I woke up this morning to her aura. The room was a beautiful blend of gentle wild flowers, all subtly blended into the essence of something by Coco Chanel. She was here, yes boss!
Her fingers traced the lines of stress on my back that the ‘executive’ chairs at the office had blessed me with. Oh! the travails of modern Sapiens. I was tickling and pringling, enjoying the flirtations of my ethereal companion.
The indulgence ended as quickly as it had started; She berated my inadequacies as an effective town crier. She insulted all the tools of my trade – my Facebook gong needed tuning, my text-message forwarder could only cry as far as my pitiful pocket. She was jealous of all the girls i adapted her dispatches for and was mad that I had left some messages undelivered altogether.
She threatened to leave me!
I begged and promised to buy a waaaaaay sexier gong with autotune.
The bi-polar witch smiled and gave me ‘Sundance’ (and some money too) but you can trust me to enrich my pitiful pocket, and come up with a cheap ass scheme.
Enjoy the first note to be played on my sexy, auto-tuned, blogging gong with a blackberry app to match
SUNDANCE
The African sun dance
Don’t we dance all day?
dance to the music of pain?
bending our backs in obedience to the sun
and lifting our faces to it again
chanting morbid choruses
with our spirits low
spinning in assigned locuses
with our baggage on tow
Don’t we search for better music?
better than the jockey spins?
knowing we can only dance happy
to our own rythm
Don’t we learn new moves?
hoping to get better?
but logic is disproved
with our name on a letter
Ballet bureaucrats,
Mambo managers,
Contemporary contract staff,
Chacha civil servants,
Hip Hop hirelings,
Atilogwu artisans,
All Sundance participants
We’re all sun-dancers, you and I
entertainers from 9-5
dancing in the yellow light
till the day we die!
Do you dance?
Afrosays to me 