Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The only time I was happy she woke me up July 30, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 11:32 am
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She slapped me awake this morning and left my dispatch beside me.

I’m sitting here, offended but subdued, picking up my gong, because Afrosays:

THE ONLY TIME I WAS HAPPY SHE WOKE ME UP

The only time I was happy she woke me up

SALVATION MASTIFF SADDAM

I don’t like waking up early in the morning; it’s not that I’m lazy, I close from my long shift at the hospital at 0200 hours and probably hit my sleep switch in another hour or so.
It’s simply depressing that this woman, she felt a burden to wake up the whole neighborhood at 5 a.m. to come to salvation. Wasn’t Jesus meant to come like a thief in the night? Someone tell this lady that the biblical simile didn’t tell us to expect him like a Lagos banker in the morning!
The landlord’s association had repeatedly told the superstitious security man to keep the lady away but they were so sentimentally attached him, they wouldn’t fire him despite his repeated failures. Who needed a seventy five year old gate man anyways?
Good thing I had taken the law into my own hands this morning.
I smiled as I heard the bells of salvation ringing closer. I chuckled when I heard Saddam and Fidel, my landlord’s overfed Mastiffs, run out of their cages into the open street.
I didn’t mind waking up this morning to the ensuing cacophony. Those bells wouldn’t be ringing here anytime soon, if at all.
Waking up early has never been so much fun!

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Our boss and the ladies

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 6:57 am
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Lately I’ve been getting more addicted to beating the gong.

I beat it at work, at church, while taking a bath, during my devotions; I want to beat it so bad when I’m sleeping that my hands are shaking.

She’s bewitched me.

My hands are vibrating again because AfroSays:

OUR BOSS AND THE LADIES

OUR BOSS AND THE LADIES

YES BOSS ?

Sometimes I wondered why we all loved our boss, the guys and I:
Our boss was so cool, we called him “Shakara”
The ladies loved him so much, they took turns bringing him lunch
Our boss was so fashionable, his bespoke suits inspired Hugo
The ladies loved him so much, they always had to touch
Our boss was so rich, we were never sure which car he brought to work
The ladies loved him so much, they took turns to give his car a wash
Our boss was so well spoken, the company framed his letters
The ladies loved him so much, they tweeted his words
Our boss was so romantic, he grew roses in his office
The ladies loved him so much, they all had a crush
Our boss was so handsome, he attracted men
The ladies loved him still, they wanted him by force
But we were never jealous
Because our boss was gay
But I’m sure that’s not why we all loved our boss!

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The pink panties July 28, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 2:19 pm
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She was feeling quite mischievous today, the goddess. She narrated stories of how she and AfroCupid had been gallivanting continent-wide, inspiring several make-ups and break-ups. She mocked the fragility of human reasoning when injected with emotion.

I was already getting annoyed when they took off again; I was hoping he’d break her heart too.

With no other choice than to do her bidding, I picked up my gong and imitated one of those heartbreak songs by Chris Brown, because when the Muse speaks, Afrosays:

THE PINK PANTIES

The Pink Panties

The Pink Panties

I was getting tired of life’s monotony but the only problem was that I wasn’t ready to be invited to the greater beyond.
I promptly decided that I needed some excitement and so I packed my bags for the weekend. Being focused and driven was getting boring and having a perfect boyfriend didn’t seem to help matters. If I couldn’t make things excitable at the austere law firm where I worked, I might as well take it out on Chester.
I got to his place quite early. I was laughing at the memory of my boss giving me all sorts of prescriptions for the fictional Malaria I was suffering from over the phone. I used my key to let myself into his apartment and started my mischief.
I had branched at a little store down the road to buy an extra large, pink pair of female underwear to play my little game and it was awaiting discovery under the bed covers. I was looking too eager. I was already imagining how my upright Chester would allay my fears with healthy doses of truthful denial, inflaming my passions with that innocent look in his puppy eyes. My Chester was a darling.
I started dating Chester a little over a year ago. I had chosen him because he was nerdy, naive and wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was tired of the slick types that had broken me down severally till I was incapable of love. I just wanted security, and this lean bodied, four-eyed, Christian man was exactly what I was looking for. He was a diamond in the rough and I hoped to keep him that way.
He came in that evening to a delightful welcome. His unimpressive apartment had been transformed into a love nest. I had ordered a mouth watering mix of healthy finger foods and a bottle of modest wine; arrayed the scenery in candle light and invited Michael Bolton over. Marvin Gaye would have been perfect but I did not want to corrupt my cute little man.
I got exactly what I wanted, that innocent, clueless look I wouldn’t trade for the world. Sometimes, I thought I was the boyfriend. I pushed the right buttons and he forgot all about food. We made straight for the bedroom.
I was even getting carried away myself when he discovered my little forgotten adventure and curiously held it up in the candlelight. I had noticed and it was too late. I was already laughing to myself when I noticed that he had a different look on his face. I was still trying to hide my emotions when he looked into my eyes and said those three words I would never forget, “I can explain”.
I played along expecting the holiest charity.
I didn’t want to play along anymore when he started a shaky story about mama’s visit last weekend that he had failed to mention, the village wife-material that had come with her and the palm wine of course. I couldn’t even imagine my Chester doing it with someone who could own those panties. It was even more depressing that he was pulling a fast Jamie Foxx on me, blaming it on the “Ah ah ah alcohol “. I was hurt and I started crying uncontrollably.
I buttoned my shirt in the dim light, grabbed my things and started looking for my shoes. I put on the overhead fluorescent lighting and found them scattered carelessly near the door. I put them on.
I was on my way out of his bedroom, looking for something valuable to break when I heard the fool exclaim, “Damn! Wrong Color!”

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The Sokoto Rascals July 27, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 7:38 am
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The AfroMuse had been quite excited lately. She talked too fast this time.

She said a lot but  this is all I could pick up.

I hope I reconstruct everything with time or else I’d definitely be in trouble and lord know what that crazy witch can do.

She said, I heard and I beat a my gong like a siren as Afrosays:

THE SOKOTO RASCALS

The Sokoto Rascals

The Sokoto Rascals

“In this farade, we must pocus”, bellowed the commander, substituting ‘F’s for ‘P’s and vice versa in accordance with the peculiarities of his accent. “We shall discifline all acts of indiscifline”, he shouted across the ranks in an effort to impress his presence.

The boys were looking awkward, trying to stand at mock-attention in their clingy vests and shorts despite the unforgiving Sokoto morning breeze. They had been told that camping would be fun and so it had been till commander Musa, the superintendent of the Young Men’s Christian Squadron paid a visit.

They had unwillingly traded board games for extremely strenuous morning drills and afternoon swimming for rigorous march past sessions since the commander arrived. Everything that they had held sacred had been taking away from them and they had vowed revenge. This day, the commander was to travel to Kaduna to terrorize another set of fun-loving boys and the Sokoto rascals wanted to send him on his way with a gift.

“Our Pinal exercise this morning shall be the fath of truth”, commander Musa informed the boys, “Poward march toward the riber!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

They all knew the path of truth and they had been looking forward to it. In fact, some of them had been sneaking to have a try at night but none of them had been brave enough to complete it.

The Sokoto rascals watched mischievously as their antagonist approached the path of truth cautiously. It was his duty to lead such endeavours by example. His back was turned so they couldn’t see the fear in his eyes.

“I shall teach you the song!” the commander told the boys. He went on to position himself on the treacherous device that was hanging fifty feet above the river and suspended between two trees that were a hundred meters apart. “This exercise shall teach you pocus!”

“You hold the rofe above , walk on the rofe below” “Hurrah!”

“You are holding onto God, don’t ever let him go” “Hurrah!”

“You slide forward a little, then move your body slow” “Hurrah!”

“Or you goooooooooooo crashing down below” “Hurraaaaaah!”

His voice alternated between five pitches as he sang ; he could not admit his fear of heights. He was about thirty meters in when the boys picked up the chorus, surprisingly willingly. They sang as they had rehearsed:

“You better hold the rofe above, forget the rofe below”, “Hurrah!”

“You better hold onto God, don’t ever let him go”, “Hurrah!”

“You better run if you can, do not take it slow”, “Hurrah!”

… and the firewood axe slowly traveled the ranks from back to front.

“goooooooooooooooooooooo crashing down below!”, “Hurraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

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The bella-noveau July 26, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 8:12 am
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The goddess must be crazy!

She visited me last week and told me that she enjoyed the human concept of suspense and wanted to integrate that into our relationship in some way. I didn’t understand what she was talking about till she started visiting my dream space with linked, short story episodes that always ended quite dramatically.

I had to wait for a whole season before I could get a complete story to share. Hopefully, she’d mercy me and give an ending to the five concurrent stories she’s yet to complete.

We’d be thankful for what we have now, I beat a Garala rhythm on my gong as Afrosays:

THE BELLA NOVEAU

Mon Cherie Koko

Mon Cherie Koko

I was going to marry her, I hadn’t been searching for a wife but now I knew there would be no need to; I’d found a wife in Cherie Koko.
She was every man’s dream, that’s what she was, at least every man that lived in Ajanpadi, another nondescript habitat for members of the masses like myself. Most men didn’t know her real name, Cherie Koko seemed the consensus. I’d even heard variations like “Cherilious Koko baby”, “Cheronicus Kokolet”,  and a few others that were strange to pronounce whenever I went to  get a haircut or watch a Champions league at the viewing center, or play lotto at Lucky Sule’s. She was a “trending now” topic. She brought a different vibe to our little world.
We all thought she was from the United States because her accent slayed us by the dozen. Our Cherie could pronounce double Ts with an ‘R’, speak through her nose, and walk like a sick chicken. She was simply awesome and in her, we’d found our eight world wonder.
She lived with Mama Iyabo, the Akara seller, but we’d never seen her eat those delicious, palm oil themed bean cakes. In fact, no one had ever seen her anything but Hot dogs and I felt quite fortunate to be the source of her nutrition never minding that my business was making a loss.
A few weeks back, she had come into my world. I was on my way to work when I stopped at Mama Iyabo’s for a delicious breakfast experience. She definitely looked out of place inadequately employing a duvet as a wrapper. She was classy and I couldn’t get my eyes of her “Hello Kitten” handbag. She took ghetto morning fashion to a whole new level.
Needless to say, I was too ashamed to buy those bean cakes that had nourished me every morning since I moved to Ajanpadi. When she talked to me, I was ‘flabberwhelmed’! I started mumbling something in foolish when Mama Iyabo took pity on me and kindly introduced us. I guess I was the only one that met Segilola, pre-Cherie Koko.
That was the only day being a Gala Sausage Roll hawker did me any real benefit. Segi had asked what I was doing with so many Hot dogs and Mama Iyabo had introduced us on that basis. We became friends when I gave her two free Hot dogs, wondering why the illiterate Nigerian populace called them sausage rolls. Segi had to be right! I even became a Hot dog evangelist, educating whoever cared to listen. I guess that’s how we kicked it off.
In less than a week, every man in Ajanpadi was gearing to be affiliated with Segi, but I was the chosen one. On weekdays, we spent most evenings together at St Jordan’s Cool Spot having drinks and Pepper soup. I chose St Jordan’s because they only played the latest American music. We usually talked about American movies, that is, she talked and I listened. I didn’t know who “Angelica Jolin” was but I felt lucky to be the one nodding like an Agama lizard to her wonderful words. Weekends were even more wonderful with Segi. She had changed my life like the new One Naira note.
Things went on quite well between Cherie and I. She gradually became my reason for going home at night. She was with me the night Jeepy, my cousin from Port Harcourt came to spend the weekend. I’d been looking forward to showing my new found pride off to Jeepy. He had always been the one to beat. I had been envious of Jeepy, even since primary school. He was the one flogged on the general Monday assembly for kissing beautiful Mary. He didn’t stop there, he re-earned those stripes of honor again in our second year of junior secondary school for kissing even more beautiful Chiamaka and another time in our senior secondary classes for doing something more devious with most endowed Janet. The best I managed was the ugly beating I earned for stealing mangoes from the school farm.
Jeepy met us at St. Jordan’s. He smiled excessively when he saw her and I knew I had won our age-old rivalry. Cherie Koko didn’t disappoint, she immediately threw  a fancy greeting line at him but Jeepy was quite adequate, he dodged and aptly retaliated. He was smiling confidently and I soon started loosing my ‘victory-esteem’. They immediately started a conversation that sounded like something from one of the movies she talked about and although I tried to chip in one or two comments myself but I was constantly ignored. I didn’t know they were being polite till I pointed out that a ‘Brad Pitt’ must be very deep. Their looks were unforgiving. It  took me back to the worst day of my childhood.
The teacher had come into the geography class that Monday morning looking very benevolent towards everyone except me. He gave me the most sour look in the world. He started distributing our marked test papers from the previous week. I soon noticed that I was the only one without my script. He then called out Jeepy, our class captain to read out my test answers. Today I’m sure that Kilimanjaro did not kill anyone and Trinidad doesn’t have three daddies.
I didn’t exist anymore. I should have left with dignity, but I endured on and watched as almost every word  gained an “izzy” or “izzle” suffix. Before I knew what was happening, Jeepy became “Young Jeezle”, and my darling was answering to “Chizzy Kizzle”. It almost sounded abominable. I tried to be an “Onyekadigbizzle” but it just wasn’t working for me. I was steadily loosing ground.
Chizzy Kizzle shouldn’t have relaxed into  Young Jeezle’s skinny chest, she really shouldn’t have. Maybe if she hadn’t we’d have all gone home peacefully; maybe my jealousy wouldn’t have boiled into action; maybe I wouldn’t have thrown my bowl of  “Peppersizzle” where I did; maybe she wouldn’t have cried; maybe he wouldn’t have been foolish enough to throw a punch at me; maybe I wouldn’t have given him the beating of his life.
I still don’t know why she broke that bottle of  33 Export Lager but I’m happy I was the one who moved out of the way; I’m happy I wasn’t the one who tripped and face-long into a serious case for plastic surgery.
I won!
… and when next you see that guy smiling happily, selling ‘Hot dogs’ in Lagos traffic in the most merry fashion, please buy one?

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Lagos wahala – Would you have waited? July 9, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 10:20 pm

I woke up to the tantrums of the crazy goddess. I was still swooning in the world of wonderland when a painful juxtaposition of bright stars, rudely introduced into my dream space by a quick hand across the face, brought me to a startled consciousness.

She smiled at me excessively, her smile was bordering on edgy. I kind of retreated into safer bed territory half expecting her to pull of one of the famous scenes from ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’.

She cooed softly at me, moved closer and then she told me excitedly that she’d been talking to some of the local deities types at Mushin and Isale Eko. I shook my head in disbelief, noticing her recently conjured attire; she was wearing a slightly over-bright attitude top that read “Yels! lepa to bad”, with skinny jeans and the signature white and blue bathroom slippers associated with the downtown fashionistas. Lord knows what she’d been doing with those ‘Ajepako’ gods of disarray.

She talked passionately about Shandi, the patron god of all garage touts. I was quite shocked to hear that he wore a three-piece toga but it was quite unfortunate that he couldn’t part with his bathroom slippers. She also mentioned Zanga of Surulere, Sure-Boy of Unilag and a host of other unimpressive deities.

Call me biased but I’m in love with the idea of an ‘Ajebutter’ goddess, this experiment wasn’t working for me.

I’m beating a merry Alanta tune on my gong with my head held high, just because Afrosays:

LAGOS WAHALA

Lagos Wahala

I doubled over in my unsuccessful attempt to contain laughter well come. Things were just beginning to get interesting! You could only get drama this great on the streets of Lagos; yes! Africa’s got talent!
“I did not do it! I say no be me!” the embarrassed fellow weakly protested, trying unsuccessfully to extricate himself from the supposed evidence of his social indiscretion. “Shey u catch me ni?”
He was still tucking in his cheap shirt in when a woman had showed up some distance behind him with a menacing scowl on her face. She obviously had been totally offended by something she saw and she looked like she was on a mission make it right. Meanwhile, our culprit had walked hurriedly back towards the bus, his face betraying whatever misdeeds he might have carried out in the little corner he was desperately trying to escape from.
“Sssssssssss! Sssssssssssssss! You dey mad! You no get shalanga for house?” “Tu-baba!”, she called to one of the garage touts, “come see wetin this craze man do for… “
He had seen the atrocity before she finished her request, “AaaaaaH!” “O shiere ni?” “You dey mad?” , Tu-baba promptly interjected, closing distance. More heads turned. A good drama always attracted a sizeable audience.
I was teetering at the edge of my seat because our conductor suddenly showed up and wouldn’t allow the humiliated fellow into the bus. He reeked of whatever sickness the gods had chosen to plague him with. He was looking like a trapped animal, lost in a myriad of instinctive responses and blessed with the gift of indecision. It was obvious he would not remember his name for the next two minutes.
And there was laughter, and temper, and more confusion, and then more curiosity. Our little episode was already cooking up a sweet pot of passions with all the spices of a typical Lagos melodrama.
Our culprit started making movements alternating between vibration and gyration. Tu baba was already two feet away with his hands raised. He seemed positive a reassuring hand would to help steady our unfortunate fellow from his oscillations. Humor almost seemed wicked.
“Chairman, na piss I go piss oh!” “I swear, me sef see am for there oh!” and then, “Abeg oh chairman!” the personality of his speech was as unsteady as his body language. He seemed unsure as to whether it was a good idea to be assertive.
“Abeg, show am say na we get this garage!” the accuser of brethren pitched on, “Which kind nonsense be this?” she goaded on, hoping to get retribution delivered as soon as possible. Call me wicked but at this point I was really hoping to see some action.
“Shey were yen leleyi?” a rhetoric fired from one corner, the fellow was just pondering our culprit’s insanity aloud. Another member of the crowd also jokingly asked aloud if he could volunteer a vehicle tire. He must have been a bus driver who was willing to sacrifice a spare tire for our good man to wear around his neck in case the crowd thought it was expedient to execute justice by petrol fire. The growing mob was really excited and there were all kinds of ridiculous suggestions that brought tears of joy to my eyes. Some of the action hungry volunteers didn’t even have a clue about the ensuing fracas, they just wanted a taste of Grammy-winning Lagos theatrics. Even passing motorists raised the fists in agreement, some even shouting out votes of solidarity. Maybe I chirped out one or two of my own in my mock garage accent, and then the fever pitch was hiked up two notches.
Tu-baba arrived like Father Christmas in December and he came with gifts for the crowd. His spectacular movements were worthy of 10 million YouTube views. He started with two ‘fakeys’ that turned our suspect into a vibrating carousel, he quickly steadied his spinning puppet with three and a half healthy slaps. I really am not sure how I arrived at that count but the last sound I heard was sublime. I knew I’d finally discovered the sound that was missing from the jazz drum set.
Culprit seemed lucid but for a moment, then he started to shed tears. He suddenly rushed towards Tu-Baba and embraced him. We were confused for a moment but our confusion was further compounded when culprit started screaming strings of mumbo jumbo in a south-south accent. Tu Baba looked like he had just discovered that Sango was a pony; we were all inanimate for a few seconds, each discovering something similar… and then Tu baba screamed.
“Oko mi oh!” “My Penisula!”
Would you have waited?

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You want? So what?

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 5:30 pm
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The time wanderer

Onigba...

The muse lent me to Onigba, the inconspicuous time-wanderer of indigenous origins; I beat an ancient ring-tone with a mellow tempo on my gong, Afrosays:

She smiles in the bus, the grayed lady, taking a leisurely stroll, basking in the sunny moments of times past. I look at her and smile in agreement and I’m on to the next one
I’m on a journey for the good old; I’m feeling grand, and clement weather assures me that nature’s feeling likewise. I’m on a journey for the good old days.
I’m the time-wanderer, call me ‘Onigba’.
I guess we’ve had our moments, you and I. Did you recognize me?
No! I’m not that weirdo you noticed under the bridge happily calculating 9D mathematics on the sand in Latin and I’m not his buddy either. I don’t have a fancy wand or carry a moribund hour-glass (although I popularized that look in Nebuchadnezzar’s times). I’ve been around since loin-cloths and cave-cribs, when your kind measured how old they were by how many Yam planting seasons they’d participated in. I saw Socrates make up stuff he couldn’t quite figure out and Shakespeare conduct his low-budget plays. I saw Hitler, Rockefeller and I’m still seeing Babangida. I’m the Rolex and the Omega!
You did not recognize me because I’m one with time. I’m quite the conformist. I wore a suit the day we met at your office, I’ve worn all the cuts of Jeans you’ve worn and I’m still figuring out how to get out of my most recent denim adventure without employing the use of a pair of scissors. Don’t bother trying to look out for me; I look too much like you.
I’ve lived with your kind since the big bang or the big apple, I really don’t care which. I was born the same day as Adam or Australopithecus, and you’ve all come a long way… to vanity. You’ve missed the point. SMH!
Live!
Like him, he’s smiling too, smiling at the irony of it all. He’s not sure how he’s come this far on so little. He’s not sure how he’s going to make it through but he’s sure he will. He’s hanging out with the boys tonight; he knows he’s got major issues but he’d take the little joys he demands from life.
Maybe He’d pay the rent, maybe not; maybe he’d get the job, maybe not; maybe he’d love again, maybe not; but tonight, we drink to life, Guy and I.
Like her, she’s smiling too, and then she laughs at the irony of love. He’s home early today and she’s glad. He told her he was sorry for the third time and she took him in knowing his weakness would lead him on yet another tryst. She was just glad to have him for now. She hoped to have him forever.
She deserves forever, so what? Tonight, we celebrate love and life.
Who cares what you want? There’s no Persia or Babylon or King Solomon! There’s just two glasses… what’s our toast?


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