Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

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
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Midnight noises March 28, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 11:21 am
Tags: , ,

Hello world,

I’ve been getting work from the goddess, lots of work! I have a lot of undelivered dispatches and now that she’s done with me, we can get to business.

How’s she? She seems to be all pumped up and productive. I’ve finished seven jugs of ink and two carts of parchment, trying to get her ideas into deliverable form. Maybe I don’t have a lot of finished products but the bin is filled with oodles of ‘could-have-beens’. We sit on the furs at the fireplace all night long, she dreams and I journey with her, to places I have never been. I open my eyes at the amazing and I appreciate the mundane as well because I never know what to expect.

Good News!
Dark Betty has joined us at the castle. We gave her an empty room, the only bone-engine typewriter we have and lots of actual paper but I’m not sure what she’s going to do with it but I’m sure that even her paper planes would be magnificent.

Furthermore!
Y’all know I do guitars, Kirikou and Simone have been talking to me a lot lately, hence, I obliged Kirikou’s request to feature. The disclaimer here would be that I’m not professional but I just love music. I did a quickie song, Agidi, and recorded it on my laptop. It’s all me and one guitar, squeaking over and over on this AUDACITY software I found on the internet. It’s a joke really, nothing serious, but my guitars wouldn’t forgive me if I hid them in my closet. Find our embarrasing song at the end of the story. YOU MUST TO USE EARPHONES OH!

I’d be beating a Blues/Rock mixation on the gong and screaming “Welcome Dark Betty, to the house of pain and pleasure, rah rah rah!” and you all know why. Of course, AfroSays:

MIDNIGHT NOISES:

...TICK TOCK...

It was midnight, a dry northern midnight, the kind that required you to sleep naked on a wet bed. The kind that kept you awake all night, tossing and turning, marinading in your own pool of liquid saltiness, maybe standing up a few times to check if, by some evil trickery, the windows to your room had been shut, only to discover that you can still see the face of the moon in a half smile, mocking your inconvenience.
That was the kind of night that kept a whole city awake, the kind that made every man’s ears quick and noticing, differentiating the creaking snores of his house from the apologetic footsteps of an uninvited guest.
The timorous squeaks on the floor board started as groans and ended in flailing, high-pitched shrieks, in five second intervals like muted birth calls of a pregnant banshee.
All the flooring in the house was marble tiling, all except the kitchen floor. It had escaped replacement because the aging wood complemented the mahogany cupboards in a retro-meets-modern communion. He didn’t understand what that meant but that’s what the interior decorator he married had said. That night, all that mattered was what he heard.
He was actively listening to the other intrusive sounds now, and coming into the consciousness of a man, a higher animal. He listened and he began to think.
There were two doors in the kitchen. The second kitchen door opened to the backyard; The backyard was a short distance from a short fence; the short fence was a short distance from a short grass patch; the short grass patch gave way to a short lane; the short lane soon joined the main road.
The main road… The short lane… The short grass patch… The short fence… The backyard… It was littered with his daughter’s toys… His daughter’s toys were at the backyard…
His daughter…
Probably was just trying to get a forbidden midnight snack, some Shortbread and Ribena perhaps.
He got up, wore a pair of shorts and went to check.
AND THE SONG…
Download, put on those earphones and please enjoy, Agidi. Lyrics can be found here
 

Rapping for dummies January 25, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 8:04 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

The goddess is still on pilgrimage, Botswana or some place similar.

So, I’m a fan of music. I’ve got about 40GB of a variety of sustained speech and wind vibrations on my computer and please don’t ask me any questions about that. I’ve been listening to a lot of rap lately and I’ve gotten bored by the continuous recycling of ideas. I love to read as much as I write so I really appreciate when someone takes their time to come up with new material. Since that has not been so easy to come by, I have had to repeat some of my favorite songs over and over again.

Interestingly, I wrote some puppy rap as a teenager but I started writing waaaay earlier than that. I think rap is a form of poetry and I respect the individuals who are clever about their art. But because everybody seems to think that they’re good enough to be a rapper today, honestly, there is a lot of ear junk out there. In all fairness, I actually think I can write material that’s on par with what most indigenous rappers have to offer or even better

Let’s play!

Yo .. Yo .. Check it!

To write a fairly successful song, you can follow these few timeless guidelines:
– You don’t have to speak correct English. Ghetto-American, Jamaican and local flavours are welcome.
– You start by saying you’re the best
– You introduce us to a few of the things you don’t have
– You talk about your imaginary haters
– You make sure most of your words end in a ryhme
– Don’t forget to talk about getting love in the club and getting out by 6 in the morning, and of course, loose girls and expensive alcohol
YOU’RE NOW A RAPPER!
STYLES:
You can’t just ryhme away, you have to rhyme in a kind of way that pushes an idea to the listener.
There are patterns known to rap and I have listed a basic few below; I shall attempt to steal lines from the illustrious, Nigerian, Choc-boyz. Enjoy! (Nigerian musicians don’t post lyrics online so these lines are not quoted and do not come with a warranty)
Similes:
description – You are this LIKE that
example – [ IcePrince >> When you look at me, you see real LIKE Nestle ]
Metaphor:
description – I am this, call me a that
example – [ Jesse Jagz >> We too fly, JETLAG ]
Claims:
description – simply bogus exaggerations
examples – [ M.I >> My flow’s insane, my flow so sick, I think we’re gonna need a medic, I’M A HEADACHE ]
– [ Jesse Jagz >> We fly so high, we’re only seen by God ]
Bold statements:
description – screw the world
examples – [ M.I >> haters can kiss between my two thighs ]
– [ M.I >> look these dudes think that they fly, you’re a peacock ]
There are many more rap styles out there than I care to list. For an eclectic selection, buy a jay-Z or Kanye West CD if you have lots of money. Simply buy MI2 from your local CD vendor if you don’t.
With all that nonsense rap jargon, Let’s try a quickie, mock-up rap. I call this:
NO BFFs!
I’m the best, no BFFs, you’re an enemy
Haters on my neck, sorta like my iced-out jewelery
No same class, No! Don’t even go to school with me
So they taking shots at me, Wayne ‘Roonery’
Chics make passes at me, I score Hat-trick
Them, over-bar, goal kick
Bed-ridden, so sick
Bed-fellows all week
They walking, I’m chauffered
flip flops? Me, Gucci loafered
Cup floodeth over
Groceries in my Rover
Only Rolls they ever been in is a Roller Coaster
Only flute on their lips plays music
Only Coupe is where their grandma’s chics live
They vexing cuz we turning down vixens
Saving up to do what we did since
And they even saving with their sibliiiiiiings
I’m in their face like a big screen
Big screen? I’ve got fifteen? Sixteen?
How many?
Gotta ask my assistant errtime, how many?!
Gotta ask my accountant, how much money?!
She just told me she’s tired of counting
So how did the Afro do?
Would I make a decent rapper?
I BET!
**Iced-out means overly diamond studded
**Wayne Rooney is a popular English footballer; a very powerful shot taker. ‘Roonery’ is therefore the state of being ‘Rooney-ish’
**Rolls means Rolls Royce
**Errtime means every time
 

 
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