Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Gift & Curse January 17, 2012

The year has put on new clothes.
ThatDarkBetty and thatAfroSays, we bid you enjoy her fashions.


Enter @Osizurunkle

Art has long since provided us a means to appreciate, understand and interpret our surroundings and circumstances, a form of social commentary.


The tradition continues:
@afromysterics, @CavalierSlim, @xoAFRO

One painting, slightly different perceptions;


(Kindly allow the images to load, also preferably viewed on a PC)
Section 1




Some of the key players in the matter; GEJ intentions unclear, wearing what seems to be a joker’s mask

IMF (can you see their logo?), a head seeming to come forth from the logo, whispering, appearing to give orders to Okonjo; who is listening. Eyes closed, appearing to be blind to the suffering of her people, her environment…

The child, representative of the people, crying in anguish because of the future he/they see(s)…bleak

Can you see the logos of two major oil companies?



NOI with the star where her heart should be, signifying her good intentions.

GEJ with the mask, putting on a strangely brave face in the presence of turmoil and chaos

The masses, crying and angry, bewildered by the actions of the government, unable to comprehend a seemingly futuristic action…ignorance, the bane of the ordinary man. (as seen by the sad face beside NOI and the dumb-looking man, holding up the placard, respectively)

A cacophony of violence and diverse interests, fighting for the soul of Nigeria, while its innate strength lies dormant and weakened (signified by the sad horse)




Section 2




Crude- a source of joy and pain,a gift & curse since 1956

The Coat of ‘Alms’ (begging for attention)




Section 3





He was a prophet in his own right. His music; the soundtrack of the current agitation.

(This section of the piece also expresses religious conflicts between Islam and Christianity, the murder carried out in the name of God…)



The timeless conflict that religion inevitably concocts, causing the death of so many and setting the nation on edge. An explosive situation, literally. All happening, with fela’s music remains the soundtrack in the quest for freedom and equity.




Section 4



A bomb. 2015; the predicted expiration date of the entity called NGR, an eye; watching…




Section 5



TUC, NLC, Save Nigeria, Enough is Enough, people protesting for a return to N65, fists representative of the Occupy Nigeria movement.




Section 6




A phone,megaphones, guns, social networking sites and the war being waged on the internet…the people being given a voice of sorts, an avenue to vent/vocalize their thoughts…

The ‘I-better-pass-my-neighbor ‘ generator powering all this…’NEPA’



Twitter and facebook…the chief culprits through which propaganda is spread from every angle, setting a technology-savvy generation on fire, seeing only half-truths and shadows…they need light…figuratively and literally.




The piece in full




They go to church, they ask, “Give us a prophecy!”
They have stopped coming to visit me, their clothes are too clean for my mats and their noses are too urban, too stilted for the modest smell of nature.
Every year, they hear the same things over and over again:
This is your year of breakthrough! This is your year of renewed anointing!
How are they so blind that they cannot see the play of hands? How are they so carried away that they are not aware that the year listens to no man’s speculations?
The year listens to their actions, individually; the year listens to the consequence of these gathering drops in the ocean. The year is the resultant wave, riding on the combined ripples of their decisions, their activities, although some ripples are weightier than others.
Whether they come to consult me or not, the charcoal would talk about them.  Spiritual Amebo[0].
Whether they seek the truth or not, in black gold it is evident. Spiritual Gbeborun[0].
I see,
The circles are distorted and the ripples dance before me, telling a story that is not altogether hidden from you if you cared to open your eyes.
Shey you want to know where it starts? Is it not in the center of it all? Look at that beast of burden, enjoying himself on a bed of flowers…
 Him brother no see palmi[1] drink but him no go give am. Palmwine sef dey, ‘Gorodom[2]’ dey. Them talk say na oyel[3] money, say na for all of us, why them dey laugh and we dey cry?
Fela, he talked about it all and his words ring true today, as true as they rang back then, in rhythm with the sound of the beads that shook on the jiggling waists of his dancers. Abami…
Archbishop na enjoyment, Pope na enjoyment, Imam na gbaladun[4]… Our people too dey fear… Our leaders them be bad people… Suffering and smiling
Shey you see the next ripple? Look above the center, it is the consequence of the activities of the leaders that we elected, it is the consequence of our own choices…
My people dey suffer: Bomb dey blow, we leaders no hear! We dey cry, we leaders no hear! Oga president no see our face, na joke joke masquerade him use take cover face! Madam minister no see hear our cry, na oyinbo dey give am advice! Bomb dey blow! Man dey cry!
And the ripples after? Just above?
Suffer dey but we must talk! Enough is enough, We must to save Nigeria! Whether court talk say make we no cry, na as e pain us we go cry! Whether Labour talk say make we quiet small, na as e pain us, we go shout! Enough is Enough!
My people, the charcoal dust swirls, observe the whorls. The voice of the people is their armament. Look at the final ripples, the voice of the multitude, the cry of the people…
Bullhorn na we grenade launcher! All ojoro[5] must die by fire! Thunder must to strike all the cabal them! No be our money?  No be our oyel? Twitter soldier man, Facebook air marshall, Broadcaster-in-chief, General street protester, all of we come together. We no fit use all our salary enter molue[6] go work; we no fit put all our sweat inside one twenty-five leetah[7] jerry can, pour am for moto. NEPA no dey, PHCN talk say make we buy candle but Mama Bomboy talk say candle don cost. Our voice na we gun! Our shout na we shakabula[8]!
Enough is Enough!
Words employed

  1. Amebo/Gbeborun – Gossip/ Eavesdropper
  2. Palmi – Palm Wine
  3. Gorodum – Oil drums
  4. Oyel – Crude oil
  5. Gbaladun – Enjoyment
  6. Ojoro – Corruption
  7. Molue – Dilapidated mass transit bus
  8. Leetah – Litre
  9. Shakabula – Double barreled Pump action rifle.


The piece is titled Gift & Curse and done with charcoal on pastel by Laolu Senbanjo

Go to to see more of the artist’s work and follow the handle @afromysterics on twitter, also like laolu senbanjo on facebook.


Shadow Tail October 18, 2011

Filed under: The Trench — afrosays @ 3:29 pm
Tags: , , ,


This is the dawn of another night.
The night has long been abused, they call it a time of sorrow, a time of gnashing of teeth; they say the sun cometh in the morning…
May the sun never come!
I am of lunar soul, trenchant knucklehead, me. I love the night! All my neighbours, they have been eaten by the monster they call home and in the belly of the beast, they are silenced, even if for a while.
I am outside tonight. Shirt off!
The streets are clean. The air is clean. The internet is clean. More importantly, the dimension we call Thought Express, it is clean. Brain traffic is at a minimum and we need the scarce bandwidth to be who we are.
I stretch. I launch myself on the comet, ShadowTail, and we project.
Who am I?
Who are we?
Did you ever see a beam of joy, like a pulse, like the shadow of a comet, race down your streets three a.m. in the morning?
Slow down that vision.
Did you ever imagine that what you saw was a half-naked child with a head full of black fibers running down the road, his hands behind his back, holding a pulsing ball of brilliance? Did he have the most rapturous smile on his face? You dismissed that thought didn’t you?
I’d be around where you are if it is somewhere to be around. I’d be seeking that quintessential, picking up coins like dear Nintendo’s Mr Mario, leaping into the air for gold rings like Sega’s Mr. Sonic; If I ever crash, I’d be sure to remember that this existence is no PlayStation. I run parallel to what I aim to discover, it’s close but it’s perpetually inaccessible. I keep running however, hoping that these parallel lines cross at some point in the future and then the big ‘why?’ becomes an ‘oh really?’
One day I’d cover most of the world but I know I’d never cover all of it for these medals I pick up along the way, they weigh me down; these gold medals, they are excerpts of worldly wisdom. With each new coin or ring that I put in my purse, I lose some grab on the comet I ride on.
Pretty soon I might be walking on the road like those few old people I see on the sidewalks. They don’t look extremely happy but they seem content. Maybe I’d have enough coins and rings to buy me common sense, and my breakneck travel on Thought Express would be abandoned. Maybe some other kid, maybe my kid would hop on that comet and try to discover why the world is the way it is. Maybe I’d be the one telling him to take the world as it is, tempting him with a meager bag of coins.
I doubt it!
Why? ShadowTail and I are not the only ones that travel these parallel lines. If you’ve read this far with a smile on your face, the kind that betrays recognition, you’re with me, and company, even your company, makes even the most arduous journey sufferable.
Give PinkBeam a caress, or is he DarkWave? BlackBolt? WhiteFire? RedSpark? Is she PurpleStream? IndigoSea? ‘ColeurWing?
Count your coins, your rings, and let there be a chorus of cling-clangs in this fresh night air as we throw away the faulty wisdom we have discovered. Keep the trusty gold medals, you might eventually find enough to retire.
Hold your comet, your catalyst, your propellant with arms outstretched behind you.
Ahoy! Launch and run free!
And don’t forget to take your shirt off if you feel like it.

Circles of man July 29, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays,The Trench — afrosays @ 9:44 pm

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.



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.


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.


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




The Other Place July 22, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays,The Trench — afrosays @ 10:17 pm
Tags: ,

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.



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.


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.


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




My Darkness July 15, 2011

Filed under: Abstract,Spooky Fridays,The Trench — afrosays @ 8:22 pm
Tags: ,

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

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…



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.


Good. Evil. The battle to rule yourself.



You most definitely would like
*Of Visions and Visitors
*Stories of Night


Seven July 14, 2011

Filed under: Abstract,The Trench — afrosays @ 12:15 pm

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


...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.”


Measuring affection by societal standards. The use of affection labels. The implications?
You might also like
*Love and Truth
*Love and War

...coming soon...


Monsters July 8, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays,The Trench — afrosays @ 10:55 pm
Tags: , , ,

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!


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.


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


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!”


The man maverick and the vengeful society.

You most definitely would like
*Of Visions and Visitors
*Stories of Night



Sovereign July 6, 2011

Filed under: The Trench — afrosays @ 3:35 pm

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:


“Say a word and it will be my name”


“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.


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.


...coming soon...


%d bloggers like this: