My boss had a roving eye. One day, many years ago, we were driving to some place, just the two of us, and he indulged in his favourite past time. He glanced at every passing lady – I was the one driving – and if the frontal view satisfied him, he used the side mirror to check the posterior.

Long before Millie Jackson veered into those raunchy, sexual songs that made her famous—or infamous— she had sung thoughtful, social songs.

The late social critic,Dr Tai Solarin, used to greet people every New Year with ‘May your road be rough’. It was a very uncommon form of greeting, and despite his trying to explain it on a national TV, one that never caught on.

All tennis buffs look forward to the Grand Slams or the Masters Series where supreme tennis athletes enter ‘the arena’ to showcase their immense skills, sometimes defying the freezing cold, or gusty winds, or whatever it is the elements might throw at them.

My friend’s wife, Jumoke Ogunyemi celebrated her 60th birthday on Christmas day. It was an intimate gathering of close friends; most of whom were her husband’s or her secondary school and University mates. The ‘old school’ music that filled the air was also very stirring and apt.

Last week, Dr Christopher Kolade, the Pro Chancellor of Pan African University, turned 80. About a month ago, I had asked him what his birthday plans were. I really was not surprised when he said he wanted to make it as low key as possible.

We all dream of being rich, famous and good looking with lovely spouses and beautiful children. But for all of us, that is where it all ends— in the realm of the surreal. Harold Robbins puts it well in his timeless novel:‘Dreams die first’, because they do.

This is a tale of two people close to my family who had serious car accidents in two different countries in perhaps two different eras.

Last week, my friend and neighbour Dr Kingsley Kola Akinroye (KK), was formerly presented to a diverse but select crowd of expatriates and Nigerians as the Honorary Consul of Finland. It was the peaking of a romance that started about 15 years ago, and which hopefully, will still have many peaks.

If you were fed on a diet of James Hardly Chase, Sydney Sheldon and Harold Robbins as some of us were in the seventies or thereabout, you probably would have come across ‘The Spellbinder’, one of Harold Robbins latter novels.

I couldn’t stay up to watch the re-election of President Barak Obama. Much as I wanted to, I knew from my racing heartbeat, that it wasn’t the wisest thing to do.

It was a public holiday, the second of the two-day Sallah holidays, and I was being driven along Ikorodu road towards Surulere, grateful that the traffic gridlock of the first three days of the week had eased off considerably, when I saw him.

India, Germany, France, UK, USA, Dubai and even South Africa. These are the favourite haunts of our elites whenever they have any ailment or any discomfort.

The swift way the perpetrators of the ‘face book’ murder of Cynthia Osokogu were brought to book, brought huge relief to all of us, and, if truth be told, more than a little pride. But more importantly, it brought closure and allowed the friends and family of the poor lady and to some extent, the larger society, to also have closure and move on with their lives. That is how it should be. A crime is committed, the perpetrators are apprehended, justice is done, the society learns from it, and moves on.

It was the morning after. Literally. I got into the U.K on a cold September morning after a mild storm had wrecked havoc in some areas of London the night before.