Lucky for you.
I challenge everyone to do their own version of this. What do you like? Do your own post, call it “Lucky for you.” and send the URL to me @themccoyman xx.
I like pictures.
Lucky for you, I like to be sent pictures. Before I lost my last phone, I had populated separate folders for everyone—my women, my men, my mother, sister, father, brother, former workplace, and so on. My sister sends me her content—she wants to know what I think about her outfits and TikToks. Every time I post something good, seconds pass before her “send me this!” DM.
I like to remember what people look like. I like to stare and smile. I love to hype. As you may have observed, I am good at admiration. Even when I share the same passions with others, I have more to say. I know how to go on about why something is beautiful, awesome, profound. Half of my Twitter is praise for this artist, that producer or director.
I contact my peers to say a sincere “well done!”, “this is beautiful!” now and then. No, I am not hitting on them. And no matter how l feel about a person, I will admit their glory. You are beautiful, Asampete. You may be foolish later but I irrevocably revoke my power to revoke these compliments.
I love confident people—those who think they snap when they snap. You know, those with the bold, ridiculous captions. Yes, those who accept the highest level of compliments without pretending to be modest. I have become the dramatic hype-man I always wanted to be; I say the absolute most. Why you go fine like this? was a compendium of some sort—yes, I have said those words to real people. People own equity in that post, haha.
I like to have exclusive pictures so please keep one for me. Okay, maybe three or four. Do not post the pictures you send me. Come on, my tokens must be non-fungible.
I like to listen.
I want to hear, listen. I want to know what happened, how and why it happened. No, I am not overwhelmed. What have I come to do in this world if your ejo does not pa mi? Ehen, what did the Bolt driver with the bad breath do? What did the receptionist with the fake wig say? I show up excitedly to ask, “give me that gist!” I agree, dissent, and laugh loudly. I am not a quiet person; I am only quiet around people I do not fuck with.
I have learnt the golden rule—to ascertain, as early as I can, whether people require sympathy or solutions. Oh, I have solutions. I know what to do about everything. But I am also armed with my “pele” and “have you eaten?” if the matter koja aye mi. Still, you should tell me what the problem is, you must. I do not like those people who have entire conversations with themselves and toss conclusions at me. Come here and narrate your thought process.
I want to hear about your dreams and aspirations. And oh, nothing is too big or little, broad or specific. Do you want to be president? Do you want to live in a small house with your own barn in a faraway country? What is your dream country? Tell me about it. What would you name your sons? I often say I would give my daughter one of those pretty Igbo names — “Chi-something”, to confirm to everyone that she is god.
I love to be trusted with the truth, it is imperative that I am. If you lie to me, I will react. I will overreact. Because what is so terrifying about the truth, dear? I have been through it all—wealth, poverty, pain, joy, failure, success, limelight, embarrassment, masculinity, feminism—so I can understand when people share their experiences. Come on, I can handle it. Why? Why would you ever think that I cannot?
I like audacity.
I do not like these clownish people who try too hard to be wise. You know, those who cover their tracks and play withdrawal; those who walk into all situations, reluctantly, readying themselves for the end, scanning the room for exits, mounting their binoculars for red flags. You know, those “stay wicked” people who, in reality, are the most delicate of the bunch. You know, those sad, pathetic people who time their replies and follow everything they say with a “never mind”. I am one of them sometimes, I hate that.
I do not blame them though, not really. You experience a level of hurt, my level of hurt and you want to shut your doors forever. You want to remove your brain, place it on a shelf and stay unconscious for a while. I will tell you about this later. It takes audacity to be easy, trusting; to always communicate, simply and clearly, to trust that your efforts would be worth it. Vulnerability is audacious.
And this audacity I speak of must be backed. I do not like those people who do nothing, except make wishes. You know, those who go on about what they want, never about who they are or what they are capable of; those people who act like the world exists to serve them. You must have met them—deluded, self-centered people with zero introspection. People who are terrified of being ordinary so they isolate themselves. Perhaps if they are difficult to reach, perhaps if they demand the grandest things, perhaps if they are condescending and judgmental, they would immediately become valuable. Perhaps drama queens are still queens.
I admire those stand-up people, those “when and where?” people, those who show up early with a bottle; those who do not exhaust me with mind games and meaningless, distrusting questions. No, I will not moot on why you should trust me, you can leave. Trust Jesus. No, I do not care for the rules, I do not stay in the boxes. I am not a God-fearing man; you should leave me alone.
I do not like these “overthinkers”, who, instead of curing cancer or saving Ukraine, imagine nonsense and self-sabotage. Fetch me “underthinkers”, I think I would prefer underthinkers — those “fuck, what are we doing?” people. Life is hard and the world might end soon, we must think less and do more. We must be crazy, unrealistic people. If you think we will get married immediately you meet me, we definitely will. Go on, dream. No, I do not think we are rushing things.
I like quality time.
I once wrote that the most important thing to me is for people to show up when I need them to. That is the currency of affection, to me. If I care about you, I will try to schedule something. And no matter what I say, I am heartbroken when you do not show up, when you show up late, when you choose to press your phone in my presence. These long-distance things could never serve me. If I wanted to see my person and I could not, I could collapse. No, I would actually fall, convulse and die.
Lucky for you, I want your attention. Lucky for you, all that matters is that you are here, next to me. So don’t ask me, “what would we be doing?” I don’t know oh, just come. I believe that if two people care for each other, company is enough. So, it puzzles me when people worry more about the venue than the crew.
I want to live next to my friends. I always invite my friends over; I always want to. They break my cups, damage my closets, and leave their stuff behind but it’s all good. It’s okay, I like being the friend who hosts everyone, the friend who does the planning and funding so everyone can catch up. Let’s have a good time, together.
I become the 40-year-old with the cookout in my large compound. My wife and I are making barbecue for four other families—we are asking one about Junior’s college, we are saying congratulations to another over some appointment, we are praying for another. We are discussing politics, football and the old days.
I like the simple things.
This must be apparent. I do the ordinary things, always. They are so ordinary, but I am showing so much gusto, the entire scene becomes cringeworthy. My IG stories is full of boyish, cringeworthy things, isn’t it? My friends and I — we sing, dance, eat, play football, swim, etc. And there I am, with my camera, giggly. I am not showing you epic views, expensive food, or luxurious outfits. It does not seem very curated, organized, embellished, does it? I am yelling at half naked boys in a pool, I am singing into a mop, I am posing with a friend at the cinema. Or I am eating one small cup of ice-cream. Now that’s me.
No, I do not think that in this lifetime, I will be taking pictures of my bills. I do not think that great expense is elementary to a good time. I am a big fan of the cheap thrills — I throw my parties at home; they are made of vodka, cardboards, and playlists.
I prefer the simple, predictable life. I schedule everything, I eat the same things and I place my items at the same places. I do not want plenty of anything, that stresses me. I do not care for complications. I cannot handle uncertainty or duplicity. I cannot handle multiple partners. I do not want everyone’s attention, just yours. Both of us—we are all that matters. And I prefer to obey my own rules, rules I know the exact rationale for. I hate to be pressured by what everyone else is doing, I hate the noise.
I am an awfully predictable person, willing to disclose my history, plans, green flags and pet peeves as soon as you ask. My phone has no passwords, nobody knows anything embarrassing about me. I secretly believe that privacy is overrated. I do not have anything to hide; weirdly, I envy those who do. Perhaps I am not sophisticated enough.
I like art.
I love music and film. I think in lyrics and movie scenes. No one I have met has greater appreciation for composition, production, direction, cinematography, screenplay. We should catch up on your favorite show sometime, you should come see my favorite movies sometime — they are slow, still and intricate. We should lay down and listen to some album sometime.
My playlists are not where I want them but I work hard. I must say that sharing music has proven to be a dangerous thing to do with temporary people. After they leave, I cannot listen without pain. I cannot play X Ambassador’s Renegades, Khalid’s Location or GuiltyBeatz Chance anymore. For two years, I could not play Adekunle Gold’s Before You Wake Up.
It helps to not only be a fan but a creator. I can play my favorite songs on the piano, as soon as I hear them. I thought I had the entire skillset for a Valentine’s curator even though people would not hire me haha—I can write the most romantic notes, play the saxophone and I am pretty good at folding mint into cake. Look, your pararan is ready to go!
Lucky for you, I write these things. I do not write these articles for anyone. My poems, on the other hand, often come with a persona in mind, although I never disclose that. I should write more for people I care about but it takes a lot from me. It is incredibly vulnerable — to make you the persona and go on about your features and my thoughts.
This is the best I can do, for now. It is a lot, really. I hope it is enough. Lucky for you, I like you.