Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Mr. Edgar April 5, 2012

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

My gong is one of oddities and whys. Of choices and their waves.




There was a lone light bulb dangling from the ceiling above the two occupants of the room. It was the way Mr. Edgar liked it, he got what he wanted because he hadn’t failed anyone yet. He was a man of odd proportions- his short torso and long long legs always attracted stares whenever he ventured outside, which wasn’t often. The twitch in his left eye was a subject of pity on the streets; but within these walls, it was an all-seeing twitch.


The other member of this meeting stared at the twitching eye and shivered. The fear and confusion emanating from this eleven-year old hung over the room like a palpable fog. His fingers gripped the seat of his hard-backed chair and his lower lip trembled.


Mr. Edgar crossed his right leg over his left knee, the tip of his shiny shoe catching the light.


“So.. Kingsley?”


The boy nodded.


“Yes.. Kingsley. So, tell me.. Why did you kill your brother?”


The boy began to cry while Mr. Edgar looked on in silence.


“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!” Kingsley’s voice squeaked. He raised an arm to wipe his eyes but the tears were readily replaced.


“So, how do you explain it? They found the knife in your hands, Kingsley…” Mr. Edgar uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. There was nothing seperating the two males. “You were standing over him.. Kingsssley..” He drew out the ‘s’ in his deep voice- the only enviable feature he had.


Kingsley cried harder. “I don’t know. I swear! I didn’t do it!”


Mr. Edgar leaned back again and allowed the sound of Kingsley’s tears fill the room for a minute. He spoke again- “They’ll take you to a bad place, Kingsley. Do you want to go to this very bad place?”


Kingsley shook his head hard but said nothing.


Mr. Edgar rose suddenly and walked to the door, Kingsley’s widened eyes following every movement, tense.


“Send in the mother!” He spoke to someone on the other side of the door. He gestured for Kingsley to leave and returned to his chair.


A skinny woman with red puffy eyes walked in and replaced her son on the chair. Her hair was tied back with a floral scarf but the black long dress she wore made her look gaunt. Mr. Edgar surveyed all these silently for a while before she shifted in her seat uncomfortably.


“Mrs. Iwu?”


“Yes?” She looked up at his twitching eye then looked away. Then she looked right back, as if realizing her previous action was rude.


Mr. Edgar’s lips turned up in a mirthless smile but that disappeared soon after. “Tell me what happened,” he commanded.


Her bony fingers latched on to each other, like one would do when pleading or praying. Her eyes watered but she blinked them away and stiffened her back.


“I came back from church around eight-thirty..” She pursed her lips then looked up to the light bulb before going on. “I..I saw Richard lying on the couch and..and there was blood.” She lowered her head. “And his brother..Kingsley..was standing there with a knife in his hand and there was blood.. Everywhere..”


She broke down then and cried silently. Her slight frame shuddering with the silent sobs. When she noticed Mr. Edgar had said nothing, she spoke again.


“Why? Why would Kingsley kill his brother? Richard was a good son! That Kingsley! I knew he was an evil child! The devil’s spawn! Always making trouble!”


“Oh?” Mr. Edgar voice ended her rant. “Tell me about that.”


She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, yes. He used to make trouble. He was rude and lazy and was always getting into fights at school..” Her forehead furrowed in a frown. “But he got better after the accident. I think that scared him but he was so good afterward.” She let out a sigh. “Now this..”


“The accident?”


“Yes.” She looked away.


Mr. Edgar leaned forward. “Tell me about that.”


She was suddenly tense and her eyes roamed the walls and floor and everywhere her eyes would go that wasn’t Mr. Edgar.


“Mrs. Iwu?”


She glared down at her fingers and clenched them into her dress. “I was driving home from Ibadan. Ike’s sister lives there with her husband. Then I don’t know what happened but the car behind us rammed into us but reversed and sped away before I could recover from my shock.” She fell silent again.


Mr. Edgar crossed his legs.


“I parked so I could make sure the boys were okay and the damage was minimal but it was getting dark and.. Then some man who had been walking past stopped by my window ..with a gun, he had a gun.. And he asked us to get out. We did.” Mrs. Iwu looked up at the bulb then at Mr. Edgar’s twitching eye then back to her hands. “He grabbed my boys and..and pointed the gun to their heads. One after the other..” She began to cry again.


“Please go on, Mrs. Iwu. What happened next?”


“He..he.. Asked me to choose. Asked me to choose which son he could kill.” She whispered but her voice rose as she became more agitated. “And I begged him to kill me instead! But how was I sure he wouldn’t kill them after me? And..and he said I must choose or we three would die and I..I..”


“You chose Kingsley, didn’t you?”


Mrs. Iwu’s crying intensified and her “Yes” was almost drowned in the midst of it.


Mr. Edgar waited for her to calm down and motioned for her to go on.


“He then pushed them both before me and he laughed and laughed and..and he walked away. And I tried to make Kingsley believe it was a whole ruse to make him behave but he started having all those dreams..” Her words were pouring forth in a jumble and Mr. Edgar leaned forward to catch every one. “But he became good. Kingsley became good. Until he killed his brother!”


Her eyes widened suddenly and her neck snapped up as she stared at Mr. Edgar with panicked eyes. “Could that.. Is that why?”


Mr. Edgar showed off his mirthless smile again and said- “We’ll see.” He rose to the door again and asked for Kingsley to come in.


He told the frightened boy to sit in his chair while he walked a circle around mother and son.


“Kingsley, tell me about your dreams..”


Kingsley looked from his mother who wouldn’t look at him then back to Mr. Edgar. “It was the man from the road. The one that had a gun. I used to see him in my dreams and I told mummy but it was just because she wanted me to stop being naughty. And I had stopped, I started cleaning my bed and stopped fighting and..”


“The dreams, Kingsley. What happened in the dreams?” Mr. Edgar cut in.


“Oh. The man would just be laughing and I used to tell him to leave me alone. To leave us alone but then he would say he was part of me now and he would continue laughing..”


“Did you tell your mum?”




“Mrs. Iwu?”


“I took him for deliverance!” She sounded angry. “Pastor. Mike prayed for him!”


Mr. Edgar paused and squated next to Kingsley. He took the boy’s right hand in both of his.


“What happened when Richard died, Kingsley?”


Kingsley began to whimper. “I don’t know..! I swear!”


Mr. Edgar rubbed the hand between his. “Try to remember..”


Kingsley looked at the twitching eye again and looked at his mother’s bent head. “Me and Richard were sleeping in the parlour, waiting for mummy. Then.. I had a dream again. The man came again but he was not laughing this time. He was angry. He said..”


“What did he say?”


“He said he was going to punish mummy for picking me. Then I woke up and I was standing in front of Richard and there was blood and mummy was screaming and…” Kingsley began to cry again. Loud harsh tears that reverberated in the small room.


Mr. Edgar stood straight and tapped Kingsley soothingly on the back. “Thanks boy,” he said and walked out of the room.




Project S.E.E.K : The Hit. September 15, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 8:01 pm
Tags: , ,

Dear villagers, it’s always a big privilege for me to meet fellow travelers in this art of gong hitting. thatDarkBetty and I have been bringing some of these artists your way lately. We hope you’ve been finding them very entertaining.

This piece was by @edgothboy, a writer that writes. Strongly.
No need for fancy introductions. Just stay spellbound.

... death ...

Sometimes having the right assets is all you need to get ahead – Mata Hari.
Heels, check. Inappropriate skirt, check. Garish makeup, check. Garter knife and garotte, double check. This is going back to basics, I so love challenges. The mark is in his thirties, typical high flying party animal with a preference for boys and a cocaine habit, the kind of guy I’d off on generally principles. But that’s not why his name has found its way to my lips. He’s wronged the wrong man.
The bouncer takes one look at the little plastic tag hanging from my left earlobe and waves me in. He doesnt notice the blood specks on the underside. The stragglers start to protest and he opens his jacket and flashes his piece. The hallway grows quiet very quickly, just the way I like it. The club is dark and the patrons are smoking up a storm. The occasional flashes of the strobe pierces the haze and reveals couples and groups scattered all over, entwined in orgiastic fantasies. Midgets in loin cloths stand nearby with baskets of condoms in their pudgy hands and ten year old girls in flimsy night gowns walk around holding trays of cocaine, ecstasy, heroin and viagra. In here its almost easy to forget you’re in a third world country. Most of the patrons here are aliens; whites, mulattoes, the occasional Arab. The black patrons are few and far between, Most can’t afford to revel in a place like this. I do a quick head count and survey the exits. Two guards at the pneumatic front entrance and one by the toilets. Four handlers mill around the room, motivating reluctant performers with slaps and kicks. I’m a little impressed, Ekpenyong has really come into his own. This is exactly how I’d run a prostitution ring. I suspect he’s heard rumors of the hit that will go down in his club tonight but I’d like to think he knows better than to interfere in my employer’s schemes; sex clubs which’ve been marked and raided by Mopol squads dont last long. I avoid other ‘performers’ and negotiate the room, offering kisses and terrible lap dances. Easier to explain when I don’t show up again, the good ones get noticed, the bad ones get fired. The handlers pretend not to notice the john protesting that I refused to ‘blow’ him. I spot the mark, he is being serviced by an ugly blob of meat and his exaggerated squealing has attracted an audience, professional voyeurs in the club gathering round like crows on a carcass. I’ll bide my time, a bit.
A john grabs me by the waist from behind and slips his hand into the waistband of my skirt.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss.
He grabs a clump of my hair and pulls backwards.
“Green ear tag na for prostitute wey I fit rough handle now, abi you no like rough play?”
Shit! I know I should have asked that idiot what the color of her tag meant before I buried my garter knife between her fourth and fifth ribs.
Instinctively I pivot on my heel and grab his testicles. It is the best I can do to control the situation without attracting attention. The john is in his forties, with a bald pate, a beer gut and breath that reeks of isi-ewu pepper soup and cheap liquor. In my heels, I am three inches taller than he is. A smarter man would see the odds stacked against him and walk away, but this one isn’t all that bright. I squeeze his testicles and he squeaks.
“Adanna, squeeze it small na.” He begs in a slurring igbo accent. I smile and slap him instead. His smile widens to reveal gums that are beginning to bleed.
“Where does Ekpeyong get you girls from sef? You are like zoo animals.”
The john hits me unexpectedly and I reflexively retaliate with a swift headbutt to his temple and a rabbit punch to his larynx with my free hand. He goes down gagging. He passes out a minute later, he shouldn’t have touched me, literally. I look around but our little dance has gone ignored. I steal a furtive glance at my mark and I see him ambling towards the toilets, a slight limp the only evidence of the manhandling he just received, his pain threshhold must be superhuman. This couldn’t have happened better if I’d orchestrated it myself. My temple begins to swell and I make a dash for the bathroom and ‘intentionally’ collide with the mark and we both topple over. The guard at the bathroom door points his AK47 at us and barks that I help the mark up immediately. I pretend to cower at the gun and help the now bristling man up.
“I’m really sorry sir.” I say loudly.
He spits in my face and stalks into the bathroom, his limp more pronounced. I try to follow and the guard jams the AK’s nozzle into my exposed belly.
“Where you dey go?”
I point to my now swollen forehead. He pokes the swelling and I pretend to flinch. He steps out of my way and as I pass, he grabs at my butt. I spare him a final glance and memorize his face, the next time I see him, he dies.
The toilets are bright and sterile , with industrial strength flourescent lamps and a tray full of syringes for the more discreet cokehead. Three of the five toilet stalls are missing doors and are obviously designed to hold more than one person at a time. Seems the orgies don’t end in the club. I search the stalls, the mark isnt in any of them. The door of the fourth stall is slightly ajar, that leaves the fifth. I position myself at the sink in front of the fifth stall and bide my time. I memorize the layout. Each one has a panic button and the the exit door back to the club doesnt have a knob on the inside. That eliminates a hasty exit. I grab a handful of syringes, fashion them into makeshift blow darts and line them up ; if this degenerates into a melee, sharp objects will come in handy. The sound of a toilet flushing announces his exit and I feel the anticipation build. The door opens and he comes out looking pale. I block his path and kneel in front of him, with my blouse open, my head down and my left hand over my garter knife.
“Sir, my handler has asked me to come show my remorse;” I lift my head till my eyes are level with his crotch, “in any way possible.”
It takes him a moment to connect the dots. He mumbles to himself about women never knowing how to get him off properly but he drops his pants anyway. Typical. He drops the lid on the bidet and sit atop it.
“What are you waiting for? Get to it.” He snaps. I stand up and drop my blouse but I make no move to join him.
That irritates him. “What now?”
I wring my hands. “I’m shy.”
He throws his hands up. “Then close the fucking door, my ass is freezing! Stupid assholes putting AC’s in toilets.”
I bolt the door behind me. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I let my panties drop halfway down my legs.
“Who said I wanted to fuck?” The mark asks. “Get on your knees and put your mouth to work.”
As I kneel slowly, I tap my garrotte. He just lost his right to a quick death. Out of nowhere pain hits and disorients me as the mark’s knee connects with my jaw. My vision blurs and I try to back away. The mark kicks me into the door and pulls up his trousers. He slaps me a couple of times and drags me up by the throat and pins me on the door. I don’t struggle, there’s no dignity in that, besides the time isn’t right yet. Like all men, he begins to gloat.
“Bash must be getting soft, sending a girl after me.”
I paint on a look of surprise, if I can get this idiot to spill his guts, I might be able to salvage the situation and explain away this blunder. I’m certain Ekpeyong is filming this, and everything gets back to Babu eventually. He sees the look and takes the bait.
“Oh! You’re wondering how I know Bash was sending someone? Ekpeyong told me of course. He isnt going to interfere, which is why no one is here yet. But he owes me, big time, and I just cashed in. You were so obvious though. One of Bash’s infamous half-caste bastards, bred like prize Pitbulls for his dirty work. You all have one father, don’t you?”
“Then kill me!” I spit. “If don’t bring back your head, I take your place. Better you than them.”
He laughs. “You’ll die soon enough. What’s the rush? Guess how I knew you were the one he sent?”
I stay silent.
He lands a punch to my ribs. “Do what I fucking tell you!”
“How?” I rasp.
He reaches under my skirt and pulls out my garter knife. He uses it to trace the curvature of my lips.
“This little thing exposed you. Ekpeyong just recently installed a metal detector. Of course it has to be discreet so no alarms but it ensures we know who’s coming ready for a fight. You obviously didn’t know none of Ekpeyong’s girls are allowed to carry weapons, did you?”
It’s been more than ten minutes since we entered the toilets, more than enough time. I begin to struggle and flail and the mark tightens his grip on my neck. The muscle relaxant I’d slathered on him when I helped him up begins to travel through his blood, and the effects are instant. The antidote I ingested earlier has already neutralized my own symptoms. It is a last resort, incase Chaos works against me.
His left facial muscles start to twitch, he nudges his cheek with a shoulder but the twitching only worsens. He degenerates into full spasms and his other hands abandon my neck and fly to his face.
“What have you done to me?” he shrieks, though the horror on the left side of his face doesn’t quite match his right. The spasms have travelled down from his face and he is jerking like a marionette. I pick up my knife and return it to its sheath and I pull out the underwire of my bra. Its two feet long and made of fibreglass, the perfect understated weapon. By now the mark is on the floor, still seated only because his back is leaning against the bidet bowl. His eyes are set on the panic button and he doesn’t dare look away. I wrap my garotte around his neck and pull, his gasping and choking increasing in pitch as his body struggles to take in air. His bulging eyes dart around in panic. I put my knee against his back and pull till the garotte scores my palms. When it’s over, he slumps and falls on his side.
I rifle through his pockets and take his wallet as a prize. His identity will fetch me a reasonable bonus. There’s always someone desperate to become someone else. I climb out of the stall and kick out one of the asbestos roof slabs, hold it up with my foot and drop discreetly to the side. I climb in and feel my way to the southwest end of the floor. Its a church office and a change of clothes awaits me in an unlocked cabinet. As I change, I hear the faint din of the alarms go off at Eros. Everyone on the floor is in a panic, they must have misinterpreted the noise as a fire alarm and chaos follows. I embrace the anarchy and disappear into the crowd.
I’ve seen a lot of Edwin’s works at Phantom Pages where @weirdo_oo spins the most clever stories too. I’ve also got one more thriller story by Edwin. Same killer girl, different challenge.
Show some love.

This coming Monday, The Decades Project part II commences. (Watch out for the preview). It’s been a long journey and thatDarkBetty and her team have put together something wonderful. Tell your friends, tell your family. Let it be known that AfroSays’ Decades is back!

We stay as expectant as you.

...coming soon...


Of Visions and Visitors July 1, 2011

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

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

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


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

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



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:


“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!”
“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
*Taye and Juliet
*The black hole

Stories of night June 17, 2011

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

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

Listen.. For the phantoms call. Listen.


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

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

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:


...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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*Her way out

Her way out April 6, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 12:58 pm
Tags: , ,

My family…

Few words today…

We shall all drink deeply from the cup,
The sin-black cup of ink.
And then lift our drunken eyes up from it,
Waiting for what it shall do to us.

Shall we all, with bloodshot eyes of erudition, warmly welcome Brownegurl. Open your minds as she tells you her story. First, her gong signature…

I’d be Beating a dark red gong with a splash of purple tragedy somewhere in there. Its cry is sharp and deep, burrowing into your mind. Enjoy!


... Leaving...

I watched her as she sat peacefully drinking her tea, her almond tea just the way she liked it, the way I never seemed to get it right… I watched her, Abike.. My love, my life. The woman I vowed to spend the rest of my life with. The woman who vowed to spend her life with me. I watched her, wondering what was going on in that pretty head of hers.
Years ago, I would have slowly crept up behind her and lovingly planted a soft kiss on the nape of her neck… years ago.. When my wife still loved me as I love her now. Years ago, before I had the road accident that took my legs from me.. Before I lost my job, before I lost the very essence of my manhood… before my wife got tired of me… before my wife sought comfort in the arms of another man… before she fell in love with another man.. Before… before. Years ago.
What would be her way out, I wondered as I watched her. Would Abike tell me she was leaving? or would my lovely wife ask for a divorce? My heart broke a little as those wicked thoughts danced around like little taunting devils in my head. What would I do? I wondered, she was life itself to me. With no children, we had shared twenty years of love and companionship before the accident. The accident changed everything…
I heard the “ting” of the microwave and knew that dinner was ready. I slowly came out of my reverie and wheeled myself to the dinner table. I looked at my wife. Abike looked particularly sad today.
“Is anything the matter?” I asked in my kindest voice. “No”, she said, barely looking at me, as she set my food down before me, her face as sad as sadness itself. Take out fried rice and salad, my favorite, but I had no passion for it tonight. All that I could think of was “what would be her way out?”.
I ate my food, my mind deep in thought, hardly aware of the rubbery texture of the rice in my mouth. When would Abike tell me she’s leaving, I wondered, punishing myself. When? I asked myself as I became aware of a sharp pain in the pit of my tummy. I clutched my tummy as the pain shot out from my stomach to my chest. I looked up at Abike as tears began to stream down her beautiful face and I wondered why she sat down there crying as I began to scream out in agonizing pain.
“I love you Seyi” she said in between tears, still seated across me as I choked “I love you but I cant go on like this, not anymore Seyi”
Pain rendered me incoherent of speech as what Abike said dawned on me. ‎​​I couldn’t breathe as ‎​​I was painfully dying from the poison in my system. “I’m so sorry Seyi, please forgive me”, she sobbed. Something broke in me as I finally realized this was her way out.
Abike couldn’t leave me. This was her way out… this.
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*The Black Hole
*Blind Faith

Passion March 30, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 12:40 pm
Tags: , ,

Hello earthlings! DarkBetty here.

First, you should note that I’m not always dark; it’s based on the kinds of drafts that blow through the goddess’ castle. I could be BubblegumBetty next week..

I’m honored to become a resident here; I hope my stay brings much smiles, tears, introspection, and other states of cognitive and volitional states of consciousness.

Plunge in..

I’m beating a blood-red gong today; it has a strong, powerful, compelling sound that communes with the spirit. Listen..


...Shh Shouldn't have... Loved

She evoked all sorts of emotions in him. Strong, potent emotions. It was why he’d married her. No woman had enveloped him in such a fervid manner. He’d wanted to possess her, body and soul. And it wasn’t just her beauty, he’d seen many beautiful women. She had fair skin with very black hair and dark, dark eyes.
And all that poise. He’d told his mother he’d never met such a lady. Her every deed was in a regal manner. Like some goddess come to inhabit a queen. Head held high on that long graceful neck. That neck he’d lately been having visions of snapping in two. She was so damn cold. She hardly ever reacted to anything these days.. Those eyes just glazed over him like she expected nothing less from an earthling such as him.
When he’d run into the arms of his voluptuous secretary; he’d been deliberately sloppy so she’d find out. So she’d be hurt. So she’d cry. But all she’d said was “I forgive you..”
He didn’t need her bloody forgiveness. He wanted a tantrum, anger, tears. But she’d just sat there and said it, not even looking at him.
He’d looked at her. Envy and hatred eating at him. In their five years of marriage, she hadn’t lost her figure. He, on the other hand was now the proud owner of a pot belly as his hair line receded. She couldn’t have kids, an operation gone wrong, she’d told him on their second date. So he’d had no illusions.
An overwhelming urge to possess her came over him and he walked over to his fair wife who sat so calmly, flipping through the latest edition of Reader’s Digest.
He leaned down and touched her face. He loved her, he did. He reached down to kiss her, his intentions very clear. But at the last minute, she turned her face so his lips met cold cheek, not warm lips.
She went back to her publication. Then said, “Don’t. Ever. Touch. Me. Again.”
Furious now, not thinking. He slapped her hard on the cheek he’d only just kissed. The fair cheek reddened fast. A flaw on the porcelain face.
But she didn’t cower. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t run for cover or even reach up to protect herself. Her eyes just flashed as she stared straight ahead, her eyebrows lifted slightly as if in amused interest.
He cursed and walked over to his bar; throwing the strong liquid down his throat. Then he threw the whole decanter against the wall; angry he had to seek boldness to take his wife.
He walked back, his own eyes now red. Met her in the same position. Pushed her to the ground roughly, pushing her skirt up tearing her panties away as he resorted to take her by force.
Still, she said nothing; just closed her eyes as if resigned to the worst. A blind rage engulfed him and he lashed out angrily. Over and over again, he hit her. Angry that she wouldn’t defend herself, angry she had reduced him to some animal with primitive emotions.
And he hit and hit.
And when it was over, he looked down at his bloody lifeless doll; gathered the shattered pieces of his ice sculpture into his arms and wept.

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