Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The Making of Widow-Maker August 26, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 8:41 am
Tags: ,

I AfroSays.
I believe in the diversity of art.
The Muse speaks to me, through everything. I listened to her say this from the television box and from Wikipedia’s scrolls on The African Buffalo.
We don’t always have to recycle. Rather, we should create.
Listen.

...Surefoot...

Surefoot.
That’s not what mother called me but she was gone too soon – the wilderness took her while she nursed me in the tall grasses as it was custom. The tall grasses usually served as a safe nursery but that day, as the sun climbed down to sleep, we were found by an unfamiliar predator, a two-legged demon of some kind. He took mother from me.
That day there was a loud noise such like I had never heard before and then mother fell over me. Usually the herd would assemble to fight off hunters of wild kind like us but this load roar was foreign to most. The older ones who recognized it called it the demon’s roar. They knew there was no protection against it so they called for the herd to retreat. I alone stayed with mother but with some of her last strength, she sent me away. I retreated not-so-hurriedly, looking back at mother writhe in pain and then I saw the demon. He was not like anything that dwelled under the savanna sun. He steadily approached mother and roared again. This time her stubborn legs stopped kicking in protest and I learned of the wakeless sleep for the first time. That day, I earned the name Surefoot.
The wilderness took many others after her. I would not call them family for one does not claim ties here in the wild, and although we look out for each other, we do not keep relations. The hierarchy of strength prevails amongst our ranks and one as young as I am does not enjoy the perks of such a large bovine gathering of which I am member. There is however a beneficial order, beneficial to all. The calves are kept in the center of the group, close to their mothers who keep together, probably to gossip about mundane things such as the timing of this season’s rain or the taste of last year’s green. The bulls only share their presence in time of child-making. They are in two competing groups depending on how many rains they have seen, the younger ones who call themselves The Black Death and the older ones, the insufferable elders, The Kings.
After seeing two rains, a bull must leave his mother and join the ranks of the Black Death and find his place there, learn the ways of the wild there for as many as ten rains before he may join the elders. I hope to join the ranks of this rambunctious lot this coming rain and join them in gallivanting the wild for in the company of these mothers, I have no companionship. I look forward to the child-making dance too when the rains come although I know I am not yet of enough strength to guard a cow I choose against other bulls that might want to dance with her. I would not be foolhardy.
The day mother slept, the day I outran many a buffalo from the rear from the fear in my small heart, that day, the mothers found a new nursery and the demon found us again. That season, only the strongest were felled, again and again, and there were no bulls to take up courage for us. Mother had been the strongest so she went first and in an uncanny selection process, many others like mother were taken. The demons seemed to knowingly expose our ranks for as a consequence, the many hunting packs of blood eaters in the wild found it easier to pick off many as young as I in the dead of the night. That season, we suffered a great loss and the mothers took a vote whether to abandon the ritual of nursing and start out in search of the bachelor groups. Wisdom prevailed and the mothers chose to suffer the losses for in the open savannah, outside the protection of the tall grasses, more of us would be lost.
In the early rains, the bulls returned in a fervor rushing blood and heat that needed extinguishing only to find the numbers of their companions decimated. The strongest of them was Widow-Maker. It was said that he only had recently joined The Kings two rains before and he ruled them now. The competitions for partners were fierce and in the sparring many were hurt. Some of the wounded were lost to the wild in the night. It seemed that a depression of some sort had surmounted our kind. I managed somehow to survive, by keeping out of the way but ill-luck did not escape me altogether. I once trespassed in Widow-Maker’s circle and although I made good my escape, he did not forgive me. When the season ended, I and a few other male calves joined the riotous party of The Black Deaths and journeyed to explore the wild, away from gossiping mothers and testy calves.
In the ranks of my new companions, for the first few climbs of sun, the issue of the two-legged demons was discussed and many a bull vowed violence. I regarded them with a curious pity for it seemed that they did not know the way of these demons, how they hunt from distant shadows and roar like the end of the world. My companions thought to spar with these demons and destroy them, head-to-head they would say, bull-to-bull. I would smirk inside.
With the climbing of many suns, they soon forgot about the demons and the usual order of our society began. I quickly found myself at the near bottom of the hierarchy for I did not care much for sparring. The journey was not as excitable as I had hoped; it seemed that I had only traded one irritation for another. In this brotherhood, food was scarce and fights were plentiful, maybe in excess as each bull tried to assert his male dominance. Out here in the wild too, our blood-eating enemies were more numerous and more determined, it seemed that only a few of them had knowledge of the nursery for here we were currently under attack. Our luck however was our nature – we were big beasts of ill repute, ergo, the smaller green eaters suffered more losses than we did. We continued in this manner for the sun season and waited for the rains to come. The rains did not come, at least, not in the time we expected, and none remembered the demons but I and a few other bereaved.
Then the rains came, late, but they did come and my brothers made journey as fast as they could to spar for the companions of willing cows before The Kings arrived to challenge our good fortune. We were only a sun ahead of The Kings and our speed in arriving did not amount to much for it seemed that they had the same thing in mind. I found it curious that there had been no news of the demons and chose to stay wary. No other bull seemed to care. My only other concern was Widow-Maker.

I did not care much for finding a mate so I wandered listlessly through our crowd, avoiding trouble. Need I say that trouble found me? My attraction to her was destruction in itself and I found myself drawn to the folly of guarding her. My bones peeked through my hides as I stood at alert, half-heartedly daring any bull to approach my newfound prize and hoping none would care enough to notice. She was a young cow, like I was and sweet too. I found my blood rushing in disobedience. I hoped to have her to myself.
As the sun climbed down that day, I heard a call to spar. Widow-Maker’s call. I looked back at my prize and determined in my heart that was she worth it. I did not care for any consequences although she called for me to quit this malady and let the bully have her. I declined. My mind was made. I seemed to have forgotten the sheer banality of the brute before me, how he had earned his name many rains ago destroying the demon that had roared at him. The attack had broken off a part of his crown but the attacker had paid dearly for it. I heard that despite repeated roars, this brute had charged into the shadows where the demon hid and sent him high up near the sun.
I lowered my virgin horns to oppose Widow-Maker’s disfigured, hardy crown, a show of naïve, love-struck neophyte versus veteran. We clawed the floor and raised the dust of a thousand stampedes. Well I didn’t, he did. I had never seen him this angry before. He devil charged at me with all the rage of seven sandstorms and set me on my back, several distances, with one blow. He shouted at the skies, “The fuck! Insolent kid!” and reversed to deal me another round. Usually the brute would dig his only horn that wasn’t stumped into his opponent’s hides and tear out his bowels almost immediately but he seemed to want to show me a good time.
I rolled off my side with all dignity gone. I was dizzy but my thoughts were lucid. My illusions of love were fast-fled and I did not once consider the object of my affection anymore, even enough to spare her a glance. I wanted to survive and I knew how to; the knowledge lay in escaping this death match. I returned my own insult at the ugly beast, “Widow-Maker! You mother’s udders taste of zebra milk!” I could not see the fury of my enemy as he made for me with all the force of seven thousand stampedes. Of course, he could not see me too. Did the fool think I would set my horns at him waiting for a spar? I was long gone!
He charged at empty space and then collided with kind air where I was supposed to be. As I fled, I turned back in time to see an angry beast roaring behind me. Of course, Surefoot was my appellation but my enemy deserved an even better sobriquet, for he was fast gaining. All of the herd, I suppose stood at attention now, waiting to see what would become of me. Even those in the process of mating, I suppose, gave their attention. The horde of beasts I had to navigate through slowed me down so I turned onto the open, out of the multitude of my kind and headed for the shadows. I moved as fast as my legs could afford, looking back at intervals to see how soon my doom would happen upon me.
I returned my gaze to my destination and saw another evil sight. Straight ahead in the shadows were two demons. These ones did not seem as composed as the one from our last encounter. The panic on their faces was probably the same fear I suffered from. A crazy charging bull, maybe they thought two. In an instant, they lifted their mouths to roar.
Roar. Roar.
I could not deviate from my path. I charged straight ahead and sent the one directly in my path into the sun. I guessed that the evil behind me was greater than the evil before me. I kept making distance under the trees until I heard the sound of death no more, not that of a crazed beast, not that of the hunting demons.
Under the trees, there was the smell of water. I wandered around and found it; I needed to calm my soul from the urgencies of survival which had only recently overtaken me. As I drank, I was at first terrified that Widow-Maker, the evil beast had found me for a portion of my crown was missing but I then realized that I had become as Widow-Maker himself; the roar of demons had almost killed me but had claimed only a portion of my horn instead.
With trepidation, I found my way back to the plains from whence I had come. The old Widow-Maker had been killed this time, I assume, by second demon who was nowhere to be found.
As I emerged from the trees, the herd regarded me with a peculiarity I could not quite define. I ignored the crowd of gawkers and gaily made my way to the one who had captured my affection and she let me have her.
She called me Widow-Maker.
“Known as one of the “big five”, “Black Death” or “widowmaker” in Africa, the African buffalo is widely regarded as a very dangerous animal, as it gores and kills over 200 people every year. Buffalo are sometimes reported to kill more people in Africa than any other animal, although the same claim is also made of hippos and crocodiles. Buffalo are notorious among big game hunters as very dangerous animals, with wounded animals reported to ambush and attack pursuers.”

The above quote and other biological patterns that form ideas in this story were solicited from Wikipedia

 

When the lights go off August 19, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 9:22 pm
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AfroSays here.
The Quixotic.
Have some brew, smile at a pretty girl. Or guy. Let your heart dream tonight as the lights go off.


I bring you the art of @FreshPrinzVick and @NappyhairedPoet
ENJOY.

WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OFF by @FreshPrinzVick
When the lights go off you turn me on.
We shut out the world
It’s problems gone.
It’s your one special magic trick
No hands, no hats, no magic sticks.
When the lights go off you break me down.
The walls I built no longer surround
My heart, my body come alive
No wine, no spliff, that natural high
The transition swift yet so sublime
When the lights go off I lose control.
My mind, my heart, my body, my soul
Lost in your touch, in you I’m whole
With silent lips you tell it all
You open up, tear down my walls
When the lights go off there’s no pretense
No words, no reason, just lust….just flesh
When Robin sings I’m lost in your thickeness
Your soft lips, my hardness, your warm wetness
My heart stops, you leave me…..breathless
NIGHT TIME RHYTHYMS by @NappyhairedPoet
‘Night time rhythms
Sing with me
When the lights go off
My body is like a mannequin
Smooth
No flaws
Barbie doll perfection
At night, we love like thieves
Silent with so much determination
Red light district sex
Dirty
Drunken
Stumbling
I bet the neighbors come knocking moans…
Day time blues
Sing like me
When the sun comes up
I hide beneath rumpled sheets
He seeks me
He wants to love me
But the perfection is gone
He tells me my stretch marks
Are road maps that lead him
To my curves
My full hips
My round belly
Muffin top he loves to eat
In the morning
We love like newlyweds
And I’m the shy bride
Only bold at night….
These rhythms
These blues
Open your ears
Listen to her voice
Listen to her body
Open your eyes
And sing with her. ‘
AGAIN @FreshPrinzVick
When the lights come on I am strong
So u don’t have to be, as long
as u are next to me, the life of me.
Lights on or off, I will be
YOURS

@FreshPrinzVick? His art is here : http://freshprinz.wordpress.com/
@NappyhairedPoet? Her art is here : http://creamandcoffee.wordpress.com/
I hope you do get it? Read closely. There’s meaning. Share your thoughts?
BY THE WAY,
I keep on about my love for making music and writing songs. I’m still learning how to sound like I want and I think improving. (I am not quite a Mayer)
This is me fooling around. Quixotic Me. Here
 

Seven July 14, 2011

Filed under: Abstract,The Trench — afrosays @ 12:15 pm
Tags:

Afro said. Because.
I smote the gong. Because.
You listened. Because.
Forget ‘Becauses’. AfroSays:

SEVEN

...what is seven?..

Thanks for following The Trench so far. I regret not explaining how to read them right from the start. Please do not take the stories literally, they are not the usual stories with a sensible climax at the end. They are stories with hidden meanings. Always. So they might not make sense if taken at face value. Follow the clues.

I’m considering giving my interpretation at the end as well but that would ruin the experience for me as well as many other villagers. I do hope, however, to simplify the clues.

“What is Seven Sevens?”

“Forty Nine”

“What is Seven?”

“…”

“Seven is only an idea in your head, there is no seven my son. It was created so that we can count things like errr…”

“Like how many days there are in a week? Or how many chairs there are in this living room?”

“Yes son. And if there is no Seven, there are no Seven Sevens. Do you understand?”

“Father, it’s a bit confusing, but it seems I do. But how does that relate to the questions I asked you?”

“Seven exists only as an idea, but these chairs are real, whether there was an idea such as seven or not, we would still have these chairs.

You don’t need a word to quantify your feelings towards Bimpe, all you need to know is how you feel. Gauging your affection for her by some standard of society only keeps you second-guessing your feelings for her because the gauge is only an idea.

When you can tell me what Seven is, I can tell you if what you feel for her is true love, for then, I can accurately define the ideas of love and truth.

And whether you should marry her? You should know.”

“Father, your wisdom befuddles one, I better talk to mum.”

CLUES

Measuring affection by societal standards. The use of affection labels. The implications?
PLEASE DO LEAVE A COMMENT. REAL FEEDBACK ON HOW THE STORY RELATES TO REAL LIFE. COMMENTS SUCH AS “DEEP” OR ANY OF ITS SYNONYMS ARE ONLY STATING THE OBVIOUS, KINDLY SHARE WHAT YOU REALLY THINK (EVEN IF IT’S THAT THE MESSAGE IS UNCLEAR) SO WE CAN ALL COMPARE IDEAS. THANK YOU.
THANKS FOR VOTING FOR US AT THE NIGERIAN BLOG AWARDS
You might also like
*Love and Truth
*Love and War
*Trapped

...coming soon...

 

My Everyday Girl June 29, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 12:03 pm
Tags: , , ,


First off, thanks for nominating AfroSays for the Nigerian Blog Awards, best collaboration category. Please do vote for us here, it’d mean a lot. There are also other blogs that we think deserve your votes as well, check them out and make up your mind. They are:
The toolsman’s blog (5 nominations),
Chronicles of Dania (2 nominations),
Thoughts from a maverick’s perspective (Best student blog),
My Scroll… You Scroll (Most humorous blog)


Secondly, We have a new category coming up, Spooky Fridays as a follow up to Stories of night from two Fridays ago. Watch out this Friday.


Today’s business is what you expect, what you know accrues to you, even though you’re sometimes wanting the other. This is yours because AfroSays

MY EVERYDAY GIRL

I leaned back into the car seat and waited for her to find her way across the chaotic parking area of the shopping mall. She sluggishly navigated through the crowd for a bit and stopped short of a peeled crossing, mixed in a handful of nondescript pedestrians. With most of the mass of people that crowded the entrance to the mall behind her, I could catch a decent glimpse; she looked better than the pictures she’d sent me.
I had expected that she would be dressed in the expected casual uniform: skinny jeans, tank-top, cheap plastic shades, costume jewelry, carrying a black bag – the adornments of an everyday girl, but she had put a little less and a little more into her look – just a short dress, sandals and a satchel that was probably designer brand. Her hair was full and beautifully unnatural. I liked what I saw.
With the old magazine I had been using to pass time, I shielded my gaze from the impolite glare of the sun that bounced off every willing surface, bathing the day in a hurting white so I could get a better view of her. She seemed unsure of something. She lifted her pretty face and looked around some, then dipped her chin moments after to whip her blackberry out of her satchel. She began to type.
Ping.
“Are you here yet? I can’t see you”
“I’m in the black car across the parking lot from you, the Picanto”
With little effort, she spotted me.
“Oh! I see you. Drive this way, it’d be easier to get out” she waved.
She was right.
“Coming.”
I pulled out of the parking slot that had been quite a feat to snatch up and began to make my way towards where she waited. After finding my way around the convoluted maze of parked and moving cars both, I eventually began to drive closer.
She had found other things to amuse herself with on her phone so she kept at typing as I followed the torpid traffic to where she stood. I did not want to appear too eager just like she wasn’t so I played with the radio as I got nearer.
She was already totally absorbed in her phone when I finally parked right in front of her. I had to honk the horn to catch her attention. She looked up at me for the briefest moment and went back to whatever she was doing.
I took a deep breath as I leaned towards the passenger door and opened it. I’d have to be patient with this one.
“Joyce?”
From the side mirror, I saw a black tank top and a pair of skinny jeans emerge from the group of pedestrians walk quickly towards the open door.
She slid in and smiled as she shut the door. In the sing-song voice I’d come to love over the phone these past few midnights, this everyday girl said.
“Hi Isa!”
I smiled not really knowing why, and replied.
“Hi Joyce…”
You most definitely would like
*All of Us
*Android
*Taye and Juliet
 

Sex pestilence June 20, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 7:22 pm
Tags: , , ,


The confusing clangs follow in staccato rhythm. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Don’t ask me what to do.
Do what AfroSays.

This is:
SEX PESTILENCE

Bang!

“Frisk me! Search me! But don’t waste time. If I’m not in there in five minutes, the president dies!”
“Sir, please keep your voice down and stay where you are!”
He walks on. Towards the security detail.
“Sir! Please remain…”
“You have to listen to me! I need to get in there right now!”
“Sir! Please stand back!”
Panic.
“Sir! Please stand… Please keep your hands where I can see them!”
I’m just trying to get some ID.
“Sir! Keep your hands…”
“Here! Take a look! I’m from the DAA!”
The engager studies the plastic card.
“I’m not familiar with any such agency sir! Please kindly return behind the line like everybody else, nice and easy.”
“The DAA is the Department of Alien Arbitration, believe me, you’ve not heard about it. Now if you’d let me… ”
The offender pushes past the engager. The engager grabs the offender by his arm.
“Sir, you are not going in. Not on my watch. Now if you’d…”
The offender shakes him off and runs past the wailing metal detector into a hallway not visible to the excited onlookers behind the rope barricade.
The engager follows him speaking hastily in the coiled wire device attached to the side of his face. He too soon disappears from sight.
In the hallway, under the blind spot of a sweeping camera, the two re-unite.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes, everything is set”
“Go well, my brother”
“Go well!”
The middle-eastern engager handcuffs the offender with his hands at the back and puts a gun to his head just as five members of the secret service rush in from the other side with their arms tensed, holding their pistols in the rigid air.
“I’ve got him”
“God job, we’d take it from here”
“I need to see the president!”
“You have the right to remain silent, please use it.”
The newly arrived security detail leads the stranger away, leaving the engager behind. Their backs are turned to the smile on his face.
The small party walks through the hallway making several automatic turns and the offender is behind, being dragged along by the arm by two suited men to either side. They are being viewed from an overhead camera, rendering in black and white. They eventually stop at a nondescript door and the leader of the party knocks. It is opened from inside and they all go in.
Suddenly, the offender emerges, brandishing one of the guns wielded by his former captors. Smirk on his face.
“Control center secured. Carry on suckers!”
“Copy that!”
A gang of unnumbered heads are seen waiting in a dark van, shielded by curtains that give a peek of what seems like an international conference. A small, suited caucasian man is currently speaking global economic gibberish, his back turned to the waiting surprise. The leader of the bunch comments into the walkie-talkie he holds in his left hand. His right hand attends an automatic rifle slung at his neck.
“Good job! We’re going in.”
He signals into the darkness.
From the view of the audience, an armed militia of mixed sexes begin to march on stage in strict formation. The female kind are provocatively clad. Ripples of fear and surprise weave through the crowd. The leader of the fifteen insurgents walks toward the podium and pushes aside its occupant. The aged man falls on his back, stunned and whimpering.
The leader bangs a boot on the stage floor. Once. His arrangement of soldiers reply with two strong bangs in chorus, and four of them break formation from the tail ends of the arrangement and dismount the stage in a spectacular flip jump. They land in sync with a thud and take positions that secure all of the hall. Members of the audience formerly considering escape hurriedly return to their seats.
Bang. Chorused Bang Bang Bang.
The soldiers left on the stage spread out to cover the remaining space. They are all female. Pretty.
Bang. Bang! Chorused Bang.
Two muscular male soldiers emerge from the curtains carrying a very large box. It seems to be quite heavy. They arrive at the front of the formation and slide the box forward haphazardly. The lid swings open, the inside dark.
“This is the bomb!”
The panic in the audience intensifies.
“We do not have any demands”. His accent is East African. He is caucasian.
“We are Here. To blow you away!”
Chorused bang bang.
“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
An explosion. Smoke and screams. Darkness
A loud techno pop tune, with a pulsing bass and an intense electric feel.
The smoke begins to clear amidst the screams. A spotlight comes on and there is a very skinny, poorly dressed caucasian female on the floor of the stage, sprawled in a mock sexy pose with black soot and shrapnel lying all around her, and sprayed in her golden hair.
She is wearing ridiculously long heels and strips of army clothing. She is Lady Gaga and this is another pop video.
Chorus bang bang bang.
All the male soldiers take off their army fatigues, to reveal their ripped chests and suspenders.
Engager is outside, back in front of the crowd. He dips a hand in his suit jacket to surreptitiously gloat over his autographed Lady Gaga CD. He shrieks like a girl.
Offender is back inside the control room, working the sounds, and the lighting controls, and monitoring the results on a multiple of viewing screens. Bodies in black suits are strewn around him, unconscious.
Gaga and her pop army begin to dance to a song she sings about love and famine and pestilences and how she wants a nuclear warhead in her Hiroshima. Love, sex and pestilence. Love, sex and punishment. The leader of the militia abuses her on stage, shoves her hard, pulls her hair and exhibits other televisable forms of sadism at various points in the song where his dancing skills are not required.
Guns are trained on the panicky of cross-section delegates as they are all forced to sign a certain ‘Sex-pestilence’ agreement.
The weak old speaker on economic issues is actually a talented ‘popper-of-lock’.
When the song ends, the soldiers shoot into the cross-section of dignitaries, killing everybody.
You most definitely would like
*Android
*Taye and Juliet
*The black hole
 

Time. Again. June 7, 2011

Filed under: Abstract — Betty @ 8:23 am
Tags: ,

Solemn sounds emitting from this gong. Pitches of immortal anguish plaguing the soul. Listen..
RegretfulBetty

... Time... Again...

The clock doesn’t tick anymore. Its tick-tock no longer mocks me.

Maybe I can sleep now.

I threw it against the wall. Hard. The batteries fell out. It’s face cracked. The broken clock.

Silence. Ahhhh…

The loud silence resounding through this empty house. It amplified the quiet in my head.

But it didn’t last. Tick. Tock.

I looked about wildly. No clocks in sight. What ticks? What tocks?

Tick.. Aaargh! The regret and shame welling through my being.

Tock.. The unconfessed, unforgiven sin you’ll never know.

Is..Is that my heart? No.

Noooooo! I let the scream wrench from my chest.

I took in deep breaths. Willing it to quiet down. Willing it stop ticking. But it won’t.

It’s loud. This ticking. This tocking. Because it comes from inside. I can’t take out the batteries… Can I?

Can I?

I can see you. I still see your reflection in my eyes.

But if I end it, the pain will end. I don’t deserve to be free of pain. There’s no healing in this pain.

I deserve to rot in pain. Writhe and languish in this den of torture that I have built for myself.

Why did I do it? I don’t know. I can’t explain it away. Can’t justify it. That’s part of the pain.

And when I had sated the pleasures of my body, the hole in my soul still remained. Only you could fill that. But that was when the call came. After I had had my epiphany. That you were it. They said you were gone. Gone?

No. I want you to have been here when I got home. To have asked you to forgive me. To have watched you cry and curse at me. To have told you there could only be you.

But you were gone. Are gone.

I’m a broken man. But it’s your time that is over.

But that’s all I have. Time. Time is all I have.

Time. Without you.

Just time. Endless time.

And this tick-tocking heart will always mock me. Until my time ends.. But every second seems like an eternity.

Tick. Tock.

You might like
*In Between
*Her way out
*Love and War
 

Love and War May 24, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 8:24 am
Tags: ,

Terse clangs in a hurry, Terse thoughts incisive. Can you interpret as AfroSays?

LOVE AND WAR

Shrapnel buried in my heart, I’m bandaged, I’m wounded
Smoke and fire swimming in the air, floating over a sea of chaos
Caked blood on your fatigues, deep cracks on your helmet
Tonight we sleep on a bed of destruction
I see souls rising to heaven, we see souls sinking to hell
Barbed wire, screams, rain and thunder
I think I will go by bayonet, you backstabber
But it just might be a bullet to the head
I saw you in the crosshairs and took aim
But you ducked just in time
You sent mortars my way
A bath of lead and mud
Our friends give us ammunition and cheer us on
While we attack each other, they plot the war
The sun will never rise over this carnage
A garden of trenches and orange blooms
All we have is this opera of terror
All we have is this blood red moon
My soul is torn and weary, my throat is sore
Your bones are weak with running, your blood is on the floor
I don’t care for winning, we’ve both lost the war
We’ve lost count of violence, so much for keeping score
Would you take a prisoner?
My guns are on the floor
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*I am not a man
*Trapped
 

In between May 10, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:09 pm
Tags: ,


Come one, come all. He is here!
Sit your behinds on the red earth. Let his words scrape the fence.
Keep the children away. Panda beats the gong.

Today, I beat the beautiful gong of one besotted by the sirens. But it sounds out the hollowness that comes with the sad realization of the truth that freedom is not always found on the easy path… This is my story…
Panda

Freedom?

I thought it was freedom. The first time. The sound of it emanating from our core in one, loud expression of pleasure.
It came from her in short, sharp, contracting spasms… and from my lips in the form of an epileptic sigh of release.
Ah, ah ah…ahh… aaaah…
Freedom
From the trappings of a life which I don’t know how I got into.
But this isn’t the end of my story. Or the beginning.
It begins with one glass of tequila knocked back in frustration.
One shot to knock away the bad taste her words left in my mouth. To quench the thirst gathered from running away from her issues. I was tired. So I ran here.
The fighting, the yelling, the disrespect… a man can handle many things his woman may do, but when she doesn’t respect him?
The glass dropped to the bar table, and the next round was shared with you. I still don’t remember how we got to that point. Who said hi, who offered to buy that drink. Who asked to exchange numbers … I remember, at some point, telling you about her.
But I guess you didn’t care. One call led to the next. Late night texts about nothing important. The talks about sex went nowhere. I wouldn’t betray her. Even amidst her fuckery.
You said you understood.
We could just be friends.
Right then, I should have walked away.
But I liked it. The attention. The laughs. The connection. The respect. Oh…what a difference…
I should’ve walked away.
My people say “Na from clap, dance dey start.”
We were clapping to your tune. The sound of it pulling my feet to dance astray, to break free from this prison. Pulling, slowly. Pulling, surely. Pulling my body into a sway. Until…the dance began.
And we danced. O, we danced. We…!
Ah, ah ah…ahh…aaahhh…!
And so it happened, and went on…emotional needs satiated by physical deliverance.
And I thought it was freedom.
Till this release became a prison in itself. The need for you. I started to need you.
I never felt it coming. Didn’t feel it in your voice when you said I couldn’t stay over cos you had to work in the morning. Not when I got more entrenched in you.
Now you tell me you’re done. “I’ve had my fill and now it’s time to clear the dishes. Don’t look so morose. We had a good time. I just don’t need the drama. You weren’t alpha, you certainly won’t be omega.”
Those were your words right before you shut the door in my face this morning.
This morning, as I came to tell you that I’d told her about you, and I was ending it…
Breathe…breathe…breathe…
What have I done?
Two children … no pre-nup…
What have I done?
Suddenly, I don’t feel so free…

Panda writes here. Do visit.
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Taye and Juliet May 4, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 6:33 am
Tags: ,

My gong is red and dangerous. A dull maroon so that you don’t notice the freak of it till it’s too late. Shrill bangs as AfroSays:

TAYE AND JULIET

...My Taye...

Whoever father nature is, he has offended his wife again because she is crying; her sorrow is a slow, bitter downpour that falls from her hidden face. She cries without shame for no one can see her.
It has been pouring for three hours now and I’ve been outside his house the whole time, waiting.
I know I am a tad too early today but I couldn’t wait to see him. Since I came, I’ve been watching his suffocating silhouette swim perfectly along the curtains that obscure him from view. Those flimsy curtains do a lousy job at protecting his privacy. Sometimes he would put on an exotic show just for me but today he didn’t, he won’t.
The streets are deserted. His house is on the outskirts of town and everyone has enough space in their yard to accommodate three cars and two mango trees. Cheap land.
It’s not just cars that stay inside, people do too. There’s not much to do here, but I have to keep my visits discreet. I always park three blocks away.
Taye, he would be out any moment now, wearing one of his six polo shirts tucked into dark blue denim, bb holstered, looking like a modern Adonis. Since it is cold, he would be sporting a black neck scarf, It is either his favorite or the only one he has.
But what do I care about scarves? He is perfect, flawless like ray of morning sun, my Taye. Coffee-skinned, tall, pretty but not too pretty face, staggering with his lean, well muscled frame. He is also witty, with a good sense of humor. I smile like a nutcase. My Taye.
The gate to his house opens and soon after, he drives out and parks gently. He then briskly walks back in to lock up. Even under the rain, my Taye does not run.
Usually, I would drive after him to Wine Shop or Pablo’s where he drinks with the guys till some time past midnight and after which they would all go clubbing. Before the night is over, I would find the perfect time to break into his car and leave a mild whiff of my perfume, hoping that he would pick out my scent in the office elevator the next day. I always make sure we get in the elevator together. I always make sure we’re never too close.
But I’m tired of hoping. Tonight, I would be breaking into his house, to bask in his essence and live as his wife, if only for a night. I would cook him a pot of soup, wash his clothes, do the dishes, clean the bathrooms, polish the floor tiles, dust the furniture, and when I’m done, I would douse everything, from the hand-towels in the kitchen to his suits in the wardrobe, with my scent. I have five bottles of Lady Million with me. I would empty four bottles completely and leave the empty canisters along with the fifth fresh bottle as a mementos on his dresser with a mystery note.
I would give him one last chance at noticing me at church on Sunday. I would be right next to him at the choir stand. Oh! The voice of him!
We’re meant for each other, I know it, but If we do not find love after this weekend, we would have to find it in the afterlife.
He only takes coffee on weekdays, so today, I would put a strong sedative in his Nescafe. I can always get rid of it if he brings me back home from church. If he doesn’t, come Monday, I have planned our own beautiful version of Romeo and Juliet. As he sleeps on the kitchen table, I would let myself in and we would have our first kiss. Cherry Cyanide. We would die a classic death. Together. We would find love in the afterlife.
My Taye.
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Voices May 2, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 10:20 am
Tags: ,

Hello world,
I’m beating a black hollow gong; the sounds rattle the soul.. Get submerged in the riotous tides…
Yours, DarkBetty.

... the black is coming ...

The voices in my head. They are shouting. They are screaming. They want out.
They want to manifest.
My left hand flutters to the scarf around my throat. Tight. Too tight.
I drag in deep breaths. No. Not now. Not today.
In. Out. In. Out.
I look at her from the corner of my eye. I watch her hand loosen the scarf; that always happens. Hand to throat.
No.
I look down at myself, resplendent in white.
No. Not now. Not today.
She’s not well. I knew this before I loved her. I knew this, yet, I love her still.
But please, not today.
I see my gleaming bride try to discreetly glance at her maid of honor. This friend that is the only thing wrong with my bride.
I sometimes believe she loves her more than me. Like now.
But we’re getting married, please pay attention.
The screams are louder. Ricocheting on the walls of my mind. I tap my foot nervously. The shudders have started. I can see him frown at us. He doesn’t understand. My vision blurs slightly then everything’s sharp again.
They want out. I grit my teeth. Tight. No.
But it seems the more I resist, the more restless they get.
And I know.
With all certainty, it’s going to happen.
I can’t do this to her.
I turn to see her hand the bouquet over to another bride’s maid and walk slowly towards the side doors of the church. Her steps are unsteady. It’s happening.
I look at my groom. A scowl etched on his face. His dark eyes seem to scream: “Choose! Her or me?”
The pastor is asking if everything is ok. Of course not.
My eyes swing from my groom to my friend. Then back. And forth.
My mother is approaching the altar.
I watch my bride turn in a swirl of white lace and run after her friend.
She has chosen.
The crowd is moving and murmuring.
I look at my feet. Be a man. She has chosen.
But I love her.
“Stay here.” I tell the fussy mother and run after them.
They want out. They are going to get out. Please just let me get in. Let me hide.
Let my shame remain covered.
I reach the back office just as the first jolt comes and I am slammed to the ground.
Pain, sharp pain lances through my head.
The black is coming.
I let go and welcome it.
The voices are out.
I watch her fall jerkily to the ground. My tears fall freely, ruining the makeup that had been applied painstakingly.
I run to her and drag her fully into the office.
She is screaming. An incoherent language. She is jerking, her hands flailing wildly about.
I get a fist in my eye and I cry harder.
When will all this end?
I hear a gasp and see my groom staring at us in shock.
He came.
The picture that greets me is one I won’t forget. My beautiful bride is sitting on the ground in her white dress, trying to hold on to her screaming friend.
The friend is shouting gibberish in an unknown language.
Understanding comes.
And I love her even more.
I close the door behind me and join them on the floor.
Together, we try to prevent her from hurting herself.
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