Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The righteous man July 29, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:48 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

She’s been scheming, she has. Now she’s ready.
 

THE RIGHTEOUS MAN

 

…LORD! LEND ME YOUR POWER…

 
 

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?

 
 


COMING SOON…

 

 
 

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George April 3, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:35 pm
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Lazy this, lazy that.
AfroSays exactly what?


GEORGE

 

 

Quite recently, George has been unable to write stories.

 

He would sit at the four-seater dining table in his small apartment on most days and under sixty watts of bright yellow, he would stare into the white Microsoft Word canvas on his Dell machine. He used to stare into Layo’s eyes exactly the same way after he’d found out that she was cheating on him. He’d never said a word about it to her – he would just look deeply into her eyes after sex until she felt uncomfortable and turned away.

 

He’d written a book about her instead. It had been sensational.

 

George doesn’t have Layo anymore and he hasn’t had her for five years but he’s written another two bestsellers.

 

In one of the books, he wrote about a young man who writes a scandalous book that makes puts him under international spotlight with fancier clothes on his back. This book is a bestseller because the young man’s good fortune leads him into wilder circles. He starts a passionate relationship with the pretty daughter of an old statesman and she leads him into all sorts of forbidden pleasures. The book ends in tears, betrayal, and a suspicious suicide. It is a very gripping tale.

 

The next book, equally as gripping, is the tale of a young man battling old demons and new enemies. In this young man’s fight for survival, he must overcome dangerous habits that have taken him prisoner so that he can fight an even more dangerous battle that threatens to end his life for good – a dirty duel with a powerful government official. The story takes the reader through a twisting path of drug dealers, prostitutes, assassins, expensive celebrity lawyers, corrupt police men, jail time, all mixed into a massive effort to perpetuate a bitter vendetta. When the story ends, the young man’s life has been effectively paralysed and the antagonist is killed by natural causes.

 

George is yet to recover from the hell he’s been through.

 

 

 

The sin of a little saint March 2, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:45 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

I took the gong to the witch by the tower that leans. I hope you hear a tone, different.
Simply, AfroSays:

THE SIN OF A LITTLE SAINT
 
 

 
 

Biscom – as he was called – was rinsing another biscuit in the kitchen sink. Sometimes he would pinch in the little bag of Ariel that he always kept at the right side of the long necked tap and spray some detergent on his treat as he rinsed it. He liked his biscuits clean.
 
Just liked he liked his seats. He always kept a white cleaning rag and a big-sized spray bottle of cleaning liquid on his person which he always filled every morning and refilled by noon. This story of seats and biscuits and a cleaning kit would make one think that Biscom was a good case for psychiatric care and really he was; because of a memory.
 
Biscom was a small fellow and as a child he had been very little. His favourite thing to eat had been biscuits and every day of junior secondary school, he would buy three different brands from the lady who sold snacks on a small table in front of the school gate. Other kids would buy candies, chewing gum, and lollies in addition to biscuits but not tiny Biscom, he knew they were bad for his teeth.
 
Tiny Biscom only ate his treats during the break time and like his mother had always instructed him every morning before school, he would then proceed to the toilet to brush his teeth. He always had a toothbrush in his school bag which his mother switched for a new one every month, and a foreign brand of toothpaste, usually a version of Colgate that was unavailable in local stores. Needless to say, Tiny Biscom’s toothpaste – and sometimes his toothbrush as well – were stolen from his bag as often as twice a month.
 
But Tiny Biscom’s biscuits had never been stolen. In fact, tiny Biscom’s mates could only steal from his bag after break time when he’d had his biscuits and more so, tiny Biscom never shared his treats. Tiny Biscom always bought the most expensive brands of biscuit – the ones that contained a lot more than four cookies – unlike most of his peers. As little as he was, he would eat up as many as thirty six cookies all by himself. His colleagues soon learnt not to bother him but sometimes they would try again, hoping he would have had a change of heart. As an adult, Biscom still wouldn’t share his biscuits.
 
After two junior years, tiny Biscom was intensely disliked by all his colleagues. He had no friends and he acted like he needed none. To his credit, he was also an above average student, however, he never helped out the competition both legally and illegally. In cases where the class teamed up, for example, when the first algebra homework had been insanely difficult, the situation still had been class minus Biscom. There was also a certain camaraderie in tiny Biscom’s class as is in every other gathering of boisterous youngsters where the group is willing to suffer for the sins of one. Tiny Biscom wouldn’t partake in any such comradeship and as a result, erring classmates were promptly identified and dealt with.
 
Fortunately for tiny Biscom, he was loved by all the educators, probably because he was hated by all his colleagues and one rarely takes a liking from both quarters at the same time. This affection that tiny Biscom enjoyed from the staff quarters was an insurance of sorts but where intense hate is concerned, fear is powerless. Tiny Biscom, in all his self-righteousness had raised the passions raging against him to a red line when he began to take initiative against his classmates on his own. Tiny Biscom discreetly began to write the sins of his fellows down in a little black book and make a submission at the end of each day.
 
For a while, Biscom’s classmates wondered how their private transgressions had been finding its way to the desk of the school principal and they began to suspect each other. Although the tiny man was the prime suspect, they could never really be sure until one day when one of the girls thought to steal some fancy toothpaste and discovered a little diary. Because girls love secrets, she’d proceeded to steal the diary as well and that was when things really began to look bad for the little man.
 
Although tiny Biscom didn’t record the transgressions of his colleagues for another week and a half after the theft, partly because he was saving to purchase another perfect little dirt book and partly because his classmates took extra care not to discuss anything around him, he would never be forgiven. The entire class of young boys and girls wanted nothing as badly as they wanted to bring the little man to grievous harm.
 
Dele, who was as big as his teachers and was only two years younger than the oldest senior student was also a member of tiny Biscom’s class. The sixteen year old was naturally the king of the twelve and thirteen year olds especially in the domain of misdemeanours. Consequently, tiny Biscom’s righteousness had been mostly Dele’s Pain. For a while, Dele had only suffered the usual punishments because Dele had only been up to the usual offences but Dele had decided to improve on his vices and he’d smuggled a pack of cigarettes to class within that period. A cleaner had seen the stubs and informed the authorities but despite several threats, the class had maintained solidarity. That is until tiny Biscom overheard, catalogued and reported the indiscretion, with a roll call of participants.
 
Dele and his inner circle had been punished in a school assembly and suspended from school for three days. The team of offenders hadn’t minded the extra notoriety they had gained from being caned publicly especially because they had handled themselves well but once their parents and guardians were involved, things took a turn for terrible. Dele’s uncle, who was also a military officer confined him to Hades three days and threw the key away. There is a law in the United States preventing captured terrorists from seeing the kind of wickedness that Dele saw. When Dele returned to school, he was properly broken, sober and seething. He took his revenge that same day.
 
Ten minutes to the end of break time, tiny Biscom had excused himself from the class and proceeded to observe his mouth cleaning rites in an empty boys’ room when he Dele joined him with a pack of biscuits, a butter knife and a meat cleaver. The big fellow had locked the door to the dirty toilet room behind him immediately.
 
When tiny Biscom was eventually discovered, he was sitting naked and bleeding from wide stripes running randomly from his forehead to the bottom of his left foot. His throne was a toilet bowl that was half empty or half full, depending on how you see it. There was an empty pack of biscuits beside him; it had once contained twelve cookies.
 
His mouth was closed but the stained butter knife that was held firmly in his hand suggested that he’d been having an unthinkable kind of sandwich all under severe duress, of course.
 
 
 

 

Circles of man July 29, 2011

Filed under: Spooky Fridays,The Trench — afrosays @ 9:44 pm
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I AfroSays, I call.
To those with hearing ears and seeing eyes.
Find the travelling wise man in the midst of you.


I, OlaToxic, I beat the gong tonight- that it resound within your spirit and soul- I bring you revelation and truth and light- that the sound may make you whole.


Reflect.

Boo!


———————————————
The Hum by OlaToxic
———————————————

We trudge forward. Billions-strong, we march. We don’t even see the road anymore, only the one in front of us, feeling only the push of the one behind us. We jostle on, jostled by the ones on either side and we jostle back. We cannot stop, we must not stop. The hum of our voice collective drowns out any other sounds we may have heard. We hear only each other. We hear only each other now.

We were not always like this. We used to soar the skies. But now… We hardly even look up there anymore. The hum is too loud. It is madness.

Stubs now poke out of our upper backs, from whence our wings once flourished. Winged ones still fly the skies we do not look up to. From their vantage point, they can see where they are headed, and where we are headed… Mostly. Sometimes. Every now and then, a winged one flies so close, always drawn in by the hum, so close that we can touch them. And we pluck them, drag them down and bite off their wings, leaving them in the dust that envelopes us. And we trample on in our exodus to nowhere, now even more populated and hating it.

The hum. The hum is everything. The hum would sometimes bring a winged one to alight on the ground a ways from us… And drive them so mad, like us, that they would twist and constrict on themselves and proceed to bite off their own wings. The act a grotesque beauty in itself. And they join us too.

We feed. Only on our stubs. The stubs, they grow back, and we feed on the one in front of us. As the one behind, feed on ours.

But a few of us walk backwards, eyes constantly on the still-winged ones in the skies above, and they thirst, and long, and wish, and hope, and desire. And in their longing and desiring, their wings flourish, and blossom, and sprout. And they may return to the skies from whence they came…

And the day comes when each one of us arrive at the precipice that we never saw approaching. The hum, now so loud, that it drowned out the screams, until we ourselves, on the edge, screamed too. And were only pushed forward by those behind, who knew not what lay ahead, except for the stubs they could see. The stubs on our backs that flapped desperately in their utter uselessness as we plunged to nothingness.

And high above us, the winged ones spread their beautiful plumes and soar on back into Eden.


CLUES

We are all on a journey. But are you still headed to the place you first took off for? And does innocence lost equal wisdom gained?


———————————————
The Worst by AfroSays
———————————————

A cold rope bound his legs together and his arms to his sweaty body. A cold, fat rope. Smooth. Strong! He was waking slowly and that’s all the sensation he was awakening to.

He opened his eyes slowly to face the serpent that was coiled around him, towering above him like an evangelist on Sunday morning. For a moment, he thought it beautiful but in the quarter of the quarter of a second, his mind flipped into the bizarre world of white and red and many record-breaking movements in the usual manner of all endangered sapiens. Panic.

But he could not move. His mind bitterly lamented the fact that it could not take care of its vessel. His body vibrated violently in the same place, and in that place of heightened animalistic alertness, the jeweled serpent struck.

He closed his eyes in morbid anticipation.

He freaked as the serpent licked his left ear, telling him evils. He only needed to wish them on his enemy, the same one who’d filled his heart with black hatred and his thoughts with retribution right before he slept. He wished her the worst.

The worst befell her.

In the hospital room, as pain sped through her destroyed body, she felt an insect creep into her left ear, telling her evils. Evils she could wish on her enemy.

The worst befell him. Then those who those she loved, then those he loved, and so on.


CLUES

Revenge. Is anyone righteous is taking it? The implications.


PLEASE DO LEAVE A COMMENT. REAL FEEDBACK ON HOW THE STORY RELATES TO REAL LIFE. COMMENTS SUCH AS “DEEP” OR ANY OF ITS SYNONYMS ARE ONLY STATING THE OBVIOUS, KINDLY SHARE WHAT YOU REALLY THINK (EVEN IF IT’S THAT THE MESSAGE IS UNCLEAR) SO WE CAN ALL COMPARE IDEAS. THANK YOU.


FIND THE ART OF OLATOXIC HERE

 

As cruel as school children March 17, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 1:25 pm
Tags: ,

I’m not in the mood for much talk today. Inner he-motions are mixing a personally innocuous but generally toxic brew.

You know, we can’t remain the same forever… we change as we age… we only hope that the people we love would accept us not only for who we are but for who we become…

Sha! When I haven’t got Simone or Kirikou (my guitars) next to me, Terry G usually does the feel-good trick. I shall be beating an excitingly captivating piece from Free Madness, Part 3 -> Sile! Sile! Sile! because AfroSays:

AS CRUEL AS SCHOOL CHILDREN

No snitching...

He turned to me, his eyes begging this time, seemingly apologizing for the years of torment he had caused me: the name callings, beatings, the repeated injury to my self esteem and all the unjustifiable wickedness.
“Mister man! What is the biological name of rat?!”
He did not take his pleading eyes off me as he trembled in paralyzing fear of the sasquatch that the school had mistakenly employed as a teacher.
I stared back at him, aloof like a bad replica of the Mona Lisa that hung in the art class. I did not know the answer today, or did I?
That was the last question on the quiz that the class had been given this past week, an extremely simple test. The big dummy had copied my work, word-for-word, as usual, and I hadn’t really minded. He had been given a perfect score, as usual, and I hadn’t minded as well. He had bragged about it and I couldn’t care less, as long as he kept up his part of our unspoken contract.
You see? The big dummy and his cronies always used to beat me; he was big and dumb and I was small and smart – typical senseless shortcomings of mother nature, typical secondary school scenario. We acted out all the usual high school bully plays: lunch money extortion, random knocks on the head, slaps to the face, destruction of homework, and all the other usual suspects.
You see? Despite all these, we the smart small kids had to live by a ‘no snitching’ rule. That meant that whenever we were persecuted, whenever one of the big kids vandalized something, whenever one of the big kids got the whole class in trouble, we couldn’t tell the school authorities or even our parents.
So after years of torment, I had to think of a way out. The big kids were really dumb, you see? Some of them couldn’t even spell three-letter conjunction words or successfully perform arithmetics on three-digit numbers. They had a huge handicap, but so did we. We were easy to push around and couldn’t fend for ourselves. The way out? I decided to help the biggest, dumbest kid out with school work so that he and his friends could spare me and my other small smart friends. The big kids could continue to bully the small, dumb kids; in this world, you had to have something to offer, you see?
Our arrangement worked for a comfortable while, and all the other small smart kids helped the big dumb kids. We became a symbiosis, a ecological balance, a case study for world peace, but something went wrong, you see?
Smart kids are in categories – there are the 10/10 kids, the 9/10 kids, the 8/10 kids and the 7/10 kids. It seems one of the lower echelon smart kids had a brain fail recently and his parasite failed as well. (Yes! 5/10 is a brain fail). So, the oversize leech goes on to compare scores with his goons and he realizes his loss. He then goes ahead to beat on my colleague and his goons join in, including the one I help.
It’s really bad, you see? We try to fight back, and we all get beaten. One of us gets hospitalized and he can’t snitch. Therefore, due to the recent unpleasant circumstances, the contract ends.
But I am not done.
The small smart kids have all kinds of resources, you see? I send an anonymous text message to the sasquatch this morning, snitching, yes! Snitching all the big dumb kids from the last biology test.
He calls out the first name on the list, my parasite, and he can’t answer a single question from the quiz that he nailed with a perfect score. We all know how much the sasquatch loves to inflict pain. He would call out the other nervous blockheads and they would fail so splendidly, as well. He would then take them all to his office at the distant, neglected end of the school and invite them in, one-by-one for a personal ten-minute session.
“You mean you don’t know the biological name of rat?!”
Big numbskull looks at me, sweating, begging, telepathically kissing my behind and I decide to have a little more fun. I mouth the following words:
“Phallus phallus”
 

Solomon’s Mathematics October 11, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:41 pm
Tags: , , ,

The goddess thought to alleviate me of some measure of my loneliness and sent me a new friend.

The good thing about new friends is that you don’t get to fight till further notice which is usually a long time away.

The other good thing is that both of you are still curious about each others’ company – That rocks.

Lemme beat this gong SHARP SHARP so i can get back to my friend who’d listen honestly when AfroSays:
SOLOMON’S MATHEMATICS

I can't remember 7x6

“Honey, slow down!!!”
I revved up the engine and hastily encouraged the four wheel drive straight towards the massive pool of water. I created a five feet high splash more beautiful than a hummer advertisement. I then laughed out loud in capital letters.
Stella was furious. She was torn between giving me a brutal tongue lashing and giving me a brutal tongue lashing and she was having a hard time summoning her floetry.
“Daddy, why did you splash water on that man?”
Crap! I had forgotten my teenagers were in the car. I looked back to find my son with a questioning look in his eyes. I shouldn’t have named him Goody. I quickly shifted my gaze to the left to find his more sinister sister looking through the windshield and laughing at the victim of my joy trip. She reminded me of me.
If I explained to her, she definitely would understand.
She wasn’t as great at school work as my holy-holy, Goody-two-shoes of a son so she would most definitely understand.
She would understand why I was excessively mean to anyone who brought back the memory of Mr Solomon’s arithmetic classes.
She would understand my childish bitterness at a man that had served cruelty to me in take-home Ghana-must-go bags of pain everyday simply because I could not get past the five times table.
She would understand why I never caned her or her brother, even when I caught her smoking behind the house, why I always had Stella mete out the judgment.
She would understand why I would never will get over the memory of Mr Solomon becoming my home lesson tutor at his own suggestion, how I hated the sight of his bald head shining under the sun as he approached ominously from a distance, how he wore the same black uniform everyday to establish his absolute ‘evilness’, how I hated his Hitler-like facial rag, how he made sure to replenish my Ghana-must-go bags of pain at home if I forgot to act twisted in remembrance of the caning sessions from school.
How I hated his svelte sidekick, the black-taped, cigarette-thin, Pankere-specie, weapon of maths destruction, Mrs Pepper, the love of his life.
I think she’d understand how I couldn’t let the all-black everything, cane-carrying, bald man on the sidewalk continue his life in peace. Even though I don’t know him, I’d have run over him if I could, I’d have been to happy to spare some kids the nightmares I’m still paying a shrink to cure me of.
No, she goes to a fancy private school, she won’t understand, No one would.
Maybe I might need to see my shrink immediately after this episode, but screw everyone else, I’m reversing!
I’m coming for you again, similar Mr. Solomon!
 

The revenge of mercedes man September 14, 2010

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 11:03 pm
Tags: , , ,

My eyes are closing and she wakes me up, then forces me to do her bidding.

She doesn’t care that work has been quite challenging lately or that nowadays, I’m all stressed out most of the time.

All she wants me to do is keep banging the gong, even if my head is banging as well.

Tired me is doing this only because AfroSays:

THE REVENGE OF MERCEDES MAN

MERCEDES MAN

MERCEDES MAN

I watched as the Mercedes eased carefully into the narrow space near the wall that defined the limits of the general parking lot which was located just outside the office building.
I smiled.
Five hundred Naira or trouble.
Seven months in this profession had taught me that neat, expensive cars were the best tippers because their owners were always very anxious to keep their babies in care of a nanny. Other car owners, however, had already given up on their dream of keeping a scratch-free car and consequently could not care less about extra care. They only paid the requisite parking fee.
Or not.
The parking fee wasn’t really requisite; it was not required by the owners of the parking lot, I required it. Every “Rent-A-Cop” type security man in Lagos requires a ‘little token’ to allow any vehicle access to the precious and scarce real estate under his care, whether the individual is a legit business customer or just another random fellow who can’t find somewhere else to keep his metal junk. We usually notify the beneficiary of the existence of a contract when he’s about to cleverly abandon his car and we wait for him to finish his business before we collect our dues.
Did I mention that we have clever punishments as well for beneficiaries who try to be smart?
I guess that’s why I expected Mercedes Man to cooperate and somehow communicate his understanding of our intangible agreement as he made for the office building in a hurry-scurry. This was the oldest trick in the book so I refused to be outdone; I caught up with him and started explaining the ‘contract’ all over.
He ignored me and walked even faster, attempting to be busy with his phone.
I ran after him and when I was close enough, I threatened his baby.
He laughed and told me to do whatever I wanted and to go to hell when I was done. I was thoroughly insulted and I let him go on ahead.
#JustSoYouKnow I did whatever I wanted so I’d be in jail till my family can raise something close to three million Naira to fix Mercedes Man’s baby.
#JustSoYouKnow The richest member of my family is a palm wine tapper.
 

 
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