THE FARCE THAT IS NETWORKING

BY WANA UDOBANG

In every part of the world, they all say the same thing. “It’s all about networking”. Networking, networking and more bloody networking!!!

What they never tell you though is that it all works like a first past the post political system. Whatever party gets more votes, its leader becomes President or Prime Minister.
Basically the more popular you are, the more they become interested. It can feel very parasitic in nature but once you see it as symbiotic, you will feel less used. The more lies you tell your brain, the more it starts to believe it.

I remember writing tonnes of proposals for syndicated radio content and trying to sell them to corporate organisations. I sat in offices for hours watching the receptionist file and polish her finger nails hoping the boss would at some point spare me a moment of his time in the middle of his supposed four hour meeting. But the boss never shows up. You just stroll out of the office with a plastic smile on your face and your tail between your legs. All isn’t lost; at least you were entertained with a bit of mindless chit chat surrounding what make of weave you have stitched to your scalp or the next best unorthodox treatment to deal with your acne. Is it toothpaste or mentholated balm, you will just have to find out.

There are also the ones that make you come to their offices, drive you around their car and apologise at the end about the lack of time to discuss your idea. Then they tell you perhaps it would be better discussed over drinks at a bar or a night club. At least the invite for drinks raises your hopes but you ponder as to whether your physical assets are truly a gift or a curse. It all culminates in a rather interesting handshake where a middle finger is scratching your palm and of course your taxi fare is paid for as compensation for your day of waste. The truth is, they meet people like you everyday, smart, enthusiastic and full of ideas. They are numb from your kind and rather pour millions in funds into the junk they have been sponsoring and financing for years. Because you see in the end, they get a percentage cut as there is always a backdoor arrangement. As for you if there is a slight possibility for a free shag by pretending to show an iota of interest in your idea, then why not.

Then you go out to events. That is because they tell you that in this town, if you have no godfathers, Its all about networking, networking and more flaming networking!!!. There everyone is shamelessly plugging themselves and it seems every conversation is a well rehearsed sales pitch. When you are introduced to the gods in charge, the ones you need to know, the ones whose names begin with the prefix “Brand manager… or one of the largest shareholders in blah blah blah”.

Their hands glide out of yours so quickly, and their glances are removed with such alarming speed, you wonder perhaps, you had just morphed into a repulsive fly that was shooed away with an invisible fly swat. Then your eyes become weary from seeing the same faces at these parties, you become jaded from small talk, and then emerges the boiling point, when you see through all the bullshit and the only words that ring in your head are “I CANT BE BOVARD”

Your life goes back to normal. You work your backside off and hope that somebody takes notice and inevitably, you can earn a bit more money to kick start and finance your own ideas. Then your work starts to garner a bit of a following, and shortly after, recognition ensues. That’s when they all start to pop out of the woodworks. Mr Brand manager searches relentlessly for your telephone number even after you gave him a complementary card as advised by the “Networking Anonymous Bureau cum Association”. They will never remember the first time you met when they sniffed you like putrid fart. They will call and introduce themselves to you sycophantically throwing accolades and appellations on how much they have followed and admired your work. Then inform you about a project they have in progress, which they feel you completely embody and would be the best person to front or take charge off. They want you to become their official mascot, plus if you can think up any ideas, however tacky or nonsensical, they will pledge their unlimited support. What you discover is that now you have something. You have an audience and a consumer base.
Remember that here everyone is selling something and without customers, you can’t push units and can’t make money. So now, you have become of value. You are the gimmick to push their units; you are the strategy to prolong their visibility.
It’s a dog eat dog world as the cliché goes. As the lyrics to a certain song I know, its reads “Have you ever met a leach that’s good at saying goodbye”.
As much as you hate to believe it, networking can be an immense farce. One of three things is likely to draw them to you Money, Fame, or Power and however you choose to achieve that is at owners’ risk.

Your essence becomes narrowed down to your circle of influence.

I say just do the work and one day they will come and find you. The value you have created in the work and your effort will speak for itself despite the length of time and difficulty it may seem to achieve. But most of all when you meet people, know them simply for who they are. It is much more interesting and freeing an experience.

FARAFINA BOOK REVIEW

Farafina Book Review: To Saint Patrick


The Farafina book review is here again! On the 6th of November, 2010 at TerraKulture, we would be hosting Eghosa Imasuen, the author of To Saint Patrick. Ace journalist, Toyin Akinosho will be reviewing the book while Wana of 92.3 Inspiration FM would be moderating.


To Saint Patrick is a work of alternate history. Set in Benin City after elections, Hadiza and Ayo, police officers are investigating a murder. They soon find themselves embroiled in a set of larger and more dangerous intrigues that could cost them all they have worked for.


What to expect? Expect to be entertained as well as enlightened! Expect to receive writing tips from accomplished writers! Expect to discuss pertinent issues about African writing with intellectuals! What more?! Expect to win free copies of To Saint Patrick and buy your favourite Farafina titles at reduced prices! I bet you wouldn’t miss this! See you there!


*Event starts at 3pm at TerraKulture, Tiamiyu Savage, V/I on Saturday, November 6 and is free to attend.

WHEN THE WRITER BECAME THE NEW ROCKSTAR

Wana Udobang

Our predecessors must probably shudder as they trod with their tripods and sit on their commodes, or better still want to crack their tomb stones into several pieces because of what has become of their great art. An art that took a dedicated consumption cum abuse of substances to attain ground breaking feat, an art that retreated them into a strange solitude and perpetually forced them to face madness head on just to be titled “Icons” decades after their demise. This same art that had sentenced them to the life of a destined pauper. Oh their spirits must contort in disbelief!!!!

Everything has changed now. If you say you are a writer, the reply tends to be a resounding “wowww” as opposed to “when are you going to stop bombing around and get a real job”. You are also likely to hear something like “I write too you know”. Of course the writing comes in different variants. From the monopolising of ones mundane and boring existence, chronicled as a “Dear Diary” on the internet, to constant whining of all your failed relationships and how you have now come full circle. You have uncovered that it was all part of the divine preparation for the new you.
It’s not that difficult to get your words into print either. Walking around Lagos, there is always an interesting character looking for how to meander into certain worlds and needs a legitimate ticket to be there. Most of the time the word “Publisher” becomes the V.I.P pass and as long as you can string two words together, you can very easily get a steady column in the esteemed publishers monthly printout and the remuneration for your supposed hard work are free tickets to just about anything going on around town. Before you know it, your face appears in a magazine with the tag line above that reads “Stars come out for new bed sheet launch”. Since we seem to run out of things to launch these days.

Thanks to the internet, Rock stars that straddle laptops as opposed to guitars are being churned out by the second. Your popularity is highly determined by how many comments you can generate per rant. As badly told as the stories are, eight out of ten times, you are likely to read a comment that says “Woww this is just fantastic”, “Your writing just blows me away”, “I really admire your courage” and the autonomous “nice one”.
It’s all a wonderful ego boost and when you get comfortable, you are likely to die in writing purgatory. Because actually popularity doesn’t mean you’re any good and facebook notes can simply epitomise non-quality controlled user generated content. And we all know there is always a groupie with the thumbs up sign ready to plaster it on a shitty note. It’s really the same in blogville. Just take a look at what im doing right now. This piece will probably be smeared with errors when I post it on the blog(dyslexia is a bitch), and you will read it and leave the comment “Brilliant…you have done it again”. The more times I do this and you tell your friends about my writing, the more it legitimises my writing status. Sooner than you know, you will elevate me to join the writing Rocker demagogues.

For now though, I will enjoy this hoax this me being a writer and hope that I don’t get caught anytime soon just before my decent from purgatory to hell.
Hopefully, I can get published in the New Yorker sometime soon and then I can claim that this piece was all part of my self deprecating sense of humour.

AAF PRESENTS LAGOS PHOTO

African Artists’ Foundation presents Lagos Photo, the first international photography festival in Nigeria
Lagos Photo aims to establish a community for contemporary photography that will unite local and international artists, through images that encapsulate individual experiences and identities from across all of Africa.
Participating artists are:
George Osodi, Kadir van Lohuizen, Lard Buurman, Juul Hondius, Hans Wilschut, Viviane Sassen, Andrea Sultiens, Henk Wildschut, Natasha Libbert, Jan-Joseph Stok, Mario Macilau, Angele Essamba, Edgar Cleijne, Anoek Steketee, Aisha Dapchi, Emeke Obanor, Olayinka Stephens, Tam Fiofori, Adolphus Opara, Andrew Esiebo, Akintunde Akinleye, Toye Gbade, Caline Chagoury, Cristina Baldan and Lara ter Veen.
Date: Saturday 9 October 2010
Venue: The New Expo Center, Eko Hotel and Suites, Victoria Island, Lagos
Time: 6.30PM
Admission is FREE
For more information, visit www.lagosphoto.org

Also check out – My Home is Here & Global Warming Exhibition – Civic Centre – 8th to 13th October 2010

FELA: THIS BITCH OF A LIFE

“Fela: This Bitch of a Life” by Dr Carlos Moore – Book Tour
Carlos Moore was a close friend of Fela. His republished biography, “Fela: This Bitch of a Life” is a moving account of Fela, told from the inside. It is also a collector’s item memento of Africa’ Musical Genius. During his stay in Nigeria, Carlos will read from the book, discuss Fela and his times with Special Guests and give several public lectures. Guests will also have the opportunity to kick back and listen to Fela favourites sung by the hip and the new.

Saturday 9 October 2010 – 4pm: Centre for Contemporary Art, 9 McEwen St, Sabo, Lagos. In conversation with a Very Special Guest.

Sunday 10 October 2010 – 4pm: The Life House, 33 Sinari Daranijo St, off Younis Bashoroun St, off Ajose Adeogun, VI, Lagos (with Keziah Jones and Guitar Man).

Monday 11 October 2010 – 10am: The New Africa Shrine, NERDC Road, Agidingbi, Ikeja. Lecture “Fela: Music is the Weapon” (Symposium titled The Fela Debates – part of the annual Felabration).

Wednesday 13 October 2010 – 11am: UNILAG, 4th Floor, Faculty of Arts Boardroom (in conjunction with CBAAC). Public lecture, “What is Africa to me? Fela Kuti and the reshaping of the Pan-African Dream in the post-colonial era.” (Free Admission)

Saturday 16 October 2010 - 4pm: French Cultural Centre, 52 Libreville St, Wuse, Abuja.

Entry Fee: All events except otherwise noted will attract an entry fee of N2000 (which includes a copy of the book)

SEPTEMBER 11TH

WANA UDOBANG

I had planned this party for over a year. “It has to be memorable” I would say. From the cakes to the dresses to the sitting arrangements, it was going to be the way I wanted it. There would be two cakes. One just there for when people walked into the party almost like slices of eggs and cucumber garnishing a salad tray and then the grand cake which will be cut and displayed in timeless sepia photographs. I would have three dress changes. A bit like how those women hosting Miss World pageants would change numerous times until you started to loose count.

One dress to start the party, where the photographer would immortalise snapshots of my very carefully choreographed poses and smiles, one for the cutting of my cake and the last final dress change which has to be more airy and comfortable for the part of the party programme that would read “dance dance dance”.

It wasn’t going to be bogus like the last bash the Awoshika’s from next door had thrown. They closed down the street, just to litter it with swings that barely swayed. It made unsavoury squeaky noises due to its rusty and unlubricated fulcrum. The bouncy castle was an eyesore. It seemed the children were intimidated by its mass and irritated by the generator type noise of the air pumping machine.



My party was going to be different. It would be exclusive. There was going to be a high table just like we did at the children’s harvest in church. We always waited eagerly to see whose name came out on the harvest high table list. I was still waiting for the day I would be chairlady.

There would be games, and a really good DJ. None of those clowns that made children cry, always trying to mime their way out of a box or cupboard. I never understood it. It seemed a bit daft. Who would be entertained by that. Even worse were those Michael Jackson impersonators who made up their own muffled lyrics to “Billy Jean and Thriller”

Or those Micky Mouse and Daffy Duck mascots wearing dirty white gloves we saw, at Maltina childrens parties or at Apapa amusement park, during the school holidays. I often wondered if they ever washed their costumes. Because whenever I got close, the whiff was very unappealing. A bit like a concoction of camphor and stale sweat. It’s the same way the Father Christmas at UTC smelled. I was definitely not having any of that. I would be turning five only once and this had to go down as the best and most exclusive party on our estate.



It was a month of intensive planning. Mother had bought me a suitcase of St Michael’s dresses when she returned from her trip to London . One whole suitcase of dresses just for me with even undergarments from C&A. We almost thought she wont be able to make it back in time because British Airways had delayed her flight and they said all the flights had been fully booked till the end of the month. Daddy had already started throwing hints that we might have to postpone the party and Aunty Christie would just cook rice and chicken to mark the day. I wasn’t having any of that. Everyone at school wanted to be invited but I definitely couldn’t give just anyone the invitation cards Mummy would bring from London . At least I remember Daddy used to say especially if he caught us speaking pidgin English that we weren’t all of the same class. He would say to my older brother “ you have to only walk with the same calibre of people as yourself and this vernacular is going to spoil the way you speak English”. It was why I couldn’t invite just anyone. Am I going to have Farouk on my high table? His father was the security guard to the Chinese people that owned the battery factory on Kolade street . It wouldn’t make sense. We would defiantly not be able to discuss the same things. Or even Aunty Uju’s children who lived at the Anyanwu’s Boys quarters on Suleman Close. I had heard our house girl tell someone that her husband left her because she slept with another man and had gotten pregnant. It was why her daughters Iheoma and Ginika looked nothing alike. People said they were bastards because they had no father. I couldn’t have bastards on my high table. That really wouldn’t make sense.





There were so many dresses to choose from. But I knew the dress that I would be wearing during the main part of the party. It was the same one I would use for my entrance when everyone was there. The one that I will also use to cut my cake. That same main dress I would use to snap the most photographs in. It was the yellow dress. A kind of mild lemon yellow. Not like all those jarring mustard coloured fabrics that people bought in Isale Eko then the tailor would line the part that was supposed to bellow out like a tu-tu skirt with cheap voile that made your waste itch. I didn’t like that and mummy wasn’t a fan neither . My dress was good quality from St Michael’s in London . It was real cotton not all those nonsense polyester that made people sweat and smell as Mummy would say. I even had my black court shoes to go with it.

I always overheard Mummy say to Aunty Uju. “St Michael’s have very timeless things and as far as im concerned they are the best…their stuff is not like all these Chinese wear and tear or what you people buy in aswani and tejuosho.”



The day had finally come. September eleventh. My birthday was here. I had distributed the invitation cards and all the cars were parked outside to make space for the U shaped arrangement that had been planned. Underneath the staircase was going to be the designated area for all my presents.

I went to the hairdressers for Aunty Rita to perm and set my hair. I had described the style I wanted. She would have to place a diagonal parting on the left side so that when she brushed it, a weft of hair would cover one side of my face just like the girl on the PCJ relaxer kit. But rather than the back of my hair bunched into a braid, she would roll mine into a doughnut and the colourful hair clips mummy’s sister Aunty Itoro sent from Canada would be used to hold the ring of hair in place. The party started around 2pm. I wore the blue dress I used for Aunty Itoro’s wedding as a Balloon girl on her bridal train. They had sown beads and sequins into the dress to add more sparkle. I wore my baby pink socks with lace trimmings and tiny blue bows attached to it so it could match my blue dress. After taking pictures, and welcoming my guests, I changed into my yellow frock. My friends in Karate class organised a demonstration which really impressed all the adults. At the end of the demonstration I joined them in the bow like they did in martial arts movies. The DJ played the kinds of songs we liked. TLC, Naughty By Nature, New Edition, Salt N Pepa . We played musical chairs, quizzes and mineral races. Tobechukwu was always trying to cheat during the games and I didn’t understand why mummy said he had to stay on the high table with me. People used to make fun that we would get married some day and it infuriated me. Why would I want to marry somebody who slept with his mouth open during classes at school. There was a day that they even said he swallowed a huge fly and one time he wet himself while sleeping during elementary science lesson. To make it even worse, his head looked like they had used a large skillet pan to bash the front and back together. His eyes were large and they bulged out of their sockets. He was just too ugly and annoying for my taste.



We imitated the drinks race like they did on Sunday Rendezvous but I beat everyone during the dance competition. Especially when it came to doing the fuji cabbage when the DJ played Shina Peters, and Bright Chimeze. Daddy liked Bright Chimeze and Oliver d Coque. He smoked his Rothmans cigarette listening to “Mbiri o mbiri ka mbiri”

I enjoyed being sprayed by all the adults. I held the hem of my dress to form a bucket so I could gather all the money without it spilling out.

I think it felt similar to the way mummy and her friends looked when they sprayed them money during Owambe parties. The beads of sweat that trickled down their faces, showed this look of euphoria and exhilaration, as though they had just received very good news and in a strange way their bodies contorted in rhythmic symphony to every bata drum pattern.

It drizzled a bit and the rain threatened to ruin my party but I was happy it didn’t because I had put a lot of work into it. Mummy already had a canopy as back up. She always had back up plans if anything went wrong. But I don’t think she had a back up for the fire. The one that would make that September 11th our last party together.