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
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
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
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 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
“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!”
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
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
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?