Circles of man July 29, 2011

I AfroSays, I call.
To those with hearing ears and seeing eyes.
Find the travelling wise man in the midst of you.

I, OlaToxic, I beat the gong tonight- that it resound within your spirit and soul- I bring you revelation and truth and light- that the sound may make you whole.

Reflect.

Boo!

———————————————
The Hum by OlaToxic
———————————————

We trudge forward. Billions-strong, we march. We don’t even see the road anymore, only the one in front of us, feeling only the push of the one behind us. We jostle on, jostled by the ones on either side and we jostle back. We cannot stop, we must not stop. The hum of our voice collective drowns out any other sounds we may have heard. We hear only each other. We hear only each other now.

We were not always like this. We used to soar the skies. But now… We hardly even look up there anymore. The hum is too loud. It is madness.

Stubs now poke out of our upper backs, from whence our wings once flourished. Winged ones still fly the skies we do not look up to. From their vantage point, they can see where they are headed, and where we are headed… Mostly. Sometimes. Every now and then, a winged one flies so close, always drawn in by the hum, so close that we can touch them. And we pluck them, drag them down and bite off their wings, leaving them in the dust that envelopes us. And we trample on in our exodus to nowhere, now even more populated and hating it.

The hum. The hum is everything. The hum would sometimes bring a winged one to alight on the ground a ways from us… And drive them so mad, like us, that they would twist and constrict on themselves and proceed to bite off their own wings. The act a grotesque beauty in itself. And they join us too.

We feed. Only on our stubs. The stubs, they grow back, and we feed on the one in front of us. As the one behind, feed on ours.

But a few of us walk backwards, eyes constantly on the still-winged ones in the skies above, and they thirst, and long, and wish, and hope, and desire. And in their longing and desiring, their wings flourish, and blossom, and sprout. And they may return to the skies from whence they came…

And the day comes when each one of us arrive at the precipice that we never saw approaching. The hum, now so loud, that it drowned out the screams, until we ourselves, on the edge, screamed too. And were only pushed forward by those behind, who knew not what lay ahead, except for the stubs they could see. The stubs on our backs that flapped desperately in their utter uselessness as we plunged to nothingness.

And high above us, the winged ones spread their beautiful plumes and soar on back into Eden.

CLUES

We are all on a journey. But are you still headed to the place you first took off for? And does innocence lost equal wisdom gained?

———————————————
The Worst by AfroSays
———————————————

A cold rope bound his legs together and his arms to his sweaty body. A cold, fat rope. Smooth. Strong! He was waking slowly and that’s all the sensation he was awakening to.

He opened his eyes slowly to face the serpent that was coiled around him, towering above him like an evangelist on Sunday morning. For a moment, he thought it beautiful but in the quarter of the quarter of a second, his mind flipped into the bizarre world of white and red and many record-breaking movements in the usual manner of all endangered sapiens. Panic.

But he could not move. His mind bitterly lamented the fact that it could not take care of its vessel. His body vibrated violently in the same place, and in that place of heightened animalistic alertness, the jeweled serpent struck.

He closed his eyes in morbid anticipation.

He freaked as the serpent licked his left ear, telling him evils. He only needed to wish them on his enemy, the same one who’d filled his heart with black hatred and his thoughts with retribution right before he slept. He wished her the worst.

The worst befell her.

In the hospital room, as pain sped through her destroyed body, she felt an insect creep into her left ear, telling her evils. Evils she could wish on her enemy.

The worst befell him. Then those who those she loved, then those he loved, and so on.

CLUES

Revenge. Is anyone righteous is taking it? The implications.

PLEASE DO LEAVE A COMMENT. REAL FEEDBACK ON HOW THE STORY RELATES TO REAL LIFE. COMMENTS SUCH AS “DEEP” OR ANY OF ITS SYNONYMS ARE ONLY STATING THE OBVIOUS, KINDLY SHARE WHAT YOU REALLY THINK (EVEN IF IT’S THAT THE MESSAGE IS UNCLEAR) SO WE CAN ALL COMPARE IDEAS. THANK YOU.

FIND THE ART OF OLATOXIC HERE

Molly July 28, 2011

Atta beats the gong today. We’ll let his words speak for him. Come one. Come all. Here’s ‘Molly’:

Mine is the tale of a weeping sky and a cloud that had no tears to give… of an ‘if’ that was slain before it became… of the thing that you felt that you could not say. My pen is the gong they would clang if they could: I speak in their stead.

MOLLY

I named her molly. She had come here only moments before, on tiny blue wings, a bird without a name. I wanted her. There was nothing more to this desire. No end. No lofty intent. No cause. No reason. I would have her and all would be as it should. The bird was not aware of this. It did not want these things. To be caught, then owned. It did not know I named it molly or assumed it was a she. It was not particularly worldly wise or concerned with affairs of state. It was a bird, blue-winged and harmless for the most part, the unwitting object of my unreasonable desire.

But even as I watched her make those brisk, jerky motions, watched her search with a ‘something reckless’ about her, for something that never seemed to be there, I knew I could not own her. I knew that if I tried I would fail. And so, content to fail before I tried, I stood motionless, unwilling to risk her misinterpreting a sudden movement for the beginnings of a coup d’etat of sorts. For she was loyal, you see: she had sold her soul to freedom a long time ago. Maybe it was this that made me want to have her – that I could not. It is the way of all men, I imagine: always reaching.

I took her all in, stored every detail in that temporary place that disappears when the thing is gone, but while it is there, exists solely for adoration’s sake. It was as close as I could come to seizing her. But even of this, she was unwilling to let go. If I must have the details, then we would share. They were hers and they were mine. There would be no bartering.

And then far too soon, she left – ripped herself away from me, running through the air, with the part of me she’d torn away, tethered to a wing, trailing on a current.

I stared at the place where she used to be. It was still now. Silent and meaningful. I tried to see it as it could be – ‘molly-esque’, tried to see the bird again, but there was something corrupted about the memory. Something fuzzy. Something to do with something else. I did not own the details anymore.

It stung where she had pulled away. I could not find the wound. But the throb was fleeting. It was not long before I could not find the sting. It was gone just like the bird I could not remember and I was grateful to the forgetting.

But I would always know I had been hunted – circled, perhaps; named, even; baited, snared, tethered and taken – would always be haunted by the knowledge that the thing she sought was there all the time. I would never completely forget the bird. Molly. Blue-winged and harmless – for the most part.

Of Walking And Dreams July 25, 2011

Hello all. I know it’s been a while. I have no half-hearted apologies to render, it was for the good of all. This here is a story I’m working on. Working on, because I’d like to develop it. This is a draft I enjoyed writing. I hope you enjoy reading too.

The gong I beat is mellow. Faint and nostalgic. Dreamy. Listen for the underlying strings, the strums of the return. Listen.

... walking reverie...

My love for walks started with my father.

When we still had money, I loved riding with him to buy petrol for the generator. We would sit there, not speaking, listening to all my favorite people on the radio. At the filling station, he would give me the money and ask me to get the keg out to be filled- I liked the sense of responsibility. But the walks. I loved them more. The walks started when the money went. We would take the short walk out of our small estate to the Malaam to buy candles because petrol became too expensive.

But because there was no radio noise to fill the quiet, we spoke instead. We had long conversations of what I wanted to be; what he wanted to accomplish and what he wanted for us- each child. We would walk so slowly, walking past the bigger houses that were lit up with a thousand lights because they had money to buy petrol for their generators. Past the smaller houses like ours, some bright, some dark. Walked slowly as fast cars zoomed past and other pedestrians briskly overtook us. Till we stopped in front of our faded red gate.

Father always looked a bit sad when we got back home. I didn’t figure out why until recently. I think Father got sad when we got back because it was a rude jolt back to reality. See, Father was a dreamer, he had these big aspirations for himself and the family; he had all these plans laid out and he spoke about them with such zeal, each time. But getting home was like a douse of cold water at three in the morning because the dreams were just that- dreams. Nothing was happening. His projects were still failing. We were still being called out at school because the fees hadn’t been paid. We were still eating meat only at night. We were still buying candles.

So, whenever we stopped at that faded red gate, those palaces we had built with our words quickly faded into nothingness. But Father was such a sport; he’d bound into the house with jokes for mother and sweets for the little ones. We found other reasons to go on walks. Just him and I. And then, we stopped walking for reasons at all. We just did.

I paint now. I was a sculptor a few months back. I was writing for a magazine last year and I was a freelance photographer before that. A boyfriend once told me I was a lot more like my father than I thought. Picking a project and then abandoning it in pursuit of another dream. We fought that day. Not because he was wrong, not because I did not agree with him; but because it had never been put to me that way. I fought against it. So cold but so true. Abandoning one to chase another.

My younger siblings are grown now, working in banks and owning schools while I paint and write and play my guitar and take long walks. But I find that my walks do not end when I arrive at my tiny, cluttered studio apartment; it doesn’t end when I see my battered wooden door, I go on dreaming. I have translated it to what I call my art. I sing my dreams, I write them, I draw them. My life feels like a leisurely haze of pastel colors. Surely, this isn’t a bad place to be.

None of Father’s dreams came true. I should probably say instead, none of Father’s dreams have come true because he hasn’t stopped dreaming. I visit him four times a month, every Sunday. My parents live now in the cute flat my sister bought them after her last promotion. We walk, even slower now that he’s supporting himself with a stick. We walk, past the houses that are all lit, because it is an upscale area. We walk as the faster cars cruise past. We walk on the lush lawns and neat pavements. We walk. We walk and dream.

The Other Place July 22, 2011

I AfroSays, I bid you, welcome a brother.
His thoughts resound in my ears on dark days. I keep them archived.
Would you?

I Qurr! I beat the gong – that wails in the darkest eerie nights – at the place between the soul and mortality.I play a sound that no other human but you can hear; only you know where the shoe hurts. Listen.

Reflect.

Boo!

———————————————
The Summons by Qurr
———————————————

On the path of a soul’s summon it is warm, pleasant and darkly comforting. Sweet fresh blood and sparks of neural twinkle, it was just what we needed as we waited. A waft of a breeze carrying her soul’s scent drifted towards me and the other diremons. We all could smell her fear and it excited us immensely. We bared our fangs in anticipation, our bellies lurching in sheer pleasure. This was our moment. She finally stood before us, and Pulse – her soul guardian – towered high right behind her, bearing her chronicles in his giant hands. Her pupils, the core of her eyes – with their deathly grey spectral outline – glittered in the dark. Streams of regret bridged the gap behind her eyes and between her ears as she sobbed softly. Her life would never be the same after this summon. By the time we’re done with her she would wish she had rather died.

“Frostbite”, a diremon growled, calling me. I looked to my right and saw them. Adverse sentinels bearing Origin’s intersecting maps. Pulse handed over her chronicles to the sentinels and stepped aside in all fairness. I chuckled at their idiocy as the maps were laid because I had been over those maps and her chronicles before the summons. There was no way they could be arranged to save her – it was like a jigsaw with missing pieces and her chronicles never, ever overlapped with the map spaces. She had never had the time or energy for that. The sentinels began to spin Origin’s map while Pulse kept inserting volumes of the chronicles, looking for an intersection of the map spaces and all the words, thoughts and actions she had ever had. For me I didn’t wait to begin the feast. I leapt at her to knock her down but she bent and rolled herself up like a ball. Nevertheless I got a generous mound of her neck. The other diremons joined as she fell apart. It was the beginning of the end for her. Pulse blinked and a tear dropped from his eye. She was trying to say something, so I ripped out her throat, dragging away the entrails with part of her lower jaw. Her lips parted anyway.

“My words and deeds have condemned me, and only the mercies of Origin can rescue me”, she said. At that moment, a new volume appeared in her chronicles and fit snugly into the map spaces. Simultaneously, two things happened: power surged into her as she rose up whole and shining like Pulse, and I and the other diremons experienced horror beyond our imagination. Between her and Pulse, this is definitely our end.

CLUES

Why do people suffer? Whatever the reasons, when we suffer can our own words, deeds and thoughts ever really save us? If not, why not?

———————————————
Freak Theater by AfroSays
———————————————

There is no blood as her knives carve lines around my face. No anesthesia too. I feel pain, yes! I deserve to. And this old witch doctor, with her tall, over-bright lantern, she speaks bitter words as she administers her sorcery-surgery. We’re backstage, in my changing room. I am entertainment – a freak, a clown, a showman at the Theatre of Facades and Alter-Egos.

One day, I wore a mask, and I thought it quite clever so I began to wear it all the time because it changed how the world saw me. I became so impressed by the power of the mask that I stopped taking it off. Now it is stuck to my face. I had to get it off, so I called for the old lady’s magic lantern and spirit knives. It would be a night of living pain but if I don’t get this mask off, the mask would become my face.

I have seen many sad cases like mine, but in this city of masks, there are many other curious cases. There are some who’ve got half a mask and half a face, their masks have become part of who they are. There are others who, when they take off their masks, find their faces missing.

The witch doctor speaks on. Her words are painful but I know she is right, the mask must not become my life. But oh! Her tongue bears the keenest knives.

And as I bear her words, the mask falls into my hands. I can see myself again.

CLUES

Identity fights the power of personalities in the light of the sometimes unwelcome truth of who we really are.

PLEASE DO LEAVE A COMMENT. REAL FEEDBACK ON HOW THE STORY RELATES TO REAL LIFE. COMMENTS SUCH AS “DEEP” OR ANY OF ITS SYNONYMS ARE ONLY STATING THE OBVIOUS, KINDLY SHARE WHAT YOU REALLY THINK (EVEN IF IT’S THAT THE MESSAGE IS UNCLEAR) SO WE CAN ALL COMPARE IDEAS. THANK YOU.

FIND THE ART OF QURR HERE

Riddle July 18, 2011

Clang! Clang! Clang! Go figure like I’m cheering numbers.
AfroSays So!

RIDDLE

...who?...

“Bring me the boy”

They dragged him before the elder, a weak, wet doll. Broken. They tossed him forward and he fell on the raffia mat, a heap of humble human.

The boy was recent teenaged, it showed – arms and legs like broomsticks; an unkempt mop of hair that was neither black nor brown; innocent, mischievous eyes; the sweaty smell of peurile playfulness.

He was in tears.

“So he refused to talk, eh?” Said the Elder, as he searched the faces of the men that had just thrown the boy before him. “And ehhh, you showed him pepper?”

“Mazi! We have tried our best!” Said one of the men. He adjusted his wrapper and continued “This little boy is a devil child. Ehhh, we have showed him pepper, but yet he will not say anything. This is not a simple matter.”

“Okoli, I have heard you.” said the Mazi as he kicked the boy before him. “Anything fish cannot eat, it will abandon for crocodile.” He thoughtfully picked a piece of Kolanut from a decorated stool beside and took a loud bite. “This is a matter for the gods. Send one of your men to get the dibia”

In the dark hut, Okoli made out the faces of two of his swiftest men and sent them to summon the witch doctor. He stayed behind with three others. The messengers were barely out the door when the dibia came in.

He was a little man with a funny gait, in a scary getup. Every thing on his body had once belonged to a now dead plant or animal. He wore heavy chalk make-up and carried a leather satchel. The wild smell of dead things he brought with him quickly traveled around the room. Thrice. And kept on.

“You do not need to look for me, the gods already sent me here.” Said the dibia. “I have journeyed through hills and forests, across many rivers, three days and three nights making preparations to attend this moment.” He coughed a raspy cough and opened his satchel.

“The boy has refused to talk” the elder said.

“We have tried all we could” chorused Okoli and his men.

“Let Amanalu, the god of the wilderness handle this matter. The boy shall talk.”

The dibia walked onto the Raffia mat and picked the boy into a kneeling position. He took a yellow powder from his satchel and began a spiritual dance around the boy, singing mysteries and making a yellow mess.

In a few seconds, through the open door of the hut, the elder saw the clouds darken and lightning run across the sky. A heavy rain soon followed. And then there was thunder.

The boy let out a loud growl.

The dibia shrieked.

Mazi ran behind Okoli and his men as they all pressed into each other, trying to fit into a corner of the small space.

“Amanalu” shouted the dibia. “Tell us!”

“Tell us what the boy is hiding! Tell us who stole the meat from the cooking pot!”

.

.

.

P.S. After this Spooky Friday, the gong might be silent a while. Do not despair. Decades comes early August.

My Darkness July 15, 2011

I AfroSays, I bid you, welcome a friend.
She is of the same journey as I.
Listen.

I, Slim, I beat the gong tonight! Yay!!
So! I beat the gong.
I beat the gong of courage, and not of war…
The courage that lies in the breast of young women as they go out into the world to be saviours of their families and clans…

Enjoy.

Boo!

———————————————
Insudantha by Slim
———————————————

I am in a chasm, with glass walls and gold edges around me. I wonder how such lavishness came to be spent in a hole underground, when the times that we live in are times of want and suffering. I peer into the mirror and I can see my jutted lips and permanent frown, etched into my forehead. Gone are the days I was called beautiful. Gone are the days of beauty.

I look behind me. The people that look back remind me where I’m going. The looks on their faces are old, old and wise from the age of suffering. The children wave, chanting their goodbyes. Their parents clutch them tightly. They are absent minded. Or single minded, for they know the singleness of my purpose. I journey to the land no one would dare go. I do not know the name or what It will be called, but the path to the place is etched in my mind.

There is deep sadness in our hearts, and it reverberates in my soul. The looks they give me, oh, so wistful! A golden drop alights on the cheek of my mother, and I see that it is the dying sun reflecting in her tears. Don’t cry for me, my mother. Don’t cry. The daughter of Insudantha would bring you back your happiness, your home, your pride…

The chasm begins its descent. It has no door, so it does not close. There is little need for a door anyway. Slowly, I begin my plunge into the earth. I face the mirrors, I face my fate. It is time. Darkness envelops me, and I remember my father’s words…

“Darkness is good, Daughter of Insudantha. It will open your mind, and prepare it for the evil that lurks within…”

It is a long descent, and despite my stoic demeanour, my mind wanders a little. I cannot deny the fear that is in me, for it settles so heavily upon my chest. This mission would be the last of its kind. There can be only one journey to kill this Evil. I do not know what to expect, because none have gone before me. What would It look like? How would it fight? Would there be trickery involved? There is nothing I despise more that duels of the mind. Fight me like a woman, match power for power and strength for strength, let it be said that the mighty Valkyrie descendant, the great granddaughter of Brynhild, slew her opponent in a worthy clash of swords and not the weak swarshes of words…

The chasm stops suddenly. The darkness is full now. It is time. I clasp my hands and try to be strong, sending a quick beseech to Brynhild, Mother of the Strong and Wise . I peer into the mirrors and I see another form. There is a creature there, so dark! I thought to myself, Lo, this must be the mother of darkness herself. She is so dark that I could only make out her form because it was darker than the darkness around us. I touch the hilt of my sword and she fingers hers too, a mocking smile lingering in her bright eyes, eyes that burned with hate and mockery and everything in between…

It was a long fight. A hard one. She knew my blows and she knew her blows, and she didn’t seem to tire out. I struck as my father had taught me but it was clear that the end was drawing near. I could see that it would not be long before I was finished. She stepped heavily on my foot and drew her pulsing dark form towards me, and I fell at her feet. The end was near. I tried to strike a final blow but she was faster than me, piercing her sword deep, bringing out the blood and water that make up my being…

I was dying. Oh, Mother Brynhild! Save my people, for their hero has failed!

Then a strange thing happened. All the mirrors began to slide open. Darkness poured into the forms behind them and started to advance, her bright eyes magnifying into a legion and boring into me. Their thirst for blood was hungry in their bright, bright eyes. They had been waiting for me. I stared deep into the eyes of the one who held me down, and realised in one painful swoop of horror, that It was I. I was the evil that lurked beneath their hearts…

———————————————
On both sides by AfroSays
———————————————

The many.

The warring many punctured the dark, cloudy skies with cries of many meanings as burning arrows rained down on both sides. Sonorous cries. Ugly cries. On both sides.

Metal found bone. Splintered wood found flesh. Kegs of black and white powder exploded, borrowing from some a leg, from others an arm. Some managed to contribute a head, their bodies alone would fight this bitter fight. There was burning and smoke and the sacrifice of souls. Holy souls. Infernal souls. On both sides.

Mighty birds or whatever they were soared in the sky, picking men and women and dropping arms and legs and whatever else remained after. Beautiful birds. Grotesque birds. On both sides.

Mighty beasts or whatever they were tore through the unfortunate ones that held rank before them. Majestic beasts. Hideous beasts. On both sides.

They was victory and defeat on both sides, an eternal ocean of warriors and there was no end to them.

One side was the colour of death, with its machines of pain and its souls and its birds, whatever they were and its beasts, whatever they were also. The other side was the colour of mercy, with its machines of pain and its souls and its birds, whatever they were and its beasts, whatever they were also.

A little village sat on a hill, its feet painted brightly in the colour of the war that was, waiting for the eventual conqueror, waiting for its king.

CLUES

Good. Evil. The battle to rule yourself.

PLEASE DO LEAVE A COMMENT. REAL FEEDBACK ON HOW THE STORY RELATES TO REAL LIFE. COMMENTS SUCH AS “DEEP” OR ANY OF ITS SYNONYMS ARE ONLY STATING THE OBVIOUS, KINDLY SHARE WHAT YOU REALLY THINK (EVEN IF IT’S THAT THE MESSAGE IS UNCLEAR) SO WE CAN ALL COMPARE IDEAS. THANK YOU.

FIND THE ART OF SLIM HERE

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Seven July 14, 2011

Afro said. Because.
I smote the gong. Because.
You listened. Because.
Forget ‘Becauses’. AfroSays:

SEVEN

...what is seven?..

Thanks for following The Trench so far. I regret not explaining how to read them right from the start. Please do not take the stories literally, they are not the usual stories with a sensible climax at the end. They are stories with hidden meanings. Always. So they might not make sense if taken at face value. Follow the clues.

I’m considering giving my interpretation at the end as well but that would ruin the experience for me as well as many other villagers. I do hope, however, to simplify the clues.

“What is Seven Sevens?”

“Forty Nine”

“What is Seven?”

“…”

“Seven is only an idea in your head, there is no seven my son. It was created so that we can count things like errr…”

“Like how many days there are in a week? Or how many chairs there are in this living room?”

“Yes son. And if there is no Seven, there are no Seven Sevens. Do you understand?”

“Father, it’s a bit confusing, but it seems I do. But how does that relate to the questions I asked you?”

“Seven exists only as an idea, but these chairs are real, whether there was an idea such as seven or not, we would still have these chairs.

You don’t need a word to quantify your feelings towards Bimpe, all you need to know is how you feel. Gauging your affection for her by some standard of society only keeps you second-guessing your feelings for her because the gauge is only an idea.

When you can tell me what Seven is, I can tell you if what you feel for her is true love, for then, I can accurately define the ideas of love and truth.

And whether you should marry her? You should know.”

“Father, your wisdom befuddles one, I better talk to mum.”

CLUES

Measuring affection by societal standards. The use of affection labels. The implications?

PLEASE DO LEAVE A COMMENT. REAL FEEDBACK ON HOW THE STORY RELATES TO REAL LIFE. COMMENTS SUCH AS “DEEP” OR ANY OF ITS SYNONYMS ARE ONLY STATING THE OBVIOUS, KINDLY SHARE WHAT YOU REALLY THINK (EVEN IF IT’S THAT THE MESSAGE IS UNCLEAR) SO WE CAN ALL COMPARE IDEAS. THANK YOU.

THANKS FOR VOTING FOR US AT THE NIGERIAN BLOG AWARDS

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...coming soon...

Monsters July 8, 2011

You don’t know what you are till you come under the moon. Fur and fangs? Scales and a tail? Spidery legs and spiny hair? Come under our spell.
For what you see is not reality. Open your eyes. Open your mind. Come alive.

Fear the revelation!

Boo!

———————————————
Children of the moon
———————————————

A roar goes out in the night.

The wind carries the ferocity of it from the mountain. It washes down the layers of confused rock that the mountain consists of, down through the hardy, suffering shrubs scattered around the big foundational stones in ugly bunches, through the tall cracking grasses spread over the horizon, bent and begging, the roar makes its way to the mud burrows.

It doesn’t stop.

The roar not losing any of its wildness, sweeps over the burrows seeking out adits where it may deliver its message. It menaces through the cold night, borne by a frosty blue breeze, diving into pits and telling.

Heed the call.

And the beasts arise. A hand, then another, then another, then another, gripping the mouths of the slimy holes they make home. Intoxicated with the gases of the swamp, their yellow eyes glow like cursed orbs in the darkness from which they emerge. They draw themselves out, a horrible mass of black fur and limbs, wailing to the moon.

The night sky has been punctured by the first cry. The second one. The third. The thousandth. Innumerable cries, the same vote of devotion. It is time for prayer, the priest has called.

The children of the moon emerge from their homes as one nation. Slowly. Their glazed eyes find the mountain and their fangs are bared in supplication, their hands are lifted in anticipation, of a miracle. They worship as they meditate on the fire burning atop the mountain. A sacrifice.

The priest leads with freakish song after song and they clap their hands on and on into the night, bringing the swamp to life. They pray to the moon, that the sun would never have their night.

A prayer unnecessary.

They dance and worship, their tongues clicking with the roofs of their mouth. Some of them are lost to an ecstasy, the others watch in awe. There are others again who just watch, laughing at the madness of it all, their laughter hidden in the night, blended with the choruses.

And when the fire begins to lose its power to the great fire in the sky, they all run to hide. They all run back to the burrows, back to holes from which they climbed out and bury themselves deep inside.

CLUES

Remember the communal village church. The tall tower. It holds a bell that summons all and sundry to service.

———————————————
Filthy
———————————————

The black feathers rushed at me from the stained sky.

It was at first a pair, then three, then the whole black cloud of them, cawing a multiplied melee, which grew painful as it grew louder. Nearer. I blocked my ears and crumbled to my knees and yellow tears began to fall. Mine.

I had to block out their punishment as best as I could, but the agony was winning. It coursed through every receptor in my brain, killing my other senses and taking authority. My hands felt wet with blood pouring from my ears.

Soon most of my being was alive only to the foul smelling robe of black feathers and piercing sound needles that surrounded me. I could not take it anymore.

I gave up.

I backed out of the river, the ends of my own feathers dripping wet. I was not far in yet but I could not go in further. Not with this pain.

They glided above the water and escorted me to the bank, how they hated water! They would hurt me on dry land. I knew. I had known before I’d left my flock and tried to wash myself, only to see what being clean felt like.

The daemons tore at me baring venomous claws and fangs with a righteousness; my brothers, my sisters, my friends, my enemies, strangers.

They hurt me in indignant unison, only because I’d tried to be cleaner, to be different. I lay in the bloody mud smiling at the new white clean feathers among the ones I had never washed forever.

“Fuck the flock!”

CLUES

The man maverick and the vengeful society.

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Sovereign July 6, 2011

The goddess weeps in my hands and I hold her as she drowns in wave after wave of despondent emotion.
It’s a lonely moment in this dark castle. I open the windows so her cries echo into the night.

Come one. Come some. Those who hear, only.

This gong is for you. Its name is clarity. Convoluted clarity. AfroSays:
SOVEREIGN

Sovereign

“Say a word and it will be my name”

“Sovereign”

“That should do. Tell me mortal, what do you want, more than anything else in the world?”

“What is outside of it.”

“Tell me again, how would you like to live?”

“Beautiful. And wild too, like a mountain flower.”

“And how would you like to die?”

“Quick and glorious. Just after the sun is highest, just before it grows tired of glowing and begins to return to its mother.”

“My name will be your name; you will be sovereign! You will be born a man of little means, you will excel at the arts because your soul will be here, with me, where your treasure is. Because. You will have wine and men and women and the power in that influence. You will die at the hands of your men so that all men do not forget your art. Your art shall be battle.”

He lived and fought and led by fighting, Asegun did. He conquered barbaric peoples and established governments he didn’t rule. Governments for the people. Men followed him. Women followed him and his men. He conquered the world, the sovereign.

And after there was nothing else to conquer, he had to witness the work that his hands had made. Civilization was the product of his art. But civilization brought with it politics and corruption and treachery. A holy man could not survive those times where ruthless cunning wielded more power than blade. Asegun became the enemy; his puritanical philosophy became heresy. The sun had began its descent.

He was executed publicly, on a yellow day, gloriously burnt at stake for all to see, an enemy of his creation.

A century later, they were all barbarians again, searching for another sovereign.

CLUES

There is a creator. There is a man. There is the life he lived. There is the world he lived in. There is the end of him.

Welcome to the new category, The Trench. These is my real art. I write them often and share them with only a few close minds. Minds that can vibe with mine. These same minds encouraged me to share them with you. Thank them or do not.

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...coming soon...

Of Visions and Visitors July 1, 2011

Come, sit around the fire. Let’s tell you a story. Of wraiths and apparitions; of torment and confession.
Our stories become your imagination, what you imagine becomes, or can become.

We dare you! Speak the words and the ghouls shall come for you tonight.

Boo!

———————————————
Grandma’s Grave by darkBetty
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I don’t like Aunty Biola’s house. It’s always musty and dark. It doesn’t help that we’re here for this gloomy reason.

We’re here now. Mum, Aunty Biola, Aunty Sola and Uncle Bimbo. We’re sitting around the solitary candle on the low center table. The brown cushions on the sofas are old and worn out.

I’m keeping myself busy thinking of all the insects that could be crawling under my butt and thighs.

“We should just bury him in the backyard..”

That catches my attention. “What?! Uncle should be buried in a proper cemetery!” I say with a huff in my voice. What an atrocious idea!

“See this one.. Grandma was buried right here. Under our very feet. Who has money for cemetery?”

I’m here now. Lying on the very cushions with the invisibles insects. Mum said it was too late. “We should all just sleep here.”

The youngest would sleep in the living room. How nice.

They have left the candle burning for me. It is nearing its end but it still casts eerie shadows on the peeling walls.

Grandma is here. Just under me. Just lying there. Under me.

The curtain sways. I sit up. There’s no breeze. My eyes dart around.

Grandma. I used to laugh at grandma. The way she stooped and shuffled about.

Now, she’s back for me.

A humming begins in the background.

It’s that yoruba song grandma used to sing. She tried to teach me but I had stamped my foot screaming- “I don’t wanna learn your dumb song!”

Cold fingers brush my shoulder. I bite my lips. I won’t. I won’t scream.

This is only my imagination. Grandma is dead. Dead. Under the ground.

I regret the tank I’m wearing. Mummy had asked me to change, I didn’t listen. Now, I’m so cold. But there’s no breeze.

‘Ooooomooooo miiiii!’

A shudder runs up my spine. Grandma used to call me ‘omo mi’; I’d just hiss and say- “My name is Deola!”

The humming and whispering of the words amplify and my eyes widen. I look up at the ceiling. If I don’t look at the floor, maybe it’ll stop.

“Hmm hmm mmmm…”
“Oooommmooo miii…”

I’m not alone in the room.

I won’t look. I won’t. Look.

“Oooommmoooo miiii!”

My lip is bleeding. I’m biting too hard. I sneak a peek. The arm chair isn’t empty. She’s there. She’s there!

She is sad. I can’t see it. I can feel it. It reaches out to envelope me. Her face is blank. No, she has no face. Just a gaping black hole that seemed to exhume black smoke.

I can’t hold it back anymore. I scream.

My mother comes running out. “Kilode? Deola?” She meets me in tears, my arms hugging my belly.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I’m shouting. Tears meeting my snot, caressing my face.

Aunty Biola was out now. “Deola! What’s wrong with you?”

I gulp in drags of air. “I didn’t mean to push her! She was looking at my phone. I just.. I just..”

The humming stops. The whispering stops. The curtain is still again. The arm chair is empty again.

——————————————–
SOUL MIRROR by AfroSays
——————————————–

The darkness was familiar. My eyes knew its curves so I kept them half shut.

My skin knew the cold touch of its fingers. My ears knew the participants of its orchestra. My bitter soul was at ease with it.

Slowly, I poured off my bed with a drawn yawn, dragging most of the cotton sheets along with my left foot. I left the beddings behind with a few steps as I lumbered clumsily towards the bathroom.

The alcohol from the night’s drinking guided my gait in a hellish half-dance. Hands outstretched, only to guide; head limp on my chest; hallelujah hair; breasts swinging askew, I cast a freakish silhouette against the wall, the yellow beam of the moon, my spotlight, I was a freakish masquerade.

I danced left, right, left, right in the darkness I knew, making my way for the bathroom door; the moon a, salivating voyeur.

I danced past the full-length mirror that is my talk-to companion on very lonely days, and then moon suddenly shone a fire, blinding me. I blinked twice and I danced past.

The toilet door.

I danced towards the bowl and sat for some time. How long I cannot remember. I only know that I cried out the anguish in my heart that I’d tried to drown with alcohol. When the tears were gone, the bitterness remained.

Amidst spasmodic sobs, I stood up and waltzed out of my panties. I resolved to pick them up later.

Naked, I crumbled out of the dark toilet room and the moon threw itself on me with a startle. I ignored its frenzy and began the dance back to my bed, past the closet door, past the shoe rack, past the mirror?

And suddenly I could not move. I ignored the glare of the moon but it would not let me on my way so I grudgingly tilted my limp head and looked through the open window with a side gaze.

The moon was alarmed. “There is something wrong”, it seemed to say.

Then as I slowly turned my face in the opposite direction, following the leading of the moon, a bizarre stringed harmony found me.

In my state of inebriation, I beheld a strange sight, burning colours of lights that caused to lift my hands to cover my swollen face.

Then a dull red remained with a soft glow, then it was gone.

The dirge continued as I slowly dropped my hands to see my reflection. I slowly came to myself as I lazily studied the image before me and in a sudden moment of truth, I fell on my back screaming, face-to-face with a horned nubile, grotesque beastess.

She had her back to the floor, screaming too.

And then the moon went out.

The following morning, I woke up on the floor and she was there, whatever she was, in the mirror.

And she’s been there ever since, the avatar of my soul, and on some nights, when I have peace, the music is beautiful and so is she.

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*Stories of Night
*Midnight noises
*The Passenger

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