Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Passion March 30, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 12:40 pm
Tags: , ,

Hello earthlings! DarkBetty here.

First, you should note that I’m not always dark; it’s based on the kinds of drafts that blow through the goddess’ castle. I could be BubblegumBetty next week..

I’m honored to become a resident here; I hope my stay brings much smiles, tears, introspection, and other states of cognitive and volitional states of consciousness.

Plunge in..

I’m beating a blood-red gong today; it has a strong, powerful, compelling sound that communes with the spirit. Listen..


...Shh Shouldn't have... Loved

She evoked all sorts of emotions in him. Strong, potent emotions. It was why he’d married her. No woman had enveloped him in such a fervid manner. He’d wanted to possess her, body and soul. And it wasn’t just her beauty, he’d seen many beautiful women. She had fair skin with very black hair and dark, dark eyes.
And all that poise. He’d told his mother he’d never met such a lady. Her every deed was in a regal manner. Like some goddess come to inhabit a queen. Head held high on that long graceful neck. That neck he’d lately been having visions of snapping in two. She was so damn cold. She hardly ever reacted to anything these days.. Those eyes just glazed over him like she expected nothing less from an earthling such as him.
When he’d run into the arms of his voluptuous secretary; he’d been deliberately sloppy so she’d find out. So she’d be hurt. So she’d cry. But all she’d said was “I forgive you..”
He didn’t need her bloody forgiveness. He wanted a tantrum, anger, tears. But she’d just sat there and said it, not even looking at him.
He’d looked at her. Envy and hatred eating at him. In their five years of marriage, she hadn’t lost her figure. He, on the other hand was now the proud owner of a pot belly as his hair line receded. She couldn’t have kids, an operation gone wrong, she’d told him on their second date. So he’d had no illusions.
An overwhelming urge to possess her came over him and he walked over to his fair wife who sat so calmly, flipping through the latest edition of Reader’s Digest.
He leaned down and touched her face. He loved her, he did. He reached down to kiss her, his intentions very clear. But at the last minute, she turned her face so his lips met cold cheek, not warm lips.
She went back to her publication. Then said, “Don’t. Ever. Touch. Me. Again.”
Furious now, not thinking. He slapped her hard on the cheek he’d only just kissed. The fair cheek reddened fast. A flaw on the porcelain face.
But she didn’t cower. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t run for cover or even reach up to protect herself. Her eyes just flashed as she stared straight ahead, her eyebrows lifted slightly as if in amused interest.
He cursed and walked over to his bar; throwing the strong liquid down his throat. Then he threw the whole decanter against the wall; angry he had to seek boldness to take his wife.
He walked back, his own eyes now red. Met her in the same position. Pushed her to the ground roughly, pushing her skirt up tearing her panties away as he resorted to take her by force.
Still, she said nothing; just closed her eyes as if resigned to the worst. A blind rage engulfed him and he lashed out angrily. Over and over again, he hit her. Angry that she wouldn’t defend herself, angry she had reduced him to some animal with primitive emotions.
And he hit and hit.
And when it was over, he looked down at his bloody lifeless doll; gathered the shattered pieces of his ice sculpture into his arms and wept.

Midnight noises March 28, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 11:21 am
Tags: , ,

Hello world,

I’ve been getting work from the goddess, lots of work! I have a lot of undelivered dispatches and now that she’s done with me, we can get to business.

How’s she? She seems to be all pumped up and productive. I’ve finished seven jugs of ink and two carts of parchment, trying to get her ideas into deliverable form. Maybe I don’t have a lot of finished products but the bin is filled with oodles of ‘could-have-beens’. We sit on the furs at the fireplace all night long, she dreams and I journey with her, to places I have never been. I open my eyes at the amazing and I appreciate the mundane as well because I never know what to expect.

Good News!
Dark Betty has joined us at the castle. We gave her an empty room, the only bone-engine typewriter we have and lots of actual paper but I’m not sure what she’s going to do with it but I’m sure that even her paper planes would be magnificent.

Y’all know I do guitars, Kirikou and Simone have been talking to me a lot lately, hence, I obliged Kirikou’s request to feature. The disclaimer here would be that I’m not professional but I just love music. I did a quickie song, Agidi, and recorded it on my laptop. It’s all me and one guitar, squeaking over and over on this AUDACITY software I found on the internet. It’s a joke really, nothing serious, but my guitars wouldn’t forgive me if I hid them in my closet. Find our embarrasing song at the end of the story. YOU MUST TO USE EARPHONES OH!

I’d be beating a Blues/Rock mixation on the gong and screaming “Welcome Dark Betty, to the house of pain and pleasure, rah rah rah!” and you all know why. Of course, AfroSays:



It was midnight, a dry northern midnight, the kind that required you to sleep naked on a wet bed. The kind that kept you awake all night, tossing and turning, marinading in your own pool of liquid saltiness, maybe standing up a few times to check if, by some evil trickery, the windows to your room had been shut, only to discover that you can still see the face of the moon in a half smile, mocking your inconvenience.
That was the kind of night that kept a whole city awake, the kind that made every man’s ears quick and noticing, differentiating the creaking snores of his house from the apologetic footsteps of an uninvited guest.
The timorous squeaks on the floor board started as groans and ended in flailing, high-pitched shrieks, in five second intervals like muted birth calls of a pregnant banshee.
All the flooring in the house was marble tiling, all except the kitchen floor. It had escaped replacement because the aging wood complemented the mahogany cupboards in a retro-meets-modern communion. He didn’t understand what that meant but that’s what the interior decorator he married had said. That night, all that mattered was what he heard.
He was actively listening to the other intrusive sounds now, and coming into the consciousness of a man, a higher animal. He listened and he began to think.
There were two doors in the kitchen. The second kitchen door opened to the backyard; The backyard was a short distance from a short fence; the short fence was a short distance from a short grass patch; the short grass patch gave way to a short lane; the short lane soon joined the main road.
The main road… The short lane… The short grass patch… The short fence… The backyard… It was littered with his daughter’s toys… His daughter’s toys were at the backyard…
His daughter…
Probably was just trying to get a forbidden midnight snack, some Shortbread and Ribena perhaps.
He got up, wore a pair of shorts and went to check.
Download, put on those earphones and please enjoy, Agidi. Lyrics can be found here

As cruel as school children March 17, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 1:25 pm
Tags: ,

I’m not in the mood for much talk today. Inner he-motions are mixing a personally innocuous but generally toxic brew.

You know, we can’t remain the same forever… we change as we age… we only hope that the people we love would accept us not only for who we are but for who we become…

Sha! When I haven’t got Simone or Kirikou (my guitars) next to me, Terry G usually does the feel-good trick. I shall be beating an excitingly captivating piece from Free Madness, Part 3 -> Sile! Sile! Sile! because AfroSays:


No snitching...

He turned to me, his eyes begging this time, seemingly apologizing for the years of torment he had caused me: the name callings, beatings, the repeated injury to my self esteem and all the unjustifiable wickedness.
“Mister man! What is the biological name of rat?!”
He did not take his pleading eyes off me as he trembled in paralyzing fear of the sasquatch that the school had mistakenly employed as a teacher.
I stared back at him, aloof like a bad replica of the Mona Lisa that hung in the art class. I did not know the answer today, or did I?
That was the last question on the quiz that the class had been given this past week, an extremely simple test. The big dummy had copied my work, word-for-word, as usual, and I hadn’t really minded. He had been given a perfect score, as usual, and I hadn’t minded as well. He had bragged about it and I couldn’t care less, as long as he kept up his part of our unspoken contract.
You see? The big dummy and his cronies always used to beat me; he was big and dumb and I was small and smart – typical senseless shortcomings of mother nature, typical secondary school scenario. We acted out all the usual high school bully plays: lunch money extortion, random knocks on the head, slaps to the face, destruction of homework, and all the other usual suspects.
You see? Despite all these, we the smart small kids had to live by a ‘no snitching’ rule. That meant that whenever we were persecuted, whenever one of the big kids vandalized something, whenever one of the big kids got the whole class in trouble, we couldn’t tell the school authorities or even our parents.
So after years of torment, I had to think of a way out. The big kids were really dumb, you see? Some of them couldn’t even spell three-letter conjunction words or successfully perform arithmetics on three-digit numbers. They had a huge handicap, but so did we. We were easy to push around and couldn’t fend for ourselves. The way out? I decided to help the biggest, dumbest kid out with school work so that he and his friends could spare me and my other small smart friends. The big kids could continue to bully the small, dumb kids; in this world, you had to have something to offer, you see?
Our arrangement worked for a comfortable while, and all the other small smart kids helped the big dumb kids. We became a symbiosis, a ecological balance, a case study for world peace, but something went wrong, you see?
Smart kids are in categories – there are the 10/10 kids, the 9/10 kids, the 8/10 kids and the 7/10 kids. It seems one of the lower echelon smart kids had a brain fail recently and his parasite failed as well. (Yes! 5/10 is a brain fail). So, the oversize leech goes on to compare scores with his goons and he realizes his loss. He then goes ahead to beat on my colleague and his goons join in, including the one I help.
It’s really bad, you see? We try to fight back, and we all get beaten. One of us gets hospitalized and he can’t snitch. Therefore, due to the recent unpleasant circumstances, the contract ends.
But I am not done.
The small smart kids have all kinds of resources, you see? I send an anonymous text message to the sasquatch this morning, snitching, yes! Snitching all the big dumb kids from the last biology test.
He calls out the first name on the list, my parasite, and he can’t answer a single question from the quiz that he nailed with a perfect score. We all know how much the sasquatch loves to inflict pain. He would call out the other nervous blockheads and they would fail so splendidly, as well. He would then take them all to his office at the distant, neglected end of the school and invite them in, one-by-one for a personal ten-minute session.
“You mean you don’t know the biological name of rat?!”
Big numbskull looks at me, sweating, begging, telepathically kissing my behind and I decide to have a little more fun. I mouth the following words:
“Phallus phallus”

One chance March 14, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 11:24 am

Hello all 🙂

The goddess is back! She says to appreciate all of you that sent get-well-soon cards, feel good potions, those weird joysong crystals, plus plus.

We had several sessions over the weekend and although I wasn’t too physically fit, it was a totally feel good experience. You can be sure to expect great deliveries over the next few days (you’d just have to wait till i recover full health as well).

It’s a Monday morning and I’m glad to be here, so I’d love you to know that I love my job because you guys make it worth it.

I’d be beating a solidarity anthem on the gong. Bang! Bang! Bang! pan ran ran ran ran ran ran! All National Anthem like, because AfroSays:



“Conductor, fun mi ni change mi! Twenty Naira mi da?! Abole ni e ni??”
Some buccal jet spray squirted on my neck as the fat Yoruba woman screamed at the top of her voice, demanding the balance of her fare from belligerent bus conductor, accusing him of dishonest intentions.
I adjusted to a better position since there was plenty of room and I promptly wiped off the offending spray. The bus was quite empty because it was a public holiday evening, and apart from myself, there were only four other passengers, a quiet fellow sitting in front and the three market women we had picked up after I joined.
I stole a furtive look at the angry woman and my unsure eyes immediately began to take a tour of the vehicle. It was evening so I couldn’t see much, but this bus was in surprisingly good condition compared to the other ten-turned-fourteen seater commercial buses that plied Lagos metropolis; all the seats were cushioned and there were no holes in the floor to give me a good view of the tarred road. I had joined it on the expressway like the other woman because I was too much in a hurry to join the queue for the government-owned, mass transit buses.
“Ole! Fun mi ni change mi oh! Mo ti fe bole oh!”
I tried to ignore the woman but I was intensely irritated for even at the window edge of the seat, I could not escape the spray. The conductor was luckier though, his medium-length dreadlocks and upright collar got the worst of it so he probably didn’t any get skin contact. This time I was expecting some form of backlash because the woman had directly called him a thief but he still did not reply; his face was a blank sheet.
Although tirades like hers and name-callings too, were a consistent part of the commuting culture in this part of the world, the conductor, sometimes assisted by the driver, usually had a few retorts of his own. Such repartees usually resulted in a form of entertaining comedy where the passengers took on their two-man crew and the crew, in turn, would verbally assault the passengers with poverty punctuated one-liners and so so. Most of these exchanges usually resulted in even more hilarious criticisms of the government and everybody went home happy but the rest resulted in very bitter exchanges that often went physical. I was surprised at the quiescence of the well muscled thug; they usually were the more aggressive ones. His type usually would reply with a well aimed, highly disrespectful insult and then all the other market women would join in.
The woman had claimed that she was about to alight. That was probably a lie too because most Lagosians would say anything to collect their fare balances before the bus got to its final destination where the conductor would have a chance to magically disappear, but it got me wondering why the conductor wasn’t calling out bus stop names like he was supposed to.
“Driver! Temperance bus stop, o wa oh! ”
Another woman had called from the back that she wanted to get off at the next bus stop. The bus quieted down for a bit then the antagonist began yelling again. She obviously wasn’t getting off soon, she just wanted to secure her balance. Thank God I was getting off at Temperance too. I sat up as the bus drew nearer to our destination. Usually, it was illegal for commercial buses to ply the express way because the bus stops were on the service lane to the right, so I guessed that the bus was going to cut speed some distance before or after the bus stop area and we were going to jump down when the vehicle was in reasonably slow motion, but to my surprise, the black and white blocks that lined the culvert kept moving past us at the same speed.
“O wa oh! O wa oh! O wa oh!” we all called after each other in different tones like a Handel choral improvisation, but the driver didn’t seem to notice.
“Conductor, please I’d like to get down at Temperance.”
It was obvious that I was speaking to Casper, the friendly ghost, because this conductor didn’t hear what I said.
We did another beautiful Handel improvisation just in case the driver didn’t hear us, but he obviously wasn’t into classicals. I kept quiet because the other women kept shouting, especially the antagonist. They were screaming Yoruba profanities at the top of their lungs. I knew all the popular ones but I heard a few new interesting concepts. They kept at it as the bus sped past Temperance bus stop.
Soon enough, we were past four bus stops and on our way out of the city. The ladies were screaming Yoruba mysteries by now. I picked a few clues from their panic inspired gibberish that got me confused. They were begging, insulting, praying for and threatening our captors at the same time and in this tumultuous mix, the antagonist still found courage to ask for her twenty Naira balance. I knew we were in trouble so I just kept my mouth shut.
We kept moving for over an hour until we were out of city, on an interstate route that I wasn’t familiar with. The women had kept up their panic banter for a while until they got tired but the one that was owed would not relent; from time to time, she would insult the driver and the conductor and eventually she had words for everyone else in the bus. It’s been said that people have their different ways of dealing with crisis. I found hers kind quite unusual.
I must have drifted in and out of consciousness, maybe even slept with my eyes open, because I found myself coming to different states of awareness at different times. Sometimes I would suddenly find myself in a state of great terror, sometimes a state of deep resentment, sometimes I was very curious, other times I was just bored. It was getting really dark and our captors still hadn’t spoken a word to us or to themselves.
Another half hour passed in the same dull momentum and the strangely, the conductor began to sing to himself, some weird song in an even more weirder language. It lasted for a few minutes and it stopped. Of course he earned a few well-aimed insults in the process. Quite suddenly, the quiet fellow in the front suddenly lifted a gun to head of the driver and told him to turn into an un-tarred road that suddenly showed itself some distance ahead of us. The bus slowed a bit and made for the diversion. We then began another two-hour journey, but this time, it was very quiet.
There was no sign of human life on this road, just a long, dusty path of red earth in the middle of thick vegetation. At the end of the road, there was a large, dark body of water. The driver was instructed to park the vehicle. I’m not sure what was wrong with the woman who wanted her fare balance because she still wanted it. Nobody else said a word.
The gunman collected the car keys and alighted. The driver opened his door and immediately sprinted into the bushes. The muscular conductor slid the passenger door open, and alighted as well. He put his hand under the seat and brought out a cowry adorned leather sack. I wet myself.
I’m not sure what the other passengers thought but I would have preferred to be robbed and beaten than to be used an ATM machine. Lately, rumours had been circulating the city that people were being kidnapped for use in money making rituals. Some tabloids even ran stories of how such human sacrifices would perpetually vomit new Naira notes for their masters to fill up several life-size coffins.
The other two women began to cry but this crazy one wanted her twenty Naira back. The muscular man brought out a calabash and went on to scoop some water into it from the stream. He began to speak some strange words into it after which he instructed each of us to drink from it.
I was glad that I wasn’t the first in line to partake of the foul communion. He started with the other two, more lucid women who quickly complied when the gun was trained on them. The mouthy woman simply would not comply; she wanted her twenty Naira balance and couldn’t care less if the bullet was a cruise missile. Apparently, they couldn’t force her so they let her be.
I wasn’t as confident but I was too petrified to even lift my hands or open my mouth. I wasn’t sure of anything but I knew there were no immediate repercussions for refusing the mystic brew. They let me be too.
The two compliant women seemed to be calmer now. They were instructed to alight, which they did, and the muscular fellow led them into the bushes, collar still flying like it was all a joke. They man with a gun stared at myself and the mentally imbalanced lady for a while then turned his back to leave. He soon disappeared into the bushes as well, throwing the keys over as he did so.
In a less than two hours, we joined the interstate route again and I made a mental note of where we had exited from, there was a 60 km/h speed limit sign right in front of it; it would be a suitable landmark for future reference. There was also a u-turn gap ahead and as I navigated turned to the other side in a frenzied slalom, we spotted a dangerous looking man running towards us.
We almost hit the driver.
In three minutes, we were back to the speed sign from where we had come and the un-tarred road was missing; all we saw was thick vegetation. Fear would not allow us investigate so we pressed on further, looking for another non-existent divergence in case we were mistaken. The driver then took this opportunity to relay his side of the story to us.
He had picked up the kidnappers some minutes before he I joined the trip and the armed man joined him in front and almost immediately threated him with the gun as they had picked up pace. He had been given instructions to pick the first four passengers they could find and drive towards the interstate route after and the gun had been aimed at him, the whole trip.
In about an hour, we re-entered the city and we dropped off the ranting, crazy lady later with her ‘twenty Naira change’ and proceeded to the nearest police station to make an official police report.
I called my husband as soon as we got there and explained most of it. He would not believe my story; he knew that route well and there was no divergence. The police would not believe our story for the same reason; they sent us to the hospital to be tested for hallucinogens.

Blind faith March 9, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 12:53 pm
Tags: ,


Things are beginning to look up oh! The goddess is recovering.

She has begun to walk around; pick random, meaningless fights; throw cushions at the wall (we hid all the breakables) and probably, most importantly, to boss me around.

We don’t mind because we’re all happy that we’ve escaped the worst of it. We would even be more glad to have our bipolar, erratically minded, belligerent, semi-loopy witch back as soon as possible. As loony as she might be, she fills our world the same sick kind of joy that she radiates. She’s like our psycho-stimulant, her aura gives us an addictive kick that results in an unhealthy dependence.

Welcome back AfroMuse, we’ve missed you!

Still talking about home, Dark Betty was kind enough to pay us a visit and beat the gong today. Here’s her gong signature:

I’m beating a shiny gong; it isn’t pink, no, it’s a myriad of black and emerald green… an emerald green that glows in the dark; reminiscent of Chinese demons and Scar’s evil green eyes…

Please enjoy:

Trusting away

The room was quiet apart from the wheezing of the little boy. In; Out. In; Out. Very difficult to listen to. His father sat to his left with his head bowed; holding his hand. The mother had silent tears running down her face. Her eyes stared vacantly at the dark stain on the wall opposite; the result of a minor fire last year when Tobi had put a candle on the table. God had saved him then; He could do it again.
But still, she sighed. Then said:
“Don’t you think we should take him to the hos…”
Baba Tobi’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Kike; don’t say it! This is a test. God is testing us; we need to prove our faith!” He took a long deep breath then sighed. “Taking him there would be putting man before God… We have no Helper but God.”
More silence.
Tobi’s mother reached out to touch her son’s forehead. “The temperature is still up. John; I can’t lose this child; he’s all I have!” She sobbed loudly now. “We’ve been praying for a week now; a doctor might..”
“Stop it, woman! Stop it!” He stood suddenly and paced in the small room. He was a big man; a few strides taking him to one end of the room and back. “God!” He hollered. “Save my son! We trust in you.” Tears ran freely from his eyes. “Please”, he added in a whisper.
He walked over to his wife; squatted so they were eye to eye. He wiped her face then held her much smaller hands in his. “Kike; believe. Saying things like that is what the devil wants.”
“But he hasn’t opened his eyes since yesterday. He..” Her emotions took over and she cried even harder. “Please; John. Let’s take him. Please.”
John stood to his full height. “Let’s continue praying… I believe..,”
A loud cough from Tobi interrupted. They both jumped and stood over their son. He was coughing hysterically now; his eyes bulging as his small chest expanded and contracted.
“Get water! Tobi! TOBI! It is well with you!” His father shouted as his hands floundered about; unsure of how to soothe. “Tobi!”
His mother rushed over with the cup of water but it was knocked out of her hands as her son began to jerk and spasm on the bed.
It was over fast.
“Tobi!” She screamed. She pulled her son to her chest; shaking him. “Tobi!” She cradled his hot head against her bosom. “Tobi!”
There was no more coughing. No wheezing. Just silence.
John was frozen. He felt cold all over.
“Tooobbbiii!” She wailed; her screams piercing the silence. “Jooohn! Toooobbiiii!!!”

Navigating Dark Alley March 4, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 3:43 pm
Tags: , ,

Hello Afro-family!

People close to me know that my stories are ‘impulse-inspired’ i.e. I write spontaneously from how I feel, what I see, what I experience… You know, what comes to me in my own little world space.

The Afromuse is in one of those moods where her strong emotions make weird things happen. If you’re driving around Lagos on a clear, sunny day and you see a house covered by dark clouds, whirling winds, erratic lightning blades and icy rain, that’s where I live, and that’s where the witch is.

Apart from dark mode, nothing major has been going on in the village of late, I’m currently trying to get a one or two Towncriers to share on the Afro-gong and you’re welcome too. Till then, I’d be talking to the stone gargoyles over the fireplace, the snake-dragons from the kitchen and the tattooed wolves from the dungeon. We’re the committee burdened with the responsibility of cheering up the bipolar neurotic, her divine, lest the house be torn apart and we all perish.

Dodging flying chairs, I’m sneaking out so I can beat a breather on the gong for a minute, because Afrosays:


... RED BIRO ...

A bottle of gin on the table, next to my revolver; the latter to cause to end my pain, the former to make me numb enough to use the latter.
I am sitting at the wooden chair-table-lamp combo every cheap motel seems to have these days, watching two celebrity cockroach super heroes fly about in their brown shiny capes, while the mosquitoes sing a variety of disconnected theme songs.
I let them be, tonight is about me. There is nothing I can do to successfully mitigate their ceremony anyway, this is their city.
A swig of the nasty stuff brings me back to focus. I smile as I look back through my four decades of meaningless existence, I nod as I remember the defining moment of my third decade, when I swore to myself that exactly today, if I am still alive, I would be in this room, with this bottle and this red pen, to take a self-examination.
Maybe it is mid-life crisis, maybe I should just return home to Aisha and the kids, crawl into my larger-than-usual cubicle on Monday at Exxon, spend the whole month changing the way the dust settles in my insignificant corner the universe, and crawl back into my hole with half a million at the end of it. But I’ve been doing that for a while now and it doesn’t look like that’s one of the good points that would put the red pen away.
The boys should know how to deal with this, they don’t seem to be as disillusioned as I am. Give them a football match, several bottles of the good stuff and each others’ company and they should be alright for a millennium or two. Maybe I should try that when I get home, if I get home, but there’s no way I’m leaving this room alive if I don’t do well on the test.
Another swig.
The desk I’m sitting at has a few blank sheets of paper, a black biro and a Gideon’s bible.
With one sheet on the bible, I write down the following questions with their score weights as I had devised them on my thirtieth birthday:
“What is your name?” 1 point.
“What is your purpose?” 99 points.
I have two minutes.
Another swig.
I have one point.
Now I begin to stare at the second question like it’s 9D Star Wars advanced mathematics. It doesn’t make any sense to me.
“What is purpose?”
“Do I have one?”
Deeper swig.
“Purpose. Purpose. Purpose. Ashhhhh!”
I have about forty-five seconds more and I know what I must do if I fail.
I start panicking.
My vision is blurry now but I can still see the ominous question staring at me like a demon-personified incantation wrought to summon me to the underworld. The revolver is some distance from it looking all extra-shiny like it was made for a Bond movie. A quick glance at my watch tells me I have only ten seconds left.
After ten seconds, I know what I must do. I have to be brave.
I drop the pen and pick up the gun in my left hand and with the other hand, put the bottle to my lips for the last time. I toss my head to the back with reckless abandon, submitting myself to the falling sensation.
I wake up the next morning on the floor, still partially sitting in the chair that had fallen backwards, surrounded by shattered pieces of glass and a horrid smell.
The room is still dark but in my brain, there are a thousand lights. I stand up to find my creased white shirt stained from the mix of gin and the low-quality wood polish that makes the floor look like it had been ‘carpented’ from parts of a medieval ship wreck.
I eventually find the gun flung in some distant corner, under the bed. I make for it; the test isn’t over.
I sit again, one last time, ten seconds before I put my pen down.
If I fail, I won’t need a suicide note, whoever reads my blank sheet would understand.
“What is your purpose?”
In less than a second, it occurs to me why my existence is mediocre, that some would say that I don’t deserve to live because I don’t have anything to die for.
Of course, the swig of gin that took me out was a clever attempt for self-preservation. Of course, I’m a coward, a dog; I hate life but I love it. My purpose in life might be non-grandiose, even non-existent but I usually would rather stay alive.
My ten seconds expire.
A newly employed cleaner would come in an hour later to a most terrible, first day on the job. As she cleans up, she would notice at an odd-looking piece of paper on the table that reads:
“1. Yusuf Sanni ”
“2. To stay alive; A living dog is better than a dead lion.”
“Score: 100 points”

Healing cripples March 1, 2011

Filed under: Abstract — afrosays @ 2:22 pm
Tags: , ,

So the muse eventually came through and I just submitted my Commonwealth story today – the last day possible, TownCrier Betty thinks it’s superb but like a jaded kitchen woman, I’m the one who knows how much salt I did not add. I’d have put it up here but for copyright issues that I agreed to. Who is Betty? My dark Betty? You can read Betty’s first interesting venture into blogville HERE. She usually does DARK and CREEPY but she was invited to use one of them SugarCane type gongs so…

Bottom line, Imma have one of Betty’s dispatches played out on this gong as soon as I can. I love her like that!

Thing is, doing all that sensible writing for the Commonwealth competition drained the goddess because she’s used to the less-than-classic, exuberant material that she’s been dishing out so far. However, she knows we all need to hear a little ‘something-something’ so she still sent this along.

One stroke because this is an Afro-Quickie. Please enjoy:


... Be healed ...

P: “The lord shall do great things today ahhh!”
C: “Amen!”
P: “He shall perform miracles today ahhh!”
C: “Amen!”
P: “He shall heal the sick and raise the dead ahhh!”
C: “Amen!”
P: “I feel the Spirit moving ahhh! Put your hands on wherever the devil has held you bound ahhh!”
“Receive your healing ahhh!”
C: “Ameeeen!”
P: “I say receive your healing ahhh!”
C: “Ameeeen!”
P: “Receive your testimony ahhh!”
C: “Ameeen!”
P: “Let all those with an unwavering faith in the lord begin to come forward for impartation by laying of hands”

A sizable crowd approaches the altar.
P begins impartation by laying of hands, resulting in high pitched shrieks, tumultuous vibrations of the body, sudden fainting and spiritual slaying.
P approaches the wheel chair line and begins to pull the passengers out, they all immediately adopt a clumsy gait and soon begin to walk properly amidst frenzied hallelujahs and feverish, charismatic music.
P is not done with the line, when he suddenly realizes something and returns to the non-crippled.
Brother calmly approaches P with a handgun and advises P to heal his crippled mother or die.
P pulls crippled mother out of wheelchair and cripple mother quickly adopts clumsy gait and soon begins to walk very properly.
P goes berserk, giving praises to God.
Brother shoots P anyway.
Crippled mother then explains to all that she was never crippled.

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