Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The righteous man July 29, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:48 pm
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She’s been scheming, she has. Now she’s ready.





When I woke up this morning, the world felt like a dark oil stain around me – normal. All the righteous men that have lived in this world have felt this huge blemish on her clothes, the corrupt imprint of human consciousness on all existence.

I am in a small room that is really a naked concrete floor except for a leaf-thin mattress that takes up half the space. There is a tiny barred window very close to the tall ceiling, beyond one’s reach. The door is a garden of parallel iron bars. The walls were recently painted a lazy white when a team from the state department came to visit. I wasn’t in the room then though, but even when I discovered the white to be more preferable to the rotten, old grey, I immediately began to miss the old stories left behind by those who had had the privilege to use this room before me. Though the wall was still wet, I traced out whatever I could still see under the weak paint with my fingernails. The memory of a man, no matter how insignificant, should never be erased.

It seems that I would be leaving here tomorrow. I might miss this place, I do not know. Here, the heaviness of the blemish of the world is not as dense as it is among the people who seem to think that they are the best of it. Here, among the worst, there is a lighter weight on my shoulders and I wonder why. I had thought that the consequence of sin would be fall upon me heavily in this place, for after all, it is a collection of the vilest sinners. But it is not so, the peace here, I would liken to the peace I would feel whenever I wandered into the wild to detoxify my spirit whenever the weight of sins of the world became too much to bear. Maybe this was why the righteous man of Israel made his bed in the company of sinners.

Thirteen months have passed since I was here, and three months before I came here, I was somewhere else like this. They put me here because two little girls died but I’d be leaving here tomorrow because they cannot hold me any longer with good reason. The world knows what happened but it cannot be explained to a courtroom in the way it did. Even the eyewitness accounts had to be amended to individual taste; the people who saw what they did still doubt what they saw. Consequently, all their testimonies were incongruent. The video clips online are still being debated as hoaxes, but that doesn’t change the autopsy results.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’d done the right thing. The modern man in me asks that question everyday but I cannot answer a moral question with my own moral judgement; the scriptures on my mattress have been thumbed wretched and I still am not satisfied. I know that the power of God is his and if he chooses to lend it to me, it must be righteous, what I do. That is my logic. If he lends me his power to heal broken bones, it must be right to do so; If he lends me his power to straighten bent backs, it must be right to do so; if he lends me his power to open blind eyes, it must be right to do so.

I replay it all in my head, their screams as birds fell out of the sky, crashing through the windows to tear them to pieces, as rats ran out of their hiding places on my command to join in bringing the wrath of God to pass. The church was horrified to witness divine vengeance from the days of Elisha. They had watched as laughter had turned to screams and then silence with shock on their faces, as they sat immobile. All that was left was dry bones, there had been no blood. They would have gone home to warn their children never again to make cat calls at a righteous man because he is uneducated, because he can’t complete fancy grammar sentences to their taste.

However, I still wonder, if he lent me his power on that day, was it righteous, what was done?






The rich man’s problem August 29, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:26 am
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Done lazing in the shadow of my memories, I’m gazing into the sunny future, just wondering…

About a lot of things…

She always seems to find everything entertaining so there she goes again with her malevolent sense of humor

I finish my umbrella drink as slow as possible and make journey for the village even though I don’t want to, beating my gong only because Afrosays,




I’d seen my exact dilemma happen to my predecessors as a young man and I was too sure I wouldn’t raise a malfunctioning family as most extremely wealthy men conveniently managed. My family wasn’t exactly overly-problematic; it’s just that it had produced an overly-problematic member. Having Douga as a son was enough cause to label my strong Christian family a failure.
My eccentric last son was a modern hippie. He was the reason why I had to put an end to the family tradition of socio-cultural educational excursions which was really simply worldwide holidaying for the kids and international shopping for my wife. Douga had been the most-promising – I’d even allowed him to make return trips on his own so that he could learn more about the people he found interesting. He’d been quite taken by India, Germany, Somalia (his mum didn’t know), Japan, the Emirates and particularly the Caribbean.
I’d indulged his gallivanting, allowing him to quit school to become a sociologist by experience and he was making me proud by appearing on several international elitist magazines looking eccentric like his father. However, it’s a pity that I had always been too busy to read what my son was featured for.
Last year, I was quite impressed when my sixteen year old son was invited for the last edition of the Larry King show on CNN. He wore a purple toga, luxuriantly flowing hair and a mock Nebuchadnezzar look-alike beard. I’d always been a tolerant person so I did not have any aversions to my son’s manner of appearance, I was only very curious as to why the tenth richest man in the world’s son had managed to surpass him as a global personality.
That day, I listened earnestly only to realize that ”The Guru Douga” had started his own religion.



Why I go to church August 25, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 10:12 am
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it was Sunday a few days ago so this is what I was meant to do:

Put on a flowing white gown and run around the streets of Lagos, beating a prayer warrior tune on my Gong only because AfroSays:




“Mummy, I’m not going to church today”, I declared that Sunday morning. I was just back from my first year in the university and I felt that I had earned the right to freedom.

“After all, Brother Chima doesn’t go” I continued, in an attempt to create a solid premise for the expected argument. Brother Chima is my good-for-nothing, thirty two year old sibling who still stays at the house with us. His early retirement from life started seven years ago when he returned from the university, mid-semester. He was already in his third year when the school discovered that he wasn’t a valid student.We had all been fooled into believing that the Student Union had declared yet another strike till a student from the same school was accepted as intern in mum’s department at work. With further probing, mother found out about my brother’s fake admission although he never admitted it. He gave up on life shortly afterward and gradually retreated into his now obese self. He probably managed thirteen words per week since then, most of which were related to how fresh the bread was.
He was at the dining table, adding to his oversize gut when I took my revolutionary stand with mum. I had talked to him about it the night before and even though I wasn’t really expecting any help from him, at least I was sure he would keep his usual silent demeanor.
The chair creaked and we all looked in his direction, expecting some foolish comment about the bread. He was famous for such stupid interruptions.
We had almost turned back in indifference and mum was about to give me a piece of her mind when he pointed a half-eaten slice in my direction asking, as if mockingly, “Do you want to be like me?”
I went to church.



The Miraculous Men of God August 20, 2010

She’s hungrier for more worshipers so I have to put my back into it.

I’m leading the worship session, beating a holy tune on my gong only because AfroSays:


The Miraculous Men of God

The Miraculous Men of God

Working at the shop was the most boring part of my life. The usually day dragged on like a wounded creature till evening and I only started feeling much better when I began to move in our wares for closing time.
A nondescript yellow bus slowed down and a man jumped out looking like he couldn’t make up his mind between Michael Jackson and James Brown. He was definitely a preacher.
His bible cover and his suit must have been made from the same material because they were exactly the same shade of faded black. He gave a new definition to “Man of Cloth”.
He traveled with the usual pentecostal bag of tricks: a white kerchief, a bottle of anointing oil that obviously contained an inferior substitution, and a lousy bell for inviting the world to salvation. What a delight it would have been to know how he’d have pulled off the Eucharist if it were an evangelical necessity.
He looked like he wanted to start preaching but unfortunately for him, there was competition already at work. One self-proclaimed Prophet Jemini was inviting witches and their victims to repentance and he was quite the spectacle also. He wore a gown that had once been white and a funny red hat that creatively combined a cross, a crescent moon and a star into an emblem. He also wore a yellow scarf and rusted jewelery, all bearing the same divine symbol. He had beaten his adversary to the podium by seconds, ringing his bigger bell and gathering a sparse crowd.
“The devil is a liar”, shouted the pastor in an attempt to steal the dim limelight. “Dear Redeemed of the lord, do not be deceived, signs and wonders shall follow them that believe!” “We are a chosen generation!”
The soft drink seller as if on cue, quickly began to share soft drinks amongst the shop owners. My madame was out of the country so I ordered for something different today. The enterprising kid tossed a can of beer my way and I settled into one of the executive chairs on display.
“Rajah! Raaajah! Thou art great!”, the prophet shouted, as he brought out an interesting series of colorful scarves out of the thin air. I was happy because I guessed he was going to work some magic.
My girlfriend arrived just then and I quickly arranged a beer for her too. She was still sulking that I had decided that we were not going to the cinemas. She was immediately took her seat by my side and started nursing her drinking problem appropriately. Seven more cans would follow, and whenever that happened, I became a hero. Besides, with madame away, the day had gone well so I could afford it. I could be a millionaire by the end of the month, over-pricing the wares if this parasite would leave me alone.
“Rajah! Raaajah! Thou art mighty!”, Prophet Jemini shouted as he opened each scarf to reveal a strangely dyed bird. The all flew into random. The last black bird landed on his funny hat as commanded, “Spirit of Rajah! Lead thy servant!” I wondered how the fellow had managed to capture those strange-looking rainbow birds; they had extra long beaks and tails and were as big as small turkeys.
The pastor would not be outdone so easily, he produced something even more ridiculous. We turned to him and watched as he produced a shining piece of technical wonderment and poured the foul looking oil into it. He pulled a trigger and shouted “Receive the anointing!!!!” A perfumed fountain immediately sprang out of the device, leaping seven feet into the air. He didn’t waste a second, “Receive the faayaaaah!!!!” echoed through the area as the same gizmo produced a spark at his discretion and we were witnessing the latter rain of fire and Pentecost. Over a hundred and fifty lost souls gathered in two seconds.
The men of God had their offering boxes open and the fees of salvation began to pour in. I immediately donated, wouldn’t you? The book of Leviticus teaches us benevolence towards men of calling and I didn’t get this kind of phenomenal service at my austere Catholic cathedral.
The competition continued in earnest. The message for the day hovered around how Nostradamus had baptized Jesus in the lake of Babylon. The two clerics were at it for several minutes, attacking the issue from several abstract angles, mesmerizing their audience with miraculous side-attractions in the process. I enjoyed several other epiphanies from my new church of wonderful revelation; I didn’t know that had Judas founded Judaism or that Bob Marley was still alive in Tibet. The crowd had already grown to ridiculous proportions.
With that kind of crowd around, I immediately began to close shop. When I was done, I and a very drunk companion watched from afar. Interestingly, I had been discreet to observe from a distance because as darkness crept upon us all, the extra large crowd would experience the greatest miracle they would ever see in their life time.
A golden cloud, rapture and missing wallets.



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