Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The sin of a little saint March 2, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:45 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

I took the gong to the witch by the tower that leans. I hope you hear a tone, different.
Simply, AfroSays:

THE SIN OF A LITTLE SAINT
 
 

 
 

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.
 
 
 

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Her way out April 6, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 12:58 pm
Tags: , ,

My family…

Few words today…

We shall all drink deeply from the cup,
The sin-black cup of ink.
And then lift our drunken eyes up from it,
Waiting for what it shall do to us.

Shall we all, with bloodshot eyes of erudition, warmly welcome Brownegurl. Open your minds as she tells you her story. First, her gong signature…

I’d be Beating a dark red gong with a splash of purple tragedy somewhere in there. Its cry is sharp and deep, burrowing into your mind. Enjoy!

HER WAY OUT

... Leaving...

I watched her as she sat peacefully drinking her tea, her almond tea just the way she liked it, the way I never seemed to get it right… I watched her, Abike.. My love, my life. The woman I vowed to spend the rest of my life with. The woman who vowed to spend her life with me. I watched her, wondering what was going on in that pretty head of hers.
Years ago, I would have slowly crept up behind her and lovingly planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck… years ago.. When my wife still loved me as I love her now. Years ago, before I had the road accident that took my legs from me.. Before I lost my job, before I lost the very essence of my manhood… before my wife got tired of me… before my wife sought comfort in the arms of another man… before she fell in love with another man.. Before… before. Years ago.
What would be her way out, I wondered as I watched her. Would Abike tell me she was leaving? or would my lovely wife ask for a divorce? My heart broke a little as those wicked thoughts danced around like little taunting devils in my head. What would I do? I wondered, she was life itself to me. With no children, we had shared twenty years of love and companionship before the accident. The accident changed everything…
I heard the “ting” of the microwave and knew that dinner was ready. I slowly came out of my reverie and wheeled myself to the dinner table. I looked at my wife. Abike looked particularly sad today.
“Is anything the matter?” I asked in my kindest voice. “No”, she said, barely looking at me, as she set my food down before me, her face as sad as sadness itself. Take out fried rice and salad, my favorite, but I had no passion for it tonight. All that I could think of was “what would be her way out?”.
I ate my food, my mind deep in thought, hardly aware of the rubbery texture of the rice in my mouth. When would Abike tell me she’s leaving, I wondered, punishing myself. When? I asked myself as I became aware of a sharp pain in the pit of my tummy. I clutched my tummy as the pain shot out from my stomach to my chest. I looked up at Abike as tears began to stream down her beautiful face and I wondered why she sat down there crying as I began to scream out in agonizing pain.
“I love you Seyi” she said in between tears, still seated across me as I choked “I love you but I cant go on like this, not anymore Seyi”
Pain rendered me incoherent of speech as what Abike said dawned on me. ‎​​I couldn’t breathe as ‎​​I was painfully dying from the poison in my system. “I’m so sorry Seyi, please forgive me”, she sobbed. Something broke in me as I finally realized this was her way out.
Abike couldn’t leave me. This was her way out… this.
You might also like
*Passion
*The Black Hole
*Blind Faith
 

Passion March 30, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 12:40 pm
Tags: , ,


Hello earthlings! DarkBetty here.

First, you should note that I’m not always dark; it’s based on the kinds of drafts that blow through the goddess’ castle. I could be BubblegumBetty next week..

I’m honored to become a resident here; I hope my stay brings much smiles, tears, introspection, and other states of cognitive and volitional states of consciousness.

Plunge in..

I’m beating a blood-red gong today; it has a strong, powerful, compelling sound that communes with the spirit. Listen..

PASSION

...Shh Shouldn't have... Loved

She evoked all sorts of emotions in him. Strong, potent emotions. It was why he’d married her. No woman had enveloped him in such a fervid manner. He’d wanted to possess her, body and soul. And it wasn’t just her beauty, he’d seen many beautiful women. She had fair skin with very black hair and dark, dark eyes.
And all that poise. He’d told his mother he’d never met such a lady. Her every deed was in a regal manner. Like some goddess come to inhabit a queen. Head held high on that long graceful neck. That neck he’d lately been having visions of snapping in two. She was so damn cold. She hardly ever reacted to anything these days.. Those eyes just glazed over him like she expected nothing less from an earthling such as him.
When he’d run into the arms of his voluptuous secretary; he’d been deliberately sloppy so she’d find out. So she’d be hurt. So she’d cry. But all she’d said was “I forgive you..”
He didn’t need her bloody forgiveness. He wanted a tantrum, anger, tears. But she’d just sat there and said it, not even looking at him.
He’d looked at her. Envy and hatred eating at him. In their five years of marriage, she hadn’t lost her figure. He, on the other hand was now the proud owner of a pot belly as his hair line receded. She couldn’t have kids, an operation gone wrong, she’d told him on their second date. So he’d had no illusions.
An overwhelming urge to possess her came over him and he walked over to his fair wife who sat so calmly, flipping through the latest edition of Reader’s Digest.
He leaned down and touched her face. He loved her, he did. He reached down to kiss her, his intentions very clear. But at the last minute, she turned her face so his lips met cold cheek, not warm lips.
She went back to her publication. Then said, “Don’t. Ever. Touch. Me. Again.”
Furious now, not thinking. He slapped her hard on the cheek he’d only just kissed. The fair cheek reddened fast. A flaw on the porcelain face.
But she didn’t cower. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t run for cover or even reach up to protect herself. Her eyes just flashed as she stared straight ahead, her eyebrows lifted slightly as if in amused interest.
He cursed and walked over to his bar; throwing the strong liquid down his throat. Then he threw the whole decanter against the wall; angry he had to seek boldness to take his wife.
He walked back, his own eyes now red. Met her in the same position. Pushed her to the ground roughly, pushing her skirt up tearing her panties away as he resorted to take her by force.
Still, she said nothing; just closed her eyes as if resigned to the worst. A blind rage engulfed him and he lashed out angrily. Over and over again, he hit her. Angry that she wouldn’t defend herself, angry she had reduced him to some animal with primitive emotions.
And he hit and hit.
And when it was over, he looked down at his bloody lifeless doll; gathered the shattered pieces of his ice sculpture into his arms and wept.
 

The bella-noveau July 26, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 8:12 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

The goddess must be crazy!

She visited me last week and told me that she enjoyed the human concept of suspense and wanted to integrate that into our relationship in some way. I didn’t understand what she was talking about till she started visiting my dream space with linked, short story episodes that always ended quite dramatically.

I had to wait for a whole season before I could get a complete story to share. Hopefully, she’d mercy me and give an ending to the five concurrent stories she’s yet to complete.

We’d be thankful for what we have now, I beat a Garala rhythm on my gong as Afrosays:

THE BELLA NOVEAU

Mon Cherie Koko

Mon Cherie Koko

I was going to marry her, I hadn’t been searching for a wife but now I knew there would be no need to; I’d found a wife in Cherie Koko.
She was every man’s dream, that’s what she was, at least every man that lived in Ajanpadi, another nondescript habitat for members of the masses like myself. Most men didn’t know her real name, Cherie Koko seemed the consensus. I’d even heard variations like “Cherilious Koko baby”, “Cheronicus Kokolet”,  and a few others that were strange to pronounce whenever I went to  get a haircut or watch a Champions league at the viewing center, or play lotto at Lucky Sule’s. She was a “trending now” topic. She brought a different vibe to our little world.
We all thought she was from the United States because her accent slayed us by the dozen. Our Cherie could pronounce double Ts with an ‘R’, speak through her nose, and walk like a sick chicken. She was simply awesome and in her, we’d found our eight world wonder.
She lived with Mama Iyabo, the Akara seller, but we’d never seen her eat those delicious, palm oil themed bean cakes. In fact, no one had ever seen her anything but Hot dogs and I felt quite fortunate to be the source of her nutrition never minding that my business was making a loss.
A few weeks back, she had come into my world. I was on my way to work when I stopped at Mama Iyabo’s for a delicious breakfast experience. She definitely looked out of place inadequately employing a duvet as a wrapper. She was classy and I couldn’t get my eyes of her “Hello Kitten” handbag. She took ghetto morning fashion to a whole new level.
Needless to say, I was too ashamed to buy those bean cakes that had nourished me every morning since I moved to Ajanpadi. When she talked to me, I was ‘flabberwhelmed’! I started mumbling something in foolish when Mama Iyabo took pity on me and kindly introduced us. I guess I was the only one that met Segilola, pre-Cherie Koko.
That was the only day being a Gala Sausage Roll hawker did me any real benefit. Segi had asked what I was doing with so many Hot dogs and Mama Iyabo had introduced us on that basis. We became friends when I gave her two free Hot dogs, wondering why the illiterate Nigerian populace called them sausage rolls. Segi had to be right! I even became a Hot dog evangelist, educating whoever cared to listen. I guess that’s how we kicked it off.
In less than a week, every man in Ajanpadi was gearing to be affiliated with Segi, but I was the chosen one. On weekdays, we spent most evenings together at St Jordan’s Cool Spot having drinks and Pepper soup. I chose St Jordan’s because they only played the latest American music. We usually talked about American movies, that is, she talked and I listened. I didn’t know who “Angelica Jolin” was but I felt lucky to be the one nodding like an Agama lizard to her wonderful words. Weekends were even more wonderful with Segi. She had changed my life like the new One Naira note.
Things went on quite well between Cherie and I. She gradually became my reason for going home at night. She was with me the night Jeepy, my cousin from Port Harcourt came to spend the weekend. I’d been looking forward to showing my new found pride off to Jeepy. He had always been the one to beat. I had been envious of Jeepy, even since primary school. He was the one flogged on the general Monday assembly for kissing beautiful Mary. He didn’t stop there, he re-earned those stripes of honor again in our second year of junior secondary school for kissing even more beautiful Chiamaka and another time in our senior secondary classes for doing something more devious with most endowed Janet. The best I managed was the ugly beating I earned for stealing mangoes from the school farm.
Jeepy met us at St. Jordan’s. He smiled excessively when he saw her and I knew I had won our age-old rivalry. Cherie Koko didn’t disappoint, she immediately threw  a fancy greeting line at him but Jeepy was quite adequate, he dodged and aptly retaliated. He was smiling confidently and I soon started loosing my ‘victory-esteem’. They immediately started a conversation that sounded like something from one of the movies she talked about and although I tried to chip in one or two comments myself but I was constantly ignored. I didn’t know they were being polite till I pointed out that a ‘Brad Pitt’ must be very deep. Their looks were unforgiving. It  took me back to the worst day of my childhood.
The teacher had come into the geography class that Monday morning looking very benevolent towards everyone except me. He gave me the most sour look in the world. He started distributing our marked test papers from the previous week. I soon noticed that I was the only one without my script. He then called out Jeepy, our class captain to read out my test answers. Today I’m sure that Kilimanjaro did not kill anyone and Trinidad doesn’t have three daddies.
I didn’t exist anymore. I should have left with dignity, but I endured on and watched as almost every word  gained an “izzy” or “izzle” suffix. Before I knew what was happening, Jeepy became “Young Jeezle”, and my darling was answering to “Chizzy Kizzle”. It almost sounded abominable. I tried to be an “Onyekadigbizzle” but it just wasn’t working for me. I was steadily loosing ground.
Chizzy Kizzle shouldn’t have relaxed into  Young Jeezle’s skinny chest, she really shouldn’t have. Maybe if she hadn’t we’d have all gone home peacefully; maybe my jealousy wouldn’t have boiled into action; maybe I wouldn’t have thrown my bowl of  “Peppersizzle” where I did; maybe she wouldn’t have cried; maybe he wouldn’t have been foolish enough to throw a punch at me; maybe I wouldn’t have given him the beating of his life.
I still don’t know why she broke that bottle of  33 Export Lager but I’m happy I was the one who moved out of the way; I’m happy I wasn’t the one who tripped and face-long into a serious case for plastic surgery.
I won!
… and when next you see that guy smiling happily, selling ‘Hot dogs’ in Lagos traffic in the most merry fashion, please buy one?

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