Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

We’ve moved! August 10, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — afrosays @ 5:03 pm

 

SURPRISE!

 

The project we’ve all been waiting for, False lives shall start tomorrow on AFROSAYS.com . Get a sneak peek.

And don’t forget to subscribe!

 

Night, Day August 7, 2012

Filed under: Abstract,Laconic — afrosays @ 5:13 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

@readjerome shares a laconic piece with us today. Share warmth.

 


Twin fruits of the clime, both to savour. But I suffer one.

 


NIGHT, DAY

 

…night is my comforter…

 

Night is my comforter, boy. For I have lost my eyesight, and it pleases me more than a little to know that it would’ve served me no purpose when the Sun goes home, and the shadows stop following man’s step. When light is but a small fire, an occasional firefly or glowworm to tease the darkness, of what use are your eyes than to frustrate you? To tickle your desire to see and mock your inability. My old ears and nose can fare me better through the night than your eyes, boy. Night is the leveler.

 

But Day son, the day, I cannot stand. I hear your voice, the voice of a man, yet I vision the face of a boy. I hold unto your thick arms and think how muscular they must be, but all I remember is the look of your tiny hands clasped in mine. I smell the perfume of your wife; I hear the jingle of her anklets and the songs she sings for fallen warriors, and yet all I recall is the tiny girl I brought home after her father was slain in battle. It is then I need my eyes, son. To visit your mother’s grave, to pull out the weeds with my hands, and replace the flowers. The Day is the torturer.

 

 
 

 
 

 

Pink Polish August 3, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 3:33 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

The sounds of blotted ink that can’t be erased. And of efforts to repair damages. Of efforts. And picking up the pieces.
Listen.

 

PINK POLISH

 

 

 

You stare at the black tiles under your feet; at the contrast your fair feet and pink nail polish make against the dark shiny floor. Your shoes are outside the room because that woman had stared at your red shoes with scorn before shifting her gaze to the line-up of shoes on your right. You had silently obeyed.

 
You will obey. And wait- wait for their verdict, hope that they believe you and pray that you do not leave this house alone.

 
You had only wanted to numb your pain- press a cloth to your seeping wound. You only wanted to forget; to blur it out a little; it was only solace you sought. And the concave bottoms had promised to leave you deadened; abandon you comatose. But they had broken their promises- one and all. Not unlike Lanre.

 
Lanre had vowed you forever, you remember! In that crowded church with the famous pastor leaning over you. Your corset had imprinted lines of pain on your ribs but your heart had fluttered and skipped as Lanre promised to be with you- forever. You remember his nervous fingers pushing the gold band half-way up the wrong finger before correcting himself to the sound of jocular laughter. You remember.

 
So when he had gone, one minute here, next minute gone- like peekaboo gone wrong; you had known that you were over. It had felt like your chair had been pulled out from under you in the middle of musical chairs- one second dancing cheerily, the next- a crumpled crying mess on the floor. And it took you a while to regain your balance, but you have- it is why you are here.

 
You look up at the old clock making faces at you from the opposite wall. Five past three. You have been waiting for thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five minutes and the restlessness has relayed to your left foot which is involuntarily tapping itself against the floor. But you will wait.

 
Because waiting is not new to you. You had waited an extra month before the baby boy you and Lanre had created decided to make his appearance. You had waited through hours of labour as your son’s head crowned, then receded severally- ambivalent even in the womb. You had waited while they bathed and clothed him in the carefully-selected blue wrap before returning him to you as you smiled up at Lanre in that beatific way that said- “Look what we’ve done!”

 
So, waiting is your buddy. An old buddy that has a few shirts in the bottom drawer of your guest room. It is fifty minutes now but you pretend not to count; you catch your eyes returning to the peeled wooden door behind which your existence lies. Yes, existence, because if you leave here alone, you are ready to leave your body behind.

 
Your chin falls to your chest and you whisper another prayer. They need to give you this- so you can pay penance. So you can pile up plenty good to tip the scale over. If you could use one of the time machines Lanre had been so interested in, you would never have picked the first bottle of gin. Or the second or third.

 
You would never have left your son crying in his room in hunger because his mother’s head had a glorified position on the toilet bowl. You would never have passed out on the floor of your son’s bedroom to wake up to his wet dark eyes peering at you in question. You would never have locked him up because his crying aggravated your headache.

 
No. And when they came for him- Lanre’s family, you wouldn’t have screamed and broken things. You wouldn’t have sat there, afterward, staring as they packed up his things, your glassy eyes unfocused in inebriated disinterest. You would have crawled and groveled at their feet and promised to change. You would have sworn on Lanre’s grave to put aside your bottles and personal hell to focus on the living, breathing gift Lanre had left for you.

 
But it is why you are here now. It has taken you four months but you are here now- to pledge and promise and vow and swear an oath if need be- that you will never return to the despicable mess you were when they saw you last.

 
The door creaks open and your eyes widen as you take in the smiles on the faces of the men and the stern looks on the women’s faces. Your heart begins to contract and you fear you will have a heart attack but the small nod on Lanre’s uncle’s face makes you dare to hope some more. You scan the faces again and… ‘Junior’, he calls into the room behind him, ‘your mummy is here.’

 
 

 
 

 

Secrets July 31, 2012

Filed under: Abstract — afrosays @ 3:59 pm
Tags: , , , ,

This is where the light must not fall.
AfroSays,

 

SECRETS

 

…not again, keep him away…

 
 
That sound again, it rings from behind me. It comes.

 
It mustn’t get to me – I have to make it to the whatever-it-is-called before it reaches me. It’s faster, stronger and would soon be on me.

 
The sound is getting closer, it’s a chorus now. The other ‘it’ has joined the first. I’m running as fast as I can, so fast that I’m struggling not to fall. The floor thunders behind me, four claps apiece. The chorus is louder and more urgent.

 
My goal is before me, beyond this place. It is where I must be; this I have been denied, over and over again. I don’t care what it would cost, the whatever-it-is-called is a secret that must be partaken of. It is their secret, but soon, it shan’t be anymore in the exclusive.
 

Of course, they’re too late. With the last of my desperate spunk, I throw myself at it, with fingers strained to the fingernail.

 
No! I cry, No!

 
It grabs me and lifts me effortlessly from the presence of it that which they were to keep me from. Pain is my friend, I know him personally. Their secret was pain.

 
I scream and tears fall from the sky.

 
They are gathering now, more of them, making different sounds, low and gloomy. But one sound that they make, it’s the same as the sound that it made, that the other ‘it’ made – the sound that they all seem to agree on whenever they’re not away from me. I know this sound, but I do not know its purpose. But, this sound is a secret that they want to share.

 
The sun shines.

 
The secret that they tell me to my face with their big fangs out in a smile; the secret they shout at me in alarm whenever I rush to partake of one of their other secrets, just before they leap over to deny me; the secret that they call loudly whenever I escape from them to enjoy my own privacy. What is this secret?

 
It seems to be what they call me.

 
It is, it is my name.

 
Amarachi.

 
 

… soon …

 

 

 

The righteous man July 29, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:48 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

She’s been scheming, she has. Now she’s ready.
 

THE RIGHTEOUS MAN

 

…LORD! LEND ME YOUR POWER…

 
 

When I woke up this morning, the world felt like a dark oil stain around me – normal. All the righteous men that have lived in this world have felt this huge blemish on her clothes, the corrupt imprint of human consciousness on all existence.

 
I am in a small room that is really a naked concrete floor except for a leaf-thin mattress that takes up half the space. There is a tiny barred window very close to the tall ceiling, beyond one’s reach. The door is a garden of parallel iron bars. The walls were recently painted a lazy white when a team from the state department came to visit. I wasn’t in the room then though, but even when I discovered the white to be more preferable to the rotten, old grey, I immediately began to miss the old stories left behind by those who had had the privilege to use this room before me. Though the wall was still wet, I traced out whatever I could still see under the weak paint with my fingernails. The memory of a man, no matter how insignificant, should never be erased.

 
It seems that I would be leaving here tomorrow. I might miss this place, I do not know. Here, the heaviness of the blemish of the world is not as dense as it is among the people who seem to think that they are the best of it. Here, among the worst, there is a lighter weight on my shoulders and I wonder why. I had thought that the consequence of sin would be fall upon me heavily in this place, for after all, it is a collection of the vilest sinners. But it is not so, the peace here, I would liken to the peace I would feel whenever I wandered into the wild to detoxify my spirit whenever the weight of sins of the world became too much to bear. Maybe this was why the righteous man of Israel made his bed in the company of sinners.

 
Thirteen months have passed since I was here, and three months before I came here, I was somewhere else like this. They put me here because two little girls died but I’d be leaving here tomorrow because they cannot hold me any longer with good reason. The world knows what happened but it cannot be explained to a courtroom in the way it did. Even the eyewitness accounts had to be amended to individual taste; the people who saw what they did still doubt what they saw. Consequently, all their testimonies were incongruent. The video clips online are still being debated as hoaxes, but that doesn’t change the autopsy results.

 
Sometimes, I wonder if I’d done the right thing. The modern man in me asks that question everyday but I cannot answer a moral question with my own moral judgement; the scriptures on my mattress have been thumbed wretched and I still am not satisfied. I know that the power of God is his and if he chooses to lend it to me, it must be righteous, what I do. That is my logic. If he lends me his power to heal broken bones, it must be right to do so; If he lends me his power to straighten bent backs, it must be right to do so; if he lends me his power to open blind eyes, it must be right to do so.

 
I replay it all in my head, their screams as birds fell out of the sky, crashing through the windows to tear them to pieces, as rats ran out of their hiding places on my command to join in bringing the wrath of God to pass. The church was horrified to witness divine vengeance from the days of Elisha. They had watched as laughter had turned to screams and then silence with shock on their faces, as they sat immobile. All that was left was dry bones, there had been no blood. They would have gone home to warn their children never again to make cat calls at a righteous man because he is uneducated, because he can’t complete fancy grammar sentences to their taste.

 
However, I still wonder, if he lent me his power on that day, was it righteous, what was done?

 
 


COMING SOON…

 

 
 

 

Caution June 13, 2012

Filed under: Laconic — afrosays @ 10:42 pm
Tags: , , ,

Be wary of Monty.
 
If trees could not carry flowers and birds could not sing, Monty would do both on their behalf for she wants to help everyone. We do not all want her assistance. When the river grew tired of running, Monty asked to run in her place. Now even though the river is rested, Monty wouldn’t let the river run again.
 
Monty has no place in this world.
 
Monty has no place but to take the place of others.

 

The Beginning of our love story May 10, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 5:56 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Today, I beat the gong of sweet itching and an all-consuming desire.
Listen.

 
 

…you…

 
 

This is the beginning of our love story.
I am watching you watch me with a smirk on your face
Because you can see me cringe whenever
My boyfriend puts his arm around my shoulders
Or presses his hand into the small of my back.
And although the hairs I decided against shaving
All bristle in indignation;
I am not able to unlock my gaze from your face.
This is the beginning of our love story.
You follow me to the tray of spring rolls
And stop my hand from selecting
That golden-brown one with some stuffing sticking out.
You brush your fingers over my hand;
As if testing for my response.
One which isn’t long in coming
Because those traitorous bastard hairs on the back of my palm,
All rise to your touch- like they’ve been waiting forever.
And this is the beginning of our love story.
The escape to the back room- and you follow.
You follow and shut the door behind you.
You lock the door behind you then stop
When I can see the tips of your shiny shoes
Opposite my black-covered toenails.
And I move forward till we are touching.
My toes against your shoes.
Your shoes against my toes
that stick too far out of my sandals.
This is the beginning of our love story.
Heavy breathing, tongue clashing;
Head rolling, back. Hands seeking, forward.
My back against the wall. Cold fingers kissing my spine.
Heart palpitations. Throat constrictions.
No words. No thoughts.
Feeling; then some more.
Lust. Wanting. Pining. Yearning.
Phone vibrating.
This is the end of our love story.
My phone vibrates and my eyes snap clear.
Clear of the riotuous emotions
That only just threatened to drown me.
This is the end of our love story- I think.
I straighten my dress and walk away from you.
You, my first love.
Because though you remain clueless,
You are the first man,
Who has made me feel.

 
 
 
 

 

 
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

%d bloggers like this: