January 25, 2012

Hallos!
@Hl_Blue, shared Green Nation I with us all last year, a government of plants, a story of feuds and a fierce will to surmount survival. A fierce will to be king of a world that we’re a part of but oblivious to.
 
Welcome to Green Nation II which is so much more!

 

...Gang Green Gang...

 
Fear was not an emotion familiar to us. Our kindred community had survived the ravages of countless adversities to emerge as the fourth largest tribe in the Plant Kingdom. We could look back on our historical wars with green pride. But this… this was… different. Not the end of life, but the end of life as we knew it.
 
For three days the sun could not shine through. The column of invaders, who ironically derived their name from our family, continued to move slowly overhead, obliterating everything remotely edible in its path. In their millions they fell at intervals to devour, no, ravage and rape anything in the likeness of a plant. Stems, barks, and shallow roots disappeared in seconds. It was enough to sway the resolve of our figurehead ruler, the Bamboo. Yes, sway was the word, for we the Grass did not shake. Let Mother Nature howl and curse and rage. We would sway, bend, dance in the storm even, but we would never break, shake or be felled.
 
When the multi-mile horde was exhausted and sated, they decided to move on. They behaved like us because they fed on us. They had no ruler, but they advanced without breaking rank. When one decided it was time to move on, everyone decided at the same time. And after the action was taken, no one knew who had initiated it. No one would even care either way. This was no monarchy as with the Oaks or the four-footed simpletons who wandered by from time to time. Together we faced our issues, and together we had always overcome. Until now…
 
The landscape looked almost as deserted as the Sahara which lay just to the North. No, it was not the grasshopper horde that gave us major concern. It was the Sand to the north, the Sahara. Rumors of its approach had chilled the stems of even the most perennial among our tribe. Would we ever wake up from a catastrophe as huge as the barren Sand? The attempts we had made to bolster our defenses against the encroaching Sand had just suffered a most terrible setback – The grasshopper horde. Why we had neglected to focus on climate alteration efforts we had no idea. Wind control was not a fully developed weapon in our arsenal because we never imagined we would ever need to be so drastic as to sweep away a grasshopper horde with column dimensions in miles. The timing of their invasion, at the beginning of the Harmattan season, was as awful as it could get. The last tears of the preceding twin daughter of Climate, the Wet Season, had fallen just last week. We would not see Wet for the next eight full moons. Harmattan would be our Tyrannical Guide to sure extinction.
 
Perhaps the Grass actually needed a Benevolent Master. This abominable thought was silently whispered and even made possible just because of the humbling news of the utter devastation of our North American cousins, the LongStems of the Great Prairie. Their pride before such disgraceful disaster was a silent lesson to us that perhaps in the evolving world, we the Grass might be forced to adopt outlandish survival ideas. We would need to sway really low to conquer.
 
Behavior modification was our forte. We commanded the mobile neighbors to do our bidding in the annihilation of our pretender plant species. Plants would not easily yield to our forceful persuasions so we were left with the four-footed and six-legged creatures that came to derive sustenance from us. From the ants to the elephants, we ruled their minds and made them think they were in control whereas they were not. When our spores penetrated the heads of the ants, they would feel the sudden need for shade, hobbling over to the nearest leafy enemy to take shelter while our spores overloaded their miniscule imaginations with hallucinatory images of endless rivers of sugar and honey. They happily died with their mandibles securely fastened in a death grip on the undersides of the leaves of our competitors. Even the windstorm would not knock them off this vice-like hold. When our spores matured, the rich nutrients of the ant carcass would be ample food, until we could exert direct parasitic influence on those dregs of plant society known as the Leaf.
 
The boastful thoughts of our domination were necessary for our morale and the clear thinking needed to surmount our present challenge. So we continued to reminisce, turning our collective consciousness to the largest moving land animals – The Elephants. The introduction of a few tannins into their diet converted them to the most loyal of subjects. So gullible were these beasts! They immediately obeyed our instructions to push down the tall trees providing shade for our leafy pretenders to high plant society. The high dehydration rate resulting from exposure to the Sun meant only the true plants would survive, ensuring perpetuation of the Order of the Grass without competition from the Leaf. Did the elephants realize they could cool themselves under the shade of the very trees they pushed down? No! They believed what we told them and threw dust and clods of earth over their backs instead, helping propagate our spores while imagining they were cooling themselves. Yes, when the Grass fought, the elephants suffered.
 
But for the present trial we would need to hunt fairer game. The Buffalo came by in their search for food. Would they be able to serve a purpose superior to what we had commanded from others? One particular member of their species appeared restless and eager to be leader. His surefootedness did not subtract from our open disgust at his ignorant quest for competition. When would these walking creatures, one and all, realize that world domination would only be achieved by the species that most demonstrated its unity of mind and purpose sans competition?! Surefoot had engaged the head of his buffalo clan, Widowmaker, in a fight almost to the death over a fair cow-buffalo who showed no signs of caring about the outcome. The fight was brief. The Widowmaker retained his position as head of the flock, while banishment was decreed for Surefoot with no possibility of return or parole. Who made these barbaric rules?!
 
We watched the spectacle of the wandering young bull with interest, sensing that Mother Nature was about to slip us a message through this unfolding scene. Somehow we could not see Surefoot fitting into any of our plans as yet. But we noticed some new actors on our stage. We had not seen their kind before. They walked on two legs and made sounds like the clap of thunder, sounds at which birds took to flight and herds of buffalo and giraffes turned to flee. Even the elephants tacitly acknowledged their power. So these were the humans we had heard so many stories of, the very same humans whose cultivation and settlement activities had brought the LongStems of the Great American Prairie to naught. They appeared arrogant, irreverent, and aware of their surroundings. They walked as though they owned the whole world. We could not see any physical signs that these weak creatures were the perpetrators of all the heinous deeds that had been ascribed to them by the silent whispers and rumors borne by the wind to our collective ears. Apparently, they ruled the world by some superior intelligence and their flagrant disregard for nature.
 
The plot thickened. Surefoot was being challenged by the two-legged demon intruders. Thunder sounded in abnormally quick succession from these two humans as Surefoot charged madly at one of them unswervingly. The human was tossed sky-high on Surefoot’s horns and did not survive. His partner was forced to flee while Surefoot continued his mad flight of fear and survival far off into the distance.
 
The lesson was obvious. We had found the new mental slaves for catering to our needs in the new dispensation. Not the buffalo. Those dumb beasts knew nothing compared to the gods of thunder. The humans would do a good job. We would teach them what to do. They would study us. They would find out what we needed. They would reseed and replant us. They would churn the soil to soften it for our roots. Even hostile environments would be made hospitable. We would make them believe their future as a species, nay the whole planet as a whole, depended massively on our survival. And survive we would, as we had for countless millennia before now. After all, we remained the Grass of Green Nation.
 
 
Notes
 
Pretender – one who aspires to an office above his/her perceived status
 
 
@HL_Blue shares his art here. Please visit.
 
 

Gift & Curse January 17, 2012

The year has put on new clothes.
ThatDarkBetty and thatAfroSays, we bid you enjoy her fashions.

 

Enter @Osizurunkle

Art has long since provided us a means to appreciate, understand and interpret our surroundings and circumstances, a form of social commentary.

 

The tradition continues:
@afromysterics, @CavalierSlim, @xoAFRO

One painting, slightly different perceptions;

 
 
 

THE GIFT & CURSE
(Kindly allow the images to load, also preferably viewed on a PC)
 
 
Section 1

 

 

@afromysterics:

Some of the key players in the matter; GEJ intentions unclear, wearing what seems to be a joker’s mask

IMF (can you see their logo?), a head seeming to come forth from the logo, whispering, appearing to give orders to Okonjo; who is listening. Eyes closed, appearing to be blind to the suffering of her people, her environment…

The child, representative of the people, crying in anguish because of the future he/they see(s)…bleak

Can you see the logos of two major oil companies?

 

@CavalierSlim:

NOI with the star where her heart should be, signifying her good intentions.

GEJ with the mask, putting on a strangely brave face in the presence of turmoil and chaos

The masses, crying and angry, bewildered by the actions of the government, unable to comprehend a seemingly futuristic action…ignorance, the bane of the ordinary man. (as seen by the sad face beside NOI and the dumb-looking man, holding up the placard, respectively)

A cacophony of violence and diverse interests, fighting for the soul of Nigeria, while its innate strength lies dormant and weakened (signified by the sad horse)

 

 

 

Section 2

 

 

@afromysterics:

Crude- a source of joy and pain,a gift & curse since 1956

The Coat of ‘Alms’ (begging for attention)

 

 

 

Section 3

 

 

@afromysterics:

Fela…Afrobeat

He was a prophet in his own right. His music; the soundtrack of the current agitation.

(This section of the piece also expresses religious conflicts between Islam and Christianity, the murder carried out in the name of God…)

 

@CavalierSlim:

The timeless conflict that religion inevitably concocts, causing the death of so many and setting the nation on edge. An explosive situation, literally. All happening, with fela’s music remains the soundtrack in the quest for freedom and equity.

 

 

 

Section 4

 

 

A bomb. 2015; the predicted expiration date of the entity called NGR, an eye; watching…

 

 

 

Section 5

 

 

TUC, NLC, Save Nigeria, Enough is Enough, people protesting for a return to N65, fists representative of the Occupy Nigeria movement.

 

 

 

Section 6

 

 

@afromysterics:

A phone,megaphones, guns, social networking sites and the war being waged on the internet…the people being given a voice of sorts, an avenue to vent/vocalize their thoughts…

The ‘I-better-pass-my-neighbor ‘ generator powering all this…’NEPA’

 

@CavalierSlim:

Twitter and facebook…the chief culprits through which propaganda is spread from every angle, setting a technology-savvy generation on fire, seeing only half-truths and shadows…they need light…figuratively and literally.

 

 

 

The piece in full

 

 

@afrosays:

Ha!
 
They go to church, they ask, “Give us a prophecy!”
 
They have stopped coming to visit me, their clothes are too clean for my mats and their noses are too urban, too stilted for the modest smell of nature.
 
Every year, they hear the same things over and over again:
 
This is your year of breakthrough! This is your year of renewed anointing!
 
How are they so blind that they cannot see the play of hands? How are they so carried away that they are not aware that the year listens to no man’s speculations?
 
The year listens to their actions, individually; the year listens to the consequence of these gathering drops in the ocean. The year is the resultant wave, riding on the combined ripples of their decisions, their activities, although some ripples are weightier than others.
 
Sha,
 
Whether they come to consult me or not, the charcoal would talk about them.  Spiritual Amebo^[0].
 
Whether they seek the truth or not, in black gold it is evident. Spiritual Gbeborun^[0].
 
I see,
 
The circles are distorted and the ripples dance before me, telling a story that is not altogether hidden from you if you cared to open your eyes.
 
Mmmm,
 
Shey you want to know where it starts? Is it not in the center of it all? Look at that beast of burden, enjoying himself on a bed of flowers…
 
 Him brother no see palmi^[1] drink but him no go give am. Palmwine sef dey, ‘Gorodom^[2]’ dey. Them talk say na oyel^[3] money, say na for all of us, why them dey laugh and we dey cry?
 
Fela, he talked about it all and his words ring true today, as true as they rang back then, in rhythm with the sound of the beads that shook on the jiggling waists of his dancers. Abami…
 
Archbishop na enjoyment, Pope na enjoyment, Imam na gbaladun^[4]… Our people too dey fear… Our leaders them be bad people… Suffering and smiling
 
Shey you see the next ripple? Look above the center, it is the consequence of the activities of the leaders that we elected, it is the consequence of our own choices…
 
My people dey suffer: Bomb dey blow, we leaders no hear! We dey cry, we leaders no hear! Oga president no see our face, na joke joke masquerade him use take cover face! Madam minister no see hear our cry, na oyinbo dey give am advice! Bomb dey blow! Man dey cry!
 
And the ripples after? Just above?
 
Suffer dey but we must talk! Enough is enough, We must to save Nigeria! Whether court talk say make we no cry, na as e pain us we go cry! Whether Labour talk say make we quiet small, na as e pain us, we go shout! Enough is Enough!
 
My people, the charcoal dust swirls, observe the whorls. The voice of the people is their armament. Look at the final ripples, the voice of the multitude, the cry of the people…
 
Bullhorn na we grenade launcher! All ojoro^[5] must die by fire! Thunder must to strike all the cabal them! No be our money?  No be our oyel? Twitter soldier man, Facebook air marshall, Broadcaster-in-chief, General street protester, all of we come together. We no fit use all our salary enter molue^[6] go work; we no fit put all our sweat inside one twenty-five leetah^[7] jerry can, pour am for moto. NEPA no dey, PHCN talk say make we buy candle but Mama Bomboy talk say candle don cost. Our voice na we gun! Our shout na we shakabula^[8]!
 
Enough is Enough!
 
 
 
Words employed

1. Amebo/Gbeborun – Gossip/ Eavesdropper
2. Palmi – Palm Wine
3. Gorodum – Oil drums
4. Oyel – Crude oil
5. Gbaladun – Enjoyment
6. Ojoro – Corruption
7. Molue – Dilapidated mass transit bus
8. Leetah – Litre
9. Shakabula – Double barreled Pump action rifle.

 
 

The piece is titled Gift & Curse and done with charcoal on pastel by Laolu Senbanjo

Go to www.laolusenbanjo.com to see more of the artist’s work and follow the handle @afromysterics on twitter, also like laolu senbanjo on facebook.

Blue November 21, 2011

Let us warm our legs by the fire and listen to the warm voice of a friend. A worthy friend – @JadenTM – writer of The Third Decade from the Decades II project.

The deep bass of afro’s gong and betty’s beats ring out before me.

I drum and I drum and I try to match the sounds I hear, but all that comes out is a
hollow throb that I have filled with words. Listen…

BLUE

...alone...

When I close my eyes I am alone. I cannot see the long strands of wispy yellow (or
brown, or red) hair blowing about in the breeze, and I cannot feel the sharp sting of the
insolent wind against my blue, stiff, brown hands. I cannot hear anyone; there is no
need to filter sounds through my mind before regurgitating words in similar taste: there
is nothing outside of the skin in front of my eyes, and I can breathe.
I can breathe in the texture of the quilt that covers me, the fresh paint from the newly
re-painted bathroom ceiling; but beyond the added scent of olive oil and lavender
wafting up from my bedside table there is also the permanent smell of alone.

My dreams paint pictures of eba and efo riro, flashes of people who are my friends,
except their faces fade and their names don’t match. My dad is smiling at me, but when
I smile back it’s not him I see, and when I look again there’s nobody there.
It’s dark as night when I open my eyes but on the clock it’s just six, and all I want is
stew.

There is no pepper. They have learnt how to take out the lactose from the milk from the
breast of a cow, but not how to make pepper – the real stuff, ata rodo style. Or am I
looking in the wrong aisle?
And here, I learn it is once again acceptable to call chips chips. Humph.

I wrap myself in swathes of clothing and take three deep breaths before stepping
outside, and then I get to class to find that everybody is wearing shorts. It seems they
turn red and green and white, but not blue. I keep my coat on.

My fingers turn red when I get back to my room, my cave.
Pictures of my friends are pinned to the wall. They are stiff and frozen, like the smile I
wear when I ask for directions. My bed sheet from home is on my bed. From home!
I tweet, ‘a slice of home, yay!’ but it is too big. It doesn’t fit.

My feet are cold now. They say the heat is automatic, but twenty-one degrees cannot
thaw my toes, and so I burrow into my bed and close my eyes.
There are no tears, I am not sad, I do not feel. I am only tired from walking everywhere,
and I am glad to be alone, again.

@JadenTM the Super Sexy Secret Assassin Robot would share her art with us on AfroSays from time to time

You make me feel November 17, 2011

Of a muted gong finding it’s voice. Listen.

Betty BlackLace.

YOU MAKE ME FEEL

...

You make me feel.
Passion.
Want.
Carnal fire, burning.
Inside.
Deep down.
There.
And there.
All over.
Can’t stop.
Shivers.
Tremors.
Thrills.
Coursing down my spine.
Wet.
Gasping, need air.
No air.
Come now.
Now.
Closer.
Skin.
Sliding.
Rubbing.
Tongue.
Sweat.
Faster.
Fast-er.
Moaning.
Now.
Now.
Now.
Lights.
Flashing.
Fire burning.
Colours.
Popping.
Sightless.
Crashing.
Cra-shing.
Falling.
Bliss.
Gone.

A case for monsters November 11, 2011

The goddess beckons to you.
She’s been in Castle Noir these past few weeks, speaking without saying words. Speaking still, and I have been listening alright.
These stories she asks me to share are for you, so that you know that she is, and forget her not.

Please bring your offerings still, or she will have my head.

I beat a gong alive. I beat a freak of a gong. Do you see that AfroSays?

A CASE FOR MONSTERS

Boo!

A spook is always judged.

The multitude of persons who come across stories of our not-so-pleasant encounters with the ones who are unfortunate enough to be undone by us make us out to be evil beings.

I, today, am here to set this right.

I am a city poltergeist, much the debonair kind. A fashionado in city speak. A well tailored suit rests quite dapperly on my ashen skin. My hair is properly combed and flicked back with two palm-fulls of sticky digestive juices and my fingernails are well trimmed. The confident musk that accompanies my eerie presence is good quality eau de Goblin. I think you shall find it easy to receive me for I project a semblance much like the best of you.

Unfortunately, there are not many like me given to the details of a good supernatural presentation; the appearance of most of my kind would cause your teeth to powder with chattering and your legs to warm with your wetness. This does not mean we are malevolent. Do not judge a book by its cover.

Monsters, imps, spirits, beings under the bed and in dark closets, bogeymen, ghosts, demons, spooks all, we are all souls like you. Just like you. It pains me buckets that you do not know; you do not see how you truly are. We are only without our interfaces, and these weak interfaces are the illusions that you worship. When they are gone, you’re one of us. Exactly as you are, as ugly as your deepest secrets.

I would ask you furthermore, what a human being is that does not live? An example would be a comatose human. What is his purpose? He has no place in your existence.

I would ask you again, furthermore, what the other beings in your ecosystem think of you? The cockroaches which you destroy, the mosquitoes which you poison, the rats which you eradicate, the bacteria and viruses which you decimate, the plants which your existence is pernicious to? Do you think they think of your existence as altruistic? You should know better.

I shall make my case so. Just as you are an absolute evil to lesser beings than you, we, as superior beings might not be held in high regard by your lot. Nightmares and the entire execution of horrific experiences are expedient to our kind.

Summarily, Our purpose is to terrorize and to fulfil purpose is righteous.

Green Nation I November 7, 2011

Hallos!
@Hl_Blue, here’s the gong. Roll.

“The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive-tree, Reign thou over us.
But the olive-tree said unto them, Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to wave to and fro over the trees?” (Biblical quote)

...coming soon...

Spring was here. We the children seeds all felt it. Locked beneath the soil surface for the cold months of winter, we each had plotted our strategies and revenge for the next cycle of life. There was no total victory in the struggle in each round, just winners and losers, honor and disgrace. And the result of each cycle fight depended massively on time, chance, and how wily each plant species could be. I was regarded as the rightful king, but that meant nothing to my scheming cousins. In fact, being the king just meant you were the one everyone tried to topple. A most tiresome occupation but what could I do? This was my destiny. Thrust upon me by millions of years of natural selection, pushed onto me from multiple thousands of my predecessors before me. I was the acorn, the oak-apparent.

There could not be any waiting for the soil to soften. We broke ground at the first possible chance, little saplings reaching for the sun in the immortal race for survival. As the acorn I grew among the fastest, interlinking roots with my siblings for strength and playing my politics well with the other creatures of our habitat. The insects found me welcoming as usual. I was the prime choice for raising their eggs to larvae, then pupae then adult butterflies, moths, roaches, grasshoppers and all what not. Did they know I inflicted a weak poison to keep them from their intended plan for world domination in the next thousand millennia? I think not. If they did, they might take their young elsewhere. But I needed them here. To attract the birds who would pick off majority of the infant worms for food and give me the chance to spread my seed far and wide in their feathers. All this while, I reached for the forest top, not looking back, establishing myself once more as king of the English forest in record time. This was already taken for granted by everyone and thus was no new source of pride. The crucial battles of pride lay just ahead.

The rattan sneered at my straight, unwavering growth toward the heavens. He preferred a more twisted path and waited for me to establish my domain and water and food supply network. He did not take me on directly, but went first for my immediate younger sibling a safe distance away. (Though we were all royal, I was given respect among my siblings as the one to have the last say on decisions affecting our survival as a species). I watched in pain as my brother ignored Rattan’s first feeble attempts to wrap his arms around his sturdy stem. Did he realize that those half-hearted attempts were just reconnaissance missions to develop antidotes against the poisons we oaks were feared for? I think not, for I observed the youthful arrogance with which he brushed off Lord Rattan’s wily advances. But when the time came, the wry thorny tendril-hands of Rily Rattan wrapped round the young arrogant oak’s trunk and held fast, adding a climbing loop each month as my brother fought back in futility with all the toxins known to the oak family.

Rattan formed no leaves in the early stage of his conquest, drawing solely from the resources of the supple oak. However, near the crest of the forest treeline he put out his wicked leaves as triumphant sign that the days of dependence on his host were numbered. I knew this was true and mourned my brother’s young foolishness. The memories locked in my subconscious by my preceding king oaks were the reason I was king and not he. Still it was painful to watch as my brother’s stem was strangled, mangled and ruthlessly dispatched by the wiles of the grasping climber-pretender. Within decades, the oak was dead, and Rattan’s hollow, circular profile was the sole negative evidence of the greatness that was once an oak. But Rattan would not stop there. He set his sights on another fair oak to maintain his greedy appetite, which he could not sustain on his own – my sister Laila.

I chose not to stand by this time. My subjects would be manipulated to fight for me, for the oaks. I summoned the fungi from my root network to work their damage from below while the slave orchids would float their misty seeds up to the vulnerable tendrils of the Rattan usurper. I hoped when they got to the destination of their errand they would not be diverted by the superior sweetness of my sister instead of suffocating the enemy. Well, I had my backup plans if that scenario presented itself. I was king after all. But Rattan would grow stronger if he kept falling over from one strangled oak to the next, and when his confidence was great enough he would come for me. Then it would be up to me to defend the last shreds of our dignity. It was the king’s burden.

The battle was on for my sister’s existence already. The wild orchids displayed angry patterns of bloom right at the tips of Lord Rattan’s budding shoots. He allowed them grow unhindered but diverted supplies of water from their growth spouts. They sprang up in premature glee and soon learned the bitter lessons of biting the scrawny shoots that fed them. Exposed to the harsh summer sun, they withered even faster than they had grown. For the poisonous fungi, Rattan deployed his anti-cellulose poisons. The fool didn’t care that these little subversionists were neither plant nor animal and would not be affected by such mean weapons. The final victim was my sister ironically. She fell to these poisonous toxins intended for the fungi at her root base and began to die faster than Rattan could have killed her. To all appearances, she looked healthy right up to the end of the second year after the attack, when she suddenly came to an end, suddenly succumbing to a disease for which she had no answer. So it happened that by sending my minions against Lord Rattan, I had only sped up the death of the sister I sought to protect. These marks on my conscience were silently recorded for posterity, to be added to the annals of wisdom for the next oak king. Yes, I was already thinking of the time after my demise. It was the king’s burden.

The swift death of Laila worked in my favor in an unexpected way. Rattan’s confidence was now cocky and careless as he turned his sights on me, seeking to topple me as king of the English forest. This was premature because his short stay on Laila had not allowed him gather the necessary resources to put up a good fight. I wasn’t planning to win this fight in any obvious way. The results of my strategy would come to light in the next generation, where they would be praised after my passing to the glorious annals of the oakdom.

While Rattan extended his taunting tendrils to my branches I silently began the massive acorn shedding that would ensure the dominance of the next generation of oaks. I would be bowing out without a fight but winning in the biggest possible way. The war, not the battle, was important. My friend the Mountain Ash was cooperative. Having grown side by side (tens of metres apart in human measurements) since we were young aspirants for stardom, we had retained our bond over the centuries. He was always the faster grower, caring nothing for stability and honor as I did, fighting no one along the way, and reaching greater heights faster than I did. When I eventually caught up, he had already begun tiring of sustaining his massive height with his hastily but poorly developed root base and was ready for the thrill of the next life cycle. Rather than topple and fall in disgrace, he subscribed to my plan for a new world. The plan was not new to me (the memories of my fathers had served me well) but to him it was a novelty. His loss of memory with each generation made this ancient, time-tested strategy an exciting new adventure for him. And so my plan was perfected.

The flammable oils were stored in Ash’s bark and stem for the next twenty years. He became the standing incendiary waiting for the slightest spark to trigger the massive forest fire that would wipe out the entire kingdom, save the new children seeds that would begin the new life world after the next autumn – winter – spring cycle. Of course Rattan was gloriously unaware of this plot, thinking I had surrendered when I allowed him wrap his thorny arms around my trunk and branches, without fighting back with my oak poisons. And so he grew and squeezed tighter, not bothering to invest in seeding, thinking he would reign supreme after the oaks had been put under total humiliation and subjection. Pfft! The oaks did not get through millennia of dominance by such wilted reasoning.

The bright autumn day finally presented itself. The dried undergrowth and leaves at the forest floor were ready and waiting for the spark that would cause the meltdown of life as we knew it. The shattered bottle piece to concentrate the sun rays at the point of ignition had been adequately positioned for this very moment. The Mountain Ash was ready to supply the fuel to blaze through the entire forest and leave no trace of plant life. We would not die. We would be reborn as seeds, only without Rattan’s evil spawn. When the fire spark began, he was the most troubled of all the forest inhabitants. His impending win was being cancelled by this ultimate referee that cared not for distinction or name in its mindless destruction. Of course, I was the reason behind this madness but he would know only at the last possible second. While all the plants and trees cried in anguish I remained silent and resolute. I had saved the last acorn for now. As the new oak-apparent, he had to have as many memories from this life as possible, up to the very last possible moment. It was only when I let him drop that Rattan finally realized what had been going on for the last twenty years. Nay, hundreds of years, if the thoughts in my mind were included. The fires engulfed our entwined bodies as we writhed in pain from the heat of the flames. It felt strange to burn to death. It was calming, torturing, welcoming. As for Rattan, having no previous life memories made this the worst possible torture he had ever experienced. He writhed all the way down to the bitter end. His last wry smile of acknowledgement of my wisdom and the greatness of my clan species was all I needed to be satisfied that this fight for the rulership of the English forest had been totally worth it.

The End.

IT GOES ON! ON RANDOMLY, MUSE-DIRECTED SCHEDULE. WATCH OUT!

Please do subscribe to the blog to follow the project. (Column to the right for PC browsers or in the comment section)

Green Nation, The Preview November 3, 2011

Green Nation.
Coming to you next Monday (11th, November, 2011).
signed. teamAfroSays.

...coming soon...

Spring was here. We the children seeds all felt it. Locked beneath the soil surface for the cold months of winter, we each had plotted our strategies and revenge for the next cycle of life. There was no total victory in the struggle in each round, just winners and losers, honor and disgrace. And the result of each cycle fight depended massively on time, chance, and how wily each plant species could be. I was regarded as the rightful king, but that meant nothing to my scheming cousins. In fact, being the king just meant you were the one everyone tried to topple. A most tiresome occupation but what could I do? This was my destiny. Thrust upon me by millions of years of natural selection, pushed onto me from multiple thousands of my predecessors before me. I was the acorn, the oak-apparent.

This world, anthropocentric beings we are. Have you ever seen the world through the eyes of another? The eyes of a plant perhaps?
We welcome you to Green Nation where plants are born to survive – they hustle, they plan, they scheme, they make friends and foes, they love, they war, they struggle against the odds!

There is no democracy in the jungle but there is a government. It’s a government of survival in Green Nation and is it so different?

Plants become you and I.

YOU WOULDN’T WANT TO MISS THIS! IT’S A RANDOM, MUSE-DIRECTED SCHEDULE FROM NEXT WEEK MONDAY (NOVEMBER 11, 2011) LED BY @HL_BLUE AND AFROSAYS. WATCH OUT FOR MORE SURPRISES.

Please do subscribe to the blog to follow the project. (Column to the right for PC browsers or in the comment section)

Making conversation October 28, 2011

Today. It’s a song we can all sing.
Join the chorus as AfroSays:

MAKING CONVERSATION

...a drink perhaps?

“Dapper is mine.
I am Akilapa, local champion, beef head, jock and jester. The favorite of maidens, Oko Omoge; my distinct Aso Oke uniform introduces me as a member of the King’s strong men. My pounded yam mounds are as high as mountains and every planting morning, I build two hundred of these. In the evening I build three hundred more. I have never returned empty-handed from a visit to the forest – soars and their offspring weep once they hear my footfalls. They must have heard my stories from their fatherless and husbandless neighbours. I am the son of the son of Sango.
Would you join me for a drink now?”

”You spun me an impressive fictional resume all because I told you that I don’t talk to strangers?”

“Tell me your name”

“Okay you’ve earned it. Listen.
The sultry abomination. Psaltry like the song of Yemoja’s first heartbreak…”

…

”Stop giggling like a girl and listen!”

“I’m listening oh!”

“I am Enitan, the riddle, the desirable, the delectable, the disastrous. Daughter of the deep. My eyes would subdue your weak will and bring you to your knees. Virgin…”

…

“Would you pay attention?”

“Ehen! Virgin evil; pure darkness; schemer… err, all the things you should be scared of! Look! I haven’t had much practice with this abeg! Can we go for that drink?”

“Only if you tell me your real name.”

“It’s really Enitan.”

“Really? Okay, I’m Deinde. By the way, I think I’ve seen all there is to see at this exhibition, and it looked like you had the same thing in mind when you took your eyes off the walls and started studying the people. Good art by the way.”

“Yea, particularly the silhouettes.”

“I think I preferred the landscape paintings though, especially the watery scenes, very peaceful. So… just off the lobby, we can have all the fun we want. Definitely more quality stuff than the cheap champagne we’re pretending to enjoy here.”

“What do you think about the hors d’oeuvres?”

“Too oily”

“Mmmm”

“I don’t like that look. Scary.”

“I don’t like that you don’t like my catering.”

“Err… I’m sorry. Okay, I thought the shrimp thing was quite delicious”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Ha! I was just fucking with you. I just came for the art and it seems you’re here to pick up weak-willed women with your smooth tongue. You must do this often, Mr. Dapper?”

“I like a lady that swears”

“Now did I? Fuck! Oh Pardon me!”

“You look cute the way you do that”

“Oh? Now do I?”

“And she does it again!”

…

“Let’s get that drink already.”

“You’re as much the ‘teeto’ as I am, I see. Off to the lounge we go, no, off to the restaurant! I think you deserve more of my company. You’ve earned it.”

“Cocky are we? I’d order enough to make you humble. Believe me, I’m good.”

“I’d like to see you try and while you’re at it, I’d love to hear the story behind the name, Enitan”

“Be a gentleman, escort me properly you beef head!”

“You were warned.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Uh huh”

“But seriously, you don’t like my catering?”

…

Shadow Tail October 18, 2011

Ahoy!

This is the dawn of another night.

The night has long been abused, they call it a time of sorrow, a time of gnashing of teeth; they say the sun cometh in the morning…

May the sun never come!

I am of lunar soul, trenchant knucklehead, me. I love the night! All my neighbours, they have been eaten by the monster they call home and in the belly of the beast, they are silenced, even if for a while.

I am outside tonight. Shirt off!

The streets are clean. The air is clean. The internet is clean. More importantly, the dimension we call Thought Express, it is clean. Brain traffic is at a minimum and we need the scarce bandwidth to be who we are.

I stretch. I launch myself on the comet, ShadowTail, and we project.

Who am I?

Who are we?

Did you ever see a beam of joy, like a pulse, like the shadow of a comet, race down your streets three a.m. in the morning?
Slow down that vision.

Did you ever imagine that what you saw was a half-naked child with a head full of black fibers running down the road, his hands behind his back, holding a pulsing ball of brilliance? Did he have the most rapturous smile on his face? You dismissed that thought didn’t you?

I’d be around where you are if it is somewhere to be around. I’d be seeking that quintessential, picking up coins like dear Nintendo’s Mr Mario, leaping into the air for gold rings like Sega’s Mr. Sonic; If I ever crash, I’d be sure to remember that this existence is no PlayStation. I run parallel to what I aim to discover, it’s close but it’s perpetually inaccessible. I keep running however, hoping that these parallel lines cross at some point in the future and then the big ‘why?’ becomes an ‘oh really?’

One day I’d cover most of the world but I know I’d never cover all of it for these medals I pick up along the way, they weigh me down; these gold medals, they are excerpts of worldly wisdom. With each new coin or ring that I put in my purse, I lose some grab on the comet I ride on.

Pretty soon I might be walking on the road like those few old people I see on the sidewalks. They don’t look extremely happy but they seem content. Maybe I’d have enough coins and rings to buy me common sense, and my breakneck travel on Thought Express would be abandoned. Maybe some other kid, maybe my kid would hop on that comet and try to discover why the world is the way it is. Maybe I’d be the one telling him to take the world as it is, tempting him with a meager bag of coins.

I doubt it!

Why? ShadowTail and I are not the only ones that travel these parallel lines. If you’ve read this far with a smile on your face, the kind that betrays recognition, you’re with me, and company, even your company, makes even the most arduous journey sufferable.

Give PinkBeam a caress, or is he DarkWave? BlackBolt? WhiteFire? RedSpark? Is she PurpleStream? IndigoSea? ‘ColeurWing?

Count your coins, your rings, and let there be a chorus of cling-clangs in this fresh night air as we throw away the faulty wisdom we have discovered. Keep the trusty gold medals, you might eventually find enough to retire.

Hold your comet, your catalyst, your propellant with arms outstretched behind you.

Ahoy! Launch and run free!

And don’t forget to take your shirt off if you feel like it.

Death and all his friends October 14, 2011

Gather round! Gather round! Dear @NateOblivion sings a dark tale tonight, the burden of the gong is his to bear. Come all. He speaks:

I, Nate Oblivion, beat the gong in the dark of night, here at the border of Insanity and Genius, to resound through your heart and soul, to awaken your nightmares and chill your bones. Listen.

DEATH AND ALL HIS FRIENDS

Boo!

There was complete silence in the cinema hall, the light from the giant screen providing the only illumination. The air was tense, and the crowd held their breaths. The movie had reached its anticipated climax. After watching various characters suffer the most gruesome and unimaginable deaths, only the two lead characters remained. She was clinging to his arm and squeezing it tight, and his body resonated with the vibrations from hers. She gazed at him, and spoke in a barely audible voice.

“Aren’t you scared at all?”

He looked at her and smiled. “It’s just a movie darling, with actors and scripts. There’s a director behind that set who would laugh buckets at your reactions”

She said nothing, and turned her attention back to the movie. The male lead was standing in the middle of a wide road, looking around for something in panic. All of a sudden, an electric line overhead snapped and swung towards the man, throwing him backwards a few meters. He was broken and bruised, but still alive. The ground started to vibrate, and he sat up with great effort. He looked to his left just in time to see the vehicle, which trampled him and sent blood flying.

The audience screamed and a few people started to leave, obviously too terrified to watch any more. She remained in her seat, but was shaking feverishly and muttering to herself. Her boyfriend pulled her closer to himself and put his arm around her.

“It’s okay” he said. “It’ll soon be over. Or do you want us to leave now?” She shook her head defiantly and faced the screen. The female lead was standing on the sidewalk, about to cross a busy road. She looked left and right, making sure the road was clear. She had only taken a step forward before she trod into a crack in the road, and the stiletto of her shoe twisted and broke. She lost her footing and was already wobbling when she heard a loud horn and turned to the right to see a bus heading for her at break neck speed. She fell backwards, and the bus flew past in a gust of wind. She was trembling as she stood up, dusted herself off and crossed the street, entering into a tall building. She opened the door to her apartment and entered, tossing her ruined shoes in a corner. She entered her bedroom and sat on the bed. She fanned herself with her hands and took off her jacket. She heard a loud creaking sound and looked up to see that the fan was swinging wildly and almost loose from the ceiling. Before she could scream, the fan came loose and landed on her with tremendous force, the squelching sound resounding throughout the cinema. The blood splattered across the screen and spelled out the title of the movie, “DEATH AND ALL HIS FRIENDS” The screen went black and the end credits started rolling. The crowd rose and left at once, as if in a hurry.

Outside the cinema, they stood hand in hand in the rain, while he tried to hail her a cab. Before long, a cab came along and she got in. they said their final goodbyes and shared a quick kiss before the cab sped off. He set off for his bus stop, kicking up muddy water from the puddles that had collected on the ground. He wiped his brow and increased his pace, almost running now. He entered a side street, taking a shortcut he rarely used so he could arrive faster and find shelter from the heavy rain. As he walked, he heard a loud snap and spun around to see a live wire crash into his chest. The pain numbed him and the shock sent him flying backwards, landing with a thud in the middle of the road. He had barely registered what just happened when he heard a car horn and saw a bright light drawing closer. He turned his head towards it, and the last he saw was the big wheels of a truck before it ran him over, crushing him to bits and leaving behind nothing but brains, guts and blood.

She alighted the cab and stood on the sidewalk. She was still a bit shaken by the horror movie, but the fear was had begun to wear off. Her mind replaying scenes of horror and gore, she began to cross the road, when the sound of a horn jarred her from her thoughts. Purely on instinct, she jumped backwards and fell to the sidewalk. A large bus flew past at breakneck speed and the pedestrians were already shooting her disapproving looks while an old woman started to rant about how people never paid attention the road. She shrugged it off, crossed the street and entered her apartment, turning on the lights and finding no one around. She sat on her bed and removed her shoes. For some reason, the room was sweltering hot, even though the ceiling fan was on. It was old and had recently become squeaky, but she would get it fixed tomorrow. She fanned herself with a card and looked around. Was it just her or was the fan’s squeaking louder than usual? And why did it all seem so familiar? Her eyes widened as she realized why, and her breath got caught in her throat.

She looked up.

@NateOblivion shares his art as a member of the very excitingly paranormal circle, the Pass The Salt band, here

NEXT WEEK, WATCH OUT FOR THE AFROSAYS PROJECT, GREEN NATION BY @HL_BLUE

“The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive-tree, Reign thou over us. But the olive-tree said unto them, Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to wave to and fro over the trees?” (Biblical quote)