and a happy smile and l am ready to go with my usual motley crew Jide, Remi, Ade and Ijy.


So when you see the pictures of me at Bodbee's mother's burial in Gbongan, know that l am winking at you, its never about money, its about knowledge, self assurance and a great attitude. Trust me l can pull off a N500,000 dress and million dollar accessories but l would never spend that kind of money on such in a country like ours, l cannot justify it to myself. Even in Hollywood most of it is given free as part of the wheel of commerce. Some of the most stylish people at that party as l have found with many parties are not the most expensively dressed.




I just loved this young man's pizzaz.



















As for me, this is my sum total for that party. Dress N2, 000, skirt £80 on sale, sunglasses £20, shoes £65 on sale, jewelry price on application;-), belt £60. Confidence based on self-acceptance and knowledge? Priceless.

The stories came out without warning, raw, painful, ejected in jerky bits from an extremely constipated emotional colon. Perhaps the laxative was the emotionally draining (at least for us) carnival like party we had just attended where the entire poverty stricken village stood on the streets, walls and balconies mouths agape at the antics of the party goers.

We both lay on my bed nursing a common cold and reading when suddenly she says. “l have not been able to finish reading Half of a Yellow Sun, my dad too and my mum cannot read it at all”. I knew there was more coming so l kept quiet. She continues, “when l was reading it, l told my mother bits of the story and she broken down in tears each time. The thing is, my mum was a comfort woman during the biafran war and my two brothers are a result of this. Recently my father was due to be made an elder of the church but in spite of his eminent qualifications for the position, he was denied because he had married a woman who had two children out of wedlock even when they found out the circumstances of my brothers’ birth”.

My very being wept as my friend told me stories from Biafra as told to her by her parents. Stories of injustices which have been buried in a shallow grave, the ghosts of which has hunted this nation for over three decades, the bones of which now threatens to spill out of those graves. I will tell you some of the stories she told me.

The Comfort Women
My friend’s mother had been a happy Igbo teenager in Lagos. At the onset of the war, they had to flee Lagos to her hometown. She was almost eighteen. As the planes flew overhead dropping bombs into homes so did the soldiers match into the villages taking girls as young as eight and women as old as sixty and raping them. As the soldiers matched in, the women would run away into the bush with the soldiers in pursuit. They caught some women and dragged them out to be raped but other villager, some of which were women, pointed others out. Perhaps it was fear or in the case of the women, a need to protect themselves but my friends mother knows and still sees the woman who used to point her out to the soldiers. Once in a while some valiant youths would try to protect or hide the women, they were publicly executed. No woman was spared, married or not. Once the soldiers persuaded a young, pregnant married cousin of my friend’s mum who was hiding with her young husband to come out. On enquiry as to the identity of the man, she replied that this is my husband. They shot him right there and then before her; she never recovered or marry again. It went on so often and for so long that my friend’s mum got pregnant twice and had her two brothers, no one knows who their fathers are. Nobody has documented the plight of the comfort women of Biafra. The Vagina Monologues performance documented the comfort women of Japan and l know my friend’s mother silently took solace in that monologue, that is until it was deleted from this years performance to please the squeamish, anaesthetized, pretentious and elitist women who find the monologues offensive.

The ostracized sons of the war
After the war, my friend’s grand parents took the boys off their daughter so the devastated girl could rebuild her life and perhaps to help her find a suitor. They were themselves aged and impoverished by the war. For 15 years the mother was known to the boys as aunty and had little contact. They suffered ridicule and confusion, the mother untold anguish. In a culture where the root of a man is so tied to his identity and worth in the community, Igbo land has a generation of men whose fathers are unknown (l suspect some are generals and retired generals of the Nigerian army) and whose history are unspoken except in occasional jeers and as a tool of oppression. The women thus born can be married off and assume their husbands identity but not so the men. Some of the raped women were married and bore those children within an existing marriage. Nobody has studied the socio-political effect of this on Igbo land. It is the elephant sitting in the town square for over thirty years. Will it keel over and die some day or will it get up and trample underfoot all those walking by?

The boy and his mattress
According to my friend’s dad, many more people were cold bloodedly murdered after the war by the soldier in anger for no apparent reason. During the war they had all been hounded out of the villages into Umuahia, which is like forcing the whole of Lagos into Ikeja. At the end of the war, they gathered what was left of their belongings and began the journey home. All his family had was a mattress, which he put on a wheelbarrow with his 3-year-old sister sitting on it. As they joined the throng of humanity walking to the villages, a soldier stopped him and asked who owned the mattress. He said it was his and the soldier pulls it knocking his sister to the ground. At that point my friend dad said he lost his mind, he forgot the many executions he had witnessed for less infractions but suddenly he cared not whether he lived or died. Something had snapped and he was not going to let this vermin take all that was left of their possessions so he began to drag back the mattress with the soldier cocking his gun and threatening to shoot. As it happened a senior officer stepped in and gave the mattress back to him upon which he return his crying sister to her position on mattress on the wheelbarrow and continued the onward journey to uncertainty.

And Now?
This man who had endured all that ignores convention and marries a young girl who had been so brutalized and they build a life together, raising beautiful daughters and supporting others (my friends mum recently took in a teenager who had been raped, abandoned by her family and pregnant with child). So does a man like that get a pat in the back? No, the church slaps him in the face by refusing to make him an elder, yet another example of our outstanding hypocrisy as a people, this same church will probably make a rapist (l know a true case) an elder as long as no one talks about it and there is no outward proof of his transgressions.

After Biafra, there have been many pockets of violence and injustices buried in the same shallow graves all around. The toxic fumes of which are evident in the larger socio political context of our lives and our values, the result an untrusting country of nationalities unable to find cohesive unity of purpose. The fear as l have been told is that we don’t want wars or conflict so we must never examine such issues. As the Niger Delta situation continues to deteriorate, how can we continue to fool ourselves thus?

A thought

A laugh

A lil home video

Enjoy

So l went AWOL, if l tell you what happened you most likely wouldn’t believe me and perhaps l should save something for that book I’m going to write but l can tell you this for free, l have never been so happy to see Murtala Muhammed airport as l was yesterday. Between the surrealistic drama of my last Christopher Columbic week, eventual banishment to Atlanta suburbia and my faulty MAC (spent an entire day l must tell you about at the 5th avenue Apple shop’s genius bar, oh how l hate Apple but only because l love love love her so much) l was cut off from civilization as l know it i.e. high speed, wireless, virtual.

I smiled at the usually irritating shenanigans of arrival lounge poseurs -upper class travelling anal retentives and cavemen, ‘phonerics’ speaking, recently purchased foreign passport wielders, misguided yoof speaking even worse phonerics, baba/mama London/Chicago/Texas cursing Nigeria in strange sounding mixture of slangy “Ijenglish”). I even enjoyed the ordered chaos of our benign bullishness, compared to the dog sniffing, multi screening, multi profiling, paranoia and delays (stuck on the runway for 3 hour enroute Atlanta and the airline wont even give more than a giant’s spittle size amount of water) of flying in America and the UK, this was nothing.

As l had no Internet access for over a week, l hungrily scanned the headlines as the vendors walked by. The Turaki/Kalu saga rages, l noticed a little picture of Shakira, so did the Thisday concert hold after all? I also noticed that the madness of the BRT lane on Ikorodu road had not been psycho analysed and confined to an appropriate institution, never to be heard of again, has any one taken a toll of how many deaths and casualties have occurred since it started… Hey stop it, this is your glad to be home, all is well with the world moment Funmi so back off.

I am glad to see the shrimp and my sisters who proceed to spoil me in time honoured Yoruba (if l hear someone refer to me as African one more time or speak about giving aid to Africa or of coming to Africa on some charity mission aimed at buying credibility, l am going to frigging tear my hair out) tradition.

I walked into my room longing for my bed but then l opened my wall-to-wall wardrobe. Maybe it’s the past few weeks of anonymity and relative poverty but all of a sudden it all seemed a bit obscene to me. My job is the excuse but l know l certainly have much more crap than l need, even though l think l have purged myself of undue attachment to the material long ago (you sanctimonious so and so Funmi) but even then… My sisters thought l must have lost my mind but l think l found it because l calmly took out 50% of my wardrobe, okay okay, only 30% of the shoes and gave them all away. After the storm (yes the room looked like it had been hit b a hurricane, how did l accumulate all this expensive rubbish?) and clean up, my room acquired a feng suid Zen and l felt bloody good. I had detoxed my wardrobe and unleashed new energy. By the way, am l just going to go out here and acquire more? I don’t know men, right know I’m just kicking back and listening to Kanye West’s Diamonds From Sierra Leone and Amy Winehouse’s Rehab whilst watching a DVD of Bullets Over Broadway. Book for the week? Arianna Huffington’s Becoming Fearless. Eku ile o.

Stuck between airports. Found these articles interesting. What says you? (A DIFFERENT TYPE OF PORN)- USA Today Newspaper of July 11 and (BULL’S EYE) from July Essence Magazine.

On the move, going to Atlanta loving the fact that Venus Williams is back on form and that Federer is king of the world.

I’ve got a beautiful story to tell you and what perfect day to tell it than this triple 7 day. I of course have the triple 7 line up in my birth date. First a summarized background. If you saw that film pursuit if happiness, remember the bit when Will Smith and his son had slept in the toilet at a train station only for him to need to appear fine and ready for work the next day? Nobody cares about your story just show up and be good. Well l've been in that situation many times and this trip is somewhat like that. The reason for this trip aside from the seminar was that l had bagged a much pursued audience with one of America’s heavy hitters which was bound to impact greatly on my career. To swing it and all the logistics around doing the project l needed quite a bit of money which l didn’t have. I did all l could to get support or sponsorship but didn’t so trusting in the universe, l took out my daughter’s five year investment (l had slaved to save up some money every month and invest for her since she was one) to facilitate it. Last week l was told it was off and l sat staring at the email, numbed. I cant even tell them to reconsider on the basis of the risk l had taken, in business, you come out of the toilet, take a German bath (90s generation anyone?), wear your best rag and do the job.
The journey to this point had started on a similar trip a while back when l was so broke my daughter and l had to stay in this mangy motel, the image of she and l pushing our luggage cart down a mosquito infested (yes there are places like that in America) hallway still brings a smile to my face.

As l weighed my options, l decided to take a walk down Madison Avenue to Barneys. As l walked down the block before Barneys l noticed a nice looking store with an African looking, pregnant model like girl with stunning jet dark skin. Turns out she is Senegalese and her flat mate is the gorgeous Funmi Alaiyemola. She started to show me round and my eyes rested on a lovely maroon eyelet mini dress. The fabric is that cotton owambe party lace we so love in Nigeria and l began to feel suppressed excitement, l checked the label and my suspicions wee confirmed it is Le Shade! I started laughing and crying simultaneously.

Last summer on one of my do it or die trying trips l had needed assistance with settling down to my assignments, l needed someone to help get my daughter to Michigan to stay with family whilst l go to Aspen. In true 9ja solidarity, a friend called a friend who called a friend and that’s how this tall slim dark beauty rushed from church into our hotel room to the rescue. She wore a vivid yellow lace min skirt that l thought was divine but hang on isn’t that our owambe lace? Lara and l clicked off instantly (note our grins above) and she went far beyond expectations to help my daughter and l through out that journey. Now the thing about Lara is that aside her job, she is an aspiring designer who makes her own clothes which had always got people stopping her on the street to ask where she got them. She has an incredible sense of colour and her style is easy, breezy and wearable, using primarily our owambe cotton lace. Because we got on so well we were soon like sisters and this newly wedded younger gal confided her fears hopes and aspirations for her business in me. She had turned a childhood slur (LEPA SHANDY, like me she had been picked on for being skinny growing up) into a business name L~ Shandi. She told me stories of hardship in Nigeria, the journey to America, her mother’s bravery and how her family has overcome serious challenges to get education and make a life in America. Best of all she showed me her little “factory” in the basement. Just some old singer machines and bits o fabric were the tools with which she wove her dreams. She expressed hopes that one day she’ll be distributed all over America and that Nigerians would know her. I said amen with a conviction that it would happen but l had no idea how soon.

Back in SEARLE (that’s the name of the store), l am chatting with Amy from Senegal about Africans and she tells me how proud her mate Funmi Alaiyemola is of Nigeria and how she misses home. I saw Funmi in the 1999 face of Africa finals in Abuja and tipped her to win (as l did Oluchi) she didn’t but became more successful than the eventual winner. I interviewed her soon afterwards and was taken in by her beauty, strength of character and sense of fun. In 1997 l ran a fashion TV show and ushers agency and one of my favourite girls happens to be Funmi’s cousin, she it was who told me how tough it had been for Funmi growing up, loosing her parents and pursuing her dreams. Funmi is one of Africa’s best models and she works and schools out of New York.

As l sat talking to Amy whose husband is in Senegal, my mind is on the millions of Nigerians all over the world toiling and working, all the talents, the skills, the dreams. Same as most of us back at home. With the exception of a few deviant Nigerians and our flawed leaders, Nigerians are by and large beautiful, resilient, intelligent and resourceful people.

Even though l could not afford it, l bought a simple button down mulicolour cotton shift dress from Le Shade. When l called her this morning she protested asking me to come get it at wholesale price. I refused because as a Yoruba woman with trader grand mothers, l know the concept of (se mi lowo), you buy the good to send a message to God as a sacrifice to bless the enterprise. I also talked with my darling best friend Bose, a doctor, scientist, wife and mother who is saving and toiling to complete her research and work on maternal mortality whilst holding down two jobs and consulting and lecturing in LUTH. As l walked out of that store l knew in my core that it is only a matter of time before Le shade makes it to Bergdorf Goodman’s, she is already at many stores including Patricia Fields' the style guru of Sex and the City. I also knew in my heart that my own many years of toil will reap more rewards in due course as will Bose and Remi and Pamela and all those gorgeous Nigerian women (men too) out there. It was with renewed vigour that l returned to my hotel room determined to continue my pursuit of significance, which really is true happiness.

Hey kids ;-) something that might interest you and should generate on going conversations.

The IFC is offering prizes of $5,000 - $20,000 for the best essays on the theme "creating markets, transforming lives"

www.ifc.org/competition

I’ve just had an Oprah moment (go ahead snigger, its okay). I sit here sipping this vile detox juice, having an online emoticons clogged chat with the shrimp whilst catching bits and pieces of the Oprah show and yes you guessed it, she’s talking about weight issues. My phone flashes, it’s a reply to a text l sent to four of my gal pals yesterday. It went like this. “Darling, l’ve just had the most divine orgasm, Thai. Beats the Italian one of last night and the Chinese one of the night before, best of all it was free”. Two days ago, my friend Sumonu Bello Osagie from the Nigerian embassy picked me up at La Guardia. Sumonu was the brainchild and magic genie that facilitated my “Funmi in New York” series in 2003 and he is one of those warm, supportive, happy giants with a great laugh and snazzy style. Once settled in my hotel, he asked me what l wanted to eat with mischief dancing in his eyes. Sumonu knows l love to eat so off we went to Peking Duck just round the corner from the Nigerian embassy. Since then it appears that l have been on one huge gastronomic excursion perhaps to salve the raw nerve exposed by the financial drain and professional disappointment this trip has become. Now l know what you are thinking and this is why l have always hesitated about writing about my insane love of food. As to the where it all go question? Patience, it is tied to my Oprah moment.

July 4 and America is celebrating. I do the touristy thing, put on my MBTs, sling a camera across my chest and start walking and sightseeing. From the Museum of Modern Art to Madison square Garden to Soho, Little Italy and China Town. I go window licking (with window shopping you know you might be able to afford the stuff on display, just max out your credit card, window licking? Not a chance in hell of buying any of it) at certain stores on 5th Avenue and treasure hunting at Barneys, Jeffery’s and all those small indie fashion outlets in hipper parts of town. My shopping rules are to only buy stuff l love (happy gear l call them), at the most reasonable price and only in the styles that flatter me. I don’t do slavish fashion, overt designer billboarding and copycat dressing. I like happy, individual styles and am always looking out for the most fun, individual and body happy people on the streets from Ikeja (hardly ever at those plastic island parties, which is usually a boring monolithic jungle of prescribed, safe, overt, top to toe designer labelled body dysmorphic blandness) to Athens.

Through out my city trawling l stopped to refuel at the many bistros and alfresco restaurants on my path. By evening l get a call from my new friend Vicky (typical strong 9ja woman, widowed single mum of the bright, beautiful, high achieving Efe) and we headed for Yum Yum on 9th for dinner. I am not going to bore you with details of the experience but it did inspire the text message above. After that we drove to the East river for the annual MACY’S fireworks but it was over before we got there. Vicky, sumonu and l had been out to diner and movies the night before, whilst l have been to Balthazar and Fresh for lunch the past two days so it does feel like l am eating my way through the big apple.

Now to my Oprah moment, as l watched the show, l felt the familiar disquiet that had always prevented me from talking about food and weight issues. The fear that because looking the way l do would make it less authentic. As l watched, it suddenly hit me, l too do have body image issues (a woman without any is to be approached with great caution). I hate it when my butt completes a leap some full 60 secs after my feet are back on terra firma, l hate the constant battle to keep my stomach flat (naturally slim people store fat in the stomach more than others), l hate exercise and l love rich comforting food. There, l said it and being my size doesn’t make it any less true. To each her own. I feel liberated to talk about my love for food and the silly tricks l play to combat the inevitable consequence (yes skinny girls have those too, go figure).
I have always loved food as l associate it with my beloved long gone mother. I am also a food snub as l expect food to be prepared and presented with love, passion, attention to detail and creativity so whether it is soufflé like amala with gbegiri from Alhaja in Peckham, tender isi ewu from oron road in Akwa lbom, mussels from Belgo in Camden, lamb from the Berbers on the mountains in Marrakech, oysters from McCormick and Schmick"s or sushi from Nobu. I expect food perfection. Flavourful, colourful, fresh and scrumptious. Perhaps this is my saving grace, as l do not like dead, soulless, inert commercial junk or processed food.
As a result l am a food channel and AA Gill die-hard fan. I love to eat out although Lagos and its overpriced, over hyped, food ignorant, rude staffed restaurants and bars are a challenge. The consequence of my gastronomic excess is that l suffer mild to serious food allergies and intolerances all of which l battle like a trouper with homeopathic remedies. Once my butt response time exceeds 60 secs l detox i.e l eat only raw, living food (fruits, vegetables and complex carbs) for a day and add cardio to my training regime. Those are the days l am most irritable.
I know l am lucky but l feel compelled to ask to be allowed my own slim babe’s weight whines without that bloody disbelieving (sometime playa hating) eyeball roll.
Recently my friend Pamela who is certainly no shrinking violent weight wise (wink, wink, gosh! Pam’s got a chest to slaughter for) came to stay and she it was who pointed out to me that my problem is that l see people first as people and not a weight category but that this is not true for a large majority of people. Maybe it is because of overcoming my own past crushing insecurities about my body (skinny angles and bones, k legs and squashed nose) but l see people first as a personality type as against a dress size. Thus l'm always perplexed when perfectly gorgeous women whine about wanting to be thinner on one hand but will not let me whine about my own gravity battling issues on the other. Gals, lets be democratic about this and let us all media confused, body x raying females give ourselves a frigging break preferably over some hot chocolate and macadamia nut and raisin muffin

My friend nkechi sent me this, l thought it was funny. You do need to be familiar with the Guinness greatness commercial to get the background though.


> Udeme wakes up with a huge hangover after attending his company's Christmas
> Party. Udeme is not normally a drinker, but the drinks didn't taste like
> alcohol at all. He didn't even remember how he got home from the party. As
> bad as he was feeling, he wondered if he did something wrong.
>
> Udeme had to force himself to open his eyes, and the first thing he sees is
> a couple of paracetamol next to a glass of water on the side table.
>
> And, next to them, a single red rose!! Udeme sits up and sees his clothing
> in front of him, all clean and pressed. He looks around the room and sees
> that it is in perfect order, spotlessly clean. So is the rest of the house.
>
> He takes the paracetamol, cringes when he sees a huge black eye staring back
> at him in the bathroom mirror. Then he notices a note hanging on the corner
> of the mirror written in red with little hearts on it and a kiss mark from
> his wife in lipstick: "Honey, breakfast is on the table, I left early to get
> provisions to make you your favourite dinner tonight.
>
> I love you, darling!
> Love, Ngozi"
> He stumbles to the kitchen and sure enough, there is hot breakfast,
> steaming hot coffee and the morning newspaper. His 16 year old son is also
> at the table, eating. Udeme asks, "Son... What happened last night?"
>
> "Well, you came home after 3 A.M., drunk and out of your mind. You fell over
> the coffee table and broke it, and then you puked in the hallway, and got
> that black eye when you ran into the door."
>
> Confused, he asked his son, "So, why is everything in such perfect order and
> so clean? I have a rose, and breakfast is on the table waiting for me??"
>
> His son replies, "Oh THAT... Mom dragged you to the bedroom, and when she
> tried to take your pants off, you screamed, "Leave me alone, I'm married!!"
>

Talking about leveraging celebrity. It all really started with Diana whose sons honoured her in a 10th remembrance concert at Wembley last Sunday. She was the first to walk that thin ice of romancing the cameras for good or otherwise. She used her royalty, beauty, charisma and battles to bring attention to a range of issues in countries far removed from her own existence. No matter what the critics say Diana forced the world to look at the poor, the weak, the ill and the forgotten with her star power. She was the forerunner for the sleuth of celebrity messiahs (granted some confused, some manipulative) who are forcing the conversations on global poverty eradication into the mainstream. For this l admire her even in death, however how pray tell did the world go from Diana to Paris? I join the rest of "responsible" media who have had to apologise for talking about that blonde but by gosh how could a girl so blessed (beauty, fortune and charisma) unleash such mindlessness on the world?

I know that if she had gone to Stanford and lead the stem cell research the world might just have ignored her and l have no problem with a bit a "badness" in any human (deeply suspicious of the pious l am) but now that she has such power why oh why can she not be persuaded to abandon the dizzy, stupid inane ness (did you see her on Larry and did you read Larry's body language)?) of her existence? I would be more inclined to shrug it all off especially as l hate to sound sanctimonious and enjoy a bit of voyeurism myself but as l see an increasing number of young girls adopt the limp pose, little stupid voice and incoherent utterances of a white multi millionaire heiress media darling from a world where the rule of law protects you from abuse in a country like Nigeria. We cannot get away from the Paris phenomenon l know but can her handlers please find her a cause to distract her and help young impressionable gals see another side of life?

This months Vanity Fair might have its shortcomings but it also has some pretty good brownie points. I highly recommend it. My favourites are Binyavanga Wainaina's article on Kenya, Brad Pitts interview with Desmond Tutu, and the article on Jeff Sachs especially the anecdote on Museveni and that last telling paragraph.