Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

I am not a man September 20, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:10 am
Tags: , , , ,

I’m not feeling too good at the moment.

Work + Work + Work + More Work = Stress, MeThinks?

I explain my position to the goddess but she doesn’t seem to care. She goes on to explain to me how her peers have been doing far better than she has and how much of a bad investment I am.

I complain about the absence of health insurance benefits with this Towncrier job office.

She starts to cry.

I’m not in top shape but I’d have to be a gentleman and resume office from my rest bed, beating the lousy gong, only because AfroSays:


I am not a man

Only sometimes

Many had tried to win the chief’s daughter in marriage: from top management at the company, from around his wealthy social circle, even from out of the country. I’m still wondering why he gave me a chance; Yes, I be fine boy, but I’m sure that little ego-booster of mine wasn’t even considered at all when the chief made the unspoken mental decision to let me court Beatrice.
Bashful Beatrice and I have been at it for a little over a year now and I hear the wedding bells ringing. The whole world knows we’re tying the knot soon but I haven’t actually asked the Chief for his daughter’s formally. Today, I’m in one of the five sitting rooms in his Ikoyi mansion, waiting for him to attend to the matter at hand. Beatrice is right next to me, looking for a missing pencil on the floor – being shy in the cutest way she knows how. She’s already explained to me how her family works, but I’ve never had any strong opportunities to interact with her aloof, distant parents or her uppity relatives, however, #TodayNaToday! I believe that since I didn’t get approached by the usual All-Black-Everything, two-man intimidation squad as all of her other suitors in the past had been, her father either likes or respects me.
Today is my chance to establish my real first impression with the Chief and I am determined to stand as a man with dignity even though I’m a public grammar school educated, OND holding, hustler with a humble background, and despite what Beatrice has told me about his possessive bothering on disgustingly intrusive nature.
I take a look at sweet-Bea and I’m still trying to explain to myself why the Chief favored me above other more-suitable suitors. She was his only child and the world expects at least someone of money-blood merit if royal blood isn’t immediately available. I have always felt damn lucky but today is the day to confirm my luck.
Chief finally shows up in a towel after three hours of waiting and gives me five minutes. His convex, satellite-dish-like stomach intimidates me by from time to time by peeping at me from under the towel every three seconds and beaming threatening microwave signals. I almost plead with him to stop taking those deep breaths. I however somehow summon the courage to relay my honorable intentions, all the while holding Bea’s hand in the highest tension. She seems to have escaped off with her little mind to Jupiter and her body is as cold as the Ice tea we were served on arrival.
Chief takes the deepest breath ever as if to instruct his satellite dish to launch a target-seeking missile to assassinate me on my way home for even daring to make such an unbecoming request. He looks straight at me.
I try, sincerely I do to return his gaze but I cannot be a man. After 0.000075 seconds, I break gaze and start untying and re-tying my shoelaces to stop my shoes from vibrating and causing an embarrassing noise like a hair clipper. I feel fresh sweat lines break out on my back in torrents. I wet my boxers a little.
I am not a man.
That must be why he’s offering me his surname.

The revenge of mercedes man September 14, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 11:03 pm
Tags: , , ,

My eyes are closing and she wakes me up, then forces me to do her bidding.

She doesn’t care that work has been quite challenging lately or that nowadays, I’m all stressed out most of the time.

All she wants me to do is keep banging the gong, even if my head is banging as well.

Tired me is doing this only because AfroSays:




I watched as the Mercedes eased carefully into the narrow space near the wall that defined the limits of the general parking lot which was located just outside the office building.
I smiled.
Five hundred Naira or trouble.
Seven months in this profession had taught me that neat, expensive cars were the best tippers because their owners were always very anxious to keep their babies in care of a nanny. Other car owners, however, had already given up on their dream of keeping a scratch-free car and consequently could not care less about extra care. They only paid the requisite parking fee.
Or not.
The parking fee wasn’t really requisite; it was not required by the owners of the parking lot, I required it. Every “Rent-A-Cop” type security man in Lagos requires a ‘little token’ to allow any vehicle access to the precious and scarce real estate under his care, whether the individual is a legit business customer or just another random fellow who can’t find somewhere else to keep his metal junk. We usually notify the beneficiary of the existence of a contract when he’s about to cleverly abandon his car and we wait for him to finish his business before we collect our dues.
Did I mention that we have clever punishments as well for beneficiaries who try to be smart?
I guess that’s why I expected Mercedes Man to cooperate and somehow communicate his understanding of our intangible agreement as he made for the office building in a hurry-scurry. This was the oldest trick in the book so I refused to be outdone; I caught up with him and started explaining the ‘contract’ all over.
He ignored me and walked even faster, attempting to be busy with his phone.
I ran after him and when I was close enough, I threatened his baby.
He laughed and told me to do whatever I wanted and to go to hell when I was done. I was thoroughly insulted and I let him go on ahead.
#JustSoYouKnow I did whatever I wanted so I’d be in jail till my family can raise something close to three million Naira to fix Mercedes Man’s baby.
#JustSoYouKnow The richest member of my family is a palm wine tapper.

Say aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! September 9, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:40 am
Tags: , , , , ,

Hey goddess! I’m sure you know I love you because you bring the most amazing stories out of the weirdest situations.

Maybe I should get in weirder fixes?

Of course, this didn’t really happen, I’m just beating my gong because AfroSays:


Said aaaaaaaH!

Said aaaaaaaH!

So I’ve had quite a stressful day, running all over the place and achieving everything but I’ve been too busy to attend to a very important issue.
I’m on my way home when the consequence of my one little negligence catches up with me; I’m vibrating violently in my car, cursing the sluggishly moving traffic and creatively inventing new ways to answer nature’s call while driving on the expressway. My mental attempts at getting out of this fix is giving me a migraine.
I have plastic coke bottle in my car but I’m not sure about the volume of water in the GP tank so I immediately abandon that thought because if anything goes wrong, I’d never be able to explain to my wife why my car smells like the mattress my neighbor’s kid puts out to dry every morning.
I consider opening my door, just a little and wetting the road through the gap but the traffic isn’t exactly a standstill, there are hawkers navigating the narrows lanes in between the cars lines and I would definitely get discovered and absolutely embarrassed.
I swerve to the left lane where the plants are.
I consider an absurd position where I take off my seat belt, position my body at angle 45 to the pedals (just imagine my yourself straight bodied, almost standing but in a diagonal position while driving), wind down the window and twist my torso slightly in that direction, (still moving in the goddamn traffic), one hand on the wheel, one hand on my zip, wetting the plants like a moving sprinkler, freeing my pain.
I most definitely cannot park and get down because, I have too much culture to put on my blinker, park on the expressway and start pissing my discomfort away with reckless abandon.
To hell with culture,
All I know is I’m wetting the plants on the road divider; the world is quiet and it’s only me and the beautiful moon



Surviving happy September 6, 2010

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 5:01 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Sometimes you don’t understand what your soul is saying, you just know it’s saying something.

I’m hoping the AfroMuse would be kind enough to explain what she’s burdening me with.

Is there a Google jingle I can beat on the gong? I’m asking because AfroSays:



I have what others don’t
I lack what others have
I choose to be happy
I’ve been faster than others
I’ve been cheated as well
I choose to be happy
Love has been wasted on me
I’ve wasted love too
I choose to be happy
I’ve stolen your smile
You can’t steal mine
Naturally, I choose to be happy



My shameless fantasy September 4, 2010

Filed under: Abstract — afrosays @ 11:01 am
Tags: ,

Weekend morning spiritual vibes. The message is pouring in.

The rain’s pouring out so I don’t wanna do nothing.

Gotta do it because AfroSays,




She’s always on my mind, that flirt; she’s my most shameless fantasy. Every time I see her, I make the most childish wishes.
Sometimes I think I’m obsessed, I definitely want to be more than friends. It hurts to accept that we’re not even friends yet.
She’s polygamous but her lovers don’t mind, they’re only hoping she won’t withdraw her favours and sometimes, when she does, they never really get over her, both genders included.
She’s quite the companion; they treat you positively different wherever she goes with you, whether it’s at the holiest church or at the skankiest party.
She won’t satisfy you but she’d make sure you can satisfy yourself.
I want her.
I want Miss OluwaNaira EuroYemi



Talking to a stranger September 3, 2010

Filed under: Abstract — afrosays @ 7:43 pm
Tags: , ,

I’m confused about this goddess oh, she must be crazy!
Can someone please tell her that afro hairdos take time to grow?

I’ve might have to wear a wig soon, so please watch out so that you still recognize when AfroSays:



She’s not sure what I want from her and I’m never sure either
She looks like she’s not sure whether to be friendly or not
If she looks indifferent, I’d rather walk past because:
(1) I’m very lazy
(2) Indifferent strangers really don’t give a four-pronged cutlery utensil about other strangers

I walk up to her, I’d never greet her
being nice never works
trying to be funny almost never works
I just say  something random because I prefer her calm and unguarded
“I’m bored” would do
If every other wants to talk to her, I won’t
Her boring random friend would do
She usually would deliberately act disinterested till switch over to her
She then slowly but surely eclipses her sidekick and we’re on
If no one wants to talk to her, she’d notice
Then she’s either too friendly or bitter
If you’re her, bitter is better
Eventually, I have to get her to move around so the others know she’s taken
If she doesn’t want to move, she wants to move around with someone else
I’d usually look for the other so I decide whether I’m wasting my time or not
Usually I am
If we’re on the move, I buy her something
She’s probably feeling this whole stranger connect by then
I can then be nice
I can then be funny
But it’s still too early to be me
I should know what I want from her in a few minutes
I should say goodbye in a few minutes
I should start all over again in a few days
I’m sure I’d know when it’s time to stop talking to strangers



Love and truth August 31, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 1:32 pm
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However topsy-turvy life has been lately, I’ve got the goddess to hang on to.

I’m learning form her that truth is what most people say it is, what we were told and what we would tell our children.

I’ve been saving to buy a bicycle so that I can get around faster when I’m beating the gong, in case AfroSays:




I listened half-attentively to the grayed pastor as he described his convictions about pure love between a man and a woman.
“Any love that is tainted with carnality is of the devil”, he bellowed as he wiped torrents of sweat from his forehead. I always marveled at how he managed to keep up perspiration when the frigid temperature in the church almost formed icicles on the ceiling. Most of the congregation was clothed in suits and sweaters.
“Ladies, any man that wants to have sex with you is from the pits of hell”, he continued, “Men, there must be no hugging or kissing or staying together in private places. Flee from every appearance of evil!”.
“Amen!”, chorused the older members of the church in unison with our pastor’s spiritual ideologies. I was humored at how most of them had consummated their marriages with a foetus under the wedding dress, later subscribing to spirituality to protect their daughters from celebrating their youth under the lewd influence of Aphrodite.
The pastor had enjoyed his youth, the beautiful lady sitting next to me was evidence. I had helped her to enjoy hers as well. She was sitting next to me, keeping the other half of my attention at carnal consciousness with her legs brushing against mine. Earlier on in our relationship, we both had chosen not to devour the forbidden fruit but we had put a hole in it and sucked its nectar to our satisfaction. It is however unfortunate that nectar never seemed to really satisfy one, it only caused an increasing addiction.
Of course, we overgrew nectar with time and started nibbling at the fruit itself. It had been itsy, little incissor teeth cuts at first but before we knew it, we were planning deliberate camping trips under the forbidden tree, preparing fruit dishes with every kind of recipe book we could find.
Her companionship transcended fruit and nectar. We blended so perfectly in every thing else that our carnal sessions could only prove testament. I don’t believe in the First Corinthians thirteen kind of love because I’ve never seen it, but pastor’s kid and I? Friendship? Naa! our relationship or whatever it was, I just figured it was something cool enough to have around as I grew older.
I didn’t surprise me when I married the pastor’s kid twenty years ago. I only winked at her as I watched her eventually turn to our daughter and mumble something about remaining a virgin in Christ, whatever that was.



The rich man’s problem August 29, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:26 am
Tags: , , , , ,

Done lazing in the shadow of my memories, I’m gazing into the sunny future, just wondering…

About a lot of things…

She always seems to find everything entertaining so there she goes again with her malevolent sense of humor

I finish my umbrella drink as slow as possible and make journey for the village even though I don’t want to, beating my gong only because Afrosays,




I’d seen my exact dilemma happen to my predecessors as a young man and I was too sure I wouldn’t raise a malfunctioning family as most extremely wealthy men conveniently managed. My family wasn’t exactly overly-problematic; it’s just that it had produced an overly-problematic member. Having Douga as a son was enough cause to label my strong Christian family a failure.
My eccentric last son was a modern hippie. He was the reason why I had to put an end to the family tradition of socio-cultural educational excursions which was really simply worldwide holidaying for the kids and international shopping for my wife. Douga had been the most-promising – I’d even allowed him to make return trips on his own so that he could learn more about the people he found interesting. He’d been quite taken by India, Germany, Somalia (his mum didn’t know), Japan, the Emirates and particularly the Caribbean.
I’d indulged his gallivanting, allowing him to quit school to become a sociologist by experience and he was making me proud by appearing on several international elitist magazines looking eccentric like his father. However, it’s a pity that I had always been too busy to read what my son was featured for.
Last year, I was quite impressed when my sixteen year old son was invited for the last edition of the Larry King show on CNN. He wore a purple toga, luxuriantly flowing hair and a mock Nebuchadnezzar look-alike beard. I’d always been a tolerant person so I did not have any aversions to my son’s manner of appearance, I was only very curious as to why the tenth richest man in the world’s son had managed to surpass him as a global personality.
That day, I listened earnestly only to realize that ”The Guru Douga” had started his own religion.



God punish you August 27, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 8:14 pm
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Tonight’s another time to take one of those journeys back in time.

Shes laughing at me, as I try to quickly walk past some embarrassing memory posts.

She finds one of them particularly fascinating, and she decides to make it into something the village can relate to.

I’d be pretending like I don’t know what I’m talking about as I beat the gong hastily, only because AfroSays:




I hate the memory of falling for the same chic everybody else fell for.
I hate her memories– the moments I couldn’t breathe properly because she was around, the endless times I attempted to draw her on almost every page of my study jotter, the one time I actually succeeded, the times when I wouldn’t stop talking to my friends about her, worst of all, the memories I probably created myself; the ones where she noticed me but was too shy to make a move, the ones where she turned back to steal glances at me in class while pretending to take interest in the boring paint job on the wall, the one during church service, where her friend told her I was around and they took turns stealing looks at me, the one where she idly wandered right next to me at the cafeteria to give me a chance to talk to her, the one where her friend gave up her seat for me at the cyber-cafe so that I could have a chance to talk to her. Now that I know the truth, I hate them all!
My friends and I, we called her “Cute”.
Towards the end of my first year at the university, the excessive gallant energy that plagued we products of ‘boys-only’ secondary schools had almost completely worn off and my friends had ensured that I attended several “Cute-aholics Anonymous” sessions to cure me of my mildly embarrassing obsession. I had already begun to establish a noteworthy reputation for myself as an intellectual and I had a lovely chic on my arm to boot with. I had really begun to move on with life but one thing held me back – I was still wondering why “Cute” and I never got a chance even when it was obvious that we had some form of ethereal chemistry, (after all, she couldn’t have been stealing all those glances at me if she didn’t like me). I decided to put an end to my curiosity one evening and I walked up to her, this time with a platonic disposition. She seemed pleasant enough, quite friendly in fact. I was beginning to think that the hour had come for the son of man to be glorified….
It wasn’t that we hadn’t talked before – we had, plus I’d even gone out of my way to study a crash course on “Cute – o – logy”.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know who I was, she did! I was not popular but I found my way around.
It just hurt too much when she asked, “What is your name?”
I smiled and answered, “God punish you”



Why I go to church August 25, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 10:12 am
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it was Sunday a few days ago so this is what I was meant to do:

Put on a flowing white gown and run around the streets of Lagos, beating a prayer warrior tune on my Gong only because AfroSays:




“Mummy, I’m not going to church today”, I declared that Sunday morning. I was just back from my first year in the university and I felt that I had earned the right to freedom.

“After all, Brother Chima doesn’t go” I continued, in an attempt to create a solid premise for the expected argument. Brother Chima is my good-for-nothing, thirty two year old sibling who still stays at the house with us. His early retirement from life started seven years ago when he returned from the university, mid-semester. He was already in his third year when the school discovered that he wasn’t a valid student.We had all been fooled into believing that the Student Union had declared yet another strike till a student from the same school was accepted as intern in mum’s department at work. With further probing, mother found out about my brother’s fake admission although he never admitted it. He gave up on life shortly afterward and gradually retreated into his now obese self. He probably managed thirteen words per week since then, most of which were related to how fresh the bread was.
He was at the dining table, adding to his oversize gut when I took my revolutionary stand with mum. I had talked to him about it the night before and even though I wasn’t really expecting any help from him, at least I was sure he would keep his usual silent demeanor.
The chair creaked and we all looked in his direction, expecting some foolish comment about the bread. He was famous for such stupid interruptions.
We had almost turned back in indifference and mum was about to give me a piece of her mind when he pointed a half-eaten slice in my direction asking, as if mockingly, “Do you want to be like me?”
I went to church.



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