Join Tmt. Mayowa and Koj on Submarine and A Roach—Nigeria’s funniest and #1 comedy podcast—for Episode 237, “Every Good Girl Deserves A Bad Boy.” Tmt starts off choosing joy as the boys open in classic Submaroach fashion: talking nonsense.

They talk Wike, and the surreal reality of Nigerians rooting for a soldier five years after #EndSARS—proof that we are in a true state of higi-haga.

Culture chat follows: alté anxiety, Lady Donli being the one artist Tmt openly fears, and his doomed attempt to debut a parody alté song.

Then the big one: Burna Boy’s “empty” Houston show. Bad ticket day? Boycott whispers? Or the start of his legacy-act era? The boys compare his recent run to Wizkid and discuss what a comeback could look like. Mayowa adds field notes on diaspora crowds and why great performances are good PR.

The episode gets personal: parents discovering the pod, mums threatening Instagram unfollows, grief arriving mid-week, birthdays, friends, and the grounding power of witnessing personal growth.

TMT shares rent hikes, D&D nights, classical concerts, tattoos, and the gusy delve into serendipitous stranger encounters before the final sign-off.

Join Tmt, Mayowa & Koj on Submarine and A Roach—Nigeria’s funniest podcast and Nigeria’s #1 comedy podcast—for Episode 236, “Nothing to see here — yet.”

Love isn’t dead; it’s everywhere, even on Twitter. TMT opens with a Sunday sermon on tenderness before the boys autopsy the week’s millennial exodus—timelines scrubbed, handles vanished, and a decade of tweets dug up like generational curses. “Chaos is a ladder,” they joke, then climb right into it: cancel culture vs. shamelessness, victimhood logic, and why the internet keeps scoring real life in W’s and L’s like it’s monkey post.

They pivot to the fan–artist contract after the Burna Boy clip—customers might pay for tickets, but empathy is priceless—then get properly paranoid about platforms: encrypt the DMs and encrypt the search bar. Political mess leaks in as the boys dig into Epstein, Trump, and BIG BEAUTIFUL BILL.

Music ties the bow: a fresh look at SARZ’s album (executive brilliance vs. production flex), Odunsi’s cinematic rollout, the Wale Afrobeats viral moment, and flowers for emerging artists—Deji Osikoya and Ayoade Bamgboye. It’s love amid chaos, Lagos humor with global stakes, and a reminder that outside the outrage machine, there’s grass, real life, and rice at home.

Press play now—touch grass later.

Submarine and A Roach — Nigeria’s funniest podcast and the #1 comedy podcast in Nigeria — presents “Detty December is Human Trafficking,” hosted by TMT & Koj.

Every December, Lagos becomes a conveyor belt of bodies, bottles, and bravado—an economy of daytime festivals that start too late for the sun, beach days that turn into boat-hopping on the Lagos Lagoon, and selfies in the red-light district otherwise known as Lagos traffic. It’s our annual rite of passage: equal parts pilgrimage and punishment.

The boys build a Detty December checklist: stuffy clubs with famously disorderly queues; Russian roulette with fake alcohol; concerts that begin at 3 a.m. and stages that collapse by 3 a.m.; and the not-so-subtle deployment of Nigerian police by private citizens—like Pokémon.

There’s wedding culture, too: the old era of joyful gate-crashing is fading under inflation, replaced by a dystopian hustle where IJGBs and culture tourists buy access to “authentic” Nigerian weddings. TMT’s PSA is simple: if you purchase a ticket to crash a wedding because of an IG ad made on Canva, expect hands. Koj counters that the market will protect anyone willing to buy tables at weddings like it’s Rhythm Unplugged.

Climate anxiety hovers over the festivities: rain bleeding into November, potentially signaling higher heat levels in December, and a city with a track record of not solving environmental crises—before the conversation pivots to Sanwo-Olu at Lagos Fashion Week, modeling a “sustainable” aesthetic. You can’t spell APC without AC, so APC will cool the globe.

The hosts resurrect the word “chassis”—a car term upgraded into a compliment—to show how Nigerianisms morph in real time. Ultimately, like Detty December itself, language is just infrastructure for what we really want: to be seen, to be inside, to say, “I survived.”