Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The Baby April 13, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 9:20 am
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Betty beats a gong of riotous sounds. Listen.



Sheila and Dayo were an odd quiet couple. They lived in their quaint bungalow at No. 4, Adeniyi street. The house had been Dayo’s father’s and Dayo being the only child, had inherited it upon his father’s death. Sheila and Dayo could be seen huddled together as they took long walks or just looking straight-ahead as Dayo drove them to church or the supermarket.


They were the couple that other parents warned their children to stay away from and a topic they shared with visitors when the couple passed the front of their gates. They had eyes only for each other and had no friends save colleagues and other parishioners.


But this little family lost their silence when Sheila had a baby. Her pregnancy had mostly gone unnoticed as she had quit her job at the Primary School teaching Art in her third month, long before a bulge was evident. It was left to Dayo to provide for their family from the funds from his furniture shop.


They named their daughter Annabelle Ayomide after both their mothers who were both too dead to witness the little naming ceremony that a few friends from the Furniture shop, the Primary school and the church attended. Anna cried through it all. She cried when her the pastor lifted her up for blessings; she cried when the well-wishers gathered around to coo at her strong lungs and she cried when her mother tried to stuff her nipple in her mouth in an attempt to quiet her.


This became the announcing symbol that Sheila or Dayo was near- the lusty crying of their daughter. She cried at the supermarket, inviting evil glares from other customers. She cried at church, until Sheila began to spend her services outside, under a lone speaker the church had set on the street to attract lost souls. She cried at night, while her parents would wrap themselves in each other’s arms in the next room and pretend not to hear her for one hour.


Sheila, or Dayo, would then march to the baby’s nursery, hit the light switch and glare at the baby. Sheila would pick Anna up, try to feed her then return her to her cradle and proceed to sleep through the noise. Dayo would gather Anna into his arms, rock her a bit, throw her into the air, make funny faces and then give up to join his wife in sleeping through the noise.
Sheila or Dayo, when seen without the baby, could be seen sporting dark eyes, laden with eyebags. Pitying looks were cast their way where wary glances had been thrown, before Anna.


The breakthrough came a night when it was Sheila who got out of bed. The electricity was out so she lit a candle and placed it on a high chest of drawers on the other side of the baby’s cradle while she settled in the armchair. But Sheila missed it because it wasn’t until the next morning, when she woke up with her neck hurting from sleeping off in the armchair, that it occured to her that her baby had stopped crying.


Dayo and Sheila rejoiced but the next day and the day after saw them back in the feeding-tossing-sleeping-through-the-noise phase once again.


Sheila figured it out eight days after. She lit a candle and set it on the chest of drawers then went off to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She returned to see an amazing sight. Anna wasn’t silent, but she wasn’t crying either. She was cooing and making baby noises while smiling and stretching her little arms towards the candle’s dancing flame. Sheila ran to wake Dayo and they did a little jig in Anna’s nursery before going to sleep soundly for the first time since she was born.
Candles were placed at distances from each other and heavier curtains replaced the flimsy ones there to keep out the light. Anna became a happy baby. Her little eyes shifted from one flame to another; her hands flailing about while her legs kicked happily. Everyone was happy again.


Sheila and Dayo could once again be seen taking walks, huddled into each other, without their daughter. They went to church without their daughter. And went to the supermarket without their daughter. Anna was happy in her sanctuary of candles, giggling and waving.


It shouldn’t have come as a surprise when Dayo and Sheila were interrupted in church with cries of “Your house is on fire!” But it did. Dayo and Sheila rode home in a frenzy, their thoughts hopping about the place, never dwelling on the horrible visions their minds conjured.


No one else knew how it happened except the boisterous rat and Anna, who had watched it run into a candle that fell to her diaper bag which was leaning against the curtain. She had watched with amazement and her widest smile yet as a fire bigger than any she’d ever seen enveloped her. But neither Anna nor the rat could relay this story as they were both burnt to crisp by the time Sheila and Dayo arrived.


The neighbours, those who weren’t at church, had tried to put out the fire- but it hadn’t occured to them that a baby had been indoors, alone- perhaps they would have put more effort.


Dayo and Sheila rebuilt the house. Neighbours say they became a little crazy, if they weren’t before. They still went on about on their huddled walks and supermarket visits and church services but whenever asked about their crying daughter from a clueless curious or about their general wellbeing from a kind curious, they would look behind them- as if haunted- and whisper: “But the fire made her quiet.. The fire made her quiet..”




The mystery relic March 9, 2012

Filed under: Scenic,Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 9:00 am
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If you ever have been thirsty where you cannot drink.
AfroSays, because of you




Baba Shukudi spat out onto the expressway, regretting that he could not leave the car to smooth the blob over with the stubborn rubber sole of one of his dead black shoes, preferably the one that he wore on his right foot. Unfortunately, while the scaly footwear was busy urging the National Museum’s Toyota Hiace bus on to glorious acceleration, the other was tapping the floor of the vehicle in tune with Duncan Mighty’s I Don’t Give A Shot. Baba Shukudi had just purchased the disc but for the past hour and a half, he’d been playing the same song.

If your ikebe dey shoot catapult

The song amused Baba Shukudi immensely because he happened to like ikebes. Mama Shukudi’s behind was almost as wide as the posterior of the fourteen-seater bus that her husband was currently behind the wheel of. Baba Shukudi deftly maneuvered the vehicle yet again, around another massive hole in the road. He didn’t even need to think about it, not only because he was an exceptionally good driver but also because he had been navigating this route for the past month as the museum in Lagos was looking to add a new artifact to its collection. This wasn’t any national treasure; it was just another unpopular talisman that would adorn the back shelves in the interior where other equally unpopular items were exhibited.

Baba Shukudi took one hand off the steering wheel and wiped an erring line of spittle off the left side of his mouth. He hated spitting when he was driving because the ejection never went with the wind in a clean sweep. Some of it – usually a large flat mess – would always cling to his face, holding on for dear life. Sometimes, the ejection would also cling to his side of the vehicle, and he would see the nasty yellow thing screaming for help as it fought against the wind, begging to be let back home where it was warm and safe. Although this vexed Baba Shukudi sorely, it wasn’t the main reason why he hated the sight of thick sputum sailing through the air. Actually, Baba Shukudi was very superstitious and it was popular belief where he came from that one should never spit in public without rubbing the evidence into the mud under one’s feet. It was said that if the bottom of someone else’s feet were to meet an exposed ejection, the owner of the blob would immediately suffer a sore throat. Baba Shukudi, being sure that there were no potholes in the road for the next half kilometer, immediately looked through the side mirror, hoping to find that his ejection was not in the path of any vehicle’s hot tires. The idea of what would happen to his throat should this be the case always terrified him.

“Baba Shukudi, face front naa!”

The driver said a quick prayer and returned to concentrating on the long, winding road ahead of him. He didn’t want madam replacing him with any of the newer junior drivers because the allowances derivable from taking madam cross-country had kept him drinking a better brand of beer than his friends over the years.

Ada Sosan stared at the two and a half lane road along with the driver for a time, hoping to confirm that he’d returned full attention to getting them back to Lagos safely. The digital clock on the dashboard told her that it was only fifteen minutes past two and they might be on the road for approximately another hour. When she saw that Baba Shukudi’s shoulders were once again moving to his funny music, her thoughts wandered back to the talisman they had just retrieved. She would not be happy to tell oga at the office that she’d been unable to get any esoteric information about the large brass cymbal. The new king of Ojojo – who was a young man that had just left the United States to succeed his father in the highly profitable business of doing nothing, really – had had nothing to offer her. The only thing he’d said was that his father’s friend who had passed on years before his father and who also had happened to be the caretaker of the relic, if it was one, had kept the cymbal with his father. His father had told him nothing about it and what he had learnt, he had learnt from the palace hands who were ignorant of the real employ of the relic but had strongly advised their king to dispose of it because its original prefect had been very cunning with the diabolical, and the Harvard graduate, unlike his father had no experience on the subject of local magics.

Ada who had a lot experience with indigenous artifacts had seen nothing like this before. It was as large as an old DSTV satellite dish and covered with runes and drawings that she couldn’t decipher. She had consulted with the local witch doctors but they had all turned her away on seeing the cymbal. All, except one who had admitted his ineptitude and confessed also, that none of the others would be able to unravel the mysteries because it was a guarded magical symbolism that had died with its last caretaker. After a month, he had advised her to fling the thing far into the sea in Lagos but of course, Ada would do no such thing. She was only frustrated that she would have to admit to her boss that she’d reached a dead end. Perhaps the most annoying thought was that she knew that her boss was going to send her back here again.

The cymbal was dull coloured and beaten like a war shield. Some of the drawings on it were caricatures of men and women and children, demons, sacrifices, dances, fishing and farming. These however were only decorations, her professional experience told her that much. The demons however were not any deities familiar with the location of retrieval and the sacrifices had no significance to the spiritual customs of the place. More importantly, concerning the runes themselves, she had no clue. It had been covered with a black cloth when it had been presented to her but she had forgotten to take the sheath along. Ada sighed. What if the black cloth was significant in some way? She remembered that they wouldn’t let her take the covering off in the palace. She would definitely have to return.

While Ada submerged herself into the wanderings of her subconscious, Baba Shukudi’s throat began to itch once again. He let it rip and the thick mass flew out his window and landed on the lane beside him where a smaller car was racing to overtake him. He saw one of the Passat’s tires run over the ejection and he immediately began to despair. As soon as he turned his attention back to the road, he discovered that it was too late to avoid a pothole that was a few meters ahead of him. The wicked jolt brought Ada back from her reverie. The cymbal complained loudly as well and when Ada would try to calm it down, her fingers and the inside of her palm would be severely burned.

She would scream and turn to the driver for succor but discover that he has put his two hands in his mouth and he is scratching furiously at the insides of his throat. There would be blood and a thick yellow goo crawling down his hands and spraying the windshield. Through a cleaner part of the glass, Ada would see the bus headed off the road, towards a very steep slide down to a rocky death. She would close her eyes and shut the thought of death out, wishing desperately for a calm blackness, one her subconscious brings to her in remembrance of her days in the comfort and protection of her mother’s womb. The bus would roll down the incline and burst into flames.

The Passat that was making to overtake the bus would become a black and yellow Ferrari, the young man driving it would pass out in shock when he realizes that his thoughts at that very moment are brought to life. In his unconscious state, the dead weight of his booted foot would still sleep on the accelerator causing the plain sedan turned sports vehicle to very speedily run under a truck that is crawling ahead. Wiz Khalifa would be put to silence as soon as the collision occurs.

Ada would find herself in a calming, black place because her thoughts have prevailed as well. Slowly, her senses would remind her of why the place seems so familiar. She would climb over the body of her husband who is sleeping away the stress of his night shift at the hospital and feel around on the wall for a light switch. The low fluorescence would still shock her eyes but she would be more upset by the burns on her hands. Her wristwatch would tell her seventeen minutes have gone by since it was two o’clock and a peek outside the thick curtains would confirm that it was still day. She would have to believe it because she is dressed for work as well.

Although, her mind has a clear recollection of the events of the day, she would be in a logical dilemma about the past two minutes. She would go to bed in tears, terrified, and not at all sleepy. She would close her eyes, hoping to open them soon and find it all a dream.




A case for monsters November 11, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 9:44 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,
The goddess beckons to you.
She’s been in Castle Noir these past few weeks, speaking without saying words. Speaking still, and I have been listening alright.
These stories she asks me to share are for you, so that you know that she is, and forget her not.

Please bring your offerings still, or she will have my head.

I beat a gong alive. I beat a freak of a gong. Do you see that AfroSays?



A spook is always judged.
The multitude of persons who come across stories of our not-so-pleasant encounters with the ones who are unfortunate enough to be undone by us make us out to be evil beings.
I, today, am here to set this right.
I am a city poltergeist, much the debonair kind. A fashionado in city speak. A well tailored suit rests quite dapperly on my ashen skin. My hair is properly combed and flicked back with two palm-fulls of sticky digestive juices and my fingernails are well trimmed. The confident musk that accompanies my eerie presence is good quality eau de Goblin. I think you shall find it easy to receive me for I project a semblance much like the best of you.
Unfortunately, there are not many like me given to the details of a good supernatural presentation; the appearance of most of my kind would cause your teeth to powder with chattering and your legs to warm with your wetness. This does not mean we are malevolent. Do not judge a book by its cover.
Monsters, imps, spirits, beings under the bed and in dark closets, bogeymen, ghosts, demons, spooks all, we are all souls like you. Just like you. It pains me buckets that you do not know; you do not see how you truly are. We are only without our interfaces, and these weak interfaces are the illusions that you worship. When they are gone, you’re one of us. Exactly as you are, as ugly as your deepest secrets.
I would ask you furthermore, what a human being is that does not live? An example would be a comatose human. What is his purpose? He has no place in your existence.
I would ask you again, furthermore, what the other beings in your ecosystem think of you? The cockroaches which you destroy, the mosquitoes which you poison, the rats which you eradicate, the bacteria and viruses which you decimate, the plants which your existence is pernicious to? Do you think they think of your existence as altruistic? You should know better.
I shall make my case so. Just as you are an absolute evil to lesser beings than you, we, as superior beings might not be held in high regard by your lot. Nightmares and the entire execution of horrific experiences are expedient to our kind.
Summarily, Our purpose is to terrorize and to fulfil purpose is righteous.

Death and all his friends October 14, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 10:00 pm

Gather round! Gather round! Dear @NateOblivion sings a dark tale tonight, the burden of the gong is his to bear. Come all. He speaks:

I, Nate Oblivion, beat the gong in the dark of night, here at the border of Insanity and Genius, to resound through your heart and soul, to awaken your nightmares and chill your bones. Listen.



There was complete silence in the cinema hall, the light from the giant screen providing the only illumination. The air was tense, and the crowd held their breaths. The movie had reached its anticipated climax. After watching various characters suffer the most gruesome and unimaginable deaths, only the two lead characters remained. She was clinging to his arm and squeezing it tight, and his body resonated with the vibrations from hers. She gazed at him, and spoke in a barely audible voice.
“Aren’t you scared at all?”
He looked at her and smiled. “It’s just a movie darling, with actors and scripts. There’s a director behind that set who would laugh buckets at your reactions”
She said nothing, and turned her attention back to the movie. The male lead was standing in the middle of a wide road, looking around for something in panic. All of a sudden, an electric line overhead snapped and swung towards the man, throwing him backwards a few meters. He was broken and bruised, but still alive. The ground started to vibrate, and he sat up with great effort. He looked to his left just in time to see the vehicle, which trampled him and sent blood flying.
The audience screamed and a few people started to leave, obviously too terrified to watch any more. She remained in her seat, but was shaking feverishly and muttering to herself. Her boyfriend pulled her closer to himself and put his arm around her.
“It’s okay” he said. “It’ll soon be over. Or do you want us to leave now?” She shook her head defiantly and faced the screen. The female lead was standing on the sidewalk, about to cross a busy road. She looked left and right, making sure the road was clear. She had only taken a step forward before she trod into a crack in the road, and the stiletto of her shoe twisted and broke. She lost her footing and was already wobbling when she heard a loud horn and turned to the right to see a bus heading for her at break neck speed. She fell backwards, and the bus flew past in a gust of wind. She was trembling as she stood up, dusted herself off and crossed the street, entering into a tall building. She opened the door to her apartment and entered, tossing her ruined shoes in a corner. She entered her bedroom and sat on the bed. She fanned herself with her hands and took off her jacket. She heard a loud creaking sound and looked up to see that the fan was swinging wildly and almost loose from the ceiling. Before she could scream, the fan came loose and landed on her with tremendous force, the squelching sound resounding throughout the cinema. The blood splattered across the screen and spelled out the title of the movie, “DEATH AND ALL HIS FRIENDS” The screen went black and the end credits started rolling. The crowd rose and left at once, as if in a hurry.
Outside the cinema, they stood hand in hand in the rain, while he tried to hail her a cab. Before long, a cab came along and she got in. they said their final goodbyes and shared a quick kiss before the cab sped off. He set off for his bus stop, kicking up muddy water from the puddles that had collected on the ground. He wiped his brow and increased his pace, almost running now. He entered a side street, taking a shortcut he rarely used so he could arrive faster and find shelter from the heavy rain. As he walked, he heard a loud snap and spun around to see a live wire crash into his chest. The pain numbed him and the shock sent him flying backwards, landing with a thud in the middle of the road. He had barely registered what just happened when he heard a car horn and saw a bright light drawing closer. He turned his head towards it, and the last he saw was the big wheels of a truck before it ran him over, crushing him to bits and leaving behind nothing but brains, guts and blood.
She alighted the cab and stood on the sidewalk. She was still a bit shaken by the horror movie, but the fear was had begun to wear off. Her mind replaying scenes of horror and gore, she began to cross the road, when the sound of a horn jarred her from her thoughts. Purely on instinct, she jumped backwards and fell to the sidewalk. A large bus flew past at breakneck speed and the pedestrians were already shooting her disapproving looks while an old woman started to rant about how people never paid attention the road. She shrugged it off, crossed the street and entered her apartment, turning on the lights and finding no one around. She sat on her bed and removed her shoes. For some reason, the room was sweltering hot, even though the ceiling fan was on. It was old and had recently become squeaky, but she would get it fixed tomorrow. She fanned herself with a card and looked around. Was it just her or was the fan’s squeaking louder than usual? And why did it all seem so familiar? Her eyes widened as she realized why, and her breath got caught in her throat.
She looked up.
@NateOblivion shares his art as a member of the very excitingly paranormal circle, the Pass The Salt band, here
“The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive-tree, Reign thou over us. But the olive-tree said unto them, Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to wave to and fro over the trees?” (Biblical quote)

The girl on the violin August 5, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 9:29 pm
Tags: ,

I AfroSays, I command.
Let there be no trickery tonight. The words of this artist would suffice.
Be dazzled!

I, Weirdo sama, beat this gong until it resonates and echoes in every soul like the orchestra of the angels.
Guard your souls readers, lest they be stolen away by the Rouge Power of Music!


…And presenting for the first time in this esteemed hall, in the presence of this esteemed audience from the higher echelons of the society, Tana Brooks!

With a polite round of applause, the dignitaries welcomed the novice on stage. This however did not hide the skeptical looks on their faces.
A general hush fell as she set her violin to the nape of her neck, bow poised, ready to begin.

They stared at the lumpy, and simply dressed girl on the stage and the corners of their mouths rose in sneers.
They would have serious words with the director after the performance. The hallowed halls of St. Paul were made for the finest musicians from around the world! Not..not a nobody like her.

Her bow touched the violin strings and their eyes widened in wonder.
Their hearts beat faster as tears gathered around their eyes.
This was music!
They watched transfixed as the simple girl wove an intricate web of enchantment around their minds.
She was telling a story.
She was telling their stories.
He saw himself as a young boy. She saw herself as a young woman. He saw his laughter. She saw her joy. He saw himself as a cadet; among his camaraderies feeling like he belonged. She saw herself as a young student at Oxford University.
To each individual, their own glorious visions.
They saw themselves with the love of their lives. Eyes glistening with happiness and unshed tears.

Suddenly, the music took a darker turn.
Their woes.
Their anguish.
Their mistakes.
Their wrongs.
They saw them all play before their eyes.
He raped a woman.
She was an adulteress.
He stole from the public.
She had a criminal past.
Secrets long-lost in the dark recesses of the mind spilled its secrets.
They could not make it stop.
Their faces a frozen mask of horror.

Suddenly, light reverberated through the chords.
Shadows were dispelled through the slow winding cadenza.
Faces relaxed as the music flowed in legato; hearts being purged of their last ghosts.
A suggestion was planted through their ears into their minds.
She released them from their bonds as the last notes resounded through the hall.

There was silence.
As one body they all jumped to their feet in applause.
With shouts of ‘Bravo’ and catcalls, she took a bow and left the stage.
Tana Brooks had won the hearts of her audience.


Mrs Watson woke up from sleep and languidly turned to snuggle close to her husband.
He was not beside her.
She heard noise from the kitchen and she gingerly walked down stairs.
She heard him humming a tune she didn’t know.
Probably from the concert.
She wished she hadn’t missed the concert. How Edward thrilled her with the tale of the violinist!
She entered the kitchen and switched on the light.
There he sat, eyes closed, lips pulled to a smile,humming under his breath.
Suddenly he revealed in his right hand, a knife.
Before she could ask what he was doing, he ran the well-honed knife edge across his throat.
Smiling; Humming as he died.
She screamed.


Tana Brooks settled her violin case on her laps when she sat in one of the empty carriages on the train to Wolverhampton.
She noticed the front page of the daily newspaper a passenger left on one of the seats.
Picking it up, she read as tears filled her eyes
Edward Watson, Julie Mcflew, 86 others take their own lives

She had done it again.
She slumped back on her seat, caressing the violin case.
Images flashed through her mind as she remembered the deal she made with the owner of the violin.
“…power of music; to captivate…”
“…you pay a small price?…”
She hadn’t known the price she had to pay.
Not until the first performance to her family.
For her power over music, she paid with the lives of her audience.
All who heard would die; all apart from her, the player, would not go unscathed.
She couldn’t stop playing.
She tried after her family died.
She couldn’t break the Violin.
It wouldn’t break.
She couldn’t quit.
She was tortured until her bow touched the strings. Then the angry spirits would be appeased.
She couldn’t kill herself.
She was against suicide.
She became a wanderer.
Her mission, to find the strange man who gave her his violin.
To find the Devil.

“Can you play that well?” A voice said snapping her back to reality.
A young man smiled shyly at her.
“Yes” she said smiling back.
“Would you play for me?”
The refusal on her tongue was quelled by the sudden pressure she felt on her throat strangling her.
“Sure” she whispered and felt release.
She took it out of the case, mounted it on her neck and played him to his doom.


The artist, she likes to known be as weird_o.
You should follow her on Twitter, @weird_oo
Her art is here :

————————————————————————————————– Wednesday...



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


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



Of Visions and Visitors July 1, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 11:43 pm
Tags: , ,

Come, sit around the fire. Let’s tell you a story. Of wraiths and apparitions; of torment and confession.
Our stories become your imagination, what you imagine becomes, or can become.

We dare you! Speak the words and the ghouls shall come for you tonight.


Grandma’s Grave by darkBetty
I don’t like Aunty Biola’s house. It’s always musty and dark. It doesn’t help that we’re here for this gloomy reason.
We’re here now. Mum, Aunty Biola, Aunty Sola and Uncle Bimbo. We’re sitting around the solitary candle on the low center table. The brown cushions on the sofas are old and worn out.
I’m keeping myself busy thinking of all the insects that could be crawling under my butt and thighs.
“We should just bury him in the backyard..”
That catches my attention. “What?! Uncle should be buried in a proper cemetery!” I say with a huff in my voice. What an atrocious idea!
“See this one.. Grandma was buried right here. Under our very feet. Who has money for cemetery?”
I’m here now. Lying on the very cushions with the invisibles insects. Mum said it was too late. “We should all just sleep here.”
The youngest would sleep in the living room. How nice.
They have left the candle burning for me. It is nearing its end but it still casts eerie shadows on the peeling walls.
Grandma is here. Just under me. Just lying there. Under me.
The curtain sways. I sit up. There’s no breeze. My eyes dart around.
Grandma. I used to laugh at grandma. The way she stooped and shuffled about.
Now, she’s back for me.
A humming begins in the background.
It’s that yoruba song grandma used to sing. She tried to teach me but I had stamped my foot screaming- “I don’t wanna learn your dumb song!”
Cold fingers brush my shoulder. I bite my lips. I won’t. I won’t scream.
This is only my imagination. Grandma is dead. Dead. Under the ground.
I regret the tank I’m wearing. Mummy had asked me to change, I didn’t listen. Now, I’m so cold. But there’s no breeze.
‘Ooooomooooo miiiii!’
A shudder runs up my spine. Grandma used to call me ‘omo mi’; I’d just hiss and say- “My name is Deola!”
The humming and whispering of the words amplify and my eyes widen. I look up at the ceiling. If I don’t look at the floor, maybe it’ll stop.
“Hmm hmm mmmm…”
“Oooommmooo miii…”
I’m not alone in the room.
I won’t look. I won’t. Look.
“Oooommmoooo miiii!”
My lip is bleeding. I’m biting too hard. I sneak a peek. The arm chair isn’t empty. She’s there. She’s there!
She is sad. I can’t see it. I can feel it. It reaches out to envelope me. Her face is blank. No, she has no face. Just a gaping black hole that seemed to exhume black smoke.
I can’t hold it back anymore. I scream.
My mother comes running out. “Kilode? Deola?” She meets me in tears, my arms hugging my belly.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I’m shouting. Tears meeting my snot, caressing my face.
Aunty Biola was out now. “Deola! What’s wrong with you?”
I gulp in drags of air. “I didn’t mean to push her! She was looking at my phone. I just.. I just..”
The humming stops. The whispering stops. The curtain is still again. The arm chair is empty again.

The darkness was familiar. My eyes knew its curves so I kept them half shut.
My skin knew the cold touch of its fingers. My ears knew the participants of its orchestra. My bitter soul was at ease with it.
Slowly, I poured off my bed with a drawn yawn, dragging most of the cotton sheets along with my left foot. I left the beddings behind with a few steps as I lumbered clumsily towards the bathroom.
The alcohol from the night’s drinking guided my gait in a hellish half-dance. Hands outstretched, only to guide; head limp on my chest; hallelujah hair; breasts swinging askew, I cast a freakish silhouette against the wall, the yellow beam of the moon, my spotlight, I was a freakish masquerade.
I danced left, right, left, right in the darkness I knew, making my way for the bathroom door; the moon a, salivating voyeur.
I danced past the full-length mirror that is my talk-to companion on very lonely days, and then moon suddenly shone a fire, blinding me. I blinked twice and I danced past.
The toilet door.
I danced towards the bowl and sat for some time. How long I cannot remember. I only know that I cried out the anguish in my heart that I’d tried to drown with alcohol. When the tears were gone, the bitterness remained.
Amidst spasmodic sobs, I stood up and waltzed out of my panties. I resolved to pick them up later.
Naked, I crumbled out of the dark toilet room and the moon threw itself on me with a startle. I ignored its frenzy and began the dance back to my bed, past the closet door, past the shoe rack, past the mirror?
And suddenly I could not move. I ignored the glare of the moon but it would not let me on my way so I grudgingly tilted my limp head and looked through the open window with a side gaze.
The moon was alarmed. “There is something wrong”, it seemed to say.
Then as I slowly turned my face in the opposite direction, following the leading of the moon, a bizarre stringed harmony found me.
In my state of inebriation, I beheld a strange sight, burning colours of lights that caused to lift my hands to cover my swollen face.
Then a dull red remained with a soft glow, then it was gone.
The dirge continued as I slowly dropped my hands to see my reflection. I slowly came to myself as I lazily studied the image before me and in a sudden moment of truth, I fell on my back screaming, face-to-face with a horned nubile, grotesque beastess.
She had her back to the floor, screaming too.
And then the moon went out.
The following morning, I woke up on the floor and she was there, whatever she was, in the mirror.
And she’s been there ever since, the avatar of my soul, and on some nights, when I have peace, the music is beautiful and so is she.
You most definitely would like
*Stories of Night
*Midnight noises
*The Passenger



Stories of night June 17, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 3:05 pm
Tags: , ,

Gather around all.. Don’t leave your backbones behind. For in the pitch-black night, the spirits inhabit the stories, making them much more.
Spooks and poltergeists, pulsing lights and distant screams, visions and dreams, transporting you to the wilderness of the unseen

Listen.. For the phantoms call. Listen.


THE CHORUS by afrosays
She hid her eyes.
He was searching for them, through the errant strands of hair that covered the side of her oval face and left him a slice, just a peek of beautiful; through the huge darkly obstruction that rested on the tip of her small nose, that only offered him a top view of her painted eyes; all he saw was aquamarine and long lashes. He had to see her eyes.
Her lips reminded him of sweet sin as he stared. Her cheekbones high, lending an ostentation to her face. Her chin, very much kissable, led an adventurer’s trail down to a neck unadorned, deserving of the adornment of only the purest kiss. Not his. Her long hair was hers, he knew, she was all the beauty that she was.
But was she the one?
Her perfume found him and then convinced him to worship her. His eyes took the pilgrimage down from her neck to her brittle neckbones. Sigh. To her milky skin in exhibition, covered by a free dress with its flowery straps loose on her arms. There was an alley just below her neck, and the drops of amber light that licked the side of her face fell there and perished. Holy martyrs of night. He wanted so badly to explore that hidden cavern, and know its treacherous secrets, his pilgrimage was not done. At the cliff of her dress, rose and fell every second, the prides of her womanness. Fast.
She was afraid.
Was she the one?
He felt himself thump against her car as he leaned in for a better view. His colleagues were attending to other cars, the usual motions of a police checkpoint.
His flashlight beamed a dull glow against the insides of the car but he really wasn’t paying attention. He was finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the soft shadows at the top of dress, to breathe.
“Madame, inner light”, he managed.
The fact that she wearing sunshades at this time of the night wasn’t altogether odd. He usually told the partygoers to take it off. He decided to tell her after she put on the light.
A hand went up to oblige his request but he didn’t care, all he cared about was the dress that slipped further down and the beauty that was exposed. Her perfume rose up with a stronger resolve and numbed his senses.
A stronger spray of yellow hit the cabin, stunning the police officer for a few seconds. It was all the time she needed. Her second hand left the steering wheel quickly found the gun under her seat.
He just stared and grew harder against the car. Lust was pouring from his ears. Her heart was beating faster. The temptation was killing him. He grew bolder. He had to see all of her. Everything!
“Madame, please take off your glasses”
She turned off the safety.
“Madame, please come down and open ya boot”
She sped off into the night, steering a wild dance to the music of gunshots. Murder was the chorus.

SCREAM by darkBetty
She walked slowly down the street; streetlights distorting shadows on the wet pavement, crickets called out to her, from the echoing silence. The chilly weather threatened more rain, but she didn’t feel it. Her flimsy dress invited shivers but she moved toward her destination, stoic.
The blindfold was too tight. She shivered. She could hear whispers and shuffling of feet. She didn’t know where she was or why she was there. The darkness heightened her senses and raw fear trickled down her spine.
“Do not fear us, child.” She jumped.
She knew they’d been there but the elderly voice that reached out to her brought to memory the ghastly stories of ghosts she’d heard as a child. It was spidery, broken and soft, reminiscent of evil itself.
She got to her destination. The sounds of night soothing her. They were all asleep. The back door was open. She let herself in quietly and stealthily moved into the house. Excruciating pain lanced through her head, threatening to squeeze the life out of her. She wanted to scream out but she bit down on her tongue. She bore the pain.
He was still talking but for some reason she couldn’t hear him any more. Her strength was being sapped out of her and she had no power against it. She felt rather than saw the shadows draw closer and caress her. He was still talking. She could hear the sound of his evil voice but it was indistinct.
Her hands fell to her sides, slack. The shadows had overwhelmed her. They were pressing into her, sucking her into the vortex. She succumbed what was left of her will.
She had stopped the pain. She bent over and let out long breaths.
The scream was long and drawn out. Blood-curdling.
Ekaette woke up with a start. “Ma?”
The unbidden response leaving her lips even before gaining full consciousness. She opened her eyes. She was in Junior’s room. Junior was covered with blood. Her very own hands were covered with blood. There was a bloodied knife on the floor. The splatters of blood had formed an eccentric pattern on every surface. She looked confused.
Her madam was cradling her son in her arms. Strange sounds emitting from her throat. She rocked the child from left to right, her glazed eyes staring in Ekaette’s general direction.
“Ekaette… Ekaette. why did you kill my son?” She whispered hoarsely. “Why?”
“I.. I.. I didn’t.”
Ekaette was transfixed, confused. The last thing she remembered was going out back to empty the dustbin.
What had she done?
You most definitely would like
*Midnight noises
*The Passenger
*Dancing in the dark

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