Rum Roulette April 26, 2011

Dear ones,

Happy Easter.

The gong is bedazzled; blinking white crystals like a disco ball. Outfitted with an exuberant surround-sound system because AfroSays:

RUM ROULETTE.

... I drink... Copiously...

I held her hand and pulled her close to me. She didn’t tense up or act shy, she just went along with whatever I was gaming at.

I whispered in her ear softly, “How naughty are you?” She didn’t answer, she just smiled. Confidence.

I’ve always had mixed feelings about confident ladies. Sometimes, confidence is a sign that we both want the same thing and she’s mature enough to skip past the verbal foreplay but sometimes it is an indication of a kind of feminine ego, a superior complex that controls and exploits. I find such leanings repulsive, even in men.

But her smile wasn’t that of a man user, it was more hubris; a female cocky, with an edge of perky to it. Obviously, she thought herself exciting and she delighted in that thought. I smiled too.

“How much of a man are you?”

As I opened my mouth to discharge a slew of macho nonsenses, she put the tip of one of her lacquered talons on my lips and said, “Show me!”

She laughed as I fumbled for my car keys in a clumsy flurry of hands like a kid who’d been caught touching himself. Her cold palms touched my hands, calming them.

“Not yet. Not just yet dear!”

Before I could conjure up a lucid thought, she dragged me to the bar and pulled out a stool for me.

“I win, you pay” She winked.

“Gordon, fourteen shots of tequila” she said to the tender.

Gordon must have known something I didn’t because he laughed as he slid shot glasses across to us in pairs, one after the other with all the charisma of a Texan gunslinger. As if by magic, suddenly, there was extra salt and lemon cutlets in two small trays on the table.

She had already emptied her first shot when the second pair arrived. She slid the first glass across to Gordon and threw back the second as the third glass arrived, meanwhile, I was collecting shots like a target practice dummy.

As she lifted the third glass, she stopped and looked at me. She shook her head with a smile.

“You don’t drink much do you?”

“I do… I”

“The game is called Rum Roulette but I prefer it with Tequila. Down the first shot before the next one gets to you and slide the empty glass back. Fastest doer wins. Loser pays. Are you sure you drink a lot? We don’t want you getting wasted after…”

“I drink copiously, COPIOUSLY!” I said with a mock northern accent, trying to relay my expertise with percentages in good spirits.

“But I’ve got three on you though. You’re gonna pay for them and we’d start afresh. Seven shots in a row.”

I threw back the backlog of shots that had accumulated before me as she downed the third shot cheerily. The bite of the brew clung to my throat like an astrigent.

“Leggo!”

Gordon started firing shots at us again like a World War 2 Gatling machine.

Slide.

Quaff.

Bam.

Slide. Sliide.

I threw the shots back ignoring the sharp sting of the stuff, one after the other, keeping count. I could hear her glasses hitting deck before mine in steady bam-bams like the bass of a marching band. I could barely keep up.

When she threw back her final shot, I still had two coming for me. I managed to gulp one down.

I knew I was in trouble when I put the sixth glass down and turned to look at her. Her face was blurred like a soft-touch picture. I could hear people cheering at the background.

“B-Baby! B-Baby! B-Baby!”

In slow motion, I saw her open her mouth in shock and stretch her arms as the distance between us widened.

BAM!

Last shot in hand, I hit the floor.

The next morning, I woke up in my boxer shorts, on a very comfortable strange bed. The modest bedding bore conspicuous Vine&Charlie Lodging prints asserting that I was a guest of the bar.

A small piece of paper was right next to me. It was a receipt.

“20 shots of Tequila – N13,400”

It was autographed by the Rum Roulette champion of Vine&Charlie, Boyowa, and my wallet confirmed the veracity of the payment.

Just before noon, as I checked out at the reception, I was told that Boyowa had paid for my stay. There was a stupid smile on my face. I knew where I had to be that night.

I had to see her again.

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The Orange Seller April 20, 2011

Hello world!
I’m beating an old gong today; but the tunes are still as fresh as day. Enjoy the slow dance of wistfulness as we all try to grasp the mist outside the window..
Yours, YearningBetty

... Ifeoma ...

This was my favorite street in town; with the trees flanking both sides. This part of town was still well-kept; a home to the elite.

I tugged Lazy’s leash; my terrier dragged along. Its name was a huge understatement; the indolent narrow-headed thing didn’t believe in any form of exertion.

I was absorbed in Lazy’s non-antics for a minute that I didn’t notice her for a while. But when I did, my first emotion was indignation.

My neat, clean street had been ruined for me. She sat there; her basket of yellow oranges perched on her laps. A hawker; whose only mission was to disrupt the tranquility of my street.

“Sweet orange! Buy ya sweet orange!” She said in that sing-song voice characteristic to all hawkers.

My second thought was that she had the fairest, most beautiful legs I’d ever seen. Cute and shapely, tapering down to the graceful ankles. Legs blemished with not a spot; marred with not a scar.

My eyes snapped up to her face, taking in her round face, devoid of make-up; her dark eyes looked bored, her full brows were drawn downward; her long, dark hair tied up with a fraying red cloth.

Her name would be Chioma or Ifeoma or Chidinma; I was sure. She would know how to cook; I could tell. Those their thick soups with plenty chunks of fish.

A mental image of Cassandra popped up in my head; my girlfriend of two years. Cassandra with all her poise, classy restaurants and manicured nails. Cassandra was tall and willowy where my orange girl was petite and curvy.

My orange girl. Maybe it was the mellowness of the afternoon; or that Lazy was actually raising his head to stare at her; or maybe I was just plain crazy.

I had subconsciously walked closer. She looked up at my approach.

And it was just the two of us.

I let my mind wander, taking her home, buying her clothes, showing her the world. Running my hands through that hair; splaying my hands over those legs; smoothening, then kissing those brows. Reveling in her eyes lighting up; pooling in tears of gratitude as they gazed back at mine…

“Oga. Abi you wan buy orange?”

I slammed back to earth. I thought of the look of horror that would creep on my mother’s face when she saw her first son’s choice. The sniggers of my sisters. The sarcastic lift of my father’s brows.

And finally, I thought of how she couldn’t survive in my world. They’ll break her; destroy her spirit.

“Oga?”

So, I walked up to the orange girl and bought all 36 of her damn oranges. Then walked away; home to Cassandra.

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The wish April 18, 2011

Hello folx!

This is a quickie.

I just thought to wish you a great week

My gong is a peeled, faded white. Telling ghost stories. Ghosts you’re familiar with and you’ve tried to hide from. They’re here because AfroSays:

THE WISH

... I want ....

She closed her eyes and made a wish. She was not required to speak it out, she just had to want it in her heart.

She knew what she wanted. She wanted him, but a true wish was not to be wasted, he’d told her that much. He’d also told her to be careful; wishes were bridges linking the real world which she lived in with the fantasy world that he came from. She could have anything she wanted. Anything. And that was the danger.

At first she didn’t believe him. She’d fought the idea that someone so real could be a figment of her imagination, a simple idea, but he’d explained it all to her.

Her faith had drawn him in.

She needed a man but men barely noticed her. She had been surprised that night when he suddenly appeared next to her and asked her to dance. She hadn’t been able to resist; he was the man of her dreams.

But he had to leave, return to the intangible world that he came from. Before he left, he’d told her that her desire had been so strong that night she had forced him into being. Although, she knew he had spoken the truth, she felt defensive and even though she didn’t say a word, she’d thought him a self-absorbed chauvinist dog.

She’d looked at him with one eyebrow raised as he’d gone on to tell her that he would leave a bridge to his world open, so that she could wish for anything she wanted, just one thing, by focusing her desires on it.

His words seemed gibberish to her till he slowly began to fade away right before her eyes. Nobody else noticed.

Only one part of him remained, a gentle ambience, a murmur of light, and she then knew she had to make a wish.

Then she believed him. Yes she did, but she thought it was all a dream, that she would wake up to her lonely life again in the morning. She decided that she believed, that she would indulge in the dream.

Foolish woman!

He watches her from his world trying to explain the police how she got locked in a central bank vault. That was the only place with as much cash as she’d imagined.

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Big questions April 15, 2011

Hello world,

I’m learning to beat the gong better. I might start a new category for ramblings about my unusual experiences as the goddess’ mouthpiece, I might not.

Betty and I are looking to redecorate sometime soon.

Most Importantly, I’ve learnt to keep it short. One laconic clang, all brisk-like as AfroSays:

BIG QUESTIONS

...P is for Pencil...

“Daddy where do babies come from?”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard what she asked the first time. Maybe I’d heard, maybe I’d subconsciously chosen to ignore her, hoping that I’d imagined the question.

“Daddy?” She tugged at my arm.

It took an effort of archillean proportions to tear my gaze from the TV so as to cater to the needs of my ten year old.

It’s not because Arsenal was throwing away yet another chance at a trophy, the thing was that I’d always thought parenting would be easy; It had been easy to spot many mistakes in the austere upbringing that my parents had dealt me. I’d envisioned myself as one of the modern, super cool parent types that I’d seen so many times in hollywood movies, the type that grounded kids when they were naughty, sent them to their room when they were rude, allowed them to have all their friends over and was open to talking about anything.

And somehow, I had succeeded. While most of my friends still employed the use of a form of archaic martial law in putting their young families in order, Wunmi felt the need to tell me every single insignificant detail about her life and I loved it.

The real problem was that I’d never prepared for the day when I would have to tell my daughter about how, someday, some idiot with a turgid penis would lend seed to her innocent vagina so that they could magically grow babies. I could not tell her bogus stories about Holy Ghost pregnancies or baby carrying birds or automatic, love-inspired conceptions because it was against my ‘Cool-Daddy’ code. Thinking about what I was about to say gave me a headache.

“Daddy noooow!”

I finally turned from the hopeless football match, not quite to look at her, but to look around her. I was already embarrassed.

“Emm… One day, a young man is going to butter your muffin”

“Ehn?!”

I loosened my neck tie.

“Actually, what I’m trying to say is that, ehn, one day, to have babies… Err, you have to screw… Yes, screw…”

I looked around as if to see imaginary impositions of my drinking buddies, pointing and laughing as I fumbled at my little girl’s question.

“Me, I don’t know what you are talking about oh! I am in Jss1 and the science teacher says we have to have sex!”

My mouth hung open.

She put her tiny arms on her waist and continued talking, all sissy like.

“So uncle Rufus said that he wants to put his penis in my vagina and I told him that the teacher said that I would get pregnant since I started seeing my period last month and I am now a woman”

“He said the teacher was wrong and that babies are from the Holy Spirit like with Mary and Jesus. I told him no sha. I just came to ask you.”

My expression of shock quickly metamorphosed into a mask of rage. ‘Uncle Rufus’ was the twenty-one-year-old cousin that I had brought into my home from the village because his parents could not support his education beyond the secondary level.

“So daddy, what is sex noooow?”

I had to calm down and attend to my little girl first. Without embarrassment, I told her that science teacher was right, I told her about the evils of teenage pregnancy, STDs, HIV, drugs, alcohol, over-speeding, politics, and any other evil the world would later throw at her.

I called my wife up next. As angry as I was, family issues were always tricky. If I sent him back to the village, he would hurt other little girls, maybe boys too. If I reported him to the police, I couldn’t face my family.

She told me that if I didn’t call the police, she would.

What would you do?

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Colours April 13, 2011

I’m beating a blue gong today. The color of the skies on a bright day. Let your senses inhale as you drift in time..
Yours, FloatingBetty.

..flashes of...ecstasy...

There was silence.
Then a flash of blue.
It was like a comet. It was gone that fast.
Then it was green. Then red. Then yellow.
A kaleidoscope of colors flashed before her eyes and she gasped in delight in the pure ecstacy of it all.
She giggled.
It occured to her that she knew not where she was; or if she was.
But this thought was banished from her mind almost immediately.
No questions here. Just being.
The flashes of colours increased in intensity and though she felt dizzy, she didn’t shut her eyes against them.
She luxuriated in them, let her grin grow wider and she sighed in joy.

The waking up didn’t come like a jerk. No, it didn’t.
It was like a snow flake falling lazily to the ground.
She felt herself return to her body slowly and when she opened her eyes to the darkness, she sighed.

‘David. Wake up. David!’ She nudged him.
‘Darling, why are you up?’, his voice growled sleepily.

‘David, I had a dream.’
He sat up. For she never dreamt. Could this mean.. ‘What about?’
‘David, I believe.. I believe I saw colors.’
‘And do you still see them?’ He asked tentatively.
‘No, I’m back to the darkness.’
‘Oh.’

He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. For she had been blind from birth. It was probably just a wish.

She heard it though. But she cared not. For even if it were(was) just for a few moments; she had seen.
And she was happy.

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Rambling: Golden morn… Getting acknowledged April 8, 2011

Hi favorites,

She came to my room this morning with a barrow-load of scrolls. For me to read. I’m learning that success at this job, just like any other job demands constant improvement in quality. I’m also beginning to recognize a style, a niche… I can’t say yet but it’s there, the space I think I can fit into as a writer… I’m almost seeing it.

I’m also buying scrolls of my own. Since I read stories written by great pen wielders like Toni Kan Onwudia, Stephen King… I’m currently reading Dean Koontz… I see a kind of writing that might be meant for me and all I can do for now is to read. Till I find it.

By the way, these days, I’m giving a real effort to making new friends and being genuinely interested in whatever they’re involved in too. I’m learning that it is the way to live. I’m open to being friends… hit me up on Twitter, Facebook, by email? Let’s mix minds. Plus I’d love to read stories you’ve written too. Please share a link.

Back to business, I’m beating a tune that sounds familiar even though it’s not sampled from any specific melody you’ve heard. It’s a call from somewhere in your past, when you were lost in the infinite sea of the universe. Listen as AfroSays:

RAMBLING: GOLDEN MORN… GETTING ACKNOWLEDGED

This is a rambling. It is not a story. It’s a spontaneous expulsion of random thoughts. Kindly Read and tell what you think?

I grew up, deriving nourishment from the breasts of my mother. Later in life, I was told that such natural nourishment would account for the mass of my thinking faculty and its inherent quality. I do not know if that is true because I still need the help of the Texas Instruments and the Holy Spirit to multiply double-digit, odd numbers.

Maybe it was because natural nourishment wasn’t my forever. I switched from the embracing milk of my mother to the distracted tits of Mother Nestle. That moment probably meant more than the successful weaning of a baby boy somewhere in rustic Ipaja; it signaled the beginning of a series of emotional investments in women who wouldn’t love me half as much as I did them.

That aside, Mother Nestle fed me half-heartedly with water, Dano powdered milk, sugar and Golden Morn. Her nourishment never had the same taste twice. It’s not that I remember how good (or not) the food was then, but I have kept at her teats two decades after my first introduction, hoping that one day I would get figure out the perfect way to derive nutrition from the everlasting hag.

I was told that I could not get up from my bed or stand or my two tiny legs till I was given a strong dose of heroin via direct needle to the brain. The Golden Morn was probably manufactured with whatever addictive substance they considered suitable for young, weak flesh because it was my strong thing. I was useless without a reasonable-size, early bowl of the gunk.

And I grew, into a boy. Short, but not the shortest; smart, but not the smartest; cute, they say, but not the cutest. I wasn’t the ‘est’ at anything. No awards, No medals, nothing to feed my tiny ego on, only the pain that comes with knowing that some form of ‘est’ was latent but redundant. I began searching.

Do not be deceived. These were the still times of saliva-eliciting, cement-hard tiles of oblong Okin biscuits. If you were alive and exposed then, I and most of my mates lived for 50 kobo, cigar-resembling chewing gums; colorful, icing-sugar-made Balewa treats; melted and re-solidified golden cones of sugar called “Ekana Gowon”; milky, cough inducing Ofio nuts; Tasty Time lollies made of water, sugar, cheap flavoring and coloring that gave the iced mix look like coagulated blood and gave your tongue a vampire finishing when you indulged, a badge you carried around with pride; rock-hard jaw breakers we called “Eyin Alangba”; eternal loops of brown, chocolate-color coconut candies called “Baba dudu”.

The point is I was a kid and I was already bothered about getting acknowledged. It took me years to figure out how to excel at anything I wanted but the answer was simple at the end of it all. Except for cases where natural inclination was an absolute determinant, in early life, success mostly depended on confidence. Hard work too, but mostly confidence; not just to try, but to win before you started. But as I would later discover as well, there was no formula to these things. If you tried enough, you just might have won as well.

I did get acknowledged towards the tail end of my secondary educational career at King’s College Lagos. I found a strong Christian belief that pumped me with confidence. Now I’m done with my university education and there are a few meaningless plaques in my father’s house. It’s a new phase all over again. I’m that kid all over again, looking for the next pseudo-truism to get me through till forty because these days, confidence alone just doesn’t do it.

I hope I find the new requirements for adult success as quickly as possible, because this time again, I want to be acknowledged.

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Her way out April 6, 2011

My family…

Few words today…

We shall all drink deeply from the cup,
The sin-black cup of ink.
And then lift our drunken eyes up from it,
Waiting for what it shall do to us.

Shall we all, with bloodshot eyes of erudition, warmly welcome Brownegurl. Open your minds as she tells you her story. First, her gong signature…

I’d be Beating a dark red gong with a splash of purple tragedy somewhere in there. Its cry is sharp and deep, burrowing into your mind. Enjoy!

HER WAY OUT

... Leaving...

I watched her as she sat peacefully drinking her tea, her almond tea just the way she liked it, the way I never seemed to get it right… I watched her, Abike.. My love, my life. The woman I vowed to spend the rest of my life with. The woman who vowed to spend her life with me. I watched her, wondering what was going on in that pretty head of hers.

Years ago, I would have slowly crept up behind her and lovingly planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck… years ago.. When my wife still loved me as I love her now. Years ago, before I had the road accident that took my legs from me.. Before I lost my job, before I lost the very essence of my manhood… before my wife got tired of me… before my wife sought comfort in the arms of another man… before she fell in love with another man.. Before… before. Years ago.

What would be her way out, I wondered as I watched her. Would Abike tell me she was leaving? or would my lovely wife ask for a divorce? My heart broke a little as those wicked thoughts danced around like little taunting devils in my head. What would I do? I wondered, she was life itself to me. With no children, we had shared twenty years of love and companionship before the accident. The accident changed everything…

I heard the “ting” of the microwave and knew that dinner was ready. I slowly came out of my reverie and wheeled myself to the dinner table. I looked at my wife. Abike looked particularly sad today.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked in my kindest voice. “No”, she said, barely looking at me, as she set my food down before me, her face as sad as sadness itself. Take out fried rice and salad, my favorite, but I had no passion for it tonight. All that I could think of was “what would be her way out?”.

I ate my food, my mind deep in thought, hardly aware of the rubbery texture of the rice in my mouth. When would Abike tell me she’s leaving, I wondered, punishing myself. When? I asked myself as I became aware of a sharp pain in the pit of my tummy. I clutched my tummy as the pain shot out from my stomach to my chest. I looked up at Abike as tears began to stream down her beautiful face and I wondered why she sat down there crying as I began to scream out in agonizing pain.

“I love you Seyi” she said in between tears, still seated across me as I choked “I love you but I cant go on like this, not anymore Seyi”

Pain rendered me incoherent of speech as what Abike said dawned on me. ‎​​I couldn’t breathe as ‎​​I was painfully dying from the poison in my system. “I’m so sorry Seyi, please forgive me”, she sobbed. Something broke in me as I finally realized this was her way out.

Abike couldn’t leave me. This was her way out… this.

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All of us April 1, 2011

So?

Calm down a bit. Even though Betty’s here now, I won’t spread sheets on my bed or brush my teeth before I dig into morning pottage and wash it down with Camel milk. I’m still walking around the castle, barefoot, half naked, singing off key, and looking like an accident. Me is Me.

I might change with time, get a little culture when her friends come over? Actually comb out the bush on my head? Dig out one of my stained white tees from the laundry room? Use some of the dead mint paste on the dresser? Stop spending so much time in front of the huge mirror at the tapestry room rehearsing a noisy crowd of swordplay in old, rusty armor, wielding a broken mopstick and a stolen cooking pan cover? Naaaaa!

The important thing is that I do what I do, channel the goddess.

She’s been packing up things for a weekend in the lower country: loose fitting fabric, repellent sprays and things. We talked at length the night before, about life, and hope, and desires and disappointment; how you want something you can’t have and you still lunge for it, even though you have a reality, a reality that your desires would end in a disappointment.

You love the chase, the thrill, the wishy moments that make you believe for a flimsy second that your dreams would actually come true. Sometimes, you don’t let your hopes get so far as to escape beyond your gathering hands, but sometimes, you let your hopes wander away, to discover a most wonderful journey, and you begin to have faith. The kind of faith that tells you to stop admiring the beauty of the ocean and actually put a foot out. You’re not stupid enough to jump out, no you’re not. It’s just a foot. But you forget that once you trust your weight on that one foot, you go crashing into the deep. Your salty tears, mixing with the watery mass, a smile on your face…

Deep is deep, let us be happy; today we mock reality! Our goddess shall soon be off on a fling with an English Duke that’s somehow from Betty’s world of prim and proper. The mustached man is waiting outside the cold stone walls, proclaiming love and valor and yarning unusual nonsense. AfroMuse is having a hearty laugh and blowing him kisses. Betty is laughing at them both. The goddess’s pain shows through her smiles for the quarter of a second and it’s gone like it was never there. Maybe it was never there?

She shall let her golden hair (Yes! she grew and dyed it) down the window for Mister Duke to climb up. It’s not like I didn’t open the huge doors to let the man in, the same doors they would exit later on, to mount his wooden horse drawn carriage… he does own a fleet of Italian cars…

Oh! the goddess and her kind!

I have errands to run. Allow me to beat something that sounds like a Don Jazzy tune, merry merry tongolo imitations, mixed with scape-goat synth vibes on the gong, only because AfroSays:

MOMENTS

...we are who we are...

He looked at her and she looked at him.

No expression both ways.

He had no qualms about what he was about to do, it was what he did, it was who he was.

She kept her gaze for it seemed she could not think, or say a prayer, or even move. She was lost in his mighty presence. She was his.

She sat there looking at him. At first he didn’t move. He just stared at her, rarely blinking his eyes. After a few seconds, it seemed, her lungs remembered to suck some air in.

As soon her chest movement gained rhythm, he picked himself from the floor and began to saunter towards her in the most casual manner.

As he moved closer, he began to appear larger and more intimidating. He emerged from his dark corner into the dim light, muscle lines etched on his every feature. The evil of him was plain to behold.

Everyone started screaming.

“Quiet!”

We all hushed again as we were commanded. The lion dipped his head and lifted it in a terrifying roar, then he leaned back in a spring-crouch position.

Panic murmurs and anxious ‘voicings’ rippled through the crowd in recurrent sine waves.

“Kill am!”

“Shut up!”

Ka-blaaaam!

There was smoke. And blood. And a more shocking roar. The lion was not yet dead.

“Kill aaaaaam!”

“Shut uuuuuup!”

Ka-blaaaaaaaam!

The smoke cleared lightly and behold, the lion lay dead at the feet of the innocent little girl. Someone else was there too, hidden in smoke of his shooting and the dust of his hurried arrival.

Everyone started clapping, and doing cat-calls. Some ‘osheeeys’, some ‘whoop whoops’.

Then the man shouted again, “You Nigerian people are crazy! This is a cinema house, not a theaturr!”

We all laughed at the American man with his funny accent.

“Chairman, abeg, relax jooor!”, Someone replied. Everyone laughed heartily at the retort. Someone’s chinese phone started ringing a extra loud, extra lousy, Nokia-imitation ruckus somewhere to my left. I shook my head and smiled at the interesting cinema culture of my fellow citizens.

The movie would end in a few minutes. I picked up my half-filled coke bottle and left the cinema room to wait at the exit passage. There was this delicious girl I saw as I walked in and I wanted to chat her up. Maybe I could even get her to see another movie with me. I hadn’t really come all the way from my bucolic local government to downtown lagos because I wanted to see overage lions hunt little girls. After all, Emelex or whatever they call him sells this movie, along with all the other new titles the cinema would be showing this week in a DVD collection for a paltry N250, right in front of my house.

I ditched the Coke bottle on last-minute, first-impression mathematics.

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