Necromantic Monologues and a Police Van.

Sometime in 2017.



Hey Hey Heeyyyy

How’re you doing. Good?

Yeah? Great. Great great great. That’s absolutely great to hear.

What did you do?

Today. Today, what did you do today. Tell me.

Tell me. Tell me tell me tell me. I want to know.

I’m smiling. You can see I’m smiling, can’t you.

Hmnn. Haha.

Wait- your nails. You painted your nails. Afresh. You painted them a new colour.

Hmm, they were some other colour the last time I remember. Some strange one. One with some name that I had never heard before. One that I didn’t even know was an actual colour.

Come on- come on help me out here.


Aha yes! That’s it! That’s it- Nude. That’s it.

Wait, how is nude even a colour? How does that work? Like, how does that even work?

Or you know what? Forget it. I don’t care. I like it. I like you, and so that automatically means I like it. By extension. By association. By whatever other synonym happens to exist in English. Whichever one. Take your pick.




Hey. Do you know I’ve started painting my nails? No? Not at all? Well I have.

I started out with black. I like it. I really really like it.

Here. Take a look.

I don’t know if I bought a standard product however, I don’t know. I feel like my fingernails look like I just poured wall paint on them.

Haha. Yeah. Like actual wall paint.

I mean, you can see it right?

Doesn’t it look like there’s wall paint on my fingernails.



These Nigerian people? They do not get it. They do not get it at all.

Haha. You should see the way they look at me. You should see the way the women look at me- with their own unpainted fingers.

I mean, of course not all of them- some of them paint their nails. Some. But really you should see the ones who don’t. And how they look at me. With my sheeny shiny nails.

Haha. You’d get an immense laugh out of it, I’m sure.




Ola.  [Hello]

Ola, Bo’tarde. [Hello, Good afternoon]

I raise my head. It’s a police van.

The letters “P O L I C I A” are spelled across the chassis in bold white letters.

The men inside are muttering something in Portuguese Creole.

I’m staring at them- I’m still entirely in my head. Not yet conscious enough of my physical surroundings to make sense of what is happening.


Fala Creolo?          [Do you speak Creole?]

Fala Creolo?          [Do you speak Creole?]


Muaso menche. Poc.          [Somewhat. A little]

I am not sure if I am articulating the first expression correctly. I make an augmenting gesticulation with my hands.

Muaso menche.          [Somewhat]


You have to come with us to the station. You’re tresspassing. You have to come with us to the station.


I take a look around me. I am outside the city. I’m not particularly sure of how it was that I got here.

I remember I was going for a walk. No precise idea of where.

I’m not particularly sure… What?

How? ……….


You have to come with us to the station. You tresspassing. You have to come with us to the station.


Into the Police Van.

Into the Police Van Mayowa, into the Police Van.

Into the van you go.


No handcuffs this time Mayowa.

No handcuffs this time.


A Collision, a Crowd, and a Splintered Windshield.

Sometime in 2017.

There is blood streaming down my face.

Some trickles across my lips. An instinctive lick. Yeup. It’s blood alright.
A small crowd has already gathered. Number of Cape Verdeans walking by. A Senegalese shop owner who happened to be in proximity.

I can see his eyes darting towards the bag slung from my right hand. There is a hole in the bottom-right corner of the bag. Or bottom-left – depending on what perspective you decide to take.

I have been meaning to patch that hole for a while now. I just haven’t exactly had the time to get around to it.

A silver object protrudes from the mentioned hole. It’s my MacBook Pro. I see recognition on the face of the Senegalese shop owner. He has seen me with the computer before.
I realized he began to treat me with a lot more regard after that day- when he realized I had a MacBook Pro.

Human beings. Because I really am just another quotidian entity perambulating space and time and deserving of nothing more- no more regard than just another alien face occupying some distant mental patch comprising the mosaic backdrop of his own existence.

All until he discovers I am in possession of some consensually-regarded-as for-whatever-reasons-prestigious silver rectangular object that is.

Human beings. Human beings and physical things.

I wonder what’ll happen if I lose this object. I wonder.
I wonder if he’ll still wave me fervent greetings from his business post whenever I walk past the street.

I wonder if he’ll still- of his own volition, call me over and present me with his very interesting Senegalese dishes- as his own personal guest of honour.

Mister Apple Computer is now just Mister. No more Apple computer. Why should I invite him over to my shop, entertain him with a meal I procured with my own money- my own hardwork. Tell me, why should I?

There is blood streaming down my face.

I think there are some pieces of glass stuck in my forehead.
The ad-hoc clinical assessment committee begins to bestow me with all of their different medical opinions.

Ah, go to the hospital!
Ah, go to the hospital here!
Ah no, go to the other hospital- the one in the other place!

Ah, this!
Ah, that!

Thank you very much my esteemed panel of judges, I am the one receiving whatever signals of alarm my facial nerves are disseminating. I think I should do just fine as I am.

Come wash your face! Come inside! Come into this hotel! Come in, and wash your face!

Aha. One suggestion that actually does ease my situation.

The speaker is a worker at a hotel- apparently he was audience to the accident right from his duty post.
No one else would have suggested I go into the hotel. They had probably never even visited it themselves.

The pragmatic-reach of all of their sympathies was bounded by limits on their own experience(s?)- by the constraints on their own situations.

Ah. Life. Hotel it is.

My body finds its way through the council of my very sympathetic medical examiners.
I think Mr Senegalese shopowner takes his time to take some more glances at my bag.

Let’s go wash this face.

The Progress Ideal.

Disciplines, as Facets of Existence:

Human existence, nebulous and inconceivably multivariate as it is, is subjugated to tractability by the notion of disciplines, each one representing a corresponding component of life — each comprising field of study constituting a foundational pillar of the human experience (Hereafter referred to as a foundational discipline).

[Undiscovered, and Un/Incompletely -mapped facets (mapped to corresponding disciplines) are an evident exemption, so a continual attenuation of the concerned case instances, should be striven for.]


A Case for Progress:

If every conceivable facet of the human experience can be mapped to at least one discipline, then this implies that whatever problems exist, pertaining to some facet F of human life, should encounter solutions at some level of proficiency in its (F’s) corresponding discipline(s).

The mentioned correspondence also implies that substantial progress in a foundational discipline will reciprocally imply an upliftment in the experienced quality of the corresponding facet of human life.


The Progress Ideal:

A continual striving towards progress (linear or not) in designated foundational disciplines, holds immense benefit for humanity- both as an endeavour to discover solutions to existing humanity-scale problems, and as an avenue to procure upliftment of the associated quality of life.

I Should Not Have Smoked: A Viscous Midnight on THC.

I am not at ease.

It is about 12:30 AM.

I am perambulating the darkness-enshrouded streets of Victoria Island, Lagos Nigeria.

I am not at ease.

There is THC in my system. I feel particularly vulnerable.

:: It felt like the ingestion had for that space in time, dispossessed me of my cognitive shell- the protective exterior forged by training and thinking and identity-moulding experience, and that in that period in time I was a naked inchoate mind- exposed and soft and malleable- being bullied about by the intimidating darkness and the midnight island air.

I am not at ease.

I should not have smoked.

I am not at ease.

I should not have smoked.

I am moving about, not precisely sure in what direction I am headed, trusting that intuition and its sibling unconscious sense of navigation have things under control- although my conscious mind is far from feeling convinced.

I hear the voices of my parents in my head. I find myself walking through feeling-beams made of words- their words. Like discontinuous ropes of constituent raindrops in my path, each beam making sure to smite me in its own unique way.

There was the person who something horrific happened to, while they were out at night in Lagos.


That smites me somewhere in my face.

There was the old man who got lost in Lagos, in search of his child who preceded him in being misplaced.


That smites me somewhere else along my physical frame.

There is a scalding verbal downpour today.

No public transport tricycle has passed by for a considerable amount of time. 

Jesus, great. One proactive thought. One proactive thought. One thought that in contrast to an indulgent revelling in haplessness, actually endeavours to commence searching for a path towards a means of direly necessitated extrication from this foundationally perturbing situation.

I’ll need more of those. I’ll need more of those proactive thoughts, I’ll need more of those.

I have training. I have experience. The task before me should not at all be a problem. It just feels like the direction-designating, directive-effectuating resource that is my mind, is running on Vaseline. Everything is just so, slooowww.

And I feel detached from it.

I feel like I am a separate entity- disparate from this facility that is my mind, and experiencing my personal consciousness from the perspective of a passenger.

I’m attempting to prod the driver: Hey! Hey! I need to get somewhere! It’s late! And I’m here on the road!

But the intravening pathway feels blocked. The conduit through which the urgency borne of my disconcertion should be communicated, feels clogged. 

My agency-driver is on THC.

Ah, I shouldn’t have smoked.

I find myself going in and out of a number of restaurants. I am not sure what is happening. I am saying something to the attendants. They are responding. Apparently I am making sense. I find myself browsing through menus, glimpsing different options and their accompanying price tags.

Mayowa, what are you doing here? It is 12:30 AM! Is this what you are supposed to be doing right now?

I keep perambulating.

Next I’m engaging in disagreements with a number of security guards.

These people are so hostile, all of these people are so hostile. Nobody even appears interested in taking time to calmly exchange words. Not even the security guards, not even them who should be the guardians of the night.

My parents had chilled me appropriately with richly-gruesome stories before I left their house for Lagos earlier that evening.

In the midst of my unsettlement I find myself walking towards a building. For refuge apparently.

::There was a glowing emblem illuminating the muzzle of a formidably composed guard dog.

I find myself drifting towards this building. The gates appear so strong and confidence-inspiring.

Ah. Let me relax here for a while. I should be safe here. I don’t think anyone will come to enact any adversarial intent on my own existence, at least not while I’m here.

I stop to take a look at the building.

In my marijuana-induced- haze, I gape in awe at the intimidating imposingness of this building.

Jesus Christ! This building is so big! And tall! Yeh!!

At the top of the building, I make out a name. In bold glowing red.


AHHHHHHH. Jesus Christ!! MIke Adenuga!!! Yeehhhh!! You were the one who built this thing??!! Yeeehhhhhh!!!! 

Look at how huge this building is!!! Yeehhhhh!!!

I have definitely seen bigger buildings before, but the THC in my system appeared to have temporarily undone a learnt imperviousness to the sheer magnitude of such buildings.

Yeeeehhhhh!!! Mike Adenugaaa!!!! Yeeeehhhhhh!!!!

Now I see why people speak of you with regard in this country. Yeehhhh!!!! Look at this big building!!!!

Jessuuss Chrisstt!!!!!!!!!! Mike Adenuga oooooo!!!!!!!!!!



I should not have smoked.



A Viscous Midnight on THC.

Bus Ride Through Lagos.

Esteem-debilitating transportation modalities.


“Yeh! Jesus Christ!”

I take the time to stretch my back. I look back at the bus from which I have just temporarily alighted. I see the the amply-blurred smudge of heads and arms and torsos that populate the space within the vehicle. I cringe.

“Ah! Yeh!”

There is a troubling pain in my backside.


I think the bus conductor yells something. He was virtually yelling throughout the drive.

Later I’ll find myself recalling recent experience in Cape Verde.

Yes, I did make use of their transport buses a considerable number of times. They employ buses similar in form to this one. I do not recall ever being this uncomfortable, never. Were their buses ever this derelict? No! No, definitely not!

Ah! What sort of a transportation experience is this one?


Esteem-debilitating transportation modalities.


Berlin? This sort of a bus? In the transport system? In Berlin? You’re kidding. I recall my temporally-posterior bus ride. The one that took me to the Tegel airport. I was seeing visions in that bus. Like. I was seeing visions.

Visions? Of that clarity? Of that quality? Here? In this? Bus? Hah. Haha.


Esteem-debilitating transportation modalities.


We have freshly gotten free of an instance of synthetic traffic congestion- caused in my perspective by the fact that a substantial number of transport buses pull up to admit new passengers, without completely leaving the road. I do not think there was a bus stop that diverged from the road, no. And so these buses posed a vehicle-flow bottleneck- giving rise to the mentioned synthetic traffic congestion.

Annoying. I was already making plans on employing helicoptering as my commuting modality. Out of  an indignant anger at the situation.

Now the road is freer.

I’ll still keep making helicoptering plans.

I’m in the crowded bus, wondering how late I am going to be for the meeting I am heading to Lagos for.

Germany taught me time-consciousness, I recently became aware of that. I got to Nigeria and found myself getting extremely annoyed at the incumbent laxity towards endemic lateness.

Usually Mayowa wouldn’t even be bothered. Hah.

My first lateness-penalizing experience was in Frankfurt- when I had to pay an extra twenty euros for being about seven minutes late for my hostel room checkout.

I paid fifty euros for the room. And an extra twenty for being late. I thought I could cajole Miss Receptionist into being clement with me.

Laugh. Smile. Some suggestive body language.

Nah. Miss blonde hair and enthralling blue eyes made sure to collect those twenty additional euros. Ugh.

The things Germany teaches you.

I think I know what I should have done. I should have asked for how much longer I was allowed to be late, without being subject to an increase in the lateness fine. At least that way I would actually enjoy those twenty euros. Seven minutes is not really anything. Not really.


I wonder how Miss enthralling blue eyes would have reacted. Hm, I wonder.

There’s a guy sitting beside me in the bus. I think he’s dozing. I wonder what he’s thinking about.

Probably not thinking about Miss Blue Eyes in Frankfurt, probably not.


Bus Ride Through Lagos.

These Ones Cannot Possibly Know

Years and years of exfoliating rain have robbed me of my faculty of speech.

There is something I am supposed to say- there is something I am supposed to be saying.

These ones cannot hear- these ones cannot possibly hear, no.

No, these ones cannot possibly know what exactly it is I am supposed to represent, these ones- no- No no no no no, these ones just cannot know- these ones cannot.

All of the tears and sweat and frustration and piecemeal progress that culminated in whatever antiquated process- that severely pitiable victim of collective amnesia, that resulted in my being put here- in this place.

Here. That resulted in my being put here.

Who remembers me here, who?

Who remembers me?

All these ones see, is an old weathered face.

A withering front to which they can do whatever they want.

Call by whatever name they want.

I can do nothing. Nothing about it, nothing- I can do nothing.

These ones do not know- no idea- these ones, these ones have absolutely no idea what exactly it is I am supposed to represent- none.

These ones, these ones have no idea.

I’ll be here- I, will be here. Taking all of the scalding misnomers and erosive deprecation and acerbic saltywater and contemptuous spit.

I’ll be here until someone arrives who has some sort of an idea what exactly it is that I am.

Who knows what exactly it is I am supposed to represent. Because believe me- I myself am not sure anymore.

But I’ll be here.

I’ll be here, until someone arrives who knows what exactly it is I was put here to do.

I’ll be here- I, will be here.

These ones cannot possibly know.

Lagos, Nigeria: If You Were a Woman, I Wouldn’t/ The Hotel Scene.

I am seated at the table of the person who appears to be the Chief Security Officer at Protea Hotel- a four star hotel in the Government Reserved Area of the city of Ikeja- Lagos Nigeria.

Prior, I was at Sheraton Hotel. I was in an impassioned verbal altercation with the human beings who happened to be the Security Guards there.

“What? Call the Police? Call the what?”

“Because I am a Thief? Because there is an AK-47 in my backpack with which I intend to murder everyone in the hotel? Or what are you even saying?”

I was extremely annoyed. The guards were pissing me off. The guards were really pissing me off.

“I was just at Sheraton. The guards there were getting me very angry. I honestly do not know what sort of human beings those ones are. I honestly do not know.”

We engage in discussion for a while. I endeavour to disentangle a number of conflated notions in his head- all of them involving money. Money and Causality. Money, and the generously misguided perspective of it being a (the) principal causal variable. Powerful, yes. But principal. No.

Foundational No.

I think he sees my point.

During the discussion, he says something that strikes a chord in my mind:

“If you were a woman, I would not let you go in.”

I stop to think.

This is not an all-inclusive hotel. Use of the restaurant, bar, etcetera, without the requirement of being a guest, is perfectly allowed. Why then does he say this? Why then?

I do not exactly identify myself as a feminist- no not exactly. However I am of the perspective that other things being equal, people should be assessed by their merits, and that a particular (percieved to be non-threatening) facet of a person’s identity should not be taken as a basis for discrimination.

And so what he said impinged on a note in my mind.

What does he mean?

What is he talking about?

It took a moment, and then his words hit meaning.

There’s the appeal of the single woman at the bar. Well I’m speaking from a (heterosexual) male perspective. And this is not exactly something unknown- that women are possessing of endowments/ of powers, which can be employed to galvanize men into subsumptive action.

And so in my perspective the Officer’s standpoint was a strategy intended to preempt eventualities involving the maneuvering of a male guest at the hotel- said maneuvering effectuated with the intention to uplift the concerned female’s financial, etcetera, situation.

“Hmm. That makes sense.”

His perspective struck meaning.

I wonder if someday a woman will visit the hotel like I did, and encounter the concerned officer. And challenge his perspective.

I wonder.

I think I‘d want to be friends with that person.

Maybe more than friends, I don’t know.


If You Were a Woman, I Wouldn’t.

Abeokuta, Nigeria. Olumo Rock and the Clubbing Scene/ I Do Not Find Nigerians to be Particularly Happy People.

There is a hand somewhere on my body. I think it is my chest. Or somewhere about my torso.

I open my eyes and direct attention towards the source of the physical signal.

“Ah, Brother. Omo yen ti o joko si table yen- Ah, omo yen’n fall fun yin gan o.”

[Yoruba for: The girl sitting at that table- That girl is really falling for you.]

I look in the direction she’s referring: There’s a girl in a white dress seated at the table.

I burst into laughter mid-dance.


Half a minute later I’m an arbitrator between the two girls- the one who informed me of the second’s purported predilection for me, and the second girl- the one in the white dress. Apparently she did not take kindly to having her alleged feelings being exposed in that way.

I do not mind. I am laughing very loudly as I attempt to mediate. Compliments are welcome, compliments are very very welcome.

I am at Halmod Club, Abeokuta Nigeria.


About an hour before that, I was standing under an inspiring Nelson Mandela quote- marveling at a very amusing juxtaposition- Nelson Mandela and Steve Jobs quotes printed boldly on banners overhanging the terrace of Rock Zone club, Abeokuta. I wonder if Nelson Mandela or Steve Jobs, ever did go clubbing. I think that’s very interesting to think about.



The power supply was non-constant (electricity in the nation space of Nigeria is not an assumption, as power outages are endemic), and so my beers were only fairly cold. After my third large Heineken I headed for a different spot. No one was dancing. People were seated, eating, enjoying the music etcetera, but I wanted to dance.

“No one is dancing!!! What sort of a place is this?”, I screamed to the waiters.


About three clubs later (3AD, and two other locations whose names I did not particularly pay much attention to), and I’m in Halmod.

I’m one of the only people dancing initially. Social inhibition is a worldwide phenomenon. I recalled an instance at a club in Berlin where I was the primary launcher of an entire dance floor. The music was playing, and everything was set. But apparently someone was needed to go first. I happened to play that role. Social inhibition is a worldwide phenomenon.

I was at the club with my girlfriend then. She eventually came to steal me away from the other women at the floor. Twice. The second time, she insisted we leave for home.

I miss going clubbing with people/someone who know(s) me. I’ve gotten extremely comfortable with dancing excitedly (and apparently becoming the center-of-attention on the dance floor) in a room full of strangers, but having non-alien people around you provides a different variant of the clubbing experience.

I miss that.


Eventually I get served my beer. Another large Heineken. Colder than it was at Rock Zone.

More dancing.


I’m the only man dancing. I don’t really care. I’m already sick of people who just sit down, drink beer, and watch TV. The clubbing experience is so much more than that. So much more.

I am enjoying myself immensely.


A few hours later:

“You are so happy! You must have a lot of money, I’d like you to give me some money.”

I went back to the club to get my book. I bought it earlier in the day. I was doodling in it while gong through my only-so-cold Heinekens at Rock Zone. It was a new book, and there was no way I was going to leave it at the club.

One of the young men at the club is showering me with compliments. Remarking that I am a very happy person. And endeavoring to make a deduction regarding my financial situation.

I’m smiling. We’re engaging in conversation. I remark that happiness and money are not necessarily causally linked. That money is not a necessity for happiness. I find such thinking very muddy-minded. He says something about how he would like some money. That that would go a long way in galvanizing our “friendship”.

I reply that I find his perspective misguided. Friendships and financial-transactional relationships are entirely different. In the words of a good friend I met in Cape Verde, “It’s about a feeling”. Friendship is about the. Feeling.

I do not give him any money.

Virtually everyone is asking me for money today.

Another young man says he loved my dance moves. A number of others vocally and physically express their agreement with him. I’m smiling all-through. Compliments are coming from everywhere today. Compliments compliments compliments.

He says I’m not leaving until I dance for them. Offer them a number of dance tutorials even.

He turns around to pick a phone call.

I shake hands with my first complimenter, and remark that I have to leave before the second is done with the call. It’s been a great evening, but I’m not sure I’m in the mood to give anyone any “dance tutorials”.

I head out of Halmod.

It’s been a wonderful evening.


PS: In my experience developing countries offer a much more acerbic social environment for partying.

People are much more hostile. An evidently benign action like asking for a puff of say a cigarette or “jedi” (whatever that is), as it happened to be in my case, from someone standing by, incites disproportionately violent reactions.

And for some reason, people seemed very eager to express themselves via punching. I really do wonder how such people make space for positive thinking in their lives. I wonder what sort of lives those people live- with their severely vitriolic ways of thinking/behaviour.

I really do not think Nigerians are particularly happy people. Everyone appears deeply grieved. Wounded, and eager to find means to express said greviances via violent behavior towards others.

I do not find Nigeria to be a particularly happy place.


Abeokuta, Nigeria. Olumo Rock and the Clubbing Scene.


PPS: Olumo Rock was interesting. Olumo Rock was very interesting.


An Eater’s Stream of Consciousness.

I am a resultant consumer.

God, is my stalwart reinforcer.

The commodity ladder- how is ascension to be procured? God. My God. My God will do it for me.

I am a pledged acquirer- inveterate- resolute- ah wait!

Wait wait!

Who is this?

Who is this, so high up the revered commodity ladder- who?


My God! My God needs to upgrade me.

I am in need of an upgrade.

Supplication is required.

The consumer’s God is to be prayed to.

An upgrade is in order.

On Vestigial Pasts and Intermittent Insubordinacy.

Because the present eventually becomes the past.

Because sensory experience in the now- overwhelming as it really might seem, eventually will become a consortium of organic bytes. An organic-byte agglutination whose existence really is only defended by tenacity of memory.

On strength of a defence? Yes I see your point. I do- I really do see, your point: Praise the heavens for the eidetic.

Regardless however, the present eventually, becomes, the past.

Some time later in the future you’ll look back- you’ll look back at today- at the smiles at the laughter the tears the joy all- haha, all of the tenuously-remarkable uneventful interspersing silences

You’ll look back from the all so incontestably palpable reified eventuality on whose horseback you have the (arguable, depending) honour of being transported into the future.

Because the present eventually becomes the past.

Or does it really? Unequivocally?

An event happened when you were two- when you were two years old you found yourself circumscribed by a tumultuous whirlwind, Haha of course- yes of course you did not have an inkling as regards what was happening in terms of understanding- your parents provided you an explanation, their explanation and of course you swallowed it all whole of course your parents are your foundational pillars of unarguable truth of course- of course of course of course.

An event happened when you were two- you thought you understood it, really you did.

When you are forty you will meet a six-year old girl who will provide you with an explanation so lucid so demystifying, hah really, really really really really really you thought you understood what happened, on that day you will come to an awareness of just how clueless you were, of just how clueless your parents were, of just how clueless you have been all along- your past in that moment, will emerge from the all so distant vestiges of memory to become your present all over again.

Because the present eventually becomes the past.