Guitar boy

Been awhile since I was, bitten, possessed, with the insane desire that makes me race for the nearest laptop, tongue hanging out in glee, foamy spittle flying out my mouth, to put down words in a story. Been writing boring stuff for work though. But yesterday as I heard the strings from Victor Uwaifo while bumping down a, well, bumpy road in a rickety rickshaw keke that had long outlived its shock absorber, I was stung. Make of it what you will, but this is a story about music, and it’s power.

www.aljanusi.wordpress.com Guitar boy
For Sir Victor Uwaifo, Living Legend

Now playing: Guitar boy – Sir Victor Uwaifo

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Benin City, Old Bendel State

November 23, 1972

 

 

“Guitar boy! Guitar boy

If you see mammywata, never, never run away eeeh ehh..”

His slim fingers raced down the strings as if of their own accord, they were long and thin, those fingers, as if starved of the very life with which they coursed along the neck of the guitar, weaving magic. The nails were cut short, just before the hard pads, which thumped down on the frets, moving from key to key as he strummed the six stringed acoustic. As his fingers slid down the guitar, punctuating the rhythm, it seemed as though, almost imperceptibly, that smoke curled from the strings, a mere shadow perhaps, but tendrils wafting out from beneath the bowed head of the player, and on to the audience.

Continue reading “Guitar boy”

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War

It is easy to ignore what happens around us, in the spiritual. We live on this earth so surrounded by desires and commitments, so overwhelmed by cares of this world, we pay no attention to the war that happens around us, a war that would not stop until the end; until the end of all things. We were born into this war, and it is wise we pay attention, or we would not survive it.

#OST: Linkin Park – Wastelands

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WAR

The night was dark and the wind howled around the treetops, swaying them beneath the starless sky. The scent of danger lay thickly upon the air, a pungent smell easily detected by the more visceral senses, and on the ground and within the branches, creatures hid in nests and burrows, and even the serpentine and nocturnal slithered and crouched deep away from sight.

The dark shapes streaked through the clouds, crackling through the air with lightening in their wake, nebulous forms as of thundery dark and winding clouds, they twisted about each other, moving through the air heading for the forest below. Spiraling around each other, the dark clouds spun in the night, winding tighter and tighter as though to drill into the earth. Sparrows cried in the night, bats shrieked and owls hooted, a cacophony of calls and wails as the forest protesting the intrusion. The shapes tore through the forest canopy with the sound of rushing wings and slammed into a clearing at three distinct spots. Instantly all went silent as the dark shapes resolved into the forms of three women. Continue reading “War”

Lamentationem

It’s been a while I wrote anything, perhaps after this you might understand.

And yes, I usually don’t write poems, I prefer limericks, hence, I would not follow all the ‘rules’..

That said, read on..

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now playing: Hopeless wanderer | Mumford and Sons

LAMENTATIONEM

 

These dark shards pierce my heart,

splintered ends of unholy swords.

their jagged ends tear me apart,

their bearers, sons of the Satan’s hordes.

 

Fear, anxiety, apathy and shame,

these demons trouble me in day and night,

tearing at my soul, and shrieking my name,

they add to my onerous plight.

 

Thing is:

 

I write my verses, as the tunes of a minstrel,

soothing, then ululating, then sombre.

And one may read them as the cry of the wastrel,

shrill, then captivating, then it’s over.

 

Anyway:

 

So these pains cant against my faith,

rendering my soul into the deepest of despair.

And as with such things, it affects my art,

and my relationships fall to disrepair.

 

Morn and night, my days, a bleak skyline

no cloud, no sun, no azure blue sky.

I wander about, lost in a hopeless daze,

no sound, no fun, no thoughts to fly

 

It’s getting easier, I think:

 

It’s always been easy for me,

to write of my deepest pains.

That which worries and I can’t do,

is tell of my greatest sins.

 

But now, a ray in the darkness:

 

For even while I sleep, my dreams rage away,

visions of darkness, and red, and fire, and death.

But at the end of it all, there still is hope,

hope for joy, hope for happiness, hope for mirth

 

And now as I sit to write of this,

my spirit lifts and my fears negate.

My demons all fled, my head is clear,

my heart is free, the storms abate.

 

Fin.

Janusaneni

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Believe me, I tried to make this into a humorous rant.

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Peace.