Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

My Everyday Girl June 29, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 12:03 pm
Tags: , , ,


First off, thanks for nominating AfroSays for the Nigerian Blog Awards, best collaboration category. Please do vote for us here, it’d mean a lot. There are also other blogs that we think deserve your votes as well, check them out and make up your mind. They are:
The toolsman’s blog (5 nominations),
Chronicles of Dania (2 nominations),
Thoughts from a maverick’s perspective (Best student blog),
My Scroll… You Scroll (Most humorous blog)


Secondly, We have a new category coming up, Spooky Fridays as a follow up to Stories of night from two Fridays ago. Watch out this Friday.


Today’s business is what you expect, what you know accrues to you, even though you’re sometimes wanting the other. This is yours because AfroSays

MY EVERYDAY GIRL

I leaned back into the car seat and waited for her to find her way across the chaotic parking area of the shopping mall. She sluggishly navigated through the crowd for a bit and stopped short of a peeled crossing, mixed in a handful of nondescript pedestrians. With most of the mass of people that crowded the entrance to the mall behind her, I could catch a decent glimpse; she looked better than the pictures she’d sent me.
I had expected that she would be dressed in the expected casual uniform: skinny jeans, tank-top, cheap plastic shades, costume jewelry, carrying a black bag – the adornments of an everyday girl, but she had put a little less and a little more into her look – just a short dress, sandals and a satchel that was probably designer brand. Her hair was full and beautifully unnatural. I liked what I saw.
With the old magazine I had been using to pass time, I shielded my gaze from the impolite glare of the sun that bounced off every willing surface, bathing the day in a hurting white so I could get a better view of her. She seemed unsure of something. She lifted her pretty face and looked around some, then dipped her chin moments after to whip her blackberry out of her satchel. She began to type.
Ping.
“Are you here yet? I can’t see you”
“I’m in the black car across the parking lot from you, the Picanto”
With little effort, she spotted me.
“Oh! I see you. Drive this way, it’d be easier to get out” she waved.
She was right.
“Coming.”
I pulled out of the parking slot that had been quite a feat to snatch up and began to make my way towards where she waited. After finding my way around the convoluted maze of parked and moving cars both, I eventually began to drive closer.
She had found other things to amuse herself with on her phone so she kept at typing as I followed the torpid traffic to where she stood. I did not want to appear too eager just like she wasn’t so I played with the radio as I got nearer.
She was already totally absorbed in her phone when I finally parked right in front of her. I had to honk the horn to catch her attention. She looked up at me for the briefest moment and went back to whatever she was doing.
I took a deep breath as I leaned towards the passenger door and opened it. I’d have to be patient with this one.
“Joyce?”
From the side mirror, I saw a black tank top and a pair of skinny jeans emerge from the group of pedestrians walk quickly towards the open door.
She slid in and smiled as she shut the door. In the sing-song voice I’d come to love over the phone these past few midnights, this everyday girl said.
“Hi Isa!”
I smiled not really knowing why, and replied.
“Hi Joyce…”
You most definitely would like
*All of Us
*Android
*Taye and Juliet
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Sex pestilence June 20, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 7:22 pm
Tags: , , ,


The confusing clangs follow in staccato rhythm. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Don’t ask me what to do.
Do what AfroSays.

This is:
SEX PESTILENCE

Bang!

“Frisk me! Search me! But don’t waste time. If I’m not in there in five minutes, the president dies!”
“Sir, please keep your voice down and stay where you are!”
He walks on. Towards the security detail.
“Sir! Please remain…”
“You have to listen to me! I need to get in there right now!”
“Sir! Please stand back!”
Panic.
“Sir! Please stand… Please keep your hands where I can see them!”
I’m just trying to get some ID.
“Sir! Keep your hands…”
“Here! Take a look! I’m from the DAA!”
The engager studies the plastic card.
“I’m not familiar with any such agency sir! Please kindly return behind the line like everybody else, nice and easy.”
“The DAA is the Department of Alien Arbitration, believe me, you’ve not heard about it. Now if you’d let me… ”
The offender pushes past the engager. The engager grabs the offender by his arm.
“Sir, you are not going in. Not on my watch. Now if you’d…”
The offender shakes him off and runs past the wailing metal detector into a hallway not visible to the excited onlookers behind the rope barricade.
The engager follows him speaking hastily in the coiled wire device attached to the side of his face. He too soon disappears from sight.
In the hallway, under the blind spot of a sweeping camera, the two re-unite.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes, everything is set”
“Go well, my brother”
“Go well!”
The middle-eastern engager handcuffs the offender with his hands at the back and puts a gun to his head just as five members of the secret service rush in from the other side with their arms tensed, holding their pistols in the rigid air.
“I’ve got him”
“God job, we’d take it from here”
“I need to see the president!”
“You have the right to remain silent, please use it.”
The newly arrived security detail leads the stranger away, leaving the engager behind. Their backs are turned to the smile on his face.
The small party walks through the hallway making several automatic turns and the offender is behind, being dragged along by the arm by two suited men to either side. They are being viewed from an overhead camera, rendering in black and white. They eventually stop at a nondescript door and the leader of the party knocks. It is opened from inside and they all go in.
Suddenly, the offender emerges, brandishing one of the guns wielded by his former captors. Smirk on his face.
“Control center secured. Carry on suckers!”
“Copy that!”
A gang of unnumbered heads are seen waiting in a dark van, shielded by curtains that give a peek of what seems like an international conference. A small, suited caucasian man is currently speaking global economic gibberish, his back turned to the waiting surprise. The leader of the bunch comments into the walkie-talkie he holds in his left hand. His right hand attends an automatic rifle slung at his neck.
“Good job! We’re going in.”
He signals into the darkness.
From the view of the audience, an armed militia of mixed sexes begin to march on stage in strict formation. The female kind are provocatively clad. Ripples of fear and surprise weave through the crowd. The leader of the fifteen insurgents walks toward the podium and pushes aside its occupant. The aged man falls on his back, stunned and whimpering.
The leader bangs a boot on the stage floor. Once. His arrangement of soldiers reply with two strong bangs in chorus, and four of them break formation from the tail ends of the arrangement and dismount the stage in a spectacular flip jump. They land in sync with a thud and take positions that secure all of the hall. Members of the audience formerly considering escape hurriedly return to their seats.
Bang. Chorused Bang Bang Bang.
The soldiers left on the stage spread out to cover the remaining space. They are all female. Pretty.
Bang. Bang! Chorused Bang.
Two muscular male soldiers emerge from the curtains carrying a very large box. It seems to be quite heavy. They arrive at the front of the formation and slide the box forward haphazardly. The lid swings open, the inside dark.
“This is the bomb!”
The panic in the audience intensifies.
“We do not have any demands”. His accent is East African. He is caucasian.
“We are Here. To blow you away!”
Chorused bang bang.
“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
An explosion. Smoke and screams. Darkness
A loud techno pop tune, with a pulsing bass and an intense electric feel.
The smoke begins to clear amidst the screams. A spotlight comes on and there is a very skinny, poorly dressed caucasian female on the floor of the stage, sprawled in a mock sexy pose with black soot and shrapnel lying all around her, and sprayed in her golden hair.
She is wearing ridiculously long heels and strips of army clothing. She is Lady Gaga and this is another pop video.
Chorus bang bang bang.
All the male soldiers take off their army fatigues, to reveal their ripped chests and suspenders.
Engager is outside, back in front of the crowd. He dips a hand in his suit jacket to surreptitiously gloat over his autographed Lady Gaga CD. He shrieks like a girl.
Offender is back inside the control room, working the sounds, and the lighting controls, and monitoring the results on a multiple of viewing screens. Bodies in black suits are strewn around him, unconscious.
Gaga and her pop army begin to dance to a song she sings about love and famine and pestilences and how she wants a nuclear warhead in her Hiroshima. Love, sex and pestilence. Love, sex and punishment. The leader of the militia abuses her on stage, shoves her hard, pulls her hair and exhibits other televisable forms of sadism at various points in the song where his dancing skills are not required.
Guns are trained on the panicky of cross-section delegates as they are all forced to sign a certain ‘Sex-pestilence’ agreement.
The weak old speaker on economic issues is actually a talented ‘popper-of-lock’.
When the song ends, the soldiers shoot into the cross-section of dignitaries, killing everybody.
You most definitely would like
*Android
*Taye and Juliet
*The black hole
 

Stories of night June 17, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 3:05 pm
Tags: , ,


Gather around all.. Don’t leave your backbones behind. For in the pitch-black night, the spirits inhabit the stories, making them much more.
Spooks and poltergeists, pulsing lights and distant screams, visions and dreams, transporting you to the wilderness of the unseen


Listen.. For the phantoms call. Listen.

Boo!


———————————————
THE CHORUS by afrosays
———————————————
She hid her eyes.
He was searching for them, through the errant strands of hair that covered the side of her oval face and left him a slice, just a peek of beautiful; through the huge darkly obstruction that rested on the tip of her small nose, that only offered him a top view of her painted eyes; all he saw was aquamarine and long lashes. He had to see her eyes.
Her lips reminded him of sweet sin as he stared. Her cheekbones high, lending an ostentation to her face. Her chin, very much kissable, led an adventurer’s trail down to a neck unadorned, deserving of the adornment of only the purest kiss. Not his. Her long hair was hers, he knew, she was all the beauty that she was.
But was she the one?
Her perfume found him and then convinced him to worship her. His eyes took the pilgrimage down from her neck to her brittle neckbones. Sigh. To her milky skin in exhibition, covered by a free dress with its flowery straps loose on her arms. There was an alley just below her neck, and the drops of amber light that licked the side of her face fell there and perished. Holy martyrs of night. He wanted so badly to explore that hidden cavern, and know its treacherous secrets, his pilgrimage was not done. At the cliff of her dress, rose and fell every second, the prides of her womanness. Fast.
She was afraid.
Was she the one?
He felt himself thump against her car as he leaned in for a better view. His colleagues were attending to other cars, the usual motions of a police checkpoint.
His flashlight beamed a dull glow against the insides of the car but he really wasn’t paying attention. He was finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the soft shadows at the top of dress, to breathe.
“Madame, inner light”, he managed.
The fact that she wearing sunshades at this time of the night wasn’t altogether odd. He usually told the partygoers to take it off. He decided to tell her after she put on the light.
A hand went up to oblige his request but he didn’t care, all he cared about was the dress that slipped further down and the beauty that was exposed. Her perfume rose up with a stronger resolve and numbed his senses.
A stronger spray of yellow hit the cabin, stunning the police officer for a few seconds. It was all the time she needed. Her second hand left the steering wheel quickly found the gun under her seat.
He just stared and grew harder against the car. Lust was pouring from his ears. Her heart was beating faster. The temptation was killing him. He grew bolder. He had to see all of her. Everything!
“Madame, please take off your glasses”
She turned off the safety.
“Madame, please come down and open ya boot”
She sped off into the night, steering a wild dance to the music of gunshots. Murder was the chorus.

——————————————–
SCREAM by darkBetty
——————————————–
She walked slowly down the street; streetlights distorting shadows on the wet pavement, crickets called out to her, from the echoing silence. The chilly weather threatened more rain, but she didn’t feel it. Her flimsy dress invited shivers but she moved toward her destination, stoic.
The blindfold was too tight. She shivered. She could hear whispers and shuffling of feet. She didn’t know where she was or why she was there. The darkness heightened her senses and raw fear trickled down her spine.
“Do not fear us, child.” She jumped.
She knew they’d been there but the elderly voice that reached out to her brought to memory the ghastly stories of ghosts she’d heard as a child. It was spidery, broken and soft, reminiscent of evil itself.
She got to her destination. The sounds of night soothing her. They were all asleep. The back door was open. She let herself in quietly and stealthily moved into the house. Excruciating pain lanced through her head, threatening to squeeze the life out of her. She wanted to scream out but she bit down on her tongue. She bore the pain.
He was still talking but for some reason she couldn’t hear him any more. Her strength was being sapped out of her and she had no power against it. She felt rather than saw the shadows draw closer and caress her. He was still talking. She could hear the sound of his evil voice but it was indistinct.
Her hands fell to her sides, slack. The shadows had overwhelmed her. They were pressing into her, sucking her into the vortex. She succumbed what was left of her will.
She had stopped the pain. She bent over and let out long breaths.
The scream was long and drawn out. Blood-curdling.
“Eeeeekkkkaaaaeeeeeeetttttteeeee!”
Ekaette woke up with a start. “Ma?”
The unbidden response leaving her lips even before gaining full consciousness. She opened her eyes. She was in Junior’s room. Junior was covered with blood. Her very own hands were covered with blood. There was a bloodied knife on the floor. The splatters of blood had formed an eccentric pattern on every surface. She looked confused.
Her madam was cradling her son in her arms. Strange sounds emitting from her throat. She rocked the child from left to right, her glazed eyes staring in Ekaette’s general direction.
“Ekaette… Ekaette. why did you kill my son?” She whispered hoarsely. “Why?”
“I.. I.. I didn’t.”
Ekaette was transfixed, confused. The last thing she remembered was going out back to empty the dustbin.
What had she done?
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Time. Again. June 7, 2011

Filed under: Abstract — Betty @ 8:23 am
Tags: ,

Solemn sounds emitting from this gong. Pitches of immortal anguish plaguing the soul. Listen..
RegretfulBetty

... Time... Again...

The clock doesn’t tick anymore. Its tick-tock no longer mocks me.

Maybe I can sleep now.

I threw it against the wall. Hard. The batteries fell out. It’s face cracked. The broken clock.

Silence. Ahhhh…

The loud silence resounding through this empty house. It amplified the quiet in my head.

But it didn’t last. Tick. Tock.

I looked about wildly. No clocks in sight. What ticks? What tocks?

Tick.. Aaargh! The regret and shame welling through my being.

Tock.. The unconfessed, unforgiven sin you’ll never know.

Is..Is that my heart? No.

Noooooo! I let the scream wrench from my chest.

I took in deep breaths. Willing it to quiet down. Willing it stop ticking. But it won’t.

It’s loud. This ticking. This tocking. Because it comes from inside. I can’t take out the batteries… Can I?

Can I?

I can see you. I still see your reflection in my eyes.

But if I end it, the pain will end. I don’t deserve to be free of pain. There’s no healing in this pain.

I deserve to rot in pain. Writhe and languish in this den of torture that I have built for myself.

Why did I do it? I don’t know. I can’t explain it away. Can’t justify it. That’s part of the pain.

And when I had sated the pleasures of my body, the hole in my soul still remained. Only you could fill that. But that was when the call came. After I had had my epiphany. That you were it. They said you were gone. Gone?

No. I want you to have been here when I got home. To have asked you to forgive me. To have watched you cry and curse at me. To have told you there could only be you.

But you were gone. Are gone.

I’m a broken man. But it’s your time that is over.

But that’s all I have. Time. Time is all I have.

Time. Without you.

Just time. Endless time.

And this tick-tocking heart will always mock me. Until my time ends.. But every second seems like an eternity.

Tick. Tock.

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*In Between
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Savvy Morons June 2, 2011

Filed under: Abstract — afrosays @ 10:40 am

If you don’t know the song the gong is playing, don’t act like you do. AfroSays:

SAVVY MORONS

Mmmm... deep!

A bowl of honey loops in vinegar.
A pot of noodles cooked in palm oil.
An Amala Jam doughnut.
A yellow dot.
A unicorn with a half-eaten corn cob for a horn.
A fountain pen with water for ink.
A river that flowed in two directions at once.
A cat on its back.
A hole.
A song with with the lyrics sang backwards.
A rotting diamond.
A mule.
“Interesting..”
“Poignant!”
“Deep!!”
“I am edified!!!”
“This is a brilliant juxtaposition of the elements of nature and humanness in colorful array.”
“The tears of one at war with the socio-cultural ambiguity of today’s terse intelligence.”
“Salient!”
I looked at them all, the critics, as they shared their opinions of the art exhibition. They all gave positive reviews, none of them with courage enough to voice his lack of understanding. A glass of expensive wine in each hand, they nodded like lizards and made funny faces in a public show of erudition.
My art.
My art was to prove a point.
The art was art alright. Not deep art, not poignant art, and definitely not edifying in any way. It was simply a product of random imagination brilliantly executed. I am an artist renown: A sculptor, a photographer, a chef, a writer and a songwriter. I am successful in all these endeavors. This good fortune of mine translates to goodwill in everything else I do. It is that simple!
“What was the point?”, you may ask.
“Don’t you see it already?”, I would ask in turn.
There is bias in every judgement and very few would tell you how they really feel. Better yet, maybe the critics say what they really feel, maybe my success is a veil over their eyes, so that they cannot see objectively anymore. If you ask any of them what his comments really means, he would launch into an even more equivocal explanation that arrives at no point in particular.
You don’t get it yet?
Ask a simple man who does not know me and therefore does not know that he is expected by society to react in a certain manner. He would tell you that the exhibition does not make any sense whatsoever. He is not shallow, he is honest.
“What is the point?”, you still ask?
Read tomorrow’s papers. On the front page, I would tell the world a story.
The story of an artist who’s real art was to watch people make a fool of themselves, acting out the dog-eared script of ‘tag-along’ because society expects them to . The fools of this joke are the ones everybody thinks wise. The ones who even more so, think themselves wise.
 

 
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