Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Caution June 13, 2012

Filed under: Laconic — afrosays @ 10:42 pm
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Be wary of Monty.
If trees could not carry flowers and birds could not sing, Monty would do both on their behalf for she wants to help everyone. We do not all want her assistance. When the river grew tired of running, Monty asked to run in her place. Now even though the river is rested, Monty wouldn’t let the river run again.
Monty has no place in this world.
Monty has no place but to take the place of others.


George April 3, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:35 pm
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Lazy this, lazy that.
AfroSays exactly what?




Quite recently, George has been unable to write stories.


He would sit at the four-seater dining table in his small apartment on most days and under sixty watts of bright yellow, he would stare into the white Microsoft Word canvas on his Dell machine. He used to stare into Layo’s eyes exactly the same way after he’d found out that she was cheating on him. He’d never said a word about it to her – he would just look deeply into her eyes after sex until she felt uncomfortable and turned away.


He’d written a book about her instead. It had been sensational.


George doesn’t have Layo anymore and he hasn’t had her for five years but he’s written another two bestsellers.


In one of the books, he wrote about a young man who writes a scandalous book that makes puts him under international spotlight with fancier clothes on his back. This book is a bestseller because the young man’s good fortune leads him into wilder circles. He starts a passionate relationship with the pretty daughter of an old statesman and she leads him into all sorts of forbidden pleasures. The book ends in tears, betrayal, and a suspicious suicide. It is a very gripping tale.


The next book, equally as gripping, is the tale of a young man battling old demons and new enemies. In this young man’s fight for survival, he must overcome dangerous habits that have taken him prisoner so that he can fight an even more dangerous battle that threatens to end his life for good – a dirty duel with a powerful government official. The story takes the reader through a twisting path of drug dealers, prostitutes, assassins, expensive celebrity lawyers, corrupt police men, jail time, all mixed into a massive effort to perpetuate a bitter vendetta. When the story ends, the young man’s life has been effectively paralysed and the antagonist is killed by natural causes.


George is yet to recover from the hell he’s been through.




The sin of a little saint March 2, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:45 pm
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I took the gong to the witch by the tower that leans. I hope you hear a tone, different.
Simply, AfroSays:



Biscom – as he was called – was rinsing another biscuit in the kitchen sink. Sometimes he would pinch in the little bag of Ariel that he always kept at the right side of the long necked tap and spray some detergent on his treat as he rinsed it. He liked his biscuits clean.
Just liked he liked his seats. He always kept a white cleaning rag and a big-sized spray bottle of cleaning liquid on his person which he always filled every morning and refilled by noon. This story of seats and biscuits and a cleaning kit would make one think that Biscom was a good case for psychiatric care and really he was; because of a memory.
Biscom was a small fellow and as a child he had been very little. His favourite thing to eat had been biscuits and every day of junior secondary school, he would buy three different brands from the lady who sold snacks on a small table in front of the school gate. Other kids would buy candies, chewing gum, and lollies in addition to biscuits but not tiny Biscom, he knew they were bad for his teeth.
Tiny Biscom only ate his treats during the break time and like his mother had always instructed him every morning before school, he would then proceed to the toilet to brush his teeth. He always had a toothbrush in his school bag which his mother switched for a new one every month, and a foreign brand of toothpaste, usually a version of Colgate that was unavailable in local stores. Needless to say, Tiny Biscom’s toothpaste – and sometimes his toothbrush as well – were stolen from his bag as often as twice a month.
But Tiny Biscom’s biscuits had never been stolen. In fact, tiny Biscom’s mates could only steal from his bag after break time when he’d had his biscuits and more so, tiny Biscom never shared his treats. Tiny Biscom always bought the most expensive brands of biscuit – the ones that contained a lot more than four cookies – unlike most of his peers. As little as he was, he would eat up as many as thirty six cookies all by himself. His colleagues soon learnt not to bother him but sometimes they would try again, hoping he would have had a change of heart. As an adult, Biscom still wouldn’t share his biscuits.
After two junior years, tiny Biscom was intensely disliked by all his colleagues. He had no friends and he acted like he needed none. To his credit, he was also an above average student, however, he never helped out the competition both legally and illegally. In cases where the class teamed up, for example, when the first algebra homework had been insanely difficult, the situation still had been class minus Biscom. There was also a certain camaraderie in tiny Biscom’s class as is in every other gathering of boisterous youngsters where the group is willing to suffer for the sins of one. Tiny Biscom wouldn’t partake in any such comradeship and as a result, erring classmates were promptly identified and dealt with.
Fortunately for tiny Biscom, he was loved by all the educators, probably because he was hated by all his colleagues and one rarely takes a liking from both quarters at the same time. This affection that tiny Biscom enjoyed from the staff quarters was an insurance of sorts but where intense hate is concerned, fear is powerless. Tiny Biscom, in all his self-righteousness had raised the passions raging against him to a red line when he began to take initiative against his classmates on his own. Tiny Biscom discreetly began to write the sins of his fellows down in a little black book and make a submission at the end of each day.
For a while, Biscom’s classmates wondered how their private transgressions had been finding its way to the desk of the school principal and they began to suspect each other. Although the tiny man was the prime suspect, they could never really be sure until one day when one of the girls thought to steal some fancy toothpaste and discovered a little diary. Because girls love secrets, she’d proceeded to steal the diary as well and that was when things really began to look bad for the little man.
Although tiny Biscom didn’t record the transgressions of his colleagues for another week and a half after the theft, partly because he was saving to purchase another perfect little dirt book and partly because his classmates took extra care not to discuss anything around him, he would never be forgiven. The entire class of young boys and girls wanted nothing as badly as they wanted to bring the little man to grievous harm.
Dele, who was as big as his teachers and was only two years younger than the oldest senior student was also a member of tiny Biscom’s class. The sixteen year old was naturally the king of the twelve and thirteen year olds especially in the domain of misdemeanours. Consequently, tiny Biscom’s righteousness had been mostly Dele’s Pain. For a while, Dele had only suffered the usual punishments because Dele had only been up to the usual offences but Dele had decided to improve on his vices and he’d smuggled a pack of cigarettes to class within that period. A cleaner had seen the stubs and informed the authorities but despite several threats, the class had maintained solidarity. That is until tiny Biscom overheard, catalogued and reported the indiscretion, with a roll call of participants.
Dele and his inner circle had been punished in a school assembly and suspended from school for three days. The team of offenders hadn’t minded the extra notoriety they had gained from being caned publicly especially because they had handled themselves well but once their parents and guardians were involved, things took a turn for terrible. Dele’s uncle, who was also a military officer confined him to Hades three days and threw the key away. There is a law in the United States preventing captured terrorists from seeing the kind of wickedness that Dele saw. When Dele returned to school, he was properly broken, sober and seething. He took his revenge that same day.
Ten minutes to the end of break time, tiny Biscom had excused himself from the class and proceeded to observe his mouth cleaning rites in an empty boys’ room when he Dele joined him with a pack of biscuits, a butter knife and a meat cleaver. The big fellow had locked the door to the dirty toilet room behind him immediately.
When tiny Biscom was eventually discovered, he was sitting naked and bleeding from wide stripes running randomly from his forehead to the bottom of his left foot. His throne was a toilet bowl that was half empty or half full, depending on how you see it. There was an empty pack of biscuits beside him; it had once contained twelve cookies.
His mouth was closed but the stained butter knife that was held firmly in his hand suggested that he’d been having an unthinkable kind of sandwich all under severe duress, of course.


In between May 10, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:09 pm
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Come one, come all. He is here!
Sit your behinds on the red earth. Let his words scrape the fence.
Keep the children away. Panda beats the gong.

Today, I beat the beautiful gong of one besotted by the sirens. But it sounds out the hollowness that comes with the sad realization of the truth that freedom is not always found on the easy path… This is my story…


I thought it was freedom. The first time. The sound of it emanating from our core in one, loud expression of pleasure.
It came from her in short, sharp, contracting spasms… and from my lips in the form of an epileptic sigh of release.
Ah, ah ah…ahh… aaaah…
From the trappings of a life which I don’t know how I got into.
But this isn’t the end of my story. Or the beginning.
It begins with one glass of tequila knocked back in frustration.
One shot to knock away the bad taste her words left in my mouth. To quench the thirst gathered from running away from her issues. I was tired. So I ran here.
The fighting, the yelling, the disrespect… a man can handle many things his woman may do, but when she doesn’t respect him?
The glass dropped to the bar table, and the next round was shared with you. I still don’t remember how we got to that point. Who said hi, who offered to buy that drink. Who asked to exchange numbers … I remember, at some point, telling you about her.
But I guess you didn’t care. One call led to the next. Late night texts about nothing important. The talks about sex went nowhere. I wouldn’t betray her. Even amidst her fuckery.
You said you understood.
We could just be friends.
Right then, I should have walked away.
But I liked it. The attention. The laughs. The connection. The respect. Oh…what a difference…
I should’ve walked away.
My people say “Na from clap, dance dey start.”
We were clapping to your tune. The sound of it pulling my feet to dance astray, to break free from this prison. Pulling, slowly. Pulling, surely. Pulling my body into a sway. Until…the dance began.
And we danced. O, we danced. We…!
Ah, ah ah…ahh…aaahhh…!
And so it happened, and went on…emotional needs satiated by physical deliverance.
And I thought it was freedom.
Till this release became a prison in itself. The need for you. I started to need you.
I never felt it coming. Didn’t feel it in your voice when you said I couldn’t stay over cos you had to work in the morning. Not when I got more entrenched in you.
Now you tell me you’re done. “I’ve had my fill and now it’s time to clear the dishes. Don’t look so morose. We had a good time. I just don’t need the drama. You weren’t alpha, you certainly won’t be omega.”
Those were your words right before you shut the door in my face this morning.
This morning, as I came to tell you that I’d told her about you, and I was ending it…
What have I done?
Two children … no pre-nup…
What have I done?
Suddenly, I don’t feel so free…

Panda writes here. Do visit.
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The pink panties July 28, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 2:19 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

She was feeling quite mischievous today, the goddess. She narrated stories of how she and AfroCupid had been gallivanting continent-wide, inspiring several make-ups and break-ups. She mocked the fragility of human reasoning when injected with emotion.

I was already getting annoyed when they took off again; I was hoping he’d break her heart too.

With no other choice than to do her bidding, I picked up my gong and imitated one of those heartbreak songs by Chris Brown, because when the Muse speaks, Afrosays:


The Pink Panties

The Pink Panties

I was getting tired of life’s monotony but the only problem was that I wasn’t ready to be invited to the greater beyond.
I promptly decided that I needed some excitement and so I packed my bags for the weekend. Being focused and driven was getting boring and having a perfect boyfriend didn’t seem to help matters. If I couldn’t make things excitable at the austere law firm where I worked, I might as well take it out on Chester.
I got to his place quite early. I was laughing at the memory of my boss giving me all sorts of prescriptions for the fictional Malaria I was suffering from over the phone. I used my key to let myself into his apartment and started my mischief.
I had branched at a little store down the road to buy an extra large, pink pair of female underwear to play my little game and it was awaiting discovery under the bed covers. I was looking too eager. I was already imagining how my upright Chester would allay my fears with healthy doses of truthful denial, inflaming my passions with that innocent look in his puppy eyes. My Chester was a darling.
I started dating Chester a little over a year ago. I had chosen him because he was nerdy, naive and wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was tired of the slick types that had broken me down severally till I was incapable of love. I just wanted security, and this lean bodied, four-eyed, Christian man was exactly what I was looking for. He was a diamond in the rough and I hoped to keep him that way.
He came in that evening to a delightful welcome. His unimpressive apartment had been transformed into a love nest. I had ordered a mouth watering mix of healthy finger foods and a bottle of modest wine; arrayed the scenery in candle light and invited Michael Bolton over. Marvin Gaye would have been perfect but I did not want to corrupt my cute little man.
I got exactly what I wanted, that innocent, clueless look I wouldn’t trade for the world. Sometimes, I thought I was the boyfriend. I pushed the right buttons and he forgot all about food. We made straight for the bedroom.
I was even getting carried away myself when he discovered my little forgotten adventure and curiously held it up in the candlelight. I had noticed and it was too late. I was already laughing to myself when I noticed that he had a different look on his face. I was still trying to hide my emotions when he looked into my eyes and said those three words I would never forget, “I can explain”.
I played along expecting the holiest charity.
I didn’t want to play along anymore when he started a shaky story about mama’s visit last weekend that he had failed to mention, the village wife-material that had come with her and the palm wine of course. I couldn’t even imagine my Chester doing it with someone who could own those panties. It was even more depressing that he was pulling a fast Jamie Foxx on me, blaming it on the “Ah ah ah alcohol “. I was hurt and I started crying uncontrollably.
I buttoned my shirt in the dim light, grabbed my things and started looking for my shoes. I put on the overhead fluorescent lighting and found them scattered carelessly near the door. I put them on.
I was on my way out of his bedroom, looking for something valuable to break when I heard the fool exclaim, “Damn! Wrong Color!”



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