Thursday 29 October 2015

Welcome to El Dorado: The Nigerian property “market”

El Dorado: the city of Gold - or the modern day Lagos
My adopted theme for this post comes from the mythical kingdom of gold that went by the same name. Legend had it that El Hombre Dorado (the golden man) or El Rey Dorado (the golden king) as part of an initiation rite, covered himself in gold dust and would dive into Lake Guativita. As with most myths and fables, after several iterations, what was originally imagined as a place, went from a city to a kingdom and soon spanned an entire empire. However as Sir Walter Raleigh, and several unfortunate Spanish Conquistadors would tell you, after several expeditions through countries like Brazil, Colombia, Guyana and Venezuela, from the late 16th century onwards, this city is stubbornly yet to be found; and the only thing these exercises in futility turned up was a better understanding of the geography and topography of most of northern tip of South America. Countless lives and resources were wasted in pursuit of a fool’s errand. While one can only but imagine what the origins of the mythical city were, the incontrovertible reality was that there never was such a place, many people learnt this at a very high cost; they paid with their dear lives.

These sorts of myths are still being perpetuated today. In the 1970s and 1980s, one of the more popular electioneering or propaganda slogans was the theme of “housing (or electricity, or water, or whatever) for all by year…”, the idea being that if they put off the target date long enough (the year 2000 being the preferred date of choice as it seemed far off enough), they would already have served their time in government and escaped into retirement before people realised the wool had been pulled over their eyes. In any case, the year 2000 slowly crept by and amongst many other promises, we found out that there were still no houses, or power, or good governance, and worse still even those things we had or were making do with, had either been completely run-down or had been abused to a state of total and complete disrepair including the railway service, the national airline, and the once reliable road network, and of course the ever elusive houses still do not exist.

The year is 2015; and we are by no means closer to the El Dorado of housing for all (not even most). Instead what we find is that in spite of the continuing demand for accommodation and a reported deficit of 17 million houses across the Federation. In cities like Lagos, Abuja and Port Harcourt, property rates bear no grounding in reality, and housing rates, whether for acquisition or lease purposes are seemingly plucked out from the air as though the property speculators where magicians.

Interestingly though, there is a rising pace of property development especially within the Lagos metropolis. Older (or more established) parts of the city are being re-purpose, while newer parts are rising up in previously unheard of places as Lagos continues to grow and expand. This trend has even seen the creation of Nigeria’s first artificial development in the Eko Atlantic scheme. Developments in neighbouring Ogun State or on the Lekki axis are sold tantalisingly as being “10 - 15 minutes from Alausa” or “just behind the new Lekki Free Zone/Airport”. It is marketing at its most clever and is part of a deliberate ploy to lure people to invest and achieve their housing dream.

Economic commentary is rife about Nigeria’s much touted upwardly mobile middle-class; investors are told that the growth of this demographic group and their rising disposable income is another veritable reason why they should buy into this market. Yet, even those who belong to this group can’t afford to buy or rent a home where they want to. While their contemporaries in more developed nations are afforded the luxury of choice, unless you are one of the successful few to have looted the nation’s treasury, or work in one or two given industries at a certain level of leadership, your choice is made for you.

The working New Yorker can decide to live in any of New York’s five boroughs and even Manhattan, home of the New York Skyline and the Empire State Building is not out of reach. He may have to pay more for choosing to live in the heart of the city, and may need to forego things like a car or other cost elements, but he can (and some do) actually live there. Ditto London and Paris, Barcelona, Madrid, Milan and Rome. Some people in these cities (especially those raising families) would rather a more quite, remote and serene environment in the suburban part of town and these choose to live outside the city; the presence of a viable public transportation system and a friendly, motorable road network make their choices practical. So for example it’s not unheard of for people to live in places like Kent or Basingstoke and yet work in London; they merely commute daily, by train or car.

A typical property under development
That is not the case in Lagos. Similarly in Abuja, despite the plan of building an ideal capital city, 30 years since the dictator decreed that all Federal agencies relocate to the city, the concept of a rail system is only just now being discussed and the reality is that it may never see the light of day. And so the rates for property in the city centre continue to soar, giving rise to the advent of satellite towns which are now the order of the day. When a well-paid, mid-level to senior career employee can’t afford housing in these areas, then you must understand that there is a real problem (call it market failure if you will). His annual income compounded over five years can probably not afford him a home in some of the nicer parts of town and with mortgage rates at 25% and above, you begin to wonder whether it is in this lifetime he is expected to buy and repay for the house he aspires to own. On a lighter note, I once spoke to a lady who worked with a Property developer; she was trying to market one of their apartments to me. When she shared the proposed payment terms with me, I had to ask her if she could afford to part with a million Naira a month; essentially what she was proposing. I mean how practical is that?

But how did property costs get so out of hand, you may ask. I can espouse a few reasons. But one that stands out is the expat conundrumIt used to be that many builders and landlords would say the apartments were for rent to expats because Nigerians were either not good enough or more likely because Nigerians could/would not pay the astronomical rates they were charging for the property. To their minds multi-national companies would only be too glad to put up their valued expatriate human resource in these serviced apartments. At the same time insecurity became an issue in Lagos and the narrative we began to hear was one to the effect that crime only takes place on the mainland, while the island is the only “safe” place in Lagos. In other words, if you want to safeguard your (expatriate) staff, get them a place in Ikoyi or VI, but be prepared to pay a premium. This helped drive up the price as they created a form of exclusivity and a captive market, which quite suited beneficiary Landlords.

However, over time, many companies have come to realise that this is not a sustainable business practice and have sought alternatives in order to bring down their overheads. For some of these companies, accommodation is one area where savings could easily be made either by hiring a local or looking for alternative accommodation in a more suitable area, for example in Lekki Phase I, lately the default alternative made easily accessible with the advent of the new bridge to Ikoyi.

We have created a property bubble. Or rather, estate “agents” and ambitious landlords have driven the rise of this property bubble.

Economists will tell you that most economic bubbles eventually burst and the results can be cataclysmic. The US sub-prime mortgage crisis triggered a recession that has left the global economy with scars that are yet to heal completely. Our bubble however seems alive and well. It is not made of soap, but of much stronger stuff; no pin prick or hand gesture will penetrate this one. Even at the height of the economic recession, the value of property in Ikoyi and VI barely budged. There may have been a few fire sales and the margin on deals probably reduced a bit, but for the larger part property prices remained ridiculously high.

A leisurely drive through Ikoyi will give you a clear impression of the depth of the problem. As new developments and luxury apartments continue to spring up on the island, what is most obvious is the fact that though some have been completed for over 5 years, they are still largely vacant and unoccupied, even though they are billed as being for lease. Who builds a rental property and leaves it unoccupied for five years?

As corruption has flourished in Nigeria, with brazen looting and outright knavery of the commonwealth the order of the day, the vagabonds in power have grown more sophisticated and as criminals are wont to do, they recognise the need to launder their money and legitimise this ill-gotten wealth. In Nigeria, the safest and most secure investment vehicle for this is landed property. With the exorbitant prices bandied about, these individuals are the prime candidates to acquire this choice property and they amass them in large numbers. These are the kind of property owners who can afford to own multiple apartment buildings and can’t be bothered if they are bringing in revenue or not. Unlike you or me, they have no mortgage or loan to pay back so what’s the hurry? The impact on the market is scarcity of accommodation, increased property prices, opportunistic pricing and additional pressure on the disposable income and rent payable by the middle class. Property in adjoining areas starts to go up and the vicious cycle continues.

The myth is perpetuated by a long list of ambitious property developers, banks and financial institutions, property speculators and land grabbers (omo-oniles), estate agents, money launderers and so on. Their role is to drive up and sustain these artificial prices so they can create wealth for themselves without the added burden of having to create any real value in the property market or the wider economy.

I had long concluded that things would remain this way and would never change; I now have to rethink my position. “Why the change?” you may ask, well I recently saw something that gave me hope. A few weeks ago, a newspaper headline published the names of 3 public servants who apparently own property (in Abuja and Lagos no less) the value of which far surpasses their stated level of income; just one of these individuals alone was stated to own 18 different parcels of landed property! This is usually a good indicator that things don’t add up and so they have been taken to task by the Independent and Corrupt Practices Commission, part of whose remit is to investigate official corruption. In an ideal world, if these individuals are found to have put their hands in the till, then they will be duly prosecuted and these properties seized. If this becomes the norm, many who have so acquired wealth will be stripped of their property. And the government will be in a position to dispose of these proceeds of illegally acquired wealth in a fair and transparent manner.

In the past, when cases like this have come up, because of the flaws in the system, it was not unusual to find that even the disposal process was fraught with irregularities and was deliberately compromised so that the property ended up being merely transferred to a preferred beneficiary of the disposing parties. However with the way things are panning out, one gets a sense that these loopholes will now be plugged, the system strengthened and the vigilance of the monitoring agencies raised to ensure that no one takes undue advantage and games the system.


We must give President Buhari credit for this and if he is able to restore the confidence of previously cynical Nigerians like myself, then he may as well sign up for a second term.


                                                                                           IamMaverick 
                                                                                                                                         29 October 2015

Friday 14 August 2015

the emperor’s New clothes

There we see him in the sun
a smile upon his face
adorned in garlands and brocade
resplendent in his lace
            His heart is filled with haughty pride
            He wears a coat of hate.

His life work it continues
His quest to acquire more
The endless vanities he ceaselessly feeds
Amassing more than meets his needs
            His palace filled with diamonds and shiny things
            He wears a coat of greed.

History’s replete with the record of many different clothes
-      a gift from father to a son
a many coloured robe
-      the wealthiest and wisest king
his servants the best dressed
though the good book says for sure that
the lilies were better adorned
-      the voice of one in the wilderness
baptising in desert sun
clothing made from camel’s hair
and leather belt for sure
But none’s more important than the one
no man had ever worn.


His search for something better
Has brought him to this place
And the answers that he sought
Were etched in the old man’s face
            And then the old man told a tale
            Of a land in a distant place
"...Adorned with a crown of thorns, loincloth and blood soaked face"
The origins he swore
of a unique special race.

“There we see Him in the sun
No smile upon His face
Adorned with a crown of thorns,
Loincloth and blood soaked face
            His heart breaking with love
            He wears the coat of grace”

“Straddled up-on the cross
He’ll writhe and then grimace
the Soldiers jostle for His clothes
but the burden of His sacrifice means
there’s forgiveness on His face
            He wears a cloak of stripes and blood
            But it’s the purple robe they chase”

“The entrance of the Word brings light”
the old man seemed to say
his heart t’is desperately wicked
no hiding place from truth
            his heart is filled with sin and guilt
he wears a coat of shame.

“But hark the Master of the Universe,
The Maker of the Race;
Arising in His Might and Power
Defies hell and the graves!”
A gift that stands the test of time
Moth or rust doth not corrupt.

He’s washed in water and then fire
He adorns a brand new faith
            He wears the uniform coat with pride
His life transformed by grace.

“if any man be in Christ he is a new creature, old things have passed away behold all things are become new”   2 Corinthians 5 v 17


IamMaverick
March 2008




Wednesday 12 August 2015

My head in Your laps; Your power in my hair


And I will cut off the judge from its midst, and slay all its princes with himAmos 2: 3

I love the way you weave my hair
God’s power therein from you I hid so well
I loved the way you looked at me
Your piercing eyes searing red hot through my skin
Yet the source of my might you couldn’t see

With your cold gaze you held my stare
You’re the only one who’d even dare

As sure as I’m the son of Adam
You’re a daughter of Eve
Though I’m not quite sure
Our mother’d trade her prized virtue
To satisfy her personal greed

But it’s not your fault
I was the one in need
Being with you
Allowed my ego and vanity to feed

I willingly walked into your arms
Turned my back on His face
Took for granted my Master’s holy grace

My father’d warned me but I didn’t care
My mother would weep in shame and despair
And now my tribe and Israel, weighed down with fear
Their ceaseless warnings, I refused to head or hear

But you my lady are just so fair

You I wooed against His wisdom
Choosing to defy His divine convention
The whole nation raged, there was great contention

We wined and dined under the canopy of the starry Palestinian night
Inseparable lovers we couldn’t be parted
Love notes and love totems
Shared joys and sorrows
Lovers’ quarrels and the hope of tomorrow
We broke up and stormed
We made up and made love

How then was I to see,
the deception that soon would engulf me?
How was I to know you’d use me, ridicule me,
enslave me, family and country?

I had asked for your hand in marriage
(though my folks did try to discourage)
You said I’d have to pay the dowry
I’d do anything for you to agree
But the cost I should have dodged or parried
This was not the currency we’d agreed!

Your asking price I couldn’t believe
- The one thing on earth I was not allowed to give
“Darling” you said “if you love me true
tell me the secret of your godly strength.”

You prevailed on me,
Nagged and wailed to me
Your pain I no longer could bear to see
Like a hovering vulture
 you persisted in patience
by now my soul
 was weary with your insistence
I reasoned that this was destiny
Since you and I were meant to be.

Eventually I yielded
 to the charms she wielded
and after all the childish pranks I played
by a Philistine mob I was soon waylaid
as the Book rightly says, my head was shorn
my super-strength gone
trapped and downtrodden, and treated with scorn.

Now the result of my folly’s plain for all to see
But the real shame’s that it doesn’t just affect me
And now the fate of my people’s in jeopardy.

In shackles, in chains but my heart’s broken
And all this you did for less than a token

Now I must return to the One whose refuge is sure
The One who’s holy, righteous, just and pure.

Lord I know I’ve fallen from your grace
My strength I do not ask You to replace
Restore to me Your fellowship I pray
Let me know You for one more day
Have mercy on me let me see Your face.

That night He came to me in my cell
That dreary place where I was forced to dwell
One like a son of man, clad in a robe as white as snow
a golden sash around his chest
His head and hair as white as snow
His eyes were blazing bright like fire
He was awesome and grand! I lay prostrate before Him
I’d never known fear but in truth I was frightened
His hand on my head, He gently reassured me
“Be at peace my son, it is your Lord, it is me.”
And with that I was calm, my soul enlightened.

“A broken and contrite spirit is what I seek,
Humility you’ve learnt, your powers no longer at their peak.
Forgiveness is in my power to give,
Dear son, My hand of fellowship receive.”

“To avenge your sight,
 I will restore your might
Now judge this nation
For its transgression.”

I love the way You lead me Lord,
Your hand on my head anointing me
Your mercy transforming the old man that was me
Divine power washing away every blot of my sin.

I love the way You comfort me
Your anointing flows through every sinew of my skin
I’m your battle ax - Prepared for war,
Blessed be the Lord my God
Who teacheth my hands to fight,
and my fingers to make war.

They drag me out
To mock and to jest at
This is their day to worship the idol Dagon
Their kings and princes laugh with derision
Unknown to them I’ll yet fulfil my life’s mission.

My hands take hold of those two wide columns
Now I’ve got God’s enemies all in one place
It’s time to redeem Israel’s disgrace
It’s time to make my way home to see my Lord and Master’s face.

“So the dead which he slew at his death were more than they which he slew in his life.” Judges 16:30

IamMaverick
13-12-2008


Saturday 8 August 2015

Driving Mr. Seni

I must confess my first misadventure behind the wheel of a car was an absolute and traumatising disaster. The explosive impact that ended that episode probably drew the attention of people from two streets away. We still lived on Isaac John Street in Ikeja, although these days my former front lawn serves as a fast food restaurant in the now commercialised part of the Government Reserve Area. This was in my first year or so of University and I had seen my older brother and countless friends manoeuvre the cars in confident fashion; so why couldn’t I?

VW's Santana
We never hid the keys to our cars, so off I went to grab the keys to my Mum’s VW Santana (the name given to that iteration of the Passat). I sat inside the car (in defiance of that still small voice telling me plaintively, “no”), I released the handbrake, and cool as ice I turned the ignition on. The rest was mayhem. I can’t recollect now if the car was parked and left in reverse gear or if that was my doing (I suspect it was the latter, but I may be an unreliable witness), what I do recall was the car taking off backwards in full fury, I kept stamping on what I thought was the brake but the car refused to listen as it was hell bent on making me suffer while it made its way across the drive way, over the hedge and would have crashed into the wall, but for the fruit tree that stood its ground.

Strike One!

I rear ended my Mum’s car (not for the last time). My brother Abayomi, and Kosh (Tunji Kosefobamu), and just about everyone else who was there that night came running out to see what was going on. Yomi was pretty supportive; I was pretty shaken as I thought of the repercussions when my Father found out what had happened. Apart from the fear, there was also the bitterness towards the car that had refused to respond to my futile attempts to step on the brakes.

I remember this very long and soul searing talk from my mum the next day. I really did feel bad and sorry for what I had done. Poor woman, I have given her a few near misses…

But it didn’t end there. Sometime later, Yomi and I went to one of the early morning Church services at Arch Bishop Vining Memorial Church (AVMC) a five minute drive away from home. We were leaving the Church a bit earlier than normal so that I could have a rematch with the Santana. He encouraged me to pull out of our driving spot and take the car home. Short drive, no pressure right? Wrong!

I did pull the car out very hesitantly and as I tried to right the steering and adjust my speed, I wound up denting the side of a Mercedes Benz on the other side of the extremely narrow side street (I know you’re rolling your eyes but it really was a small street). Once again the car had gotten the best of me and we now had the added burden of having to listen to the owner’s rant and fix her Mercedes as well.

Strike Two!

Peugeot's 504: learned to drive in one. Owned one too
So I had to go to driving school at some point (hated it!). I insisted on driving in the Peugeot 504 and not the minute, claustrophobia-inducing cage match called the Beetle. The driving instructor was Ghanaian and had a penchant for telling me to cut my hand (like seriously?), and he was in the worse habit of smacking your hand if you over steered. Fortunately I had my hands on the wheel or else I would have punched his lights out. When I told him as much and in no uncertain terms, he began to compose himself a lot better, even though he still wanted me to cut my hands. If I’d taken him seriously I wonder what I’d have driven with, my feet perhaps?

Well anyway, time heals all wounds and I was ready to get back in the saddle again, or at least allow myself to get talked into another act of foolishness. This time around we had dropped Yomi off in Wemabod Estate at his girlfriend’s house and Kosh had urged me to give the Santana a spin. After all it was inside the Estate, no room for disaster, what could possible go wrong? So I did, but I must admit that by now it was pretty evident that car had a thing for me. She was bucking like a wild bronco and as I struggled to control her while barrelling down the street towards the Estate gate, I guess I raised so much dust (figuratively) that a police officer who lived on the street looked out from his balcony and having seen more than enough, he shouted to the guards at the Estate gate to stop the car and prevent us from driving out.

My Nemesis!
So the car came to a screeching halt, and the cop ran down to where we were. Apparently there was a toy gun left behind the seat rest at the back of the car which had caught his eye, so in his mind we were either robbers or dangerous felons who needed to be apprehended. They took us to the Police Post within the Estate gate and detained me behind the counter. Kosh had to go get his mom who came to bail me out, but the interminable wait in between felt like a lifetime. Prison cannot be cool.

Strike 3!

It was now becoming apparent that this was one stallion I wasn’t going to break. I was now convinced that the car’s plan was either to send me to an early grave or to KiriKiri, neither of which was an interesting prospect. So with my tail between my legs, properly traumatised and feeling harassed (by a car!) I stopped every attempt at driving for the next few years. If anyone ever asked, I said it was because I didn’t have my own car. But the truth was more like driving scared me.

It was quite frustrating to see younger people learn to drive and take to cars like fish to water. At some stage you start asking yourself if there’s something wrong with you. But I liked to walk and gained a reputation for “slapping”, so life goes on. Besides, I had Jiro (Iceman to my Maverick), Mudi, Dipo, BJ, Olayinka (gone but never forgotten), Kemdibe, Goziem and Ekong and the countless drivers that served my folks, I got by just fine.

Then on October 1st 2003, my uncle Bimbola gifted me with a car and I had to face my fears once again. I vaguely remembered what to do behind the steering wheel, but the passage of time and a failure to get over the driving fear, stood me in bad stead. I toiled on. I wondered why all cares didn’t come with automatic gears but I kept at it. But I reluctantly kept at it, sometimes there would be a driver and sometimes there wouldn’t, it was a luxury I couldn’t afford. But one day I was driving the automatic gear but still struggled with the “stick” shift, until I had a Eureka moment, and it all suddenly became clear and I realised what the problem had been all along.

After that driving became a release and not a burden. I would drive to work, drive to Ijebu, to Benin and back. I found my mojo and my pride was restored. I was the man again. Although, I never did get the best of that bloody Santana; wherever cars go to die, if they go to heaven, that bloody grey evil car is probably somewhere looking down and still revving its engine sadistically at me, taunting me and saying “you can’t tame me!”

On the balance scorecard, its Santana 3 Olaseni nil

But as I reflect and I think about the heap of scrap it has probably become and the pleasure I get from having driven the Honda Civic (a jet), the MG 550, the Land Rover Defender (my dream car) and every other modern piece of vehicular machinery I’ve been fortunate enough to drive, all I can say in return is, “look who’s laughing now!”




                                                                                     IamMaverick
                                                                                         08August2015

Thursday 6 August 2015

The 20 year gap: views on friendship


Today (I started writing this piece midway through 2014) I was in conversation with one of my closest friends from the past 20 odd years. Over the course of our conversation, as has lately become topical, we strayed to the impending milestone of our rapidly approaching 40th birthdays. That was when he made the remark that at the time only mildly struck me. He'd said at the time that for one of the events we were planning he would only welcome people from the core group of friends we've known for at least 20 years. In his mind (I'm assuming) those of us who've been close over that passage of time have surely become true lifelong comrades in arms.


At the time I mildly agreed with him, even though I must say I didn't give it too much thought. However this evening as I make my way home from the office (a bit later than my missus would like) I find myself scrolling through pictures on Instagram and one in particular reminds me of its author, my bosom buddy from boarding school. This dude was my partner in art in High School. We were both gifted illustrators inspired by the comic art form promoted by DC and Marvel Comics. By the time we were in the first year of our Senior Secondary School, we had created a pantheon of super heroes (and villains) to rival anything Stan Lee’s legendary mind could conceive.             
But back to my journey home…

I find myself musing over his odd choice of hobby and visual (maybe even musical) interests. I recall he'd said he was going to be in Nigeria a few weeks back, and his posts on Instagram confirmed as much. I suddenly find myself wondering (again) how come he never reached out like I'd asked him to. Surely he must have had access to a phone (seeing as NITEL's stranglehold on the telecommunications monopoly has long since been broken), and even in the absence of a phone there is the same Internet which he used to share those pictures on Instagram.

So my dear friend, I can't but wonder, what gives? Have the years since 1989 meant an irretrievable loss of our once unparalleled companionship and the camaraderie we once shared? Would I be correct to conclude that while we may be friendly to one another, we can no longer truly regard each other as close friends?

This experience called for some introspection, and I’ve had to question myself about my attitudes towards friendship, what it means to me, and reflecting on some observations I’ve made since my time as an undergraduate of the University of Lagos.


At some stage in primary school I became a loner, and while I got along with a few classmates in boarding school, the reality is, there are very few of those people I graduated Secondary School with that I can truly claim to be my friends (in the true sense of the word). Many of us may have been friendly with each other, but that owed more to our common passage through a certain place at a certain time, than because of any sentimental attachment. I doubt I could count more than five I wanted to keep in touch with after 1990; and in truth we didn’t – I only remained actively in touch with one or two. For the rest of my classmates, we didn’t catch up every so often, we didn’t call or write, and we didn’t run into each other, whether by choice or by chance, your guess is as good as mine.

As the years went by, my convictions were only re-affirmed; beyond secondary school it felt like we had nothing in common. Being classmates merely made us regular acquaintances. On the two occasions when I brought myself to attend the class re-union, there were a few laughs and a few smiles, but I felt like an impostor; I was a stranger among these guys. They had probably learnt to cultivate each other or consciously did all those years; needless to say, I had not. In hindsight, I recognise that my friend (he of the artistic inclination) was probably like me and couldn’t be bothered to reach out. In fairness some people just wanted to leave that whole experience behind them.

The saying goes, “we may not always be able to choose our family; but thank God we can choose our friends”.

As an undergraduate I’d say I found for maybe the first time, people I was prepared to be myself with and open up to (including She who would become my Partner in life). As a Freshman I already knew Seun (courtesy of Top Tutors) it was he who housed me through that year (when I was resident on campus) and through him I met Dayo and Dipo. Mudi entered the fray a few weeks into our first semester and the circle grew. Jiro’s car became our official carriage, when he wasn’t away dodging bullets and grenades in Ekpoma. Babajimi was a Freshman Law Student (as were Seun and I) and by our second year I was living in his flat. This brought Deinma and Yinka into the picture. The Rogues gallery doesn’t by any means end there…

Year one of Uni-Lag was like a fusion of steroids, music, dance, mayhem and cacophony. We were young, we were brash, we thought we were the hippest kids in the school, and we definitely thought we’d live forever. We fooled around and weren’t ashamed to make fools of ourselves and did this privately and publicly (in the Quadrangle under the Senate Building) very, very often. I still remember some of the slangs we created, defined and that crazy hand/leg shake that ended in a backward lunge, chai!

We were sometimes loud, sometimes noisy, sometimes in trouble, and sometimes having what we thought to be fun. Eventually we discovered where the school library was and what it was for (studying apparently! Who’d have guessed), and we learnt to support and be there for each other. We graduated, we got jobs, we got married, we became parents, and we’re getting fat (except for BJ), grey and older (except for that sell-out who lives near my house and likes to do silly things like Insanity).

I find myself the odd one out when I hear conversations about High School reunions, and how people are connecting with their old buddies. I can’t relate. For those who can and who do (including you Mister Abayomi!!!), nice one; it’s just something that doesn’t resonate with me. I was fortunate to forge my friendships with a group of precocious young Turks most of whom were born in the year of the Tiger. Like me they were finding themselves, had a worldview that mirrored mine, and were willing to embark on the same journey of discovery that we all seemed to have signed up for. They have inspired me, taught me, challenged me, emboldened me, and counselled me. We have gone from boys to young men, and are still growing together.

             


I’m thankful for the experience so far and remain grateful for their friendship. They have let me be me and because of them I can publicly come out in the open and say…

I am Batman.
                     
                                                                                                                                                /IamMaverick

                            06Aug2015