Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Decades II, The Preview September 16, 2011

Filed under: Decades — afrosays @ 5:32 pm
Tags: ,

The Decades project II.
Coming to you next Monday (19th, September, 2011).
signed. thatDarkBetty.

...coming soon...

This is a second part of the much applauded Decades project on AfroSays. We’d love to bring a loud round of applause to a great team of friends that worked with us on this; they made this happen. Decades II explores the wholesomeness of womanhood as lived in ten-year intervals – Girls. Ladies. Women. Mothers, grand and great-grand mothers all. They live the same life we live, experience the same joys and pains unique to their decades and maybe we can learn a thing or two from them. Find the subtle connections that link their lives together and get lost in stories told. Decades II.

Please do subscribe to the blog to follow the project. (Column to the right for PC browsers or in the comment section)

Decade 1 (0-10) By @CeceNoStockings
“…Watching her reminded me of nights with dad on our camping trips, when
he’d taught me how to ‘take care of myself’… It was our secret…”
Decade 2 (11-20) By @UcheAnne
“..I was to sit beside him during the film. In the darkened hall, right at the part where Ramsey Nouah’s daughter was shot, I felt the hand slide under my skirt, up my thigh. The girl went down; the audience went up; I went to the hostel. It was Biola that told me how the film ended…”
Decade 3 (21-30) By @JadenTM
“…Twenty one was that year; the one where you find out there’s more to life than Brazilian hair and overpriced Ankara skirts. The one where you count your losses and bless them one by one, the one where you realize your life has just begun…”
Decade 4 (31-40) By @Zaffiro
“…‘Blue shirt you say? Okay, I see you’, she said and dropped the phone as he approached the table.
The two words her cerebellum registered with the new face that night. Her pulse quickened…”
Decade 5 (41-50) By @weird_oo
“…”Why me?” I asked the mirror, that birthday morning, dying the grey strands of hair showing themselves on my head of hair. The stress had given me wrinkles and I stood there, in my underwear, unsuccessfully pulling my tiny lines to smoothness. Facelift. The only answer…”
Decade 6 (51-60) By @Ms_Dania
“…Perhaps I’d still get to write that novel. So day after day, when he’d come home crestfallen after another day on the streets trying to get a job, I’d be there smiling with open arms, hot food and open legs… I was determined to be the perfect wife and mother…”
Decade 7 (61-70) By @BoukkieO
“…I look beautiful; my wrinkles are almost completely concealed, my eyes are alert as always, my skin is radiant, and my hands are steady. “It’s time, are you ready?” I turn to take a final look in the mirror, take a deep, steadying breath and say: “I was born for this”…”
Decade 8 (71-80) By thatDarkBetty
“…I stand and walk slowly to the tall cake with the big 80 standing atop. I see my daughters laughing with their society friends, Olakunle is on the phone… the grandchildren are nowhere to be found. “Let’s spell eighty!” The knife goes down. They have turned to look at me now. The idiots…”
We’re also starting up each story with beautiful poetry by very talented wordsmiths:



Project S.E.E.K : The Hit. September 15, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 8:01 pm
Tags: , ,

Dear villagers, it’s always a big privilege for me to meet fellow travelers in this art of gong hitting. thatDarkBetty and I have been bringing some of these artists your way lately. We hope you’ve been finding them very entertaining.

This piece was by @edgothboy, a writer that writes. Strongly.
No need for fancy introductions. Just stay spellbound.

... death ...

Sometimes having the right assets is all you need to get ahead – Mata Hari.
Heels, check. Inappropriate skirt, check. Garish makeup, check. Garter knife and garotte, double check. This is going back to basics, I so love challenges. The mark is in his thirties, typical high flying party animal with a preference for boys and a cocaine habit, the kind of guy I’d off on generally principles. But that’s not why his name has found its way to my lips. He’s wronged the wrong man.
The bouncer takes one look at the little plastic tag hanging from my left earlobe and waves me in. He doesnt notice the blood specks on the underside. The stragglers start to protest and he opens his jacket and flashes his piece. The hallway grows quiet very quickly, just the way I like it. The club is dark and the patrons are smoking up a storm. The occasional flashes of the strobe pierces the haze and reveals couples and groups scattered all over, entwined in orgiastic fantasies. Midgets in loin cloths stand nearby with baskets of condoms in their pudgy hands and ten year old girls in flimsy night gowns walk around holding trays of cocaine, ecstasy, heroin and viagra. In here its almost easy to forget you’re in a third world country. Most of the patrons here are aliens; whites, mulattoes, the occasional Arab. The black patrons are few and far between, Most can’t afford to revel in a place like this. I do a quick head count and survey the exits. Two guards at the pneumatic front entrance and one by the toilets. Four handlers mill around the room, motivating reluctant performers with slaps and kicks. I’m a little impressed, Ekpenyong has really come into his own. This is exactly how I’d run a prostitution ring. I suspect he’s heard rumors of the hit that will go down in his club tonight but I’d like to think he knows better than to interfere in my employer’s schemes; sex clubs which’ve been marked and raided by Mopol squads dont last long. I avoid other ‘performers’ and negotiate the room, offering kisses and terrible lap dances. Easier to explain when I don’t show up again, the good ones get noticed, the bad ones get fired. The handlers pretend not to notice the john protesting that I refused to ‘blow’ him. I spot the mark, he is being serviced by an ugly blob of meat and his exaggerated squealing has attracted an audience, professional voyeurs in the club gathering round like crows on a carcass. I’ll bide my time, a bit.
A john grabs me by the waist from behind and slips his hand into the waistband of my skirt.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss.
He grabs a clump of my hair and pulls backwards.
“Green ear tag na for prostitute wey I fit rough handle now, abi you no like rough play?”
Shit! I know I should have asked that idiot what the color of her tag meant before I buried my garter knife between her fourth and fifth ribs.
Instinctively I pivot on my heel and grab his testicles. It is the best I can do to control the situation without attracting attention. The john is in his forties, with a bald pate, a beer gut and breath that reeks of isi-ewu pepper soup and cheap liquor. In my heels, I am three inches taller than he is. A smarter man would see the odds stacked against him and walk away, but this one isn’t all that bright. I squeeze his testicles and he squeaks.
“Adanna, squeeze it small na.” He begs in a slurring igbo accent. I smile and slap him instead. His smile widens to reveal gums that are beginning to bleed.
“Where does Ekpeyong get you girls from sef? You are like zoo animals.”
The john hits me unexpectedly and I reflexively retaliate with a swift headbutt to his temple and a rabbit punch to his larynx with my free hand. He goes down gagging. He passes out a minute later, he shouldn’t have touched me, literally. I look around but our little dance has gone ignored. I steal a furtive glance at my mark and I see him ambling towards the toilets, a slight limp the only evidence of the manhandling he just received, his pain threshhold must be superhuman. This couldn’t have happened better if I’d orchestrated it myself. My temple begins to swell and I make a dash for the bathroom and ‘intentionally’ collide with the mark and we both topple over. The guard at the bathroom door points his AK47 at us and barks that I help the mark up immediately. I pretend to cower at the gun and help the now bristling man up.
“I’m really sorry sir.” I say loudly.
He spits in my face and stalks into the bathroom, his limp more pronounced. I try to follow and the guard jams the AK’s nozzle into my exposed belly.
“Where you dey go?”
I point to my now swollen forehead. He pokes the swelling and I pretend to flinch. He steps out of my way and as I pass, he grabs at my butt. I spare him a final glance and memorize his face, the next time I see him, he dies.
The toilets are bright and sterile , with industrial strength flourescent lamps and a tray full of syringes for the more discreet cokehead. Three of the five toilet stalls are missing doors and are obviously designed to hold more than one person at a time. Seems the orgies don’t end in the club. I search the stalls, the mark isnt in any of them. The door of the fourth stall is slightly ajar, that leaves the fifth. I position myself at the sink in front of the fifth stall and bide my time. I memorize the layout. Each one has a panic button and the the exit door back to the club doesnt have a knob on the inside. That eliminates a hasty exit. I grab a handful of syringes, fashion them into makeshift blow darts and line them up ; if this degenerates into a melee, sharp objects will come in handy. The sound of a toilet flushing announces his exit and I feel the anticipation build. The door opens and he comes out looking pale. I block his path and kneel in front of him, with my blouse open, my head down and my left hand over my garter knife.
“Sir, my handler has asked me to come show my remorse;” I lift my head till my eyes are level with his crotch, “in any way possible.”
It takes him a moment to connect the dots. He mumbles to himself about women never knowing how to get him off properly but he drops his pants anyway. Typical. He drops the lid on the bidet and sit atop it.
“What are you waiting for? Get to it.” He snaps. I stand up and drop my blouse but I make no move to join him.
That irritates him. “What now?”
I wring my hands. “I’m shy.”
He throws his hands up. “Then close the fucking door, my ass is freezing! Stupid assholes putting AC’s in toilets.”
I bolt the door behind me. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I let my panties drop halfway down my legs.
“Who said I wanted to fuck?” The mark asks. “Get on your knees and put your mouth to work.”
As I kneel slowly, I tap my garrotte. He just lost his right to a quick death. Out of nowhere pain hits and disorients me as the mark’s knee connects with my jaw. My vision blurs and I try to back away. The mark kicks me into the door and pulls up his trousers. He slaps me a couple of times and drags me up by the throat and pins me on the door. I don’t struggle, there’s no dignity in that, besides the time isn’t right yet. Like all men, he begins to gloat.
“Bash must be getting soft, sending a girl after me.”
I paint on a look of surprise, if I can get this idiot to spill his guts, I might be able to salvage the situation and explain away this blunder. I’m certain Ekpeyong is filming this, and everything gets back to Babu eventually. He sees the look and takes the bait.
“Oh! You’re wondering how I know Bash was sending someone? Ekpeyong told me of course. He isnt going to interfere, which is why no one is here yet. But he owes me, big time, and I just cashed in. You were so obvious though. One of Bash’s infamous half-caste bastards, bred like prize Pitbulls for his dirty work. You all have one father, don’t you?”
“Then kill me!” I spit. “If don’t bring back your head, I take your place. Better you than them.”
He laughs. “You’ll die soon enough. What’s the rush? Guess how I knew you were the one he sent?”
I stay silent.
He lands a punch to my ribs. “Do what I fucking tell you!”
“How?” I rasp.
He reaches under my skirt and pulls out my garter knife. He uses it to trace the curvature of my lips.
“This little thing exposed you. Ekpeyong just recently installed a metal detector. Of course it has to be discreet so no alarms but it ensures we know who’s coming ready for a fight. You obviously didn’t know none of Ekpeyong’s girls are allowed to carry weapons, did you?”
It’s been more than ten minutes since we entered the toilets, more than enough time. I begin to struggle and flail and the mark tightens his grip on my neck. The muscle relaxant I’d slathered on him when I helped him up begins to travel through his blood, and the effects are instant. The antidote I ingested earlier has already neutralized my own symptoms. It is a last resort, incase Chaos works against me.
His left facial muscles start to twitch, he nudges his cheek with a shoulder but the twitching only worsens. He degenerates into full spasms and his other hands abandon my neck and fly to his face.
“What have you done to me?” he shrieks, though the horror on the left side of his face doesn’t quite match his right. The spasms have travelled down from his face and he is jerking like a marionette. I pick up my knife and return it to its sheath and I pull out the underwire of my bra. Its two feet long and made of fibreglass, the perfect understated weapon. By now the mark is on the floor, still seated only because his back is leaning against the bidet bowl. His eyes are set on the panic button and he doesn’t dare look away. I wrap my garotte around his neck and pull, his gasping and choking increasing in pitch as his body struggles to take in air. His bulging eyes dart around in panic. I put my knee against his back and pull till the garotte scores my palms. When it’s over, he slumps and falls on his side.
I rifle through his pockets and take his wallet as a prize. His identity will fetch me a reasonable bonus. There’s always someone desperate to become someone else. I climb out of the stall and kick out one of the asbestos roof slabs, hold it up with my foot and drop discreetly to the side. I climb in and feel my way to the southwest end of the floor. Its a church office and a change of clothes awaits me in an unlocked cabinet. As I change, I hear the faint din of the alarms go off at Eros. Everyone on the floor is in a panic, they must have misinterpreted the noise as a fire alarm and chaos follows. I embrace the anarchy and disappear into the crowd.
I’ve seen a lot of Edwin’s works at Phantom Pages where @weirdo_oo spins the most clever stories too. I’ve also got one more thriller story by Edwin. Same killer girl, different challenge.
Show some love.

This coming Monday, The Decades Project part II commences. (Watch out for the preview). It’s been a long journey and thatDarkBetty and her team have put together something wonderful. Tell your friends, tell your family. Let it be known that AfroSays’ Decades is back!

We stay as expectant as you.

...coming soon...


Bizarre Entertainment September 9, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 8:00 pm
Tags: , , ,

Yo darkBetty?
The gong sounds again. Not loud and harsh and discordant. But lilting notes of worlds unseen. if you would just.. Listen.

I AfroSays. Maniac. Laugh. Get it?

Get it.


(Special thanks to @osizurunkle for the AfroSays Mascot, we love that retro graffiti)

Demon Dance by darkBetty

A hush has fallen over the audience, the lights have been dimmed. The bright beam of the floodlight illuminates the set on the stage- red background with potted plants aligning the edges.
As if from a distance, the drums pick up. It is a slow tempo.
Back stage, the actors rub their hands together or pace or do breathing exercises to ease the anxiety. It is a larger crowd than the last, they want to perform well.
She is standing in a corner, her forehead against the wall. She barely acknowledges the first group of dance-dramatists as they flock out to act out their scenes. The sounds of theatre drift to her and she smiles, slowly moving her head from side to side.
She is small. Her slim arms hang down both sides of her tiny frame, almost disappearing into the wall.
“Ten minutes.” Someone whispers to her.
She moves away from the wall. She has just black aso-oke wrapped around her, baring her bony shoulders and reaching just above her knees. Facing the long mirror, she reaches for the white paste and smears a healthy portion across one eye. She stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are large and dark; they look out of place on her long face.
She is no longer Wuraola Sekoni; she is Asake now. Asake, The One who summons the Spirits- the script says.
She wraps the white cloth around her head. From the front to the back, twists it and brings it back forward, knotting it and tucking it in. She is ready.
The returning actors unconsciously leave a wide berth around her as they fill the back room once again.
She walks slowly into the lights; leaving the normalcy that is her to a realm she can only achieve on the stage.
The drummers pick up the tempo.
She moves to stage-center; looks up to some point just above every head in the hall then smiles an evil smile. They were ready.
She starts to move from side to side. Then flinging her hands to her sides, she turns her head up to the bright lights.
But she doesn’t see the bright lights; she sees a dark sky. She is no longer in the auditorium, she feels the wet grass underneath her feet instead and the cool night breeze whirl around her. They are ready.
She opens her mouth then lets loose a piercing scream. “Cooooome!”
The voice is too large to be coming from such a small person and it does not, because she is no longer small. She is no longer a person. She has no body there. She is one of the spirits, bidding her sisters come.
“Coooome! From the far East, come! I beckon thee of the West! Come to me, my Northern One! Do not be far behind, ye South!”
And they come.
She is moving faster now. And as they come to merge their spirits with hers, her hands lift and her head is flung farther back.
“Aaaaaaah! Welcome!” She shrieks into the heavens. “Welcooome!” Her chest heaves and shudders ravage her. Tingles run from the tips of her fingers to the bottom of her spine.
“She is an evil child.” Her grandmother used to say when she was but a child. She would look into those big eyes then announce it to the consternation of her mother. The grandmother had seen it.
Her sisters were always there, waiting. It was this way she got to be one with them. In front of an unsuspecting audience. She was born for this- to be one with them. On this altar, they perform the ritual of their communion; their little dance of union.
Her breathing slows and the drums quiet as if of their own accord.
Her head falls to her chest and she poses there, quiet for a few moments. Letting her soul seep back into her body through her nostrils.
Then Wuraola Sekoni walks off the stage amidst loud applause.

The Tale of Superific Majestic Fantabula by AfroSays

My hat is long and filled with a thousand tricks. Its length is ridiculous. It is striped with all the colours of the rainbow plus black. It’s a funny one, my hat.
I am a magician.
So you can guess how I look.
No you can’t. I’ve pulled together quite a redoubtable assortment you see? I made my collage-patched pants into a superific fitting shirt. It’s the colour of fireworks.
You guessed right! My shirt has been cleverly re-constructed to offer the service of fitting pants. I have nice colourful, mis-matched buttons on my bulge. A zip should be there but I created the most beautiful earrings out of them. I am fashionado fantabula! Perceive the sheer awesome-ity of my brilliance!
I smell like adverbs.
That’s what they always tell me, “Mr Fanta, you smell like adverbs”.
I don’t know what adverbs smell like you see but I guess that they smell like me.
I have a happy soul. Sanguine and altogether merry like my outfit and this soul is what I’m called to share every time someone wants to see my magic. “Fantastic Mr. Fanta” they’d say, “Show us some magic, would you kind sir?”
And who am I to refuse?
And did I tell you about my bag of tricks? I leave it at home. A real magician needs no tricks.
Magic. Is. The. Superific!
My hat? Oh! It’s for the kids! Today I was walking on Brightsburg road, singing my merry song, when a happy couple – a farmer and his wife – happened upon me. They observed me with a curious awe and called on me.
“Kind magician, sir? Traveling Kind Magician Sir?”
I granted them audience. My smile touched my ears and my forehead touched my sandals and my hat adjusted itself to the back of my head as I bowed to greet them.
“Good weather?”
“Yes, happy people! Good weather it is! Aye! And how may I help you on this Sunny day?”
“Our little John, we are having a birthday partay for him today. Would you be so kind as to share some of your tricks with our John and his friends? We have food aplenty and a place for you to stay the night”
I sprang to straight body!
“Yeeeeehhhhhssss! Mr Farmer and his wife, let us go!”
I took them both in each arm and we walked merrily to their cute little cottage. I had some fresh bread, milk and eggs and my hat had some too. They found it curious. Farmer whispered to his wife, “Maybe he stores some food there too”, I laughed. “My hat lives too, like you and I. Shall we partake of the partay?”
John and his friends played outside in the sun – hopscotch, cakery and so so. I called them together.
A horde of calfs stampeded in delight. They came as one, John and his friends.
“Want to see any tricks”
“Aye! Merry Magician sir!”
“Call me Mr. Fanta, I loved to be called so”
“Aye! Mr Fanta sir!”
“I have a thousand tricks and ten thousand magicks but I have a favorite for little kids. Want to see?”
“Yehhhhhsss! Show us kind sir!” “Magick us Mr. Fanta!” “Share your tricks Mr. Fanta!”
“Do as I tell you. DO SO OR NO TRICKS! NO MAGICK!”
“We shall obey your instructions, kind sir!”
“Hold your tongue out! Hold it to your lips, with both hands”
I showed them how and then they followed. Slowly at first, but eventually they all did.
“Unhold it now”
They could not. I pointed at them all and laughed. Some started crying; they sounded funny. A few ran around with both hands attached to their tongue, obviously frustrated at my mild joke.
Some stayed. Curious.
“Do you want me to help you unhold your tongue?”
They all nodded. None of them held at heart their good spirits from earlier. Why didn’t they get my joke?
“Mr. Superific Majestic Fantabula shall perform the grandest trick ever! Just for kids!”
The top of my hat opened and sunlight flew in several directions as two big pairs of milk-dripping scissors floated out. Fast. Sharp.
The scissors chased down John and all his buddies. Quickly and helped them. It was a grand trick and I cannot fathom for the life of me why John and all his friends were cross. They ran all over the bright red and green in random see-saws, wailing.
I had other tricks to share. I would make them delirious with gladness.
“Hulloooooooos!” I called out to Farmer and his overly excited wife at the mouth of their cute cottage. She was crying at the beauty of my creation. His mouth hung open.
“Join me please, let’s get the calves together, I have 998 more tricks, we have just begun this partay!”
Out of my hat floated 998 milk dripping needles. I smiled.
“This, Sir Farmer and Madame Farmette, is not just for kids.”

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