Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The Beginning of our love story May 10, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 5:56 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Today, I beat the gong of sweet itching and an all-consuming desire.
Listen.

 
 

…you…

 
 

This is the beginning of our love story.
I am watching you watch me with a smirk on your face
Because you can see me cringe whenever
My boyfriend puts his arm around my shoulders
Or presses his hand into the small of my back.
And although the hairs I decided against shaving
All bristle in indignation;
I am not able to unlock my gaze from your face.
This is the beginning of our love story.
You follow me to the tray of spring rolls
And stop my hand from selecting
That golden-brown one with some stuffing sticking out.
You brush your fingers over my hand;
As if testing for my response.
One which isn’t long in coming
Because those traitorous bastard hairs on the back of my palm,
All rise to your touch- like they’ve been waiting forever.
And this is the beginning of our love story.
The escape to the back room- and you follow.
You follow and shut the door behind you.
You lock the door behind you then stop
When I can see the tips of your shiny shoes
Opposite my black-covered toenails.
And I move forward till we are touching.
My toes against your shoes.
Your shoes against my toes
that stick too far out of my sandals.
This is the beginning of our love story.
Heavy breathing, tongue clashing;
Head rolling, back. Hands seeking, forward.
My back against the wall. Cold fingers kissing my spine.
Heart palpitations. Throat constrictions.
No words. No thoughts.
Feeling; then some more.
Lust. Wanting. Pining. Yearning.
Phone vibrating.
This is the end of our love story.
My phone vibrates and my eyes snap clear.
Clear of the riotuous emotions
That only just threatened to drown me.
This is the end of our love story- I think.
I straighten my dress and walk away from you.
You, my first love.
Because though you remain clueless,
You are the first man,
Who has made me feel.

 
 
 
 

 

A chest of fruits February 22, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 9:00 am
Tags: , , , ,

Metaphors are the joy of us all and they are the gifts we share with each other. Today, a friend shares a bag of metaphors for us. Shall we dig in?
 
@itz_bigboiler’s words:
 
The cool breeze of the sylph Afrosays swooped a pollen grain towards me
It was a grain like no other
she sang the coolest of melodies to my ears
Serenaded my hearts
Captured my soul
Made my spirits soar
My megalomania mellowed when I realized her suss
I took her in, and here is the fruit of my womb

 
 

 
A CHEST OF FRUITS
 

A festoon of shiny dark hairs curled like a noodle
 

Resting on an enlarged cashew
 

Two black and glowing stones dwelling between two peeled eggs
 

A schnozzle protruding like a carrot
 

Two strawberry-red slabs unleashing a radiant smile
 

An antagonistic arraignment of bleached heterogenous grains
 

A slenderized stem running into 3 tributaries
 

With the midmost bearing two juicy oranges
 

Oranges that had sprouts
 

Irrigation washed through the style all the way to the pistil
 

The desire of every spermatocyte
 

Posteriorly lies a cottony lump gapped by a straight line
 

All of which are carried by two thin trunks
 

This is the woman,the one I love.

 
 
Find the art of our @itz_bigboiler here

 

You make me feel November 17, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — Betty @ 7:51 pm
Tags: , ,
Of a muted gong finding it’s voice. Listen.
Betty BlackLace.
YOU MAKE ME FEEL

...

You make me feel.
Passion.
Want.
Carnal fire, burning.
Inside.
Deep down.
There.
And there.
All over.
Can’t stop.
Shivers.
Tremors.
Thrills.
Coursing down my spine.
Wet.
Gasping, need air.
No air.
Come now.
Now.
Closer.
Skin.
Sliding.
Rubbing.
Tongue.
Sweat.
Faster.
Fast-er.
Moaning.
Now.
Now.
Now.
Lights.
Flashing.
Fire burning.
Colours.
Popping.
Sightless.
Crashing.
Cra-shing.
Falling.
Bliss.
Gone.
 

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.
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Big questions April 15, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 7:02 pm
Tags:

Hello world,

I’m learning to beat the gong better. I might start a new category for ramblings about my unusual experiences as the goddess’ mouthpiece, I might not.

Betty and I are looking to redecorate sometime soon.

Most Importantly, I’ve learnt to keep it short. One laconic clang, all brisk-like as AfroSays:

BIG QUESTIONS

...P is for Pencil...

“Daddy where do babies come from?”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard what she asked the first time. Maybe I’d heard, maybe I’d subconsciously chosen to ignore her, hoping that I’d imagined the question.
“Daddy?” She tugged at my arm.
It took an effort of archillean proportions to tear my gaze from the TV so as to cater to the needs of my ten year old.
It’s not because Arsenal was throwing away yet another chance at a trophy, the thing was that I’d always thought parenting would be easy; It had been easy to spot many mistakes in the austere upbringing that my parents had dealt me. I’d envisioned myself as one of the modern, super cool parent types that I’d seen so many times in hollywood movies, the type that grounded kids when they were naughty, sent them to their room when they were rude, allowed them to have all their friends over and was open to talking about anything.
And somehow, I had succeeded. While most of my friends still employed the use of a form of archaic martial law in putting their young families in order, Wunmi felt the need to tell me every single insignificant detail about her life and I loved it.
The real problem was that I’d never prepared for the day when I would have to tell my daughter about how, someday, some idiot with a turgid penis would lend seed to her innocent vagina so that they could magically grow babies. I could not tell her bogus stories about Holy Ghost pregnancies or baby carrying birds or automatic, love-inspired conceptions because it was against my ‘Cool-Daddy’ code. Thinking about what I was about to say gave me a headache.
“Daddy noooow!”
I finally turned from the hopeless football match, not quite to look at her, but to look around her. I was already embarrassed.
“Emm… One day, a young man is going to butter your muffin”
“Ehn?!”
I loosened my neck tie.
“Actually, what I’m trying to say is that, ehn, one day, to have babies… Err, you have to screw… Yes, screw…”
I looked around as if to see imaginary impositions of my drinking buddies, pointing and laughing as I fumbled at my little girl’s question.
“Me, I don’t know what you are talking about oh! I am in Jss1 and the science teacher says we have to have sex!”
My mouth hung open.
She put her tiny arms on her waist and continued talking, all sissy like.
“So uncle Rufus said that he wants to put his penis in my vagina and I told him that the teacher said that I would get pregnant since I started seeing my period last month and I am now a woman”
“He said the teacher was wrong and that babies are from the Holy Spirit like with Mary and Jesus. I told him no sha. I just came to ask you.”
My expression of shock quickly metamorphosed into a mask of rage. ‘Uncle Rufus’ was the twenty-one-year-old cousin that I had brought into my home from the village because his parents could not support his education beyond the secondary level.
“So daddy, what is sex noooow?”
I had to calm down and attend to my little girl first. Without embarrassment, I told her that science teacher was right, I told her about the evils of teenage pregnancy, STDs, HIV, drugs, alcohol, over-speeding, politics, and any other evil the world would later throw at her.
I called my wife up next. As angry as I was, family issues were always tricky. If I sent him back to the village, he would hurt other little girls, maybe boys too. If I reported him to the police, I couldn’t face my family.
She told me that if I didn’t call the police, she would.
What would you do?
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