Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Blue November 21, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 1:52 pm
Tags: ,

Let us warm our legs by the fire and listen to the warm voice of a friend. A worthy friend – @JadenTM – writer of The Third Decade from the Decades II project.

The deep bass of afro’s gong and betty’s beats ring out before me.

I drum and I drum and I try to match the sounds I hear, but all that comes out is a
hollow throb that I have filled with words. Listen…



When I close my eyes I am alone. I cannot see the long strands of wispy yellow (or
brown, or red) hair blowing about in the breeze, and I cannot feel the sharp sting of the
insolent wind against my blue, stiff, brown hands. I cannot hear anyone; there is no
need to filter sounds through my mind before regurgitating words in similar taste: there
is nothing outside of the skin in front of my eyes, and I can breathe.
I can breathe in the texture of the quilt that covers me, the fresh paint from the newly
re-painted bathroom ceiling; but beyond the added scent of olive oil and lavender
wafting up from my bedside table there is also the permanent smell of alone.
My dreams paint pictures of eba and efo riro, flashes of people who are my friends,
except their faces fade and their names don’t match. My dad is smiling at me, but when
I smile back it’s not him I see, and when I look again there’s nobody there.
It’s dark as night when I open my eyes but on the clock it’s just six, and all I want is
There is no pepper. They have learnt how to take out the lactose from the milk from the
breast of a cow, but not how to make pepper – the real stuff, ata rodo style. Or am I
looking in the wrong aisle?
And here, I learn it is once again acceptable to call chips chips. Humph.
I wrap myself in swathes of clothing and take three deep breaths before stepping
outside, and then I get to class to find that everybody is wearing shorts. It seems they
turn red and green and white, but not blue. I keep my coat on.
My fingers turn red when I get back to my room, my cave.
Pictures of my friends are pinned to the wall. They are stiff and frozen, like the smile I
wear when I ask for directions. My bed sheet from home is on my bed. From home!
I tweet, ‘a slice of home, yay!’ but it is too big. It doesn’t fit.
My feet are cold now. They say the heat is automatic, but twenty-one degrees cannot
thaw my toes, and so I burrow into my bed and close my eyes.
There are no tears, I am not sad, I do not feel. I am only tired from walking everywhere,
and I am glad to be alone, again.
@JadenTM the Super Sexy Secret Assassin Robot would share her art with us on AfroSays from time to time

You make me feel November 17, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — Betty @ 7:51 pm
Tags: , ,
Of a muted gong finding it’s voice. Listen.
Betty BlackLace.


You make me feel.
Carnal fire, burning.
Deep down.
And there.
All over.
Can’t stop.
Coursing down my spine.
Gasping, need air.
No air.
Come now.
Fire burning.

A case for monsters November 11, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 9:44 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,
The goddess beckons to you.
She’s been in Castle Noir these past few weeks, speaking without saying words. Speaking still, and I have been listening alright.
These stories she asks me to share are for you, so that you know that she is, and forget her not.

Please bring your offerings still, or she will have my head.

I beat a gong alive. I beat a freak of a gong. Do you see that AfroSays?



A spook is always judged.
The multitude of persons who come across stories of our not-so-pleasant encounters with the ones who are unfortunate enough to be undone by us make us out to be evil beings.
I, today, am here to set this right.
I am a city poltergeist, much the debonair kind. A fashionado in city speak. A well tailored suit rests quite dapperly on my ashen skin. My hair is properly combed and flicked back with two palm-fulls of sticky digestive juices and my fingernails are well trimmed. The confident musk that accompanies my eerie presence is good quality eau de Goblin. I think you shall find it easy to receive me for I project a semblance much like the best of you.
Unfortunately, there are not many like me given to the details of a good supernatural presentation; the appearance of most of my kind would cause your teeth to powder with chattering and your legs to warm with your wetness. This does not mean we are malevolent. Do not judge a book by its cover.
Monsters, imps, spirits, beings under the bed and in dark closets, bogeymen, ghosts, demons, spooks all, we are all souls like you. Just like you. It pains me buckets that you do not know; you do not see how you truly are. We are only without our interfaces, and these weak interfaces are the illusions that you worship. When they are gone, you’re one of us. Exactly as you are, as ugly as your deepest secrets.
I would ask you furthermore, what a human being is that does not live? An example would be a comatose human. What is his purpose? He has no place in your existence.
I would ask you again, furthermore, what the other beings in your ecosystem think of you? The cockroaches which you destroy, the mosquitoes which you poison, the rats which you eradicate, the bacteria and viruses which you decimate, the plants which your existence is pernicious to? Do you think they think of your existence as altruistic? You should know better.
I shall make my case so. Just as you are an absolute evil to lesser beings than you, we, as superior beings might not be held in high regard by your lot. Nightmares and the entire execution of horrific experiences are expedient to our kind.
Summarily, Our purpose is to terrorize and to fulfil purpose is righteous.

Green Nation I November 7, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 2:23 pm
Tags: , , , , ,
@Hl_Blue, here’s the gong. Roll.

“The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive-tree, Reign thou over us.
But the olive-tree said unto them, Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to wave to and fro over the trees?” (Biblical quote)

...coming soon...

Spring was here. We the children seeds all felt it. Locked beneath the soil surface for the cold months of winter, we each had plotted our strategies and revenge for the next cycle of life. There was no total victory in the struggle in each round, just winners and losers, honor and disgrace. And the result of each cycle fight depended massively on time, chance, and how wily each plant species could be. I was regarded as the rightful king, but that meant nothing to my scheming cousins. In fact, being the king just meant you were the one everyone tried to topple. A most tiresome occupation but what could I do? This was my destiny. Thrust upon me by millions of years of natural selection, pushed onto me from multiple thousands of my predecessors before me. I was the acorn, the oak-apparent.
There could not be any waiting for the soil to soften. We broke ground at the first possible chance, little saplings reaching for the sun in the immortal race for survival. As the acorn I grew among the fastest, interlinking roots with my siblings for strength and playing my politics well with the other creatures of our habitat. The insects found me welcoming as usual. I was the prime choice for raising their eggs to larvae, then pupae then adult butterflies, moths, roaches, grasshoppers and all what not. Did they know I inflicted a weak poison to keep them from their intended plan for world domination in the next thousand millennia? I think not. If they did, they might take their young elsewhere. But I needed them here. To attract the birds who would pick off majority of the infant worms for food and give me the chance to spread my seed far and wide in their feathers. All this while, I reached for the forest top, not looking back, establishing myself once more as king of the English forest in record time. This was already taken for granted by everyone and thus was no new source of pride. The crucial battles of pride lay just ahead.
The rattan sneered at my straight, unwavering growth toward the heavens. He preferred a more twisted path and waited for me to establish my domain and water and food supply network. He did not take me on directly, but went first for my immediate younger sibling a safe distance away. (Though we were all royal, I was given respect among my siblings as the one to have the last say on decisions affecting our survival as a species). I watched in pain as my brother ignored Rattan’s first feeble attempts to wrap his arms around his sturdy stem. Did he realize that those half-hearted attempts were just reconnaissance missions to develop antidotes against the poisons we oaks were feared for? I think not, for I observed the youthful arrogance with which he brushed off Lord Rattan’s wily advances. But when the time came, the wry thorny tendril-hands of Rily Rattan wrapped round the young arrogant oak’s trunk and held fast, adding a climbing loop each month as my brother fought back in futility with all the toxins known to the oak family.
Rattan formed no leaves in the early stage of his conquest, drawing solely from the resources of the supple oak. However, near the crest of the forest treeline he put out his wicked leaves as triumphant sign that the days of dependence on his host were numbered. I knew this was true and mourned my brother’s young foolishness. The memories locked in my subconscious by my preceding king oaks were the reason I was king and not he. Still it was painful to watch as my brother’s stem was strangled, mangled and ruthlessly dispatched by the wiles of the grasping climber-pretender. Within decades, the oak was dead, and Rattan’s hollow, circular profile was the sole negative evidence of the greatness that was once an oak. But Rattan would not stop there. He set his sights on another fair oak to maintain his greedy appetite, which he could not sustain on his own – my sister Laila.
I chose not to stand by this time. My subjects would be manipulated to fight for me, for the oaks. I summoned the fungi from my root network to work their damage from below while the slave orchids would float their misty seeds up to the vulnerable tendrils of the Rattan usurper. I hoped when they got to the destination of their errand they would not be diverted by the superior sweetness of my sister instead of suffocating the enemy. Well, I had my backup plans if that scenario presented itself. I was king after all. But Rattan would grow stronger if he kept falling over from one strangled oak to the next, and when his confidence was great enough he would come for me. Then it would be up to me to defend the last shreds of our dignity. It was the king’s burden.
The battle was on for my sister’s existence already. The wild orchids displayed angry patterns of bloom right at the tips of Lord Rattan’s budding shoots. He allowed them grow unhindered but diverted supplies of water from their growth spouts. They sprang up in premature glee and soon learned the bitter lessons of biting the scrawny shoots that fed them. Exposed to the harsh summer sun, they withered even faster than they had grown. For the poisonous fungi, Rattan deployed his anti-cellulose poisons. The fool didn’t care that these little subversionists were neither plant nor animal and would not be affected by such mean weapons. The final victim was my sister ironically. She fell to these poisonous toxins intended for the fungi at her root base and began to die faster than Rattan could have killed her. To all appearances, she looked healthy right up to the end of the second year after the attack, when she suddenly came to an end, suddenly succumbing to a disease for which she had no answer. So it happened that by sending my minions against Lord Rattan, I had only sped up the death of the sister I sought to protect. These marks on my conscience were silently recorded for posterity, to be added to the annals of wisdom for the next oak king. Yes, I was already thinking of the time after my demise. It was the king’s burden.
The swift death of Laila worked in my favor in an unexpected way. Rattan’s confidence was now cocky and careless as he turned his sights on me, seeking to topple me as king of the English forest. This was premature because his short stay on Laila had not allowed him gather the necessary resources to put up a good fight. I wasn’t planning to win this fight in any obvious way. The results of my strategy would come to light in the next generation, where they would be praised after my passing to the glorious annals of the oakdom.
While Rattan extended his taunting tendrils to my branches I silently began the massive acorn shedding that would ensure the dominance of the next generation of oaks. I would be bowing out without a fight but winning in the biggest possible way. The war, not the battle, was important. My friend the Mountain Ash was cooperative. Having grown side by side (tens of metres apart in human measurements) since we were young aspirants for stardom, we had retained our bond over the centuries. He was always the faster grower, caring nothing for stability and honor as I did, fighting no one along the way, and reaching greater heights faster than I did. When I eventually caught up, he had already begun tiring of sustaining his massive height with his hastily but poorly developed root base and was ready for the thrill of the next life cycle. Rather than topple and fall in disgrace, he subscribed to my plan for a new world. The plan was not new to me (the memories of my fathers had served me well) but to him it was a novelty. His loss of memory with each generation made this ancient, time-tested strategy an exciting new adventure for him. And so my plan was perfected.
The flammable oils were stored in Ash’s bark and stem for the next twenty years. He became the standing incendiary waiting for the slightest spark to trigger the massive forest fire that would wipe out the entire kingdom, save the new children seeds that would begin the new life world after the next autumn – winter – spring cycle. Of course Rattan was gloriously unaware of this plot, thinking I had surrendered when I allowed him wrap his thorny arms around my trunk and branches, without fighting back with my oak poisons. And so he grew and squeezed tighter, not bothering to invest in seeding, thinking he would reign supreme after the oaks had been put under total humiliation and subjection. Pfft! The oaks did not get through millennia of dominance by such wilted reasoning.
The bright autumn day finally presented itself. The dried undergrowth and leaves at the forest floor were ready and waiting for the spark that would cause the meltdown of life as we knew it. The shattered bottle piece to concentrate the sun rays at the point of ignition had been adequately positioned for this very moment. The Mountain Ash was ready to supply the fuel to blaze through the entire forest and leave no trace of plant life. We would not die. We would be reborn as seeds, only without Rattan’s evil spawn. When the fire spark began, he was the most troubled of all the forest inhabitants. His impending win was being cancelled by this ultimate referee that cared not for distinction or name in its mindless destruction. Of course, I was the reason behind this madness but he would know only at the last possible second. While all the plants and trees cried in anguish I remained silent and resolute. I had saved the last acorn for now. As the new oak-apparent, he had to have as many memories from this life as possible, up to the very last possible moment. It was only when I let him drop that Rattan finally realized what had been going on for the last twenty years. Nay, hundreds of years, if the thoughts in my mind were included. The fires engulfed our entwined bodies as we writhed in pain from the heat of the flames. It felt strange to burn to death. It was calming, torturing, welcoming. As for Rattan, having no previous life memories made this the worst possible torture he had ever experienced. He writhed all the way down to the bitter end. His last wry smile of acknowledgement of my wisdom and the greatness of my clan species was all I needed to be satisfied that this fight for the rulership of the English forest had been totally worth it.
The End.
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Green Nation, The Preview November 3, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 2:11 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Green Nation.
Coming to you next Monday (11th, November, 2011).
signed. teamAfroSays.

...coming soon...

Spring was here. We the children seeds all felt it. Locked beneath the soil surface for the cold months of winter, we each had plotted our strategies and revenge for the next cycle of life. There was no total victory in the struggle in each round, just winners and losers, honor and disgrace. And the result of each cycle fight depended massively on time, chance, and how wily each plant species could be. I was regarded as the rightful king, but that meant nothing to my scheming cousins. In fact, being the king just meant you were the one everyone tried to topple. A most tiresome occupation but what could I do? This was my destiny. Thrust upon me by millions of years of natural selection, pushed onto me from multiple thousands of my predecessors before me. I was the acorn, the oak-apparent.

This world, anthropocentric beings we are. Have you ever seen the world through the eyes of another? The eyes of a plant perhaps?
We welcome you to Green Nation where plants are born to survive – they hustle, they plan, they scheme, they make friends and foes, they love, they war, they struggle against the odds!

There is no democracy in the jungle but there is a government. It’s a government of survival in Green Nation and is it so different?
Plants become you and I.
Please do subscribe to the blog to follow the project. (Column to the right for PC browsers or in the comment section)

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