Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Shredded and screwed August 19, 2010

The AfroMuse laughed at me as I narrated my recent life experiences.

Life was really ‘winner-take-all’ after all.

She promised to teach me to win more often and then she left.

I’m shaking my head at this T-Pain derivative. Gong, on a vocoder, let’s do this because AfroSays:

SHREDDED AND SCREWED

SHREDDED AND SCREWED

SHREDDED AND SCREWED

Is it immature to wake up in the morning feeling like you did in primary school when some kid broke your amazing Superman ruler?
That’s how I feel this morning.
That’s how I felt last night.
Bvlgari and Paco Rabanne let me down. She intimidated them so much, they vowed to stay home for a week plus.
My two white friends and I, we walked into her lair oozing so much confidence, we were staining the floor. We were looking to have a nice time and make memories we could discuss over drinks later that night. Paco was quite the gallant,  charming his way forward like TATA equipment. He did his thing and handed the baton over to ‘Gari. The Grecian was ready.
‘Gari “the smooth” Gregarious  lived up to his alias. I’d never be able to explain what he did or does, all I know is that he gets the job done. I was in the kitchen when Smoothie threw the baton over. Leave the final lap to Mr awwww-some-more?
I casually strolled over like a 1700s English jerk and took over. Panache a la finesse, on a swagger thing, yezzir! Awwww-some!?
Naaa!
My new fancy friends didn’t impress her. Two years ago, good old Mr Klein fared waaaaay better than my new tag team; Monsieur Givenchy didn’t do too bad either last year.
She had baited us and we had greedily chomped it down, winking to each other.
We thought being served was a testament to our chivalry. Alas! it was only a travesty.
We were too heavy to run when those claws came out.
Slowly and meticulously,  we were officially shredded and screwed!

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Sorcery August 16, 2010

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 3:17 pm
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She explained that what it was all sorcery, the illusions that befall a mind searching for affection.

A wise mage would take advantage, wielding the power in his prey’s weakness.

A witty witch wouldn’t hesitate, exploiting the feebleness in vulnerable man folk.

I ring this tone on my gong in warning because AfroSays not to be

BEWITCHED

Bewitched

Voodoll

Bewitched
Hocus pocus complete
Vodoll’s been pricked
She’s lost her wits
Bewitched
Abracadabra connects
Spell’s taken effect
He can’t protest
Bewitched
Sorcery in session
Consuming passion
Unreasonable expression
Mind in possession
They are bewitched

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If my village became August 13, 2010

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 9:22 am
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My head is still up in my posterior, trying to figure out a lot of things. Sometimes it seems I’m the biggest dullard in the world.

But never mind that, some things are basic – the simple joys of life would never betray you.

After yesterday’s kiss, I’m happier than ever because I decided to be content.

Of course! Who wouldn’t be content with kissing a goddess?

I am more than content so I’d be smiling sheepishly, reflecting on kisstalk, beating that Gong animatedly and telling you that AfroSays:

IF MY VILLAGE BECAME

IF MY VILLAGE BECAME

IF IJARE BECAME

I was just wondering,
If my village became British
Which of my Oba’s many wives would be the Queen, her majesty?
If my village became American
Would we dress bush meat on thanksgiving?
If my village became Italian
Would we organize Palm Wine tasting meets?
If my village became Chinese
Would we eat pounded yam with two sticks?
If my village became French
Would we fry our Bean cakes seven feet long?
I’m not sure about our Root Beer or our Pina Coladas, our Ankara suits or our Aso-Oke sneakers
I’m most definitely not sure about our suicide bombers
I’m just sure that we should remain Nigerian!

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The African SuperHero August 12, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 8:03 am
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The goddess woke me up this morning and reminded me that she gave me this commission only a month ago. She hinted at how pleased she was at how far we’ve come and she kissed me.

Shhhh!  she doesn’t know it’s the villagers that have helped echo her message. Thank you all! I promise to beat this gong for you with all my little energy, thank you!

I’d be beating today’s tune in dedication to all the villagers who helped garner a thousand (1000) blog views in just a month,

Ooooooooooshey! because you said, AfroSays:


The African SuperHero

The African SuperHero

He stands on the french window sill, fearless and brave, his Ankara cape flowing elegantly behind him, ready to save the world.

He sees the innumerable foes that he must conquer, the same enemies that most people pretend not to see but he can’t ignore his calling for with great power comes great responsibility.
The firm look on his face shows how much he loathes the iniquity in society. He has seen enough on television, pictures glide through his mind from the papers. Good men have been hurt in the never-ending war of good and evil, heroes have been made as well – but the war lives on. Today, His jaw is set on justice, he has had enough.
His fists would be the new law, and his boots, the vehicle of salvation. His costume is funny but he doesn’t mind. He still wears his underwear outside. He would give tribute to the founding fathers of this solitary path of sacrifice; especially those whose exploits have immortalized their names in the glowing pavements on memory lane. It is his turn.
He crouches with one hand in the air like a mantis and reviews his strategy for the last time. It seems perfect. He let out a resounding roar into the air, announcing his debut vigilante career with a signature.
Call him SuperbatSpiderFantasticMan! (at least, that’s what the inscription on his costume reads).
He leaps into the air in super gallant style.
But his roar has alerted her, she arrives on the scene a second before he takes off. Her costume is the same material his cape is made from, she has a desperate look of urgency on her face. She mustn’t delay a second.
She grabs him from the air before gravity summons him beyond reach; she saves her five year old before he becomes yet another cartoon network martyr. Too bad she cannot save his white school shirt from permanent marker.
Her cane would be the latest law, and his cry, the bell of salvation.
Forget the shirt we shall, let’s applaud mother; She’s a real super hero.

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Spectator!!! No dey look Uche face! August 5, 2010

I’m just traveling through my mind at this moment with the goddess by side, greeting and avoiding the old and recent ghosts whose land I lord, lol.

I’ve got to get rid of some of these ugly haunt-tenants, can’t wait for old age amnesia.

AfroMuse, she’s found this cute one and she’s bullying him to share his story. Of course, he shall.

I beat the gong as AfroSays:

NO DEY LOOK UCHE FACE

Uche's face

Uche's face?

The stupid Okada guy was driving me toward the ensuing ruckus; three fully grown, well dressed, able-bodied men were fighting bitterly, and I wasn’t sure it was over the typical incomplete transport fare/ fare balance situation because there was no yellow cum black striped bus nearby. The motorcyclist moved me closer, yard by yard. He wanted to catch a glimpse of Uche’s face.
My mind quickly flashed back to the testimony a friend of mine had shared at church the previous Sunday. He talked so happily because he felt quite lucky to be alive. His story was a word of caution to every Nigerian intellectual who felt an egotistical need to stand out from the crowd whenever societal disturbance reared its ugly head. Most of us had given up on trusting instinct when lives of hundreds of Lagosians had been betrayed by a canal they had willingly jumped into because they had instinctively followed crowd movement in a bid to escape the terrifying echoes of a bomb blast several kilometres away. My friend’s testimony gave us permission to trust our sixth sense once more.
He had been walking along the road, enjoying just another normal day of his life when he happened upon a police checkpoint. He had almost walked past when a suspicious car happened upon the checkpoint as well.  The police had tried to stop the moving vehicle when the dubious party suddenly opened fire. Our trigger-happy law enforcement officers didn’t waste time in returning the favour – they were reportedly aiming for the tires and the sky at the same time.
My friend immediately stopped and started staring at potential gist. He ignored all instinctive demands to run. He refused to follow in the crowd’s rush for cover and he wasn’t alone, there was some mallam guy beside him as well and they were both trying to find out if Uche had pimples.
The action movie ended as soon as it started with the mysterious car escaping, his viewing partner on the floor, hit by shrapnel and a stern lesson that Uche’s hypnotic face wasn’t worth the attention.
That  flashback only lasted a second, we were already getting dangerously close to the royal rumble. My mind was rapidly producing several creative scenarios in which our foray into the wrestling ring would go wrong. The motorcyclist wasn’t even looking at the road anymore, his neck was turned at an obtuse angle in a serious attempt to study Uche’s then blurred features.
I quickly reprimanded him and brought him back to consciousness, my intuition was urgently urging me forward because even on that busy road, nobody seemed interested in such a great display of Tibetan Kung Fu. I somehow managed to convince the motorcyclist back on course.
I honestly tried my best to act disinterested but the Nigerian goddess of hypnosis was too fascinating to refuse.
We stopped a few yards away and fully indulged our curiosity, enjoying Uche’s mesmerizing beautiful face.
It was so beautiful, I couldn’t wait till I saw it again.

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The Black Hole August 3, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 6:38 pm
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The goddess was held me in her arms as I wept.

My world was crashing all around me.

She reminded me that old civilizations always had to give way to new; I’m just hoping Jerusalem isn’t coming down for Babylon.

She sang me a lullaby, I slept.

I’m now awake and I shall sing it to you all only because Afrosays:

THE BLACK HOLE

The Black hole

The Black hole

“Beep… beep… beep”

The seconds of my life were being counted by one of the several boxes of wire that kept me alive.
I wasn’t sure I was ready for the extremely long beep that would signal the end of my life but according to what the doctors had said, that sound was two days late and it would be here anytime soon.
It’s not that I wasn’t prepared; I’d settled grievances, seen my lawyer and put my house in order. Heck! I’d even told Cecilia that she could marry that moron that had been the centre of our family trouble for the past two years since she finished college. I was desperately trying to use these last moments to buy inner peace but I still wasn’t sure I had the right currency.
Freddy told me that the idiot across the room holding my daughter’s hand. Freddy said he looked like the angel of death that was responsible for all the recent motor accidents along the Benin-Ore Express way with all the scrap metal coming in and out of his disgustingly tattooed skin. The first day I saw him, I wished the London Arts School scholarship hadn’t come through for Cecilia, six years ago. I never seemed to understand the fact that her boyfriend was a successful musician somewhere in Europe, Cecilia deserved better.
But she wasn’t my burden at the moment, I was. These past few years had been my most successful; I had taken a lot from the world and given it gifts in return. I was sure my name would be remembered for my outstanding contributions to health science. I had been a good man, but was that ever enough? Freddy said my wife’s pastor was still in the room and according to the religious rituals we’d gone through together the few weeks before I blacked out, I was cool with God and ready to go, but deep inside me I wasn’t sure if there was a place to go to. The pastor had once mentioned that the just shall live by faith, but it was too late to ask him what the just was meant to die by?
My eyes were closed.  My body was on shut down. I could only depend on my ever reliable brain. It had a nickname, Freddy I called it. I had developed Freddy so much that he was two hundred years older than I was and had a mind of his own. I didn’t deserve any of those accolades the world lavished on me, Freddy did. He deserved everything from the national honour to the Nobel price, yet, he couldn’t help me out this time. He hadn’t been able to come up with a sensible explanation for eternity, re-incarnation or two thousand virgins. All Freddy knew was limited to this sphere.
I had searched through my childhood memories of Sunday school till my early years of marriage, before the call of humanitarianism took me away and all I found were contradictions. The only problem was that no one had been honest enough to admit they didn’t have the answers. They were all too scared to think for themselves and relied on any man who was bold enough to pretend he understood the great mystery of life. Those kinds of men got too many with time and the contradictions became more evident. Eventually the bright left in search for the real truth.
I still haven’t found it. I used Google till Microsoft bought it over and messed it up and it wasn’t in any of the two trillion web pages on their index. There was no truth in hedonism or even in excessive piety either. All my experiments led to one single fact: No matter how long man tried to pretend, his true nature always surfaced. No one was perfect. No one could uphold whatever dogma they put forth without falling short. They could only pretend in hypocrisy and that was my dilemma, the fact that no one could live up to any paradigms, even basic laws they set up themselves. If we cannot live up to our own standards, how much more that of some perfect deity?  We’re all doomed to incompetence and low self esteem!
“Beeeeeeeeep!  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
Suddenly, Freddy came through, just when I’d lost hope. He seldom failed me.
“Doctor! Doctor!!!”
Pandemonium.
I didn’t care.
My soul smiled.
And then I laughed – I opened my eyes and laughed real hard.
They were shocked because Freddy had put me in a coma for two weeks so he could work.
I’d finally found the answer!
Being human was the joke of the millennium!
“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!”

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The legend of Two Strokes August 2, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 6:43 am
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It’s still a riddle for me, how I’m going to wake up very frequently in the week to beat the gong in obeisance to the dictates of the AfroMuse.

I’ve discharged my duties effectively so far but lately I’ve been hoping to broadcast her messages to a wider audience.

I’d be waiting for that higher calling while put on my garb, clean the weekend dust off my gong and walk into the streets early this morning, waking the neighborhood, just because AfroSays:

THE LEGEND OF TWO STROKES

Our Late Principal

Our Late Principal

It was still my first week at the village school when the kids dubbed me “Two Strokes”. The teachers eventually came to identify me by that name.
Two Strokes, however, did not survive long enough to become a secondary school legend like the Madame Koi Koi types. In fact, his legacy perished with the beginning of the second academic term after the Christmas break. I write about him now, twenty years later, laughing at the memory of it all. Permit me to title my narration, “The fleeting legend of Two Strokes”.
Two Strokes was a celebrity. I was granted immunity from the severe flogging that befell my comrades in crime whenever they were caught. My claim to fame had been incidental to the calamity that had befallen the first person who dared to lay his hands on me. Since then, nobody had been brave enough to test the ‘head’ of two strokes, who knew what misfortune might befall them? My ruthless karma kept them all at bay. This however ended when Madame Rita, our new principal, came along.
“Obinna Ike”, she called out finally, summoning me to the front of the school assembly to receive my share of flogging for resuming school late, all week, as was my tradition. It was general practice at the village school to make an example of students who committed offences that were above classroom jurisdiction on the Friday closing assembly.
I wasn’t surprised that I was last on the list because only the worst offenders were given that honour. My predecessors were in a crumpled heap to the left, broken and subdued, looking like a scene from Hades.
I made my way to the front with confidence, walking with the false limp I had learned from my Lagos-based cousins during the Christmas holiday. The students immediately started cheering me on loudly. “Two Strokes! Two Strokes! Two Strokie Strokie!!!” rang out from the masses of students in united worship of the one who was above them all. I took the glory in stride, waving, shaking hands, blowing kisses and signing autographs. Damn! It felt good to be Two Strokes.
The teachers didn’t bother calming them down, they were concerned for Madame Rita. They all tried to reason with the indignant little lady but she couldn’t understand them; she preached discipline and equity like it was the Holy Gospel. When the five teachers saw that their efforts were in vain, they left it to the Vice Principal to tell to tale of Two Strokes. He did his best to educate the madam with his handicapped employment of the Queens language.
“Two Stroke is not a boy to be flog”, he said, “He kill our last principal”
I remember that day like my mother remembers the day she gave birth to me.
We were having mathematics lessons and I was late that morning. The classroom back door was open and I peeped in to discover that the principal was the one teaching. I was officially chopped and screwed.
His was writing on the blackboard, back turned to the classroom so I quietly slipped into the class and made for my seat at the far right. I was about to take my seat when old man smirked, back still turned, and said aloud, “Two strokes”.
He then turned to the class and continued, “Two strokes for late coming, two strokes for not greeting ya elders”. I looked at him briefly because something on the teacher’s desk caught my eye; that cane looked like it had been optimized for inflicting excruciating pain on its victims. It was long, thin and so flexible that even the sudden stir of wind in the classroom caused it to swing menacingly. It looked like it was practising for me. I desperately that wished I wasn’t the only person who was late that day but it seemed that the other students had learned their lessons early enough. I was on my own.
The old man turned back to the wretched blackboard and finished writing the class work on the board. The fear in me combined with the fact that I was late to class, earned me a zero with mouse ears, and I was to get two strokes for every single question I missed. I had successfully earned fourteen strokes for my scrawny back to endure. The cane on the table was swinging mockingly and my spirit man was in tears.
It was time. The rest of the cane’s victims lined up behind me, each giving praise to God that for the number of victims that preceded him. I could even smell urine somewhere from the line at my back, the terror was paralyzing.
The principal smiled and started again, announcing my offences like a judge before issuing a sentence. “Two strokes, my friend”
“Two strokes for coming late”
“Two strokes for not greeting ya elders”
“Two strokes for missing question one”
“Two strokes …” he went on and on and on and ON and finally beckoned for me. I don’t know how my wobbly legs managed to transport my body to the terrifying presence of that wicked old man.
He lifted my punisher into the air.
Both of them collapsed onto the cement ground. He teachers rushed the grandpa to the school clinic, and eventually to the village dispensary. He died of a stroke.
Madame Rita couldn’t believe her ears. “That’s just a coincidence!”, she exclaimed, in an effort to convince the superstitious lot that I wasn’t an enigma after all.
“Madame Rita, you better not try me!”, I warned her boldly, “Or else!”
The slap was louder than the cheer of my supporters club. “Or else what?” she retorted. I would have responded but I was already dazzled by the glory of the starred universe.
Her cane wasn’t as daunting as that off my former adversary but lord knows that little lady could flog out the colour from a black man. When she was done, I created a special crumbled heap of my own and it admitted only those who Hades had referred to his mentor.
A taboo had been broken. My cry was the only sound that morning; even the noisy birds from the Guava tree were silent, recognizing the anathema.
Madame Rita did not resume work the following Monday morning.
She came in right before closing time to share the news of her newborn grandsons, bringing with her a picture of the cutest little twins you ever saw.
As for me, the teachers did not spare any efforts in making up for lost time. It was the same for seniors, school bullies and any other person whose fury had been held back by the legend of Two Strokes.
Although Madame Rita took me under her wing in the long run, grooming me to be useful enough to become the class captain, and later the head boy, I would forever miss the immunity I enjoyed in the awe-inspiring shoes of Two Strokes.
Thus ends my tale.

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