Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The Beginning of our love story May 10, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 5:56 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Today, I beat the gong of sweet itching and an all-consuming desire.
Listen.

 
 

…you…

 
 

This is the beginning of our love story.
I am watching you watch me with a smirk on your face
Because you can see me cringe whenever
My boyfriend puts his arm around my shoulders
Or presses his hand into the small of my back.
And although the hairs I decided against shaving
All bristle in indignation;
I am not able to unlock my gaze from your face.
This is the beginning of our love story.
You follow me to the tray of spring rolls
And stop my hand from selecting
That golden-brown one with some stuffing sticking out.
You brush your fingers over my hand;
As if testing for my response.
One which isn’t long in coming
Because those traitorous bastard hairs on the back of my palm,
All rise to your touch- like they’ve been waiting forever.
And this is the beginning of our love story.
The escape to the back room- and you follow.
You follow and shut the door behind you.
You lock the door behind you then stop
When I can see the tips of your shiny shoes
Opposite my black-covered toenails.
And I move forward till we are touching.
My toes against your shoes.
Your shoes against my toes
that stick too far out of my sandals.
This is the beginning of our love story.
Heavy breathing, tongue clashing;
Head rolling, back. Hands seeking, forward.
My back against the wall. Cold fingers kissing my spine.
Heart palpitations. Throat constrictions.
No words. No thoughts.
Feeling; then some more.
Lust. Wanting. Pining. Yearning.
Phone vibrating.
This is the end of our love story.
My phone vibrates and my eyes snap clear.
Clear of the riotuous emotions
That only just threatened to drown me.
This is the end of our love story- I think.
I straighten my dress and walk away from you.
You, my first love.
Because though you remain clueless,
You are the first man,
Who has made me feel.

 
 
 
 

 

Old Tom’s words April 19, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 7:01 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The seasons come and go and leave remnants of us.
AfroSays,

 

OLD TOM’S WORDS

 

... it's all gone too soon ...

 

I never took the walk back home alone.

 

Even from the first day I started mixing drinks at Tom’s, he would leave the night’s accounting to escort me.

 

Actually, it wasn’t inconvenient for him because I stayed only two short streets away from the bar; I guess that it really was therapeutic, for good old Tom never said much as we dragged our tired feet along – mine tired from tending his garden of bottles for the quarter of a day and his from welcoming all comers with a handshake and a fatherly inquiry into their affairs. Tom genuinely cared about us all. It seemed that this nightly walk of ours was a form of catharsis for him because he always kept the burdens of the small town on his mind. He’d walk by my side with his head bowed, and shoulders mellow, smiling and humming an old tune I would never recognize. The same tune every night.

 

We would avoid shallow puddles on those cold evenings and walk like father and daughter. Once or twice, he had told me about the wild days of his youth, how he met Janet, of whom he was widower-ed three years ago, how they had never had children, how life had passed so quickly. “Titi” he’d say, “It’s all gone too soon.” I would smile and squeeze his hand and he would laugh a weak one.

 

I only worked at Tom’s through the fall of 1996. I think I stopped mid winter because my degree eventually earned me a better paying job. most of that year remains a Gaussian blur to me but I’d never forget old Tom’s words.

 

I was twenty three years old, January the following year. I remember because that was the year I fell in love. The fall did not last too long and I landed on the cold hard floor; in my moments of bitter tears I remembered old Tom’s words.

 

Life skipped along and happy times found me and abandoned when I began to feel entitled. The pains of sorrow would eclipse the bright times and just when my breaking point was near, the sun would shine again. Friendships came and went just like love did, until I eventually found a lovely friendship. I am widowed of Joe now, a heart condition tore him away from my hold. Too soon.

 

My parents decided to get a divorce last year because they both decided that it would be more peaceful to die alone; they both still hope that I’d take a side. I’m too old to care.

 

I had my life planned in the beginning and I haven’t done bad for myself. I am not where I planned but I am in a beautiful place, beautiful because I choose to see all the good things around me. Although, I can afford a lot of the simple things I want but I don’t enjoy them as much as I thought I would, except maybe when it’s a new experience like my first full body massage at the inexplicably expensive Shirley Buddha.

 

I’m turning forty soon and I still have half a full life to live and to enjoy as much as I can. Sometimes I think back to those walks with old Tom and his hollow laugh brings a smile to my face. He darn sure was right, it’s all gone too soon.

 

So why not enjoy it while it lasts?

 

 

 

George April 3, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:35 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Lazy this, lazy that.
AfroSays exactly what?


GEORGE

 

 

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 Truth Teller February 28, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 11:24 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

thatdarkBetty: Today, I beat the gong of non-absolutes.. Listen.
 
THE TRUTH TELLER

 
The problem she had with Joshua was that he told the truth.
 
She met him through her cousin and when after their first date, he had pulled her close and kissed her and said he wanted her for himself; she had come gushing to me. “He’s not like the others, no fronting whatsoever.” I was only glad she’d stopped being so finicky about men. She grinned wide and laughed a lot; her eyes glinting with hope and liquid adoration.
 
When she strode into my house and plopped down on my couch, her forehead in furrows; I had immediately assumed it to be a familiar end to a short story. But she began to speak of how he cradled both her hands in his and looked into her eyes- her soul, she corrected- and said vehemently how he could not and would not live without her. She had looked up from her storytelling and I saw tears glisten in her eyes; she seemed perplexed and when she described him as ‘desperately honest’, I had thought it was an odd combination. Desperately honest? But it was then a strange smile lit up her face. I have never seen her that happy; she practically beamed as though a light bulb had been switched on inside of her.
 
“Do you know what it’s like?” She asked me after she had relayed how he’d spent the previous night telling her all the brave and horrible things he had ever done. “To find a man who tells you the truth… About everything?” He was candid and sincere she said; he made her want to uproot her puny morals and start again.
 
So when she came back to my green couch and curled into a ball, shivering with fears that stemmed from underneath her lacey blouse. I was more than slightly taken aback. Explain it to me, I pleaded. What went wrong?
 
“Nothing,” she said.
 
And quoting her words back to her, I reminded her of his honesty; how pure and rare he was; how happy he made her. But she only flinched with each word, as though I was punching her belly. She raised a palm to stop my flow of words.
 
And then she said- “That’s the problem. When the love dies, will he hesitate to tell me he feels no more for me?” I moved to speak but she stopped me. She had never said she knew his love was eternal, she had said his honesty was. And so, she was afraid. She was scared that he wouldn’t do her the favour of being quiet when he no longer loved her so passionately. She was scared he would tell her when she was no longer attractive and when he would sleep with his secretary. And when he would take a bribe and then share all of his fears and doubts and worries and that it would overwhelm her. That his honesty would crush her with its startling clarity and piercing starkness.
 
And looking in her eyes, there was no shaking this terror. So, I poured us red wine in huge mugs and snuggled in beside her and said nothing. She took a long sip and said to me, “Don’t we all need to be lied to? A little? I think so.”

 
 

 

A chest of fruits February 22, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 9:00 am
Tags: , , , ,

Metaphors are the joy of us all and they are the gifts we share with each other. Today, a friend shares a bag of metaphors for us. Shall we dig in?
 
@itz_bigboiler’s words:
 
The cool breeze of the sylph Afrosays swooped a pollen grain towards me
It was a grain like no other
she sang the coolest of melodies to my ears
Serenaded my hearts
Captured my soul
Made my spirits soar
My megalomania mellowed when I realized her suss
I took her in, and here is the fruit of my womb

 
 

 
A CHEST OF FRUITS
 

A festoon of shiny dark hairs curled like a noodle
 

Resting on an enlarged cashew
 

Two black and glowing stones dwelling between two peeled eggs
 

A schnozzle protruding like a carrot
 

Two strawberry-red slabs unleashing a radiant smile
 

An antagonistic arraignment of bleached heterogenous grains
 

A slenderized stem running into 3 tributaries
 

With the midmost bearing two juicy oranges
 

Oranges that had sprouts
 

Irrigation washed through the style all the way to the pistil
 

The desire of every spermatocyte
 

Posteriorly lies a cottony lump gapped by a straight line
 

All of which are carried by two thin trunks
 

This is the woman,the one I love.

 
 
Find the art of our @itz_bigboiler here

 

Making Conversation II February 20, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:00 am
Tags: , ,


Forgive us as we hone our art, as we take time to shed old skin and put on a new, shimmering guise of aptly crafted alphabets.
Do wait, it shall be worth it.


@JADENTM SAYS: You might have heard the sound before, but listen, as the beat moves your feet in a different rhythm. Let it; let it take you where it will

MAKING CONVERSATION II

...a drink perhaps?

 
Find Making Conversation I here
 
“Interesting fusion of traditional and mixed-media to portray a familiar subject. The question of course, is why we should care about yet another mother and child painting…”
 
“Excuse me? The bar is all the way over there.”
 
“I was thinking more, cocktails, Churrasco’s, tomorrow night?”
 
“Sorry I don’t talk to strangers.”
 
“What, you haven’t heard of me? I am Akilapa, local champion, beef head, jock and jester. The favourite of maidens, the original Oko Omoge…”
 
“I think you mean Ajanaku.”
 
“No, he’s my much less attractive younger brother. Don’t laugh, he’s sensitive.”
 
“But he hunts elephants!”
 
“He sings them to sleep before he kills them. Shh, it’s a secret.”
 
“Who would I tell? I don’t know who you are.”
 
“I’ll tell you everything over drinks.”
 
“I have a drink.”
 
“You might be hungry at some point in the near future…”
 
“Beep! Try again.”
 
“Have dinner with me.”
 
“And they say chivalry is dead.”
 
“I might be in a minute if you say no…”
 
“Oh, what’s that? I think I hear my name.”
 
“Come on! I solemnly swear to open all doors.”
 
“People just don’t stay as dead as they used to.”
 
“Tell me your name.”
 
“Only if it comes with a signed autograph from Ajanaku.”
 
“What, you’d turn down all this for a mere elephant slayer?”
 
“I’ve always had a thing for danger.”
 
“Tell you what, we can discuss the terms over dinner.”
 
“Mmh, I’ve never had tusk before.”
 
“Oh… sorry, we’re all out. Gave out the last piece to another one of Ajanaku’s fans. But Sky Lounge does great sushi?”
 
“I suppose I could settle.”
 
“Great, I’ll drive. Guess what, I open car doors too!”
 
“Handy trick, yes?”
 
“I am exceptionally well trained.”
 
“It’s a driver’s license. It costs five thousand naira, and actual driving know-how is not a prerequisite.”
 
“If I told you my name would you quit trying to bite my head off?”
 
“It’s a free country.”
 
“It’s Deinde.”
 
“Ooh, poor kid!”
 
“It’ll grow on you.”
 
“…Like a fungus.”
 
“What was that? Funke?”
 
“The only Funke I know is sixty and balding.”
 
“I bet she was as pretty as you are when she was … twenty one?”
 
“Cradle snatcher!”
 
“That’s way above the legal age!”
 
“I smell pee.”
 
“Hey, pretty cute Aaliyah’s got the vibe…”
 
“Not my name either.”
 
“Ah, but what is a man without hope?”
 
“Rich.”
 
“I went to school with a Rich.”
 
“Did he break up with Hope?”
 
“You’re running low on jabs, miss anonymous.”
 
“I’m trying to see how long I can keep it up.”
 
“Or you could just tell me your name.”
 
“My name? Hmm. I am the sultry abomination, psaltery like the song of Yemoja’s first heartbreak…”
 
“Oops, that was me. Hope you’re not best friends with her or anything like that?”
 
“Who, Yemoja? Bitch got hers.”
 
“I love a girl that curses.”
 
“Shit, did I?”
 
“Yes, but you were saying…”
 
“Oh yes. I am Enitan, the riddle, the desirable, the disastrous. Daughter of the deep, my eyes will subdue your weak will and bring you to your knees…”
 
“I don’t think you meant ‘eyes’ just then.”
 
“They’ve been known to have many names…”
 
“There’s a few things I like to call them.”
 
“Give me five. Ten seconds. Go.”
 
“This is a trap.”
 
“You pussy!”
 
“Er… I’m just going to keep quiet at this point.”
 
“And what am I supposed to do for entertainment?”
 
“You could tell me your name, but I may have a heart attack and die.”
 
“Or just a hard on.”
 
“Death by …disclosure?”
 
“If stiffies were wishes!”
 
“Sorry, I haven’t heard that saying.”
 
“Tell you what,”
 
“…As long as it’s not your name.”
 
“It’s Enitan.”
 
“I think my heart just stopped.”
 

Find the art of @JadenTM here
 
 

 

You make me feel November 17, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — Betty @ 7:51 pm
Tags: , ,
Of a muted gong finding it’s voice. Listen.
Betty BlackLace.
YOU MAKE ME FEEL

...

You make me feel.
Passion.
Want.
Carnal fire, burning.
Inside.
Deep down.
There.
And there.
All over.
Can’t stop.
Shivers.
Tremors.
Thrills.
Coursing down my spine.
Wet.
Gasping, need air.
No air.
Come now.
Now.
Closer.
Skin.
Sliding.
Rubbing.
Tongue.
Sweat.
Faster.
Fast-er.
Moaning.
Now.
Now.
Now.
Lights.
Flashing.
Fire burning.
Colours.
Popping.
Sightless.
Crashing.
Cra-shing.
Falling.
Bliss.
Gone.
 

 
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