Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The righteous man July 29, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:48 pm
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She’s been scheming, she has. Now she’s ready.





When I woke up this morning, the world felt like a dark oil stain around me – normal. All the righteous men that have lived in this world have felt this huge blemish on her clothes, the corrupt imprint of human consciousness on all existence.

I am in a small room that is really a naked concrete floor except for a leaf-thin mattress that takes up half the space. There is a tiny barred window very close to the tall ceiling, beyond one’s reach. The door is a garden of parallel iron bars. The walls were recently painted a lazy white when a team from the state department came to visit. I wasn’t in the room then though, but even when I discovered the white to be more preferable to the rotten, old grey, I immediately began to miss the old stories left behind by those who had had the privilege to use this room before me. Though the wall was still wet, I traced out whatever I could still see under the weak paint with my fingernails. The memory of a man, no matter how insignificant, should never be erased.

It seems that I would be leaving here tomorrow. I might miss this place, I do not know. Here, the heaviness of the blemish of the world is not as dense as it is among the people who seem to think that they are the best of it. Here, among the worst, there is a lighter weight on my shoulders and I wonder why. I had thought that the consequence of sin would be fall upon me heavily in this place, for after all, it is a collection of the vilest sinners. But it is not so, the peace here, I would liken to the peace I would feel whenever I wandered into the wild to detoxify my spirit whenever the weight of sins of the world became too much to bear. Maybe this was why the righteous man of Israel made his bed in the company of sinners.

Thirteen months have passed since I was here, and three months before I came here, I was somewhere else like this. They put me here because two little girls died but I’d be leaving here tomorrow because they cannot hold me any longer with good reason. The world knows what happened but it cannot be explained to a courtroom in the way it did. Even the eyewitness accounts had to be amended to individual taste; the people who saw what they did still doubt what they saw. Consequently, all their testimonies were incongruent. The video clips online are still being debated as hoaxes, but that doesn’t change the autopsy results.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’d done the right thing. The modern man in me asks that question everyday but I cannot answer a moral question with my own moral judgement; the scriptures on my mattress have been thumbed wretched and I still am not satisfied. I know that the power of God is his and if he chooses to lend it to me, it must be righteous, what I do. That is my logic. If he lends me his power to heal broken bones, it must be right to do so; If he lends me his power to straighten bent backs, it must be right to do so; if he lends me his power to open blind eyes, it must be right to do so.

I replay it all in my head, their screams as birds fell out of the sky, crashing through the windows to tear them to pieces, as rats ran out of their hiding places on my command to join in bringing the wrath of God to pass. The church was horrified to witness divine vengeance from the days of Elisha. They had watched as laughter had turned to screams and then silence with shock on their faces, as they sat immobile. All that was left was dry bones, there had been no blood. They would have gone home to warn their children never again to make cat calls at a righteous man because he is uneducated, because he can’t complete fancy grammar sentences to their taste.

However, I still wonder, if he lent me his power on that day, was it righteous, what was done?






I want to belong October 26, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 6:38 pm
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The goddess and I are nearing hiatus. I feel like we just got married and our honeymoon would be over in two days. The days of hardwork and mechanical love shall soon be upon us.

I’m scared and I’m hoping we would pull through. I do not want to lose her.

I’d be beating a yellow Craig David tune on my gong, hoping for the best as AfroSays:

New comer treatment

The thin slice of light slashed perfectly through my brain like a surgical knife. I didn’t know which was more blinding, the pain or the light.
My perception of the world was topsy-turvy. Everything was coming to me in a distorted angular fashion. Was I dreaming? Was I drunk again? Was it my brother’s cheap grass? God, Give me a memory!
It wasn’t drink. It wasn’t Subomi’s cheap grass. The last thing I remember is that we had been at church together.
Something sounded like footsteps and that something was making progress towards me. Was I meant to panic? I was trying to remember how to talk…
I swung back and forth in a myriad of beautiful lights. In the middle of the somewhat unreal pain I reasoned that I was hanging by my legs and I had been set in motion by a blow to the head.
I was coming to. I was swinging back from one end and then I saw the shining nose of a military boot making for my forehead.
I screamed.
I swung.
I fell.
I saw paradise. I felt pain. I hadn’t stopped screaming so I turned it up five notches because as I opened my eyes, I saw the light reflected off my punisher’s footwear.
“Who sent you?”
My lungs were still ferociously pumping out scream fuel and he promptly cut off the supply. The kick to my neck sobered me.
“Who do you work for?”
I was sincerely willing to cooperate but I wasn’t sure how to.
I feebly attempted to raise a hand. “I… I…”
“…. I …Daily Times … I … vendor”
“Really?” The boot was coming close.
“Then why are you investigating us?”
I started crying. Investigation? I didn’t know anything about that. I am not that smart; I had failed the traffic warden examinations and this man was asking me about an investigation? Investigation? What the hell ? How did I get here?
“Who… who are you?” I asked meekly, “Where is Subomi?” I remembered leaving him as I went for the first timers/new converts alter call for the hundredth time.
“Mister investigator, don’t pretend here, tell us all you know and we might let you die in peace” he replied calmly. “We have noticed your operations, visiting all our parishes, asking questions, snooping around.”
“Oga please! Please!!!”
“You want to talk?”
“I only wanted to eat, Oga, I am just a poor man”
This time the pain was vivid. Whatever drug they had slipped in my drink wasn’t protecting me anymore.
Sniff, sob “Oga, please”
Subomi had warned me. He didn’t feel these ‘Church of Sodom Saints’ people were real Christians, they gave new converts too much quality food and served vodka mixtures during communion. Hell! I didn’t even know what Vodka was till I started attending their churches. He had warned me not to go out to the altar for ‘Super Salvation’ this time. He had noticed all the funny movements that my hungry stomach refused to let me see.
I had been stupid, making hunger rounds every Sunday, frequenting their various branches all over the city, always getting ‘Superbly saved’ and eating their fancy food. I had given up touring conventional churches because I was tired of eating the biscuits and sachet water that the miserly lot served first timers. C.S.S. had assured this poor man of at least one good meal every week.
“Oga I swear! Oga! I only came here for the food but now I want to belong, Oga!”
“I want to belong!”

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.



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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