The Circus Stage February 22, 2011

I’m trying to write a story for the Commonwealth short story competition and it’s taking me forever. I’m not sure that the erratic, bipolar AfroMuse can do Commonwealth material but it never hurts to try.

Since the goddess hasn’t been resourceful, I decided to go a scavenging in her study room. I found “The Circus” after an hour of boring rummaging and things. It seems that not much has been going on in her life since that Ennui came visiting with his soporific perfumes and his depressing liquers. Ennui is the most boring member of her world that I have ever met and the AfroMuse has been sleeping a lot since his visit; so much that I had to suggest that she doesn’t invite Ennui over again.

At times like these, I usually visit the town hall and trade experiences with fellow town-criers. It’s great to see the friendly face of Verastic, feel the intoxicating aura of NakedSha, watch the ladies swoon all over chivalrous SugarKing at the palm wine kiosk, trade gong amplifiers with Azuka, negotiate for bargains on SugaBelly paintings, listen to stand-up satire from ExSchoolNerd, have a bowl of comforting soup from motherly Myne Whitman and find strong spirit in the company of every one of my other favourite gong beaters. I might even see a new face or two, or steal a conversation with one of the maestros, (Shout out to Aloofar).

I love the village, I love the town hall, I love the noise, I love the music, I love the art, I love the fellowship of the gong.

I shall beat a party banger – shirt off, hat in the hair, gourd in hand, singing merrily with my friends from the hall because AfroSays:

THE CIRCUS STAGE

...AYAM CLOWNING...

I am clown, I’m clowning, and that’s what I do
Give me some change, let me play the fool
If I am wise, what does it matter?
I shall be dense for you

I envy the fire-eaters, I envy the lion tamers, and I envy the trapeze artists
For I was told to juggle, to play with the chimps
To earn my chance at the stage
I must wear a wig

I dance on the grounds, just after the games
I spin on my head and so do my apes
I dance with my heart, I spin with my soul
My dance is my wait

So let’s have a good time, tiny years
Before the circus troupe appears
My chimps and I shall tickle you all
We vow to bring you to tears

But when the trumpets sing loud, the curtains fall and the spotlight comes on
I have done my part; I bow out to the rolling drums
I dream in heart, eyes wide, hoping for my time
For the stage is where I belong

DREAM ON, AFRO-FOLK!

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I could use another husband (Valentine special) February 14, 2011

I’m at work, so this is a quick one.

The goddess is tempestuous at the moment. She only got gifts all the people she didn’t care about. Her beau ignored her. I asked about him and she explained that he’s Cupid’s delegate to Egypt and has come under a ton of pressure due to recent events.

I had already begun to picture a gay, roundish Egyptian with butterfly wings when she showed me a picture of a cross between Lucifer, The Rock, Jason Stratham, Idris Elba and Djimon Honsou. I don’t know the picture you see but believe me, it’s weird like that.

I left her in her misery. While I was busy rejoicing on saving valentine money? Abeg!

One of the villagers made a special request to the goddess so sent me an urgent telepathic message during working hours.

I’m grumpy but here’s a quick one, Marvin Gaye gong vibrations, only because AfroSays:
I COULD USE ANOTHER HUSBAND

MADAME!

“Madame, get in the car”

It was evening and my errant car was parked on the side of the express way, blowing steam happily. I had noticed an American spec automobile gracefully pull out of the busy traffic lane. It had slowed down as it got closer and it had eventually taken a parking spot in front of my car.

I had expected a young suited man to alight from the vehicle and attempt to fix my car problems in exchange for my phone number. After all, it was valentine’s, but instead, two straight faced, darkly handsome, sharply suited young men had glided out of the cockpit of the car approached me with such a troublesome confidence that I began to instinctively withdraw.

“Would you please get in the car?”

I looked at the two strange men calmly and I immediately decided to cooperate. I didn’t say a word; if I had opened my mouth, the terrified bird inside me would have fluttered out. One of the men collected my car keys and began to lock up the overheating vehicle that had quit on me. The other held the mystery car’s passenger door open. Just at that moment, the all-familiar, new car smell wafted up to my nostrils in a disturbing manner.

I was being kidnapped and I was terrified; too frightened to cry but anger wasn’t all too distant. “Damn you, Goke!” I swore to myself. That useless man should have picked me up fifteen minutes ago but he had never kept to an appointment in his life. He had spent eleven months in his mother’s womb and, he was even late on our wedding day. My happy-go-lucky, boy-in-a-man, husband would be the cause of whatever misfortune that would soon befall / had already befallen me. I cursed him again.

“Madame…”

I briefly peeked into the car, and all I saw was darkness but as I put my first leg in, I saw a man’s right shoe from the shadows at the other end. All of a sudden, my self-preservation instincts took over and I pushed the dark pretend-valet to the side, shut the door and took off in the direction of traffic, yelling for help at the top of my lungs.

“Taiwooooo!”

“Taiwooooooooooooo!!”

At first I didn’t hear my name being called but somehow, some part of my brain that was still functional made a connection between the shoe I just saw and the voice I was hearing. I knew that voice; I had married a man with a voice like that.

I looked back to see Goke running towards me with a boyish laugh, holding a ridiculously long, silver triangular box like a baton. Probably the limited edition, snow-capped Toblerone chocolate I’d been craving. His goons were laughing as well, probably his colleagues from work.

“I just thought you could use another car”, he shouted, opening his arms wide, waiting for his equally carefree, legitimately crazy wife to run back to him and jump into his arms.

“I could use another husband” I answered sarcastically.

HAPPY VALS DAY AFRO-FAMILY

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The Black Procession February 11, 2011

Today is/was Friday.

It’s been a long week and a week with a lot of important lessons as well, lessons in patience, perseverance, hope and hard work. I do realize that a lot of times, we get motivated to strike out but really are never prepared to take that risk till we actually do so. We learn as we go and we grow. Most importantly, we learn that success really is not a destination.

I love that the goddess is back but I also recognize the demands of her presence. I know that waking up at odd hours would resume in earnest; I shall soon be mind-travelling, exploring deep troughs and dangerous heights, looking at man like stranger and living like a traveler; synchronizing my soul with the world’s vibrations while also being disconnected; falling in love without a heart; crying without any tears and living in a world that’s real to me, yet nonexistent.

I love that the goddess is back because I can be myself once more; I love that she won’t hide herself from me as well. I love the stories she tells me, I love how they remind me of a life I might have lived before I came into this existence. I love her.

AfroMuse, I have missed you.

Here’s a confused love treble on my gong, only because AfroSays:
THE BLACK PROCESSION

Deep Breath

From the bushes they emerge,
Legions of the undead

Staggering in a hurry, early in the morning
Starched rags, white faces, dead souls
Eyes on the floor, uneager to go

Yet, go they must, to their places of summoning
Black shoes, tired legs, worn soles
Bag and briefcase on tow

They assemble at the river bank,
Devil driven, water leaking, lamp lit canoes,
Each one must find a boat

Ten thousand boats on the river,
Ten thousand lights on the water,
Moving in unison, a sleeping parade,
Soaked shoes, torn shirts, depressed purses,
Sinking boats, sunken spirits, slow progress,
Chin in palm, eyes set afar, seeing nothing,
Ten million souls in early mourning,
Each soul, one sorrow, one comfort,
Tonight ends the Black Procession

TGIF AFRO-FAMILY!

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The walk home February 9, 2011

THE GODDESS IS BACK!

We’re unpacking her baggage while she’s reclining at the backyard porch, sipping a glass of imported red and commanding away. She sent me something to broadcast just last week and I’m still not sure how I’m going to explain to her that I mistakenly deleted it and there is no undo button on my BlackBerry.

As I gently open the front-door, trying to escape the hard work of helping the witch unravel the bagged shopping mall she had brought with her, a missile hits me on the back of my head. My first errand!

Mixed feelings as I hit the gong in defeat. New tunes, only because Afrosays:

THE WALK HOME

The Proud Devil

I instinctively stopped and took two steps back, leaning back into an impossible, ugly posture to inspect whatever seemed to have caught my attention in the first place.

It was just another hole in just another miserable fence. I walk past exactly twenty-one of these lizard homes everyday on my way back home from the market place. This was the nineteenth hole. I didn’t have to count, I just knew. For a few seconds, in the same absurd position, I stared at the spectacle before me.

The sudden pain in my lower back reminded me that there was a heavy basket of yams on my head so I slowly tried to ease into a better posture. I couldn’t move too fast, hell! I didn’t even want to move at all for fear that I might somehow upset the situation before me. I eventually chose to ignore the discomfort.

Why would the gods play such an evil trick on a poor man? The lizard turned to look at me briefly, as if to mock my inferior status and proudly returned his large orange head to its former position. I cursed him from the depths of my heart. He turned to me again as if to dare me, to tease me, to ask me who held a folded one-thousand Naira note in his mouth. My heart skipped a beat because I knew that it wasn’t me. Agama then moved a centimeter back into his palace, threatening. The cursing stopped.

I stayed like that for a while, back hurting, knees shaking, hoping Agama would be kind enough to feed me for one week; hoping that somehow he would let the beautiful paper note fall to the floor. Maybe he would buy me a new sunday shirt, maybe he would help me pay the rent. There were a lot of things Agama could do for me but he eventually decided he would rather add cushion to his nest. He took his time, majestically maneuvering his demonic body back into the grotesque hole. I swore revenge.

I dropped my basket of yams and straightened up. My back was a bed of pain. I quickly sat down on the floor, right under the hole and soon began to reminisce of the few times in my life I had actually spent a thousand, trying to remember if there was any time it hadn’t been an errand. It wasn’t too long and I felt something drop on my head. After I saw what it was, I began to fume with anger. Agama had decided that half a thousand Naira note was enough to make him comfortable and he had sent me the other shredded half. I stood up immediately.

I got home in record time, picked up my almost empty tin of kerosene and headed towards the house of that miserly creature.

I would go hungry tonight – the aroma of roasted lizard would suffice.

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