As a lifelong Man United fan, I could not be happier that Manchester City has been found guilty of serious breaches of the Premier League’s financial rules spanning nine seasons. 

Nine seasons! 

Might as well be nineteen seasons!

The cheats!

I don’t like Man City much. And yes, I am not the type of fan that is magnanimous in defeat. I still hurt from Sergio Aguero’s late goal against Queens Park Rangers on 13 May 2012. That goal was a rusted, jagged-edged dagger thrust into my heart with the utmost malice. It won Manchester City the league by goal difference over Man United. 14 years after, I’m still hurting. 

But City’s rise in English football is an incredible rags-to-riches story. Before Sheikh Mansour bought the club in 2008, Manchester City was of limited consequence to the universe. You know, somewhere between an afterthought and a rounding error. Outside of the brilliance of Richard Dunne, Micah Richards and Shaun Wright-Phillips, you forgot City was in the league. Seven seasons earlier, they were even relegated from the division. 

But the story changed in September 2008. Sheikh Mansour bought the club and money poured in by the barrel. Suddenly, City began attracting big talents: Carlos Tevez, Kun Aguero, Yaya Toure, Vincent Kompany, David Silva, Kevin De Bruyne, Erling Haaland. Within fifteen years, Man City became a powerhouse in English football. Eight league titles, four FA Cup wins, four Community Shield trophies, one UEFA Champions League trophy, one FIFA Club World Cup, and one UEFA Super Cup. 19 trophies in 18 years. 

Such was City’s ascent.  

And the din! 

The din from the ‘Blue Half of Manchester’ was grating. You couldn’t walk in Manchester without headphones. Sir Alex Ferguson had to label those lot ‘the Noisy Neighbours.’  

Now, it turns out City has been cooking the books all along. 

And what great cook they are! 

£900m-worth of ingredients. 

For over four years, the Premier League had been investigating City for about 115 alleged financial breaches. Yesterday, 29 September, the Premier League finally announced a guilty verdict on the majority of the alleged breaches. If you believe the information on the internet, the proven alleged breaches are 114. 

The League found them guilty in all but one breach.  It is astounding. 

In yesterday’s Premier League’s statement, you’d see phrases like ‘sham contracts,’ ‘sham agreements’, ‘concerted efforts to stop and frustrate the PL investigation’, and ‘club clearly intended to circumvent the PL Rules.’ That is pretty damning. 

But as I was enjoying my cup of schadenfreude, the brand custodian in me kicked in. This is a humongous crisis for both the Premier League and Manchester City. As the Chief Reputation Officer of the Premier League or Manchester City, what would I advise? 

Fans, pundits and journalists are aggrieved with City over the breaches. They are baying for City’s blood. Only the severest sanction would sate them. Many want City to be thrown out of the league, stripped of trophies and severely fined. Others want the owners of the club be forced to sell. 

And there is the matter of HMRC, His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, the official tax, payments, and customs authority for the United Kingdom. 

HMRC may want to know if, by cooking the books, Manchester City owes the good people of Blighty unpaid taxes. Manchester City, after all, is a business registered in England.

Yup, City is in big trouble. 

But it is also a significant crisis for the Premier League. The world is waiting to see what sanctions will be meted out to City. Anything less than the severest sanctions will damage the credibility and image of the Premier League.

But the Premier League must be tactful. City could embark on a scorched-earth policy. They have signalled their intention to appeal the guilty verdict and whatever sanctions that are levied up to the High Court. This could take months, even years.  While City still play in the league. That would be a farce. 

Relegating City to the second-division English Football League (EFL) would be problematic. Does the EFL want City in its league? City’s presence in that league would reduce the chances of clubs getting promoted to the elite Premier League. Clubs in the league could take both the EFL and City to court. 

That’s a headache nobody needs. 

Clubs that missed out on the UEFA Champions League because of City’s title win could also seek compensation from the League and Manchester City. Stripping City of trophies they won and assigning them to other clubs would be problematic for the same reason.

And there is the politics. 

Sheikh Mansour owns the Abu Dhabi United Group (ADUG), which in turn owns Manchester City. Sheikh Mansour is a member of the Abu Dhabi royal family. The Abu Dhabi royal family rules the United Arab Emirates. You see where I am going? 

Total UAE state and private investment across the UK is estimated to be around £40 billion. That is some brass. Sheikh can bring a lot of pressure to bear on the UK. You don’t want to piss off such cheddar. Bambi Burnham needs all the investments he can get. 

So, am I saying City should walk? Should they be slapped on the wrist told not to sin no more?

Absolutely not. If you can’t serve the time, don’t do the crime. 

Rather, I am proposing sanctions that are adequate as punishment and deterrence but not extreme. I’ll explain below. 

My proposed sanctions for Manchester City. 

• Do not relegate City to the EFL. Rather, deduct 30 points from them every season for four seasons. This ensures they do not win the league and do not qualify for the UEFA Champions League for four seasons. See how they like that. 

• Strip them of titles won in the period. But do not reassign those titles. In the history books, denote those seasons as without a winner. That way, you avoid calls for compensation by aggrieved clubs. 

This route is not without precedent. It happened in France with Marseille in 1993. Marseille won the league but were later found to have engaged in match-fixing. The league stripped them of the trophy and denoted the season as winnerless.

• Give them a four-season transfer ban. They can’t buy players. 

•  Levy a hefty fine against them. £100m? 200m? 

I’ll stay somewhere in the middle. Say £150m. 

Once City is not in a position to win the league or be in the Champions League for four seasons, their big players would leave.

Erling, you can ring us up. 

You too, Elliot. 

But I see the silver lining in a transfer ban. It would be a fantastic opportunity for City’s Academy. Strap your boots, lads!

Also, once these sanctions scale through, big brands will desert City. No big brand wants to be associated with a scandal. 

With these proposed sanctions, City will effectively be a mid-table club. You know, somewhere between an afterthought and a rounding error. 

How will I manage the crisis for City?

• One, accept the sanctions. They can ask for a reduction. But they must be conciliatory. It gives the club a chance to come out of this still a viable entity. 

• Two, save face by letting go of the CEO and the CFO. It seems harsh. But all of these happened under their watch. Further, the CEO’s leaked staff video does nothing to stem the public ire against the club. It showed a club not willing to acknowledge misdeeds and willing to scorch the earth. That is not good for the fans, staff and football in general. 

• Third, the new CEO should make a media round to explain what the club is now doing differently. S/he might also want to extend an olive branch to other club CEOs. S/he needs friends. 

City fans may well cuss at me and regard me as a surly Man United fan. And I am. I can’t forget that Aguero goal. 

Oh, there was the matter of United’s ghastly defeat to City in 2011. 

1-6!

At Old Trafford, of all places! 

You know what? Throw the book at them! 

Let them play in Sunday League Football! 

She: Dad…

Me: Yeah?

She: I want an axolotl.

Me: A what? 

She: An axolotl. Ak.suh.lo.tl

Me: What is that?

She stuck YouTube in my face.

Me: That is some ugly-ass salamander!

She hit me on the arm and corrected me. 

She: It is not a salamander. It is an axolotl. It is cute and we can get it from Mexico. 

Me: As in Mexico Mexico? Jalisco, Sinaloa and Los Zetas’ Mexico? 

The sarcasm was lost on her. But not the axolotl. It is her new obsession. 

My daughter is not Kathleen, Nicole or Beverly. Neither is she from Boise, Idaho. She is Ayinke and Oluwatomi and from the backwaters of Awori land. She likes pap, amala and sisi pelebe.  

And she wants an axolotl. 

Not a chihuahua, or a bunny, or a hamster. 

An axolotl. 

From Mehico. 

I’m failing as a father.

One of my homies in diaspora always says, ‘You people in Naija are raising first-world kids in third-world economies’.

I understand what he means but dismiss it. Naija kids are not as ‘spoilt’ or entitled as abroad pikin. He sniggers at me and tells me to keep fooling myself.

We are indeed fooling ourselves.

My daughters know a lot about animals and the natural world. Kinkajou. Cassowary. Dik-dik. Great tit. Sir David Attenborough would be proud of them.

 By the way, a Great tit is an actual animal. Look it up.  

So, I was saying, my daughters love animals. The first is often ireful at the sight of unkempt animals. The sight of the wandering mangy horses in Lekki ticks her off to no end. The owners should be in jail, she demands. She wants to be a veterinarian and care for animals.

My second daughter wants to be a marine biologist. To hang out with kelps, coelacanths and box jellyfish. But she confuses me. Sometimes, she is inclined towards a creative enterprise. She goofs around with cameras and draws good anime characters. She could be a ‘marine content creator’?

You people are playing with poverty!

Let me back up to my own journey. 

When I was a kid, I had grand plans for my life. I wanted to be a jet fighter pilot. Whoosh across the skies in an F-22 and blow stuff up. Dagger One, Fox One! 

On the mornings of 1 October, I’d look forward to the fighter jets from the Nigerian Air Force streaking overhead. I’d see them approaching on the TV and dash out of the house to wave at them. Three jets would fly in a vic formation, billowing green-white-green contrails.

That was what I wanted to be when I grew up. Playing ‘…o  ti lo, e don go’ as I zip undetected at Mach 3.  

But if I couldn’t be a fighter pilot, I could settle for Bruce Lee or Chuck Norris.

How I ended up in brand management and selling snake oil, I haven’t the foggiest idea. Likely people from my father’s side. 

OK, I have not done too shabby as a marketeer. However, I have not received a call from Mark Zuckerberg offering $100m sign-on bonus to join Meta’s AI team. Neither have messers Pichai, Nadella or Cook beaten a path to my door with job offers bordering on loot.  On the contrary, CMOs are slaughtered in the boardroom daily. Because, evidently, everyone can do marketing. 

My wife and I tell our girls these things. But they retort: ‘Money is not everything, mum.’

I agree with them. Money is not everything. 

It is only three-quarters of everything. 

I mean, an axolotl is not suddenly going to appear in her bedroom. It needs to get into a cool aquarium, get on a plane, and be managed for emotional stress as it travels 11,050 km to Lagos.

My wife and I nudge them towards a STEM course or a more ‘financially secure’ and market-driven career path. You know, like tech, medicine, finance, data science or corporate law. They are smart kids. They would excel in STEM disciplines. But these kids tell us about ‘following their passion’ and ‘fulfilment.’ 

I buy into the idea of fulfilment, alright. A lot of money gives fulfilment. 

Sure, every child has different interests and passions. And it is our job as parents to support them to succeed in the endeavour they choose. But I have a more important job. And that is to exorcise the marine spirit in them! 

No be under my roof and with my USD una go use study tilapia and stock fish. 

The problems with passion

(1). It is not fixed.

I’ve got nothing against passion. The problem is, passion could be fleeting. Our passions, dreams and interests aren’t fixed. They are fluid and evolve as we grow older, get wiser and gain more experience. What I was passionate about 15 years ago was not what I was passionate about 10 years ago. Even less so now. 

So, if passions change, why take the risk of committing to it from the outset? 

(2). Every interest need not be a lifelong passion.

I have a passion for movies, for travelling and travel writing and for photography. But those endeavours do not put food on the table. At least not now. They might someday. But I’m wise enough to pursue what feeds me and the family in the immediate. 

(3).  A passion doesn’t have to be a job. 

So my daughters love animals. That’s awesome. They could still be tech executives or finance gurus and still go scuba diving for rare molluscs. David Solomon, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of Goldman Sachs, spins a turntable after work hours. He is a disc jockey. No kidding. His DJ name is ‘DJ D-Sol’. Man spins Machala up in da club.  Per Wikipedia, he has 500,000 monthly listeners on his Spotify profile. His debut single (“Don’t Stop) garnered 8 million listens. 

That is the CEO of Goldman Sachs.

Word on the street is that Mark Zuckerberg likes to shoot wild boars. 

(4). Passion is seldom market-oriented.

Lastly, except you are DJ Cuppy or Paddy Adenuga, I’m guessing you’ll have to work someday. And your interest is best served with a job that can keep the rain off your head. A job with significant market relevance. 

Those pilates teachers? Broke to contortion. Those steroid-guzzling gym instructors? Running on empty. 

But have you ever seen a skint Chief Information Officer? Or a broke neurosurgeon? I won’t hold my breath for your answer. 

I know this to be true: God has given people multiple talents to excel in multiple fields. And because we have more than one talent, it stands to reason that we can succeed in more than one vocation. You could be an amazing maths teacher as well as a terrific poet. God has blessed us with many talents, such that we can pivot from one career to another. 

In the end, pursuing a passion or prioritising a market-relevant career is a personal choice. But it is my job as a parent to point out the pros and cons to my children. 

Sometimes, a well-paying job is enjoyable. Sometimes it is insufferable. But you can either opt to vent your frustrations in a UBER or in a Maserati.

So, should parents influence their children’s careers? You bet they should!

By the way, the animal in the featured image is an axolotl. 

Axolotl ko, Alakori ni. 

Friends, if you ever go to Kenya, never get into an argument with a lion, leopard, hippo, or even a beetle. Even if the animals called your mother a prostitute and your father a bastard, you’ll do well to walk on by.

That is because the Kenyan government takes sides with its animals.

You dare not snigger at these animals or insult them. And heavens forbid you step on a buffalo. It will hop on one foot and cry to the government. Your goose is cooked. Which is another crime – a cooked goose.

Continue reading →

Death, especially the death of a loved one, purifies the thought. It distils life into clear distillates. The important from the unimportant. The permanent from the fleeting. You cogitate on the vanity of life as you sip a N500K whisky. 

As I sat in the pew listening to congregants eulogise my father-in-law, the jocose philosopher in me took over. 

For instance, isn’t it chucklesome how every dead person suddenly becomes a good, caring and loving person at his funeral?

“Heaven has gained an angel.” 

“Our loss is heaven’s gain.”

“We love you but Jesus loves you more.” 

Who? That guy? The dude probably carries a Gomorrah passport and holidays in Sodom. Nah, bruh is probably at the bosom of Old Nick. 

You do know Old Nick, right? The Adversary? The Father of Lies? The Accuser of the Brethren? The devil? 

Continue reading →

Nike doesn’t like vanilla ice cream. It does not like safe. It likes Chilli Ginger Balsamic Swirl Ice Cream. Something to titillate the sense. It is the type of company that’ll put pineapples in pizza in Italy. It’s made specially for you. Hope you like it. And if you don’t, well, maybe you should try the cupcake from Lululemon. 

“Am I a bad person? Tell me. Am I? I’m single-minded. I’m deceptive. I’m obsessive. I’m selfish. Does that make me a bad person? Am I a bad person? Am I? I have no empathy. I don’t respect you. I’m never satisfied. I have an obsession with power. I’m irrational. I have zero remorse. I have no sense of compassion. I’m delusional. I’m maniacal. You think I’m a bad person? Tell me. Tell me.Tell me. I think I’m better than everyone else. I want to take what’s yours and never give it back. What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine. Am I a bad person? Tell me, am I? Does that make me a bad person? Tell me, does it?”

Nike’s 2024 Olympics campaign has got tongues wagging. To some, the campaign glorifies a maniacal obsession for winning. A “winning at all cost” temper. It’s a questionable value. Society has to be more than that.  

Maybe. If Nike was talking to the everyday Joe. But it isn’t. It is talking to competitive and elite athletes. Not you and me. Oh sure, we are all in the Nike repertoire. It’s just not talking to us this time. We’ll recognise our spot when we see it.

Yeah, the campaign may rub people the wrong way. But think about it. Elite athletes compete to win. That’s all they see out there. A medal. A trophy. History. Respect. Money. Eliud Kipchoge didn’t run four of the ten fastest marathons in history to burn belly fat. He runs to win. To kill the dream of other contenders nursing the dream of winning. There is room for only one apex predator on the turf. 

Winning is a Nike ethos. Both as a corporate mindset and in its brand message. Before Nike Inc. was incorporated, co-founder Bill Bowerman’s mantra was “The coward never started and the weak died along the way.” That was a mindset he brought into Nike. 

When Nike’s first CMO Rob Strasser wrote the legendary “10 Nike Principles,” Numbers 2 and 4 were about winning. “We are on offense. All the time.” “This is as much about battle as about business.”

And remember this Tiger Woods ad? 

Nike consistently and effortlessly smashes an elusive advertising golden fleece; make a piece of advertising unmistakably yours. 

How many times have Brand Managers expressed frustrations at their creative agency:

“If you remove our logo from this ad, it could pass for any other brand in the category. We need to make the ad ours such that it could only be ours.”

Well, that is not going to happen until you develop a consistent visual style, tone, device or messaging. It takes time. And you have to be deliberate about it.  

I sense Nike is evolving a new TV style. It starts with an interesting monologue. One male voice making an exposition. It started with the “Find Your Greatness” TV spot. Then the 30th anniversary spot for “Just Do It” with Collin Kaepernick. And now this “Winning isn’t for Everyone” campaign. The three spots have identical styles of narration (challenges and inspires) and photography. This style may well be a distinctive brand asset for Nike.

I can’t wait for the Paris!

It’s Valentine’s Day and I want to go find Cupid, break his bow and arrows, put him on my lap and smack his ethereal behind. It’s love messages everywhere I turn and I’m sick and tired of it. Even my bank sends a Valentine’s email: “Back up sweet words with sweet deals…with our Naira Mastercard.” Back up my butt! I’ve been in marketing since dinosaurs roamed the earth. I recognise a hustle. I’m spending diddly squat this Valentine, thank you. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a lover man. I love tequila. I love nkwobi and ugba. I love to be left alone. Yeah, I like love. But my problem with Valentine is the commercialisation of love. It’s become a materialistic affair. Back in the days on February 14, 1654, my grandaddy goes into the forest, drags a seven-foot Gaboon Viper out of its hole and makes my grandmummy matching Hermes bag and sandal with the skin. But these days, rather than for fellas to wrestle a silverback and strangle an anaconda to win a girl’s heart, they just pay for BBL and hair. I mourn the loss of chivalry. 

Needless to say, I won’t be celebrating Valentine today and possibly in the future. This old goat is tired. That is the problem with age. I’m too old for the mass hysteria. Valentine is but a commercial celebration of romance. It’s like Black Friday: businesses just want to help themselves to your wallet. It doesn’t matter if you found your jolly sailor bold or tasted true love’s kiss. Just pay for the dinner, spa, get-away or gift, thank you, sir. Even lottery companies offer Valentine deals. That’s like Tom offering Jerry cheese. Don’t take it, Jerry!

But hey, I don’t hate enterprise. I’m just sick and tired of skin-deep pseudo-love messages. Besides, a brother can’t seem to catch a break. We wined and dined in December. Then in January, we paid school fees. And now, it’s Valentine. It’ll be Easter in March and then another school fees in April. How about Give-A-Brother-A-Break Day? 

Luckily, the missus feels the same way I do. She prides special days over Valentine. Birthdays, wedding anniversaries and travels. Those are proper opportunities to show love. And for a bloke like me who finds gifting a tad stressful, what can I say; she’s a wife from heaven. 

Tonight, I’m going to be ensconced on my sofa, remote in hand, flipping between the Bayern and PSG matches. And if the missus wants to give a brother a swell Valentine, well, here’s a pointer: how about coming into the room with good food and stark naked? 

Happy Valentine, ya’ll! 

In September 2022, ARCON banned the use of foreign models and voice-overs in advertising targeted at Nigerians from 1 January 2023.

What the ban means is that Heineken or Coke or MTN can no longer expose in Nigeria the same advertising it runs in say Cameroon or South Africa, if the advertising does not include Nigerian models or voice-over.

While the ban is not the biggest grouse The Advertisers Association of Nigeria (ADVAN) has with ARCON, it is nevertheless a source of concern for both advertisers and agencies. For ADVAN, the ban is another manifestation of ARCON’s partisan and overreaching powers. 

ADVAN argues that the ban is antithetical to the government’s improving ease-of-doing-business agenda. Further, it will increase marketing costs which will ultimately be passed on to the consumer in the form of higher prices of goods. It also pushes Nigeria to be an isolationist state vis-a-vis the African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA). 

ARCON’s argument in support of the ban is three-legged. 

One, ARCON argues that job and opportunity creation is a key agenda of the Buhari administration. And that tends to happen when advertising productions are done in Nigeria using Nigerians. Such productions create jobs throughout the line. Models earn money, voice-over artists earn money, sound engineers earn money, and caterers earn money. And on it goes through the chain. The ripple effect is positive on families and on the economy. 

Two, ARCON argues that given the recent high-quality productions we see in Nigerian music videos and in Nollywood movies, there is no real justifiable basis for shooting TV commercials outside of Nigeria.

The third reason in support of the ban is to protect the profitability and health of the marketing communication industry, especially creative agencies, which seem to be haemorrhaging. It is, after all, the mandate of ARCON to ensure not just the survival but the thriving of the Marcom industry. 

But is the ban well-considered or flawed? It is the latter. Allow me to espouse my position. 

I understand the spirit of the ban. I support the sentiment. But the letter, the phrasing of the ban, is fraught. I’ll explain.  

There’s a loophole in the phrasing of the ban. If the mandate is to use ‘Nigerian models or voice-overs in advertising targeted at Nigerians’, an advertiser and its foreign advertising agency have an easy way around this. 

First, all the foreign agency needs to do is hire Nigerians living abroad to shoot the commercial abroad. There is a plethora of Nigerians living in Johannesburg, Nairobi, London or New York. The agency won’t have to step foot in Nigeria. They would not have created any jobs or opportunities for Nigerians living in Nigeria. But by the phrasing of the ban, they would have fulfilled ARCON’s requirement. Yet the desire of the ban is to create jobs and opportunities for Nigerians in Nigeria. This is obviously a loophole in the ban. It has to be plugged for the ban to make sense. 

Second, there are such things as global brands. Global brands by definition cut across geographies. Often in product formulation, in marketing and in communication. They thrive on familiarity. And familiarity is aided by the uniformity of messaging and imagery across markets, many times using the exact same advertising across several markets. This is a standard global marketing practice. Nigeria can’t be an exception. If we like and want global brands in the country, we must also allow them the latitude to expose in Nigeria the same communication material they use in other markets. It is why they are a global brand. 

Third, it is the case that the quality of TV production in Nigeria has improved tremendously. You only have to watch Nollywood and some of our locally-produced music videos. However, a TV commercial is not only about the quality of the picture.

Further, some types of productions require expertise, techniques and equipment that are not readily available in Nigeria. Product shots for alcoholic beverages, food products, automobiles and some types of computer-generated images (CGI) are a few of the productions whose expertise, technique and facilities requirement are not readily available in Nigeria. We need to leave wiggle room for these types of productions. 

Several years ago, I was involved in TV commercials for an alcoholic beverage that required good pouring and liquid extrusion sequences. We did one in London and two years later another in Cape Town. 

The technique and equipment used in achieving these shots were amazing and revelatory. Some good friends of mine also waxed lyrical about the CGI and shot techniques they witnessed in Cape Town shooting a commercial for a bank. Nigerian productions are simply not on this level. Yet this is the quality that many brands require in their advertising. A ban on such offshore productions robs many brands of this level of quality. 

Check out some of the filming techniques in the video below. 

Barring productions that involve special expertise, an easier way to ensure productions remain in Nigeria is to levy an “import duty” on offshore productions. Say a 35% or 40% levy on all such productions (yes, it has to be high to serve as a deterrent). So if a company goes abroad to shoot a TV commercial for $70K, it’ll have to pay ARCON a $24.5K or $28K levy before it can expose the TVC in Nigeria. 

I have not met a CFO or CMO who will be happy to pay a 40% import levy on a TV commercial. 

Over time, this levy should be a disincentive to shooting a TVC offshore. 

How will ARCON enforce this levy? It’s easy. It will be at the point of requesting ARCON approval to run the ad. In the vetting form, ARCON will ask for the location of the shoot, name, address and contact details of the production house, name of the director, name of the producer, name of models etc. All entries in the form have to be filled in. Lest we forget, per the ARCON Act 2022, ARCON has the power to “investigate and compel public and private organisations to produce advertising and marketing communications related information.”

Sure the brand or agency can lie about these things on the form. But all ARCON needs is one scapegoat. Agency and client. When it withdraws an agency’s license and a $100K-TVC is canned, people will err on the side of caution. 

But there are still many grey lines with the ban. What happens to the use of stock images in print, digital or OOH advertising? Are those banned too? What about buying and using foreign library music in radio and TV productions? So many questions, and very few answers.

ARCON should reevaluate this ban. The principal actor in the matter, the creative agencies, are against the ban. But more importantly, it has gaps. ARCON mustn’t throw the baby away with the bath water. 

Let me tell you all; the GTCO Food & Drink event is the best brand event in the land. It is the best brand event for two reasons. One, he who brings food brings life. Two, he who brings food brings life. 

Now, I don’t care much about GTCO or any other bank one way or the other. Of course, I wish the bank well and hope it prospers. But my relationship with any brand is transactional. However, since GTCO has gone out of its usurious ways to help me gorge on Amala Skye, nkwobi and pan-fried dumplings in one location and over three days, I am open to giving love a chance. GTCO has laid a table before me in the presence of my enemies. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. 

In marketing sponsorships, we talk a lot about ‘affinity pillars’. The consumer interests or ‘passion points’ a brand hitches to so the consumer can remember it, consider it and ultimately buy it. Music, sports, movies, and fashion are a few of such popular affinity pillars. Coke and Music. Heineken and the UEFA Champions League. By the way, what a harrowing result last night. Liverpool 3, Villareal 2. Seventh Champions League final! What will it take to stop this infernal Liverpool? 

I digress. I was talking about affinity pillars. 

Judging by the huge turnout at every GTCO Food & Drink event, it is obvious that food is a strong affinity pillar. I was at the event with my kids on Day 1 and Day 2 of the event. You struggled to find a place to sit. Yet you were not mad at the organizers. You still managed to get what you came for: an epicurean delight. 

As a brand person, I can appreciate the hard work that went into putting the event together. The justification to executive management. The fight over the budget. Quarrels over vendor shortlist. Master Class tutors. Branding and set up of the venue. How to gather and what data to gather for post-event evaluation. And the event has to be better and cheaper each year. Right from when the excos greenlight the event and budget, it’s sleepless nights for the bank’s communication unit. Murphy’s Law haunts your sleep. It’s the sort of project that gets people promoted. Or fired. The team acquitted itself well. 

But I have a big bone to pick with the team on an aspect of the event; the high price of food. 

Price Gouging

Remember when GSM mobile telephony came to Nigeria and a Sim card sold for N30,000? That was how I felt buying a bottle of Coke and water for N500 apiece. This is not Disney. It’s an open-air celebration of Naija street food and snacks. There is no justification for a bottle of Coke and water selling for N500. Neither should a small ogufe – goat meat – at Amala Skye go for N1,500. I got a small plate of pork chops and fries for N5,000. I mean, it’s a pig, not a white-horn rhino. 

Of course, I’ve heard of ‘Island price,’ the extortionate price folks who live on Lagos Island pay for things. Well, eat your heart out: I’m a Mainland boy and we buy Coke in traffic for N150. 

Look, I’m not a cheapskate. You can gouge me for bluefin tuna and wagyu beef. But not for street food and everyday staple. 

Especially when the vendors don’t pay a farthing for space at the event. GTCO selects these vendors and gives them a platform to reach a wider customer base. While the vendors should turn in a decent sale, I wasn’t expecting robbery at spoon point. Right in front of my kids. Cotton candy for N1,000? How much is a box of cotton wool and a pack of sugar? 

When I was waiting to buy amala at Amala Skye, two young girls came to the stand. They were cleaners. They looked at the amala with desire but baulked at the price. They left. I was pained. Wished I’d called them back and bought them the food. These were the good folks keeping the venue spic and span. But if they were to buy three spoons of amala and one ogufe, it would set them back some N2,100. Add a bottle of Coke to that and it’s N2,600. Amala should not be that intimidating. 

Many vendors were too greedy. They want to make quarterly profits in three days. To the detriment of the consumer.  

But GTCO can help. If a great customer experience is important, then it needs to ensure prices are reasonable. And it can do this with ease. It can ask the prospective vendors to share a price list of their food and insist on reasonable pricing. What is ‘reasonable pricing’? It will be the average price of the item on the streets, both ‘Island’ and ‘Mainland.’ Then they and the vendor agree on a middle ground. It won’t be an exact science, but it’ll be a good guide. And it won’t require extra hands than they already have. They can enforce price compliance through spot checks and mystery shoppers. If a vendor charges above the agreed prices, he is thrown out or misses out on the next events.

Or maybe there’s no problem with food prices. Maybe it’s only cheapskates like me whining. Well, I’ll encourage GTCO to have feedback boxes at subsequent events. I’ll wager high food prices will rank first, followed by limited sitting areas. 

But I like GTCO Food & Drink. Good food, good vibes, good atmosphere. It reminds me of the power of finding the right affinity pillar and executing it well. 

Today’s young men suck at wooing women. So complain the single ladies I work with. They say these guys can’t toast a lady if you gave them a room full of bread and a Deville toaster. They’ll carbonize the opportunity. Horribly. And by being such Dufuses at dating, they’ve left me with angry and frustrated ladies to console. That’s not part of my job. But sharing the same gender with these bungling blokes disempowers me from being apathetic. A man sins. A man atones.

Now, when I say ‘today’s young men’, I mean any unmarried male between the ages of 20 and 34 years. Hardly young, those lot. But if you’re pushing the golden jubilee like I am, everyone younger than 35 years appears young. 

These young Turks. I don’t get them. Youth is the time you took risks. It is the time you say what you feel like saying. The time you wear your passion on your sleeves and tell the girl if she was a Transformer, she’d be Optimus Fine. You never accept ‘no’ for an answer because it may end up being ‘nobody told me you were this sweet’. The wooing was a rite of passage. 

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If I could go back in time and pick an era in which I’d loved to be married, I’d pick the days of the Old Testament. Those were the days! A man’s life was easy. Because I have no recollection of Adam helping Eve zip up her impossibly tight dress for Abel’s christening. Or Ruth belching rage because Boaz forgot their wedding anniversary. Jezebel was the slay queen, but Ahab could still recognize her with her make up. Sarah even arranged a side chick for Abraham! Can you believe that?

“Baby, I’m tired of all these skank, no-fleek chicks throwing shade at me coz I’m old and I ain’t got no kid. I mean, who are they to disrespect me like that? I’m the wife of the father of many nations! I’m all sizzle, no fizzle. I’m bougie. Abe! Are you listening to me? Look at me, Abe. Look at me! I’m talking about us here! About the promise. And you are there milking that goat. That goat is not more important than what I got to say! Anyway, I was saying…what was I saying again? You’ve made me forget my thoughts. If only you were listening to me! I was saying…you know, I’m not even gonna let these li’l girls mess up my self-esteem. So, here’s what I’ma do. I’ma hook you up with my girl Hagar. She got nice, child-bearing hips and all that. You gonna knock on her tent and knock her up. Get your baby-making game on. Do what you gotta do. I don’t care. I just need a child. You feel me, Abe?”

I bet Abraham’s eyes lit up and was like “Word, babe?You is the best!”

Yea, I imagine that’s how the story will go in the New Revised Pervasion Translation.

Yup, Hebrew women of yore were sistas after a brother’s heart. They didn’t need their husbands to help choose a dress from a possible ten. Or remember birthdays. They allowed their men to be men. You know, drink wine, have concubines and not worry about raising the kids. Little wonder homeboys were living till 600 years!

But wives these days? If you try to help your wife zip up her dress and somehow snapped the zipper, boy, you are toast! If you escape the daggery criticism, you won’t escape buying a new dress. Which is an injustice because you were minding your business before being corralled into outfitting service. Men are no tailors; what do we know about zipping dresses? We are only experts at unzipping them. It’s like asking a doctor to also be a plumber. He plumb hearts not drains. You’ve get to let us do what we are good at. Which is being left alone. Why do you guys buy clothes you can’t get into easy anyway? A skinny jeans is called skinny for a reason.

Another evil I have seen under the sun that weighs heavily on man-kind is wives lambasting husbands for being “unromantic.” Utterly meaningless! It is a chasing after the wind.

I’ve been married twelve years and fifteen out of those twelve years, I have been batted over the head for not being “romantic.” “You are as romantic as a door knob,” she says. “You understand any language but love language.”

Duh.

If love has a language, what are its alphabets? A Gucci bag is not a language. It’s a bag.

I blame Hollywood and the West for its thoughtless influence over Nigerian wives.

Open the car door for her.

Pull the seat for her. 

Buy gifts for no reason. 

Pay attention to her rambling even if Liverpool vs United is on TV.

Do this. Do that.

It’s a worrisome state of affairs. While I was immersing myself in profound and intellectual text like Asterix & Obelix, my wife-to-be was being indoctrinated by Danielle Steele and Jackie Collins. It’s a catastrophic failure of our educational system. Who is censoring what these women read? Now, that ridiculous The Bachelor and Bachelorette are on TV seeding all sorts of ludicrous ideas.

By the way, it’s a treasonable felony to watch Zee World in my house.

Let me tell you; the idea of a “knight in shining armour” is a silly concept. First, in Africa, we have hunters, not knights. And our hunters aren’t jobless. They don’t go around looking for damsels in distress to save. Or sit around tables discussing dragons or witches. They go out there and kill a wildebeest for the family to eat. How is that for romance? Feeding your family. And what idiot goes around wearing a suit of tin in the African sun anyway? What are you, a tin of baked beans?

But I’m not against romance. On the contrary, I’m full of romance like a fool is full of himself. Cupid comes to me for ideas. Check this idea out: instead of giving your missus a bouquet of flower on Valentine’s Day, turn the flowers into two glases of zobo and both of you drink to love.

Yea, I’m dope like that.

Another evil under the sun is women requiring the guy to make a drama of a marriage proposal.

Here is the heart of the matter: we both know we are going to be Mr and Mrs. The cat knows it. The dog knows. Everybody knows it. So why do women require so much drama with it. I mean, it’s a sombre thought spending the rest of your life with someone. The least you ladies could do lighten the burden of the sentence.

The first time I proposed to my wife, she said no. For apparantly, no one proposes reeking of tobacco, without a ring and to TuPac’s Me and My Girlfriend. I couldn’t understand it. I mean, it was a starry night, we were alone in the car and Amaru was dropping serious bars. “All I need in this life of sin is me and my girlfriend.” What could be more romantic?

Look, I was not a Joe or R Kelly type of guy. Still not. Back then, I swore by rap. 50 Cents, Game, Eminem, Jay-Z and a host of sonorous crooners. Way before then, it was ‘Pac, Biggie Smalls, Snoop Dogg, DMX and other soulful brothers. I don’t know care for these wacked John Legend “All of Me” and Ed Sheeran “Perfect” dirges.

By the way, here’s a joke I heard about 50 Cents. If 50 Cents was hungry and he ate, what do say about him?

58.

Not bad, eh?

Back to the missus. Ire subsided, she made me realise that it was expected of a guy to propose with a ring. And preferablynot reek of tobacco while doing so.

Yes, ma’am. Got it.

So I asked her where to buy the ring. And she flared up again. She got down from the car and told me to ask my mates where they get rings from.

Which was a head-scratcher. Because when I spoke to my homeboys about a ring, they asked if I was Bilbo Baggins.

Well, I did manage to buy a ring and then proposed to her. Again. This time without TuPac. She accepted and here we are, two prodigious bairns after. Who one day may also lampoon their husbands for being unromantic.

I’ll tell you one way you don’t propose with to a Nigerian woman. You don’t propose to her with your dead mother’s wedding ring. You know, like you see in Hollywood. Don’t do it. Nigerian women don’t like used stuff for marriage. Or some cursed family heirloom. For every wife knows her mother-in-law is a witch.

My wedding anniversary is coming up and I’m supposed to plan something. Something romantic. Something unique. Which proves that wives don’t read the Bible. If they did, they’ll remember what Ecclesiastes 1:9 says:

“What has been will be again,
What has been done will be done again;
There is nothing new under the sun.”

There’s nothing new. If I decide to buy her a yellow, 20-tonne, never-before-seen diamond, I bet some bloke out there has bought similar for his wife. So why bother? I’d rather use the money to buy her that new washing machine she wanted.

“Do not handicap your children by making their lives easy.”

Robert Heinlein said that. Far from being a masochistic neanderthal, he actually means well for the pickneys.  

I’ve got two smart and charming daughters. Pre-teens. Perfect peaches. I dote on them like the devil dote on sinners. They mean the world to me. I’ll hire the Mossad to knock you off if you look or smile at them. If you see them on the streets, walk by without making eye contact. In fact, cross to the other side of the road and run. Then I’ll let you live. 

And that’s the problem. I suspect they are developing a brittle spirit being mollycoddled. Ginger prima donnas in a rugby world. That’s my fault. 

The other day, the wife asked the eldest one to tidy her wardrobe. The chagrined missy enquired if she was being punished for some transgression. The way she saw it, if she had to do her wardrobe, she must have sinned. The help had always arranged the wardrobe.   

A couple of days after, the missus also asked the two to scrub a small section of the house. Again the eldest demanded to know why they were being treated – in her exact words – ‘like Cinderella.’ Treated like a slave. Again, the help had always cleaned the house. 

Earlier in the year, one of them told me “Daddy, you have anger issues.” 

Well, I’ll be doggone.  

They were binging on Netflix and ignored a chore. I’d turned off the TV. They weren’t too chuffed and lobbed my shortcomings at me.  

I can’t remember telling my dad his foibles. Not because he didn’t have any but because flogging was a meal in my days. And I was well fed. You develop good sense early.   

The younger daughter is the more intrepid. She told me a few weeks ago they’d prefer to spend this Christmas in Dubai. They’d done Christmas in the UK and the US. But they’d prefer Dubai for this year. They like what they see of Dubai on TV.  

I am sensitive to words. Their choice of words intrigued me. They didn’t say  ‘Dad, we’d like to spend Christmas in Dubai this year.’ They said ‘Dad, we’d prefer to spend Christmas in Dubai this year.’ 

Prefer. 

The certainty of choice. 

Unbeknownst to me, to my kids, a white Christmas was now a right and not a privilege. Trading down from stroking real-life Rudolphs and hobnobbing with white Santas was now anathema. It seems that any year they spend Christmas in Nigeria, I have to get on my knees and apologise for my failure as a father. 

How did I, an Agege and street boy, pulling myself up by my bootstraps, sire such entitled kids? Kids who sulk when forced to settle for Frosties over Froot Loops? Who question why I have a Macbook and an iPad when they have a PC and Samsung tablets? 

Oh, I forgot. “They are only kids and just being kids.”

I know you know that’s a load of tosh.

A few years ago, a neighbour’s daughter told me that in her class, going on vacation was not the issue. The country of vacation was. Two of her classmates had got into a girlie fight over bragging rights. One insulted the other of holidaying in ‘ordinary’ Dubai when she had vacationed in London and Berlin. She’d also traveled in Business Class. 

These were 14-year-olds. 

I suppose I was jealous. I didn’t travel out of Nigeria till I was 30. And I have only traveled in First Class once. By luck. Luck that has not cared to repeat itself.  I can count on one hand the number of times I have flown Business Class. I do coach so much I can train Arsenal. 

Yup, I’m envious of these brats. 

Now, hear me. I am not saying to deprive your kids or to be hard on them without cause. By all means, give them life’s little luxuries if you can afford them. What we must do, however, is draw a hard line between a right and a privilege. Between a need and a want. This line is getting blurred.   

Many moons ago, at an Executive Education class in Chicago, we discussed marketing to millennials. We analysed the peculiarities of the millennial. One bloke, a Vice President at Booz Allen, shared an experience. He’d interviewed a millennial for an internship position. When they got to the money part, the lad told the interviewer his mom would come to discuss compensation.  The lad was 22 years old. 

Well, true, the mom did call to negotiate the offer. She wanted to know why they lowballed her son. 

Another coursemate told us none of the millennials in her team wanted leadership roles. They didn’t want to manage anyone. They want to do their job, get paid and go home. 

Naturally, we would say “these are oyinbo children jare. They are spoilt.” But many of us are raising first-world children in third-world economies. Not a bad state of affairs in itself. But we must accept the benefits and the burden. 

A few weeks ago, our cutesy family dog ate my flip-flops. It was the fourth it was destroying. I threatened to sell the dog to dog eaters. I made for the dog in mock ire. My daughters ran ahead of me and held on tight to the doggo. Their teardrops were as big as cucumbers. They cried so much, the tears would have floated Noah’s ark.

Of course, I wasn’t going to sell our beloved mutt to doggo murderers. But I would have expected them to call my bluff.

An older friend has a 17-year-old son who attends Covenant University in Ota, Ogun State. The friend lives in Lekki. He drives the son to school at the beginning of every semester and drives him back home at the end. I asked him why the boy couldn’t come home or go to school by himself. My friend told me the boy would get lost getting to Lekki from Ota. This lad also doesn’t do his own laundry. 

Look, I get it. It’s become a very dangerous country. It wasn’t like in my days when I could board a bus at Oshodi for Ibadan at 10 pm. Now, kidnapping is rife. Around every corner lurks degenerates waiting to take advantage of children. Our morality and values shot to pots. So I get the paranoia about safety. I would do the same. 

But it is not lost on me that we are paranoid over our children because we have bubble-wrapped them. There are 17-year-olds who travel from Lagos to Warri by themselves. There are teenagers who take public transport to schools. Why don’t their parents fear the way we do?  

In giving our kids the childhood we didn’t have, we over-indulge them. We can’t bear to tell them “no”. We’d feel we are derelict in our duty. Their pleas and cries break our hearts. 

No, you are not a bad parent if you deny them stuff! You are the parent. 

When we give in to their whimsical demands, we make them brittle children. Children unable to crack on and adapt. Lambs in the woods of hungry wolves. If the wolf – the world – eats them, it will be your fault.  

Many of you lot have experienced deprivation. Experienced rejection. Been down on your luck. Trod on. But you got back up. You fought. Became wise as serpents. Seized the bull and rode your opportunities till the wheels fell off.

Yet we bubble-wrap our kids. Make life too easy for them. We negotiate with them when we should put our foot down. Not okay, mom and dad. Because not intending to, we end up raising self-absorbed, indulgent and shatterable children.

On a recent trip to the US, I met a white lady married to a Kenyan. She told me she was reading The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander so she can better prepare her children for life as a black person. 

Attamom! 

Me, I’m trying to remould my daughters with Adamantium.  Train them to reach for unobtanium. If that entails a measure of tough love, then tough love it is. 

Because in this world, they will experience racism. They will experience exclusion and rejection. They will fall down. I would have failed in my job as a parent if they gave up.     

By the way, my wife and I whoop our kids. Yup. Good old-fashioned hiding. Nothing devious or abusive. A cane. A wooden spatula (omorogun). You know, any appropriate device fit for chasing folly from a child’s mind. 

Yea, I know. We are evil parents. We should be in prison. 

I have a country,

but not a nation.

I have brothers,

but not brethren.

Cradle me in your arms;

Give me not brothers in arms.

This Sunday I cannot worship

My faith disrobed.

The dark invites,

With promises of light,

The angry drum beats 

Seducing a dance.

Hither, thither

Goes the leader.

The bribe of the tribe 

So favour ascribe.

The strongman lusts after my chattels,

I have no power to resist.

Where does my help come from?

Shall I knock on the door of the good bandit?

Or shall I lift my eyes to the hills

And Habakkuk-wait? 

But though this land slays me,

I will yet love it. 

Though the birds sing a dirge

I will wait a new song.

For I dare nurture,

If by the slenderest thread,

This ailing meadow to yet profuse. 

The last time I thought about collective nouns for animals was last year when my daughter was writing exams into secondary school (high school). She was impressed with my knowledge. Well, that’s what fathers do – know things. 

But my esteem was bruised a few days ago when I was writing a blogpost and needed to use the collective nouns for owls. Turns out the collective noun for owls is – wait for it – a parliament of owls. 

A parliament? 

Like owls voted by their peers to deliberate on avian matters? That’s crazy. Birds don’t vote. Then I made the connection. Owls are supposed to be wise! Parliamentarians are supposed to be owlish. And owls do have a solemn and brooding look about them. Best candidates for feathered parliamentarians. 

They probably do a better job than their human counterpart. 

Anyway, below are collective nouns for animals. Some you know. Many will knock your socks off. 

1. A shrewdness of apes.
2. A cete of badgers.
3. A colony/cloud/camp of bats
4. A sloth/sleuth of bears (like a private detective bear?)
5. A swarm of bees.
6. A gang/obstinacy of buffalo (bullies!)
7. A caravan of camels. 
8. A clowder/glaring of cats (what?!)
9. A destruction of wild cats.
10. A quiver of cobras.
11. A bask of crocodiles.
12. A murder of crows (yea, those ones look ominous). 
13. A drove of donkeys. 
14. A convocation of eagles (hope they graduate summa cum laude) 
15. A parade of elephants. 
16. A gang/herd of elks
17. A cast of falcons. 
18. A business of ferrets. 
19. A school of fish (how come they aren’t smart)
20. A stand of flamingos
21. A skulk/leash of foxes
22. An army of frogs
23. A gaggle of geese (Listerine or Colgate?)
24. A tower of giraffes (but of course!)
25. A band of gorillas (G-Unit!)
26. A bloat of hippopotami (perfect!)
27. A cackle of hyenas ( I have a bone to pick with this one!)
28. A shadow of jaguars.
29. A smack of jellyfish.
30. A troop/mob of kangaroos.
31. A conspiracy of lemurs ( Never take lemurs into confidence then)
32. A leap of leopards.
33. A pride of lions.
34. A labor of moles
35. A barrel/troop of monkeys. 
36. A pack of mules.
37. A family of otters. 
38. A team/yoke of oxen. 
39. A parliament of owls.
40. A claw of panthers (Wakanda forever!)
41. A pandemonium of parrots (naturally!)
42. An ostentation of peacocks (show off!)
43. A drift/drove of pigs.
44. A prickle of porcupines (of course!)
45. A herd of rabbits.
46. A colony of rats.
47. An unkindness of ravens (What?They were kind to Elijah!)
48. A crash of rhinoceroses. 
49. A shiver of sharks. 
50. A stench of skunks (expectedly)
51. A nest of snakes. 
52. A dray/scurry of squirrels
53. A fever of stingrays (really?)
54. A bevy/game of swans (if they are in flight: a wedge).
55. An ambush/streak of tigers.
56. A knot of toads. 
57. A gang/rafter of turkeys.
58. A bale/nest of turtles. 
59. A colony/gang/pack of weasels (needed a more cretinous name)
60. A pod/school/gam of whales.
61. A pack of wolves. 
62. A wake of vultures (absolutely brilliant!)
63. A zeal of zebras. 

Then there are a couple of funny ones:

1. A scandal of politicians.
2. A fringe of lunatics.
3. A gossip of mermaids.
4. A blessing of unicorns. 

Naturally, those gave me ideas and I started coming up with mine: 

1. A prostitution of whores/politicians.
2. A sanctimony of priests.
3. A merry of drunks.
4. A vanity of celebrities
5. A bent of criminals
6. A mammon of bankers
7. A scrubs of nurses
8. A faraday of electricians
9. An acrimony of side-chicks
10. A fib of marketers
11. A pity/shame of beggars.

What crazy collective nouns can you come up with? Rather enjoying this!

ERIC LAFFORGUE/ART IN ALL OF US

Ingratiating commentaries are profitable. I’m tempted to get on that gravy train. But sadly, it is not for me. By a cruel hand of fate, it turns out I am allergic to bull. I tend to serve my juice without sweeteners. And as everyone with a sweet tooth knows, juices without sugar taste anemic. Truth is vinegary. Bitter, in fact, in many circles. It is why you never see Alomo Bitters or Kasaprenko in State Houses. Only honeyed speeches to soothe itchy ears. 

But let me state, in case there is somebody out there willing to buy me a house on easy street; I do not detest being rich. I do not mind farting Chanel and sneezing Dior. I consider it not vanity to take my medicines with caviar and ease my gastric upset with lychee.  

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Right. 

I crawled out from under my rock to hear the ruckus about a newfangled men association. Stingy Men Association of Nigeria. Quite unexpectedly, men have come to their senses and will no longer let their phalluses lead them to ruination. 

Phalluses, by their unique biology, pay no mind to bankruptcy and good sense.  Once in the presence of a nubile female, they demand the master login to the mobile app. Money, after all, is only a means to an end.

Women, of course, are not treating this illiberal fraternity lightly. It’s an affront and a denial of a fundamental woman right.

“How dare men! It is a woman’s right to be feted! It is a woman’s right to help herself to a man’s wallet. In the history of mendom, there has not been a single man in distress. It is always a damsel in distress. Why will men seek to redress the order of nature? But two can play. If the wallets won’t open, then the legs won’t open either. They shouldn’t worry. When a god starts acting out of line, we show it the wood it was carved from. Radarada. Jatijati.”

It’s all chucklesome.  

But let me get this out of the way. Unmarried people shouldn’t be bonking. It is a sin. Abba Father says not to do it. Yoruba people, ever the dramatists, have a frightful name for fornication – panságà. It sounds dastardly. If we can’t scare you with the consequence of the word, we’ll scare you with the sound of it. Pasángà sounds like you killed a hundred infants with a panga machete. 

Besides, sex is more than physical coitus. There is the intertwining of emotions, and dare I say, spirits.  I’d hate to see you bond with Zelda. 

You do remember Zelda, don’t you? From Terrahawks? 

I forgot; you lot are Generation Zilch.  

This is Zelda. 

Now, to you, my married friends engaged in cuckoldry. “Stolen water is sweet”, right? “Food eaten in secret is delicious”, ba? Well, here’s what the Good Book says to you: 

“Can a man scoop fire into his lap without his clothes being burned? Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched? So is he who sleeps with another man’s wife; no one who touches her will go unpunished.”

I didn’t make that up. Crack open Prov 6:27-29 and see for yourself. At any rate, I’m sure you don’t mind someone else bonking your wife or husband. Or do you?

Back to the Stingy Men Association of Nigeria. 

The farcical association is topical because of the prevailing poverty in the land. It has become normative that a boo bears the cost of living of a bae. It’s ridiculous. Dubious justifications are advanced. 

“A girl needs to look good for her guy.” 

“When a girl is happy, she is able to make her man happy too.”

“Providing for your girlfriend is a sign of responsibility.” 

It’s a heavy dollop of codswallop. 

Spare me the porky pie that you sweethearts buy expensive hair to impress the menfolk. No, you don’t. Because we the menfolk can’t tell the difference between a N300K and a N700K hair. You buy the hair to show off to yourselves.

Several years ago, the missus badgered me into buying her Brazilian hair. I didn’t understand the need. She is from Osun State, the ‘State of Virtue.’  Why does she want to naturalize to Brazilian? Is a Brazilian passport visa-free to the US?

Eventually, I bought the hair. It was a small fortune.

The day she made the hair, I didn’t notice. She tossed her head about like a teen so I’ll notice. But I didn’t. I knew she looked pretty but couldn’t place what was different about her.

She got angry and asked me what I thought of her new hair.

Oh, that was it! The hair!

I said ‘nice.’

She only forgave me five years ago.

So, if the girlfriend needs to wear the hair of fifty horses, by all means, do so darling. We only request you buy it with your own money. If you want to ‘glow’ and buy Beyonce-level cream, grow a large posterior, or slay more than David and Gideon, be our guest. All we ask of you is not to insist the expenses are for our spreadsheet. And why on earth would a bloke buy his girlfriend an iPhone 12 when he uses an Infinix? You think it was only Eve that loved Apple? 

Look, I’m not a Scrooge. I believe in gifting. Gifting stokes affection. It’s good for the boo to splurge on the bae now and then. But a dude is a finite being. He can’t be the source of infinite beneficence. The boo should give because he wants to, not because he must. 

Well, except the relationship is between a married dude and a side chick.

In such relationships, the side chick has my blessing to ransack, pillage and plunder the married boyfriend. Fleecing and gouging should come with the territory. After all, it is a waste of sin dating a broke married man. 

I saw that on a t-shirt.    

Any erotic relationship premised on ceaseless material and financial provision is faux love. You are paying for the ‘love’. The way you pay a prostitute for her favours. It’s only in movies that prostitutes develop genuine affection for their patrons. 

Most married-men-and-side-chick affairs are no more than prostitution by a more benign name. Or why is a single girl dating a married bloke? Because there are no wonderful single guys around? Because of true love’s kiss? Greed and lust, ladies and gentlemen, are at the heart of it. Those are not traits that will make Pete open the Pearly Gates to you.

Anyway, here’s a good joke for you: if you’re over 30 and still dating another woman’s man, you are a side hen, not a side chick!   

Nisian Hughes/Getty Images

Man, I like cats. 

Not petrifying felines like Mufasa or Shere Khan. But felines like Garfield and Puss In Boots. Cats have my heart. Sneaky, disloyal and manipulative beauties. I’m particularly drawn to black furry cats. I like the outcast and the maligned.  

Why do I like cats? Oh, cats live life on their own terms. They know they don’t have nine lives and so don’t waste their time trying to please you. You are the one who wanted a pet, not them. 

Also, cats do not care about titles. Dogs can continue to be ‘man’s best friend’. Cats don’t give a hoot. They are very perceptive. They understand that titles come with responsibilities. You can’t be man’s best friend and sleep and eat all day. You are expected to weigh in with some chores. Like growl or look menacing at strangers. Or go for a walk with the human. That’s an abuse of pethood. A pet doesn’t have to earn its keep. Cats look at huskies pulling sleds in Alaska and hiss ‘suckers.’  And it all begins with a title. Man’s Best Friend. The Cutest Dog Ever. Yea, because dolphins are ‘cute’ and ‘intelligent’, they have to entertain humans and jump through hoops. When they’d rather be fin-deep in a school of fish. Cats don’t care for all that.  Responsibilities are for humans and bozos like dogs.

So, yes, you are not going to trick cats into responsibilities with some title. They might chase down a mouse. But understand that it is because they want to do it and not because you expect them to. Back in the day, in the village, my grandma had three cats who never chase a mouse a day of their lives. These beauties just love to eat fufu and efo-riro and chill. Can’t blame them. Egbado people make the best fufu in the galaxy. And my grandma’s efo-riro could make Netanyahu kiss Hassan Rouhani.     

But sadly, I don’t have a cat. That is because I love to have a wife more than I love to be divorced.

My wife hates cats. She argues that you can’t trust cats. Cats are gossips. They listen to your deepest secrets and spill them to the neighbours. And they are agents of evil, exposing your home to fiendish influences. 

It’s all baloney, of course. Cats are not capable of witchery any more than cockroaches are capable of holiness. But making that point to people who abhor cats is like arguing sobriety with a tippler. 

We have a small white wolf in our home. Spin doctors call it a dog. It’s an American Eskimo. But it is a wolf. Only it is smaller and cutesy. Wanders from room to room. It is pampered like William and takes a piss like Harry. My wife and daughters dote on this canine. They feed it before they feed me. Cuddle it more than they cuddle me. He enjoys the attention and then sneers at me.  

The mutt!

I’m the one who pays for your welfare and comfort, you ungrateful cur!

This wolf has destroyed three of my flip-flops and pisses anywhere it wants. Which includes on my $1,200 soundbar. On the third occasion of the annhilation of a flip-flop, I told my daughter I was going to sell the damned dog. I made for it in mock ire. My daughters ran past me and held on tightly to this doggo. They cried and pleaded. Their teardrops were as big as cucumbers and plenteous enough to float Noah’s Ark. This sly canine has manipulated itself into my wife’s and daughters’ hearts. They will not allow me mete just deserts. Yet people accuse cats of being the crafty ones. A cat will never do that to me. You don’t even see a cat take a piss.

Do you old geezers remember that old flick, Devil Dog: The Hound of Hell? That German Shepherd bred by satanists? The dog grew up to colossal devilry. Killed the maid in a fire. Possessed the minds of its owner. In the last scene, the frightful demon in the dog came out to perish the soul of the dad. The symbol of a crucifix seared onto the dad’s palm saved him. Dog bursts into flame and is imprisoned in hell for 1,000 years. That movie spooked me as a child.

The title of the movie is instructive. It was Devil Dog: The Hound of Hell.

It was not Devil Cat: The Feline of Hell

Yet folks say cats are the evil ones.

Anyway, I outgrew my fear of dogs. I realise that devil-dog movie was all phoney-baloney. Now, I like dogs. I am going to get me a big doggo soon. Probably a Great Dane or Irish Wolfhound. If only to scare the bejesus out of the frisky wolf in my house. 

See how easy it is for people to change? I went from dog-indifferent to dog-liker. So, why can’t people outgrow their abhorrence of cats? What does a cat have to do to get love from Nigerian women? Buy them hair? Help them lose belly fat?  

The sad part is the missus has infected my daughters with cat-hate. My daughters started out loving cats. I’d take them to a friend’s house and we’d go with tinned sardines and milk to feed the cats. My girls loved feeding the pusses. They gave them names and were eager to visit. 

Once the missus discovered what we do at said friend’s house, she set about cooking our goose. Well, it didn’t help that we purloined her sardines and milk for the visits. But as a good Christian wife, she ought to remember that love keeps no records of wrong. But cats make Nigerian women forget Scriptures. 

Or remember it. 

The missus proceeded to indoctrinate my kids on the vileness of cats. And once a mother abuses a mind, it is tough disabusing it. 

Several years ago at a local bar, I came across some despicable fellows who loved to eat cats. 

Eat cats!

Murderers!

If you can eat a cat, you can eat a human!

One of these repugnant fellows went ahead to describe how scrumptious a cat was in egusi soup. He particularly relished eating the paw. With a twinkle in his eyes, he described how a cat’s paws clutch the egusi. You then pry the paws open and lick the egusi balls trapped within. He said it was quite a heavenly experience. 

I stopped going to the bar

By the way, do you know how cats are killed before being cooked? They put the cat in a sack and smash the sack repeatedly against a wall till the cat dies. At other times, they tie off the sack and proceed to batter the poor thing to death. They argue it’s the only safe way to kill a cat. 

How about you take on a cat your size? How about you put a tiger in a sack?

So, what myths and fears are holding you back? What are the long-held beliefs you are going to disabuse from your mind in 2022? 

While you ponder on it, check out the two beauties below. A black Maine Coon and a Siamese. Aren’t they gorgeous!

Maine Coon

Siamese

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