Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Charming Town March 23, 2012

Filed under: Abstract,Scenic — afrosays @ 11:50 am
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Buckle up bonnie lassies and fellas, tis’ good that we share a tale in the hall today with meat between our jaws and ale in our bellies, aye.


Kiss yer pardners as AfroSays




art for art's sake, yer know?


I am Toodulo and it’s nice to meet you. I am dah tallest lad in all Charming, as tall as a cow. I’ve got pretty long ears and dah largest blue eyes, but I’m not dah only one with these last two – tis’ dah way we all are.


Charming, she’s a small town and we all know we, to think it well, we’re all one big familee.


In Charming, we mostly make our living from beauty, them travel catalogues say we are quaint art village hidden in dah purple hills, lapping lazily on dah sea water. ‘though, dah catalogue is right about dah town itself, it says nothing about dah people. Of kerrs, yer can imagine all dah very strange people that would call an art village thurr burrough – dah gypsy, dah lover, dah effeminate, dah old painter with dah suffering marriage, dah penniless string plucker, dah fat singun’ lady, dah happy-go-lucky dancing couple, dah little genius fella, dah cantankerous fire-eater, dah black clown, dah collector plus obsessor with a plucking purse of gold coins, plus plus. We at Charming are nothing like so, nothing at all.


From cottage to cottage, on every cobblestone street, in every back alley where a thieving orphan or two might make bed and especially in dah Town Hall where you’d see us all gathered on days we make tah be merry, yer’ll notice something strange and unsettling, I tell yah. There is only one face in Charming and that is dah face we all share.


My fadahr and my modahr are brodahr and sistahr and so were dah parents of them. On dah occasion where this is cannot be, dah would be a cousin available to build a home with. No outsiders can settle in Charming, i tell yah, and no member of dah family ever leaves. All our cottages are built exactically likewise – green mud walls and sun-yellow thatched roof with two windows out front and out back. All our clothes are dah same too: dirty wooly sweaters, brown and green checkered long johns and bunny slippers. Although, we all are artists of different kinna sorts, we’re all dah same person. You can’t live in Charming if it ain’t yer surname.


Dah travellers-through are used to dah way we live. They never stay more than a night at Molly’s inn for potatoes and nightsack; they as well are wanting to leave inna quickin’. They never stop coming though, for we paintings, we stone work, we wood work, we jewellery, we fashion, we books, we food, we music bottles, we shows and anything else they could be hoping to make a fortune from in dah big world.


Them travellers-through, they pay us in inspiration, for we have nothing of needing save that. They tell us stories of how things are, about thurr families, about thurr villages, about cities as big as ten towns put togedahr, about othahr ways of life, othahr creatures, othahr fashions, othahr songs, othahr shows and we are usually satisfied. Them tales helps us to create what we are not needing but they are mighty liking. On dah next trade day, yer can be looking to find statues of winged men as tall as houses or clothes that are too small for our little ‘uns. Yer would be finding paintings of men with hair on thurr faces and cows with six legs. Tis’ what makes living in Charming so wonderful – discovering othahr parts of dah big world in every home.


I make music bottles, I trap me merry voice in a green flask and yah can listen to it if yah put yerr ears close’nugh. One bottle, one song. Once you let dah song out, yer can’t put it back in. Me wife, who is also me sister, she makes fashions. And though we all wearing similar johnnies, dah travellers-through, they love Binnie’s fashions. Mah Sonny, he can make a painting of running cows, aye, and he can make yah hear them footsteps thumping on the field, fast and strong that yer gonna be looking around for a stampede. I love it here with my lassy, Binnie and my sonny but sometimes I’m thinking if I want to travel the big world for myself and see all these wonderful things fer meself.


If I journey outta Charming, I’d be the first lad to do so, aye!


But if I journey outta Charming, the familee’ll never let me back.




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.




Bizarre Entertainment September 9, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays — afrosays @ 8:00 pm
Tags: , , ,

Yo darkBetty?
The gong sounds again. Not loud and harsh and discordant. But lilting notes of worlds unseen. if you would just.. Listen.

I AfroSays. Maniac. Laugh. Get it?

Get it.


(Special thanks to @osizurunkle for the AfroSays Mascot, we love that retro graffiti)

Demon Dance by darkBetty

A hush has fallen over the audience, the lights have been dimmed. The bright beam of the floodlight illuminates the set on the stage- red background with potted plants aligning the edges.
As if from a distance, the drums pick up. It is a slow tempo.
Back stage, the actors rub their hands together or pace or do breathing exercises to ease the anxiety. It is a larger crowd than the last, they want to perform well.
She is standing in a corner, her forehead against the wall. She barely acknowledges the first group of dance-dramatists as they flock out to act out their scenes. The sounds of theatre drift to her and she smiles, slowly moving her head from side to side.
She is small. Her slim arms hang down both sides of her tiny frame, almost disappearing into the wall.
“Ten minutes.” Someone whispers to her.
She moves away from the wall. She has just black aso-oke wrapped around her, baring her bony shoulders and reaching just above her knees. Facing the long mirror, she reaches for the white paste and smears a healthy portion across one eye. She stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are large and dark; they look out of place on her long face.
She is no longer Wuraola Sekoni; she is Asake now. Asake, The One who summons the Spirits- the script says.
She wraps the white cloth around her head. From the front to the back, twists it and brings it back forward, knotting it and tucking it in. She is ready.
The returning actors unconsciously leave a wide berth around her as they fill the back room once again.
She walks slowly into the lights; leaving the normalcy that is her to a realm she can only achieve on the stage.
The drummers pick up the tempo.
She moves to stage-center; looks up to some point just above every head in the hall then smiles an evil smile. They were ready.
She starts to move from side to side. Then flinging her hands to her sides, she turns her head up to the bright lights.
But she doesn’t see the bright lights; she sees a dark sky. She is no longer in the auditorium, she feels the wet grass underneath her feet instead and the cool night breeze whirl around her. They are ready.
She opens her mouth then lets loose a piercing scream. “Cooooome!”
The voice is too large to be coming from such a small person and it does not, because she is no longer small. She is no longer a person. She has no body there. She is one of the spirits, bidding her sisters come.
“Coooome! From the far East, come! I beckon thee of the West! Come to me, my Northern One! Do not be far behind, ye South!”
And they come.
She is moving faster now. And as they come to merge their spirits with hers, her hands lift and her head is flung farther back.
“Aaaaaaah! Welcome!” She shrieks into the heavens. “Welcooome!” Her chest heaves and shudders ravage her. Tingles run from the tips of her fingers to the bottom of her spine.
“She is an evil child.” Her grandmother used to say when she was but a child. She would look into those big eyes then announce it to the consternation of her mother. The grandmother had seen it.
Her sisters were always there, waiting. It was this way she got to be one with them. In front of an unsuspecting audience. She was born for this- to be one with them. On this altar, they perform the ritual of their communion; their little dance of union.
Her breathing slows and the drums quiet as if of their own accord.
Her head falls to her chest and she poses there, quiet for a few moments. Letting her soul seep back into her body through her nostrils.
Then Wuraola Sekoni walks off the stage amidst loud applause.

The Tale of Superific Majestic Fantabula by AfroSays

My hat is long and filled with a thousand tricks. Its length is ridiculous. It is striped with all the colours of the rainbow plus black. It’s a funny one, my hat.
I am a magician.
So you can guess how I look.
No you can’t. I’ve pulled together quite a redoubtable assortment you see? I made my collage-patched pants into a superific fitting shirt. It’s the colour of fireworks.
You guessed right! My shirt has been cleverly re-constructed to offer the service of fitting pants. I have nice colourful, mis-matched buttons on my bulge. A zip should be there but I created the most beautiful earrings out of them. I am fashionado fantabula! Perceive the sheer awesome-ity of my brilliance!
I smell like adverbs.
That’s what they always tell me, “Mr Fanta, you smell like adverbs”.
I don’t know what adverbs smell like you see but I guess that they smell like me.
I have a happy soul. Sanguine and altogether merry like my outfit and this soul is what I’m called to share every time someone wants to see my magic. “Fantastic Mr. Fanta” they’d say, “Show us some magic, would you kind sir?”
And who am I to refuse?
And did I tell you about my bag of tricks? I leave it at home. A real magician needs no tricks.
Magic. Is. The. Superific!
My hat? Oh! It’s for the kids! Today I was walking on Brightsburg road, singing my merry song, when a happy couple – a farmer and his wife – happened upon me. They observed me with a curious awe and called on me.
“Kind magician, sir? Traveling Kind Magician Sir?”
I granted them audience. My smile touched my ears and my forehead touched my sandals and my hat adjusted itself to the back of my head as I bowed to greet them.
“Good weather?”
“Yes, happy people! Good weather it is! Aye! And how may I help you on this Sunny day?”
“Our little John, we are having a birthday partay for him today. Would you be so kind as to share some of your tricks with our John and his friends? We have food aplenty and a place for you to stay the night”
I sprang to straight body!
“Yeeeeehhhhhssss! Mr Farmer and his wife, let us go!”
I took them both in each arm and we walked merrily to their cute little cottage. I had some fresh bread, milk and eggs and my hat had some too. They found it curious. Farmer whispered to his wife, “Maybe he stores some food there too”, I laughed. “My hat lives too, like you and I. Shall we partake of the partay?”
John and his friends played outside in the sun – hopscotch, cakery and so so. I called them together.
A horde of calfs stampeded in delight. They came as one, John and his friends.
“Want to see any tricks”
“Aye! Merry Magician sir!”
“Call me Mr. Fanta, I loved to be called so”
“Aye! Mr Fanta sir!”
“I have a thousand tricks and ten thousand magicks but I have a favorite for little kids. Want to see?”
“Yehhhhhsss! Show us kind sir!” “Magick us Mr. Fanta!” “Share your tricks Mr. Fanta!”
“Do as I tell you. DO SO OR NO TRICKS! NO MAGICK!”
“We shall obey your instructions, kind sir!”
“Hold your tongue out! Hold it to your lips, with both hands”
I showed them how and then they followed. Slowly at first, but eventually they all did.
“Unhold it now”
They could not. I pointed at them all and laughed. Some started crying; they sounded funny. A few ran around with both hands attached to their tongue, obviously frustrated at my mild joke.
Some stayed. Curious.
“Do you want me to help you unhold your tongue?”
They all nodded. None of them held at heart their good spirits from earlier. Why didn’t they get my joke?
“Mr. Superific Majestic Fantabula shall perform the grandest trick ever! Just for kids!”
The top of my hat opened and sunlight flew in several directions as two big pairs of milk-dripping scissors floated out. Fast. Sharp.
The scissors chased down John and all his buddies. Quickly and helped them. It was a grand trick and I cannot fathom for the life of me why John and all his friends were cross. They ran all over the bright red and green in random see-saws, wailing.
I had other tricks to share. I would make them delirious with gladness.
“Hulloooooooos!” I called out to Farmer and his overly excited wife at the mouth of their cute cottage. She was crying at the beauty of my creation. His mouth hung open.
“Join me please, let’s get the calves together, I have 998 more tricks, we have just begun this partay!”
Out of my hat floated 998 milk dripping needles. I smiled.
“This, Sir Farmer and Madame Farmette, is not just for kids.”

The wish April 18, 2011

Filed under: Abstract — afrosays @ 10:30 am
Tags: ,

Hello folx!

This is a quickie.

I just thought to wish you a great week

My gong is a peeled, faded white. Telling ghost stories. Ghosts you’re familiar with and you’ve tried to hide from. They’re here because AfroSays:


... I want ....

She closed her eyes and made a wish. She was not required to speak it out, she just had to want it in her heart.
She knew what she wanted. She wanted him, but a true wish was not to be wasted, he’d told her that much. He’d also told her to be careful; wishes were bridges linking the real world which she lived in with the fantasy world that he came from. She could have anything she wanted. Anything. And that was the danger.
At first she didn’t believe him. She’d fought the idea that someone so real could be a figment of her imagination, a simple idea, but he’d explained it all to her.
Her faith had drawn him in.
She needed a man but men barely noticed her. She had been surprised that night when he suddenly appeared next to her and asked her to dance. She hadn’t been able to resist; he was the man of her dreams.
But he had to leave, return to the intangible world that he came from. Before he left, he’d told her that her desire had been so strong that night she had forced him into being. Although, she knew he had spoken the truth, she felt defensive and even though she didn’t say a word, she’d thought him a self-absorbed chauvinist dog.
She’d looked at him with one eyebrow raised as he’d gone on to tell her that he would leave a bridge to his world open, so that she could wish for anything she wanted, just one thing, by focusing her desires on it.
His words seemed gibberish to her till he slowly began to fade away right before her eyes. Nobody else noticed.
Only one part of him remained, a gentle ambience, a murmur of light, and she then knew she had to make a wish.
Then she believed him. Yes she did, but she thought it was all a dream, that she would wake up to her lonely life again in the morning. She decided that she believed, that she would indulge in the dream.
Foolish woman!
He watches her from his world trying to explain the police how she got locked in a central bank vault. That was the only place with as much cash as she’d imagined.

Dancing in the dark December 21, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 6:37 pm
Tags: ,

So, the goddess is warming up to me again and I’m also willing to be as cozy as possible; It’s been a while since I would randomly start the memo app on my BB and my thoughts would flow into it almost seamlessly. It’s good to be back.

The AfroMuse, she was at my place yesterday evening. I got to asking about how the year had panned out and what the next year would look like. She shut me up almost immediately. She got to bragging about how she’d been travelling the world and trying out new experiences. I was forcefully treated to hedonistic pictures of Monte Negro, Las Vegas, Brazil and Croatia.

I think what’s she’s trying to tell me is to loosen up. I’m all about my work and my future billions, #NoKidding, but I’m also learning a more important lesson, that life isn’t staged in destinations, it’s the experience of a most beautifully turbulent journey.

I’m learning to indulge in the moments before they become memories and do more than I usually would and I’m hoping you’d care to join me in this explorer state-of-mind.

Totally unrelated to the above is an issue that’s been on my mind or some time. I usually want everyone who reads AfroSays and is somewhat intelligent to understand my stories very easily but it appears that I’m mistaken and only a subset of those intelligent people actually do. They also happen to think a different kind of way from the general set. I don’t think it’s a good thing and I’m not happy that I’m not communicating well. According to the sneak-peek comments i usually get before i publish, this story is one of those stories that might be in that esoteric classification. Please let me know if it was easy to understand or not, I want to be better!

I’m doubtfully hitting my gong, alternating between loud bangs and softer beatings, carefully reciting my duty, trying my hardest to let you know that AfroSays:


Merging Spirits

The Geneses – Elewe’s Rebirth
Please read Olu-aye and the Seventh Sorceress if you haven’t.

(It’s unrelated to this story but you get to know Elewe in present day context).
I instinctively clutched my satchel tighter as a shadow began to form out of the darkness before me. This night, it was my turn to dance. My soul-inspector would be watching.
I swallowed hard and waited for the shadow to take shape out of the dark cloud that overwhelmed everything else behind it. I could not see the tall raffia fence that ran round the town square or the mango trees that shadowed it. Such was the manifestation of an important supernatural, requiring enormous amounts of energy from the stage of its announcement.
The chief diviner had explained while preparing us, that the soul was the sacrifice and the dance was the invitation. A perfect sacrifice would result in a merger between the one who offers himself and the spirit who comes, granting him mystic abilities beyond his human capacity. Anything less than perfect usually resulted in a curse, depending on the visiting spirit. Insanity and death were not strangers to this domain.
I bowed low, head touching feet, welcoming the sleuth. I straightened sharply like a whip in recoil, launching myself several feet into the air and landing in another bow, arms spread eagle. I shifted on my bare feet as the shadow spread out into the air like a mist of water from a boiling lake. The formations had begun.
I had watched every three of my colleagues dance this dance, this examination from the spirit world, only nights ago. I had watched them employ their impressive talents in welcoming the spirit sleuths.
Areke, a wet fox had taken Ibi, it was the signature sleuth of her bloodline. She had always been the most spectacular of us all. Her talents had transformed her dance into the most wonderfully impressive vision; she had painted the stage by juxtaposing elements of weather and greenery in a beautiful chaotic fashion. Her sacrifice was perfect and so was her merger.
Watching Iranse, the shapeshifter had put me in a further state of defeat. He had performed a very poignant, violent dance, summoning ancestral heroes and reliving epic battles. Naturally, Aramada, the chameleon accepted his offering. So did Jegi, the termite, accept Apa, the fire-breather’s less-than-poetic but yet overwhelming sacrifice.
The flashback brought my inadequacies to surface once again. I had no talents. I had made it so far under the Chief diviner’s tutelage only because of my sharp intellect and my skill with herbs, but here, real magic was required and I fell short.
I was still in my bow when I heard a bang. My end was before me. Only a sleuth of liege status would be introduced by a thunder drum beat from the other world.
I prayed in my heart that this spirit would be merciful. Everyone else in the village square was bowed prostrate as I raised my head to meet my examiner. Such was the honour due a soul inspector of liege rank, no mortal could look at the spirit except the chosen. I was introduced to Amoye, the keen; a female white feathered owl.
She lifted her wings and they revealed the deepest black interior. I understood the paradox immediately, righteous wisdom must not be without dark cunning. She was perfect.
She turned towards me. “Alagbara ma mero”, she randomly quoted. I knew what that meant. She was hinting at the superiority of cleverness over strength. I answered her rhetoric to myself, “baba ole”. She turned to face the moon, her back to me.
I knew that I was surely to perish but the prospect didn’t seem a garish thought anymore. I would die happily under the curse of a liege sleuth. I was about to start my futile dance when she talked once more.
“Sit. Elewe, a king sits down to conquer”
I sat.
“You already know there is nothing you can do to impress me.”
I acknowledged the truth.
“There is one thing though, one thing you can do to save yourself.”
The new information did ignite the faintest spark of hope in me for I knew that there really wasn’t any salvation outside this opportunity. I closed my eyes and recited a few words of incantation to focus my mind and numb out my senses. I would impress Amoye, but from within my soul.
“I once asked a man to give himself to me, he failed, how so?”
I pondered the riddle for a moment and thought it easy to evade. The chief diviner had told us of such a man, he had been the cause of many debates. No one could really fathom the wrong doing in his obedience to the sleuth that examined him. Was it she who had plagued him with insanity? I replied.
“He refused you, enlightened one”
She replied in negation, “That would be right under certain circumstances, but he didn’t”
I was in trouble but I refused to give up. How does one obey a liege sleuth and still offend? I tried another evasion.
“It wasn’t under the circumstances of a soul inspection”. According to the story, it was, but I couldn’t find any logical reason why a merger would go wrong after the sleuth had decided to go on with it. I however remembered that a merger done under the wrong circumstances could be problematic if the diviner wasn’t one with immense talents, talents impressive enough to summon a sleuth without appointment and still be forgiven. No diviner in over two hundred years had been able to succeed at such a daunting feat. It was an inadequate answer nonetheless.
She wasn’t impressed. “This is your last chance, I shall not be kind this time”
“Elewe, give yourself to me.”
Now, I saw what my real test was. I was to be the man in the riddle. I was being commanded to accept a merger that would be the end of me. Something was wrong and I hoped that I had figured it out.
“Wise one, my courage might be the end of me, yet, I shall speak”
“Speak Elewe, and speak well, lest it be your last”
I took a deep breath and I started.
“Amoye, I shall not give myself to you because you have not given yourself to me as required by the customs of merger. A merger should be a union, not a dictation. In inspection, you are my superior, but if you accept my sacrifice, we shall be one. If you will have me come to you, I humbly ask that you give yourself to me as well, but if not, devour me as you will.”
“I refuse you, Amoye, more so, I shall rather die than lose my wits”
I opened my eyes ready for what may come, standing face to face with the mighty owl, my hair blowing in the wind as she spread her great wings.
“You do not plead for your life?”
“I do not plead”
Amoye laughed.
“I give myself to you for I cannot give myself to a coward. Will you give yourself to me?”
“I give myself to you”
Nothing else mattered as the most beautiful magic happened. Our essences merged in a myriad of mystic lights and unnamed colours. The wisdom of a thousand ages, the strategy of kings and the superior cunning of those who defeat them, the brilliance of youthful intellect, the discernment of the grey-haired, the sovereign, circumspect judgement of the spirit world all became mine as a dark ring formed round my left eye and my hair withered to a soft grey.
The merger was complete.

If you think it’s good, invite someone to read as well, if not, tell me how to make it better. #ThankYou


Olu-Aye And The Seventh Sorceress November 25, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 1:19 pm
Tags: , , ,

Beloved villagers, this is the reason for my prolonged silence.

I shall not speak much, the crazy goddess is with us.

Let us gather in one ritual spirit, keeping our thoughts in distance, as I, the TownCrier beat a spiritual ‘Konko-below’ tune in honour of her majesty. Our souls shall listen with a single ear as AfroSays:


She's calling you...

We’d been sailing for ten days with neither food to warm our bellies nor wine to cheer our spirits. We had depleted the water skins two days ago and our throats were parched for many a soul had perished drinking these foul waters we were navigating.
Our redemption was not far off anymore for an island had suddenly appeared before our eyes in the early hours of the night. I encouraged the men to gently urge the battered vessel towards the new found land because although I realized that remdeption was at hand, it would be unwise to let the desperation I saw in their eyes prevail over good judgment. I reckoned that we would not last a minute in these dangerous waters if we lost the ship.
We sailed two more days and lost two more men to the dark sleep, but the island wasn’t getting any closer. I suspected some foul magic at work but hope for land was the only thing left to motivate the men. I could not steal that hope from them lest they burn the vessel for they believed that the foul spirit of the sea would not claim their souls if the fire messenger escorted them to the underworld. I believed different.
I took another look at Elewe, our diviner. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since our escape from the accursed clay country. Elewe had saved us all from the hellion, but he had bent a rule to do so; an action that the spiritual kind undertook and paid for with their lives. He hadn’t escaped himself, the sixth sorceress had discovered his treachery and cast a spell on him before her passing; it was a spell worse than death. She had cursed him with a vision of pain he would always see but can never tell. I saw him break down in bitter tears, experiencing terrible things our typic minds couldn’t fathom. He had only come back to us five days ago and he had been of no use to us since.
I took my place beside him, looking out to the dark waters, wondering why he had offered his life in exchange for ours, stealing peeks at my own inner demons, when he calmly made speech.
“The seventh sorceress has found us. She’s calling you”
Taking in what he said, I knew I was to be alone on this last part of the journey. My destiny was to face Abami-eji, the one with a dual consciousness, the chameleon. Elewe suddenly grabbed my shoulder and I began to see.
“Olu-aye oh!”
I turned around to see the most despicable sight. A effeminate, old pervert catered to by two most handsome, young boys amidst seven thousand others. The man was clothed in a kind of see-through, sequined, flowing red silk material that wasn’t covering much, as were his acolytes. The magnificence of his surroundings exuded the lusty, throaty call of Sodom. His stage was a twisted living puppetry of every unimaginable fetish. This was the seventh sorceress.
“Olu Aye, care to join me?”
If this was Abami-eji, I turned away from her covering my eyes in disgust. Elewe had once told me that it was common belief among the spirituals that one could not look directly at her but no one really knew why. Her prescence stripped one of all sense of decency. Even one inclined in such desires would lose such an inclination in this temple of perversions.
“You know, Olu I like you and I think you deserve a chance…. at immortality.”
“Kiss me Olu, let me take your age away, let me make you young again”
“I know your darkness, I see the sickness in your blood, let me fix you”
He kissed my neck. I cringed. I turned back to see the most beautiful woman. Her ample breasts were soft cushions on my body. Her hands were taking away my evil, my wrinkles, my cares. I could feel every detail of her curves on my body. She was working her magic and I was yielding. I closed my eyes, soaking in the enthralling seduction and my hands betrayed me. They quickly forgot my instructions and went wandering on their own. They had not wandered too far when they found strong evidence of manliness.
I freaked out, pushing her away from me.
I saw the shriveled, old degenerate losing himself in laughter. I was on the floor sobbing. Defeat was near.
“My Olu, my beautiful man. Why wouldn’t you accept my gift?”
His voice was like a beautiful layered sound of a dozen instances of pouring wine. Every part of my being felt an uncontrollable pull.
“You have chosen to duel, Mortal. Immortal”
He became her once again. I stole a look at her as she kept on speaking. She seemed quite unhappy to lose yet another potential man doll. She attempted a pout, pucking her colored lips in mock protest. She became him.
“You would have made a fine princess”
I shook my head, wishing the unwelcome thought away. His acolytes began to laugh, a riotous, animalistic melee.
“This is your challenge!”
His voice became a freakish scream, like a thousand swords scraping on the stone walls of a palace dungeon, like ten thousand demonic birds of prey crying in unison, bringing a vision of slayings and sacrifices, of horrors unimaginable; the sound of the end of the world.
“To seduce him!”
My world began to spin around me as I was transported through a time portal to a different, yet familiar existence. I saw the mountains where I had walked as a child and I had made my home as a man, I saw my wife, beautiful Omoniwa, I saw my young cubs, practicing battle with wooden swords.
My already failing spirit disintegrated as I saw myself become another man, irritatingly beautiful like one of the acolytes.
Abami-eji pointed into the whirring mix of visions and showed me my challenge, my prize, my love-interest. The one to be seduced, he was admiring his family from a distance, smiling with pride at his success as a husband, as a father, as a man.
I trembled in denial as I began to realize the sheer wickedness of this bewitchment. I tried to close my eyes as the one to be seduced turned around and I saw his face.
It was me.

If you think it’s good, invite someone to read as well, if not, tell me how to make it better. #ThankYou


Sorcery August 16, 2010

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 3:17 pm
Tags: , , , , , ,

She explained that what it was all sorcery, the illusions that befall a mind searching for affection.

A wise mage would take advantage, wielding the power in his prey’s weakness.

A witty witch wouldn’t hesitate, exploiting the feebleness in vulnerable man folk.

I ring this tone on my gong in warning because AfroSays not to be




Hocus pocus complete
Vodoll’s been pricked
She’s lost her wits
Abracadabra connects
Spell’s taken effect
He can’t protest
Sorcery in session
Consuming passion
Unreasonable expression
Mind in possession
They are bewitched



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