Allow Me…..

pained.

pained.

Well, this is just all sorts of awks.

That moment when you become a stranger in your own house, which you built with your sweat, blood and at the expense of your laptop keyboard, phone screen and twitter intergrity, is as depressing as waiting for Tonto Dikeh to make good music.

Shit happens though, I’m just gonna man up and do what I’ve gotta do.

Allow me to re-introduce myself.

I’m DankarO ShintO, and I’m not a terrorist. Forget I said that last part. I used to write here, back when I still considered myself as one of the writing sorts. I watch, I wait, I steal things and apparently I will send you nudes if you follow me on twitter. Yeah, I want you to have the worst impression of me.

Insha allah, I’m gonna attempt to resume posting here and not just reblogging stuff I wrote for other peeps blogs. It’s been a while and I’m very rusty. My vocabulary has gone to Narnia, I’m a full blown Alomo addict – cause I like the truth, and like they say, the truth is bitter – and it is quite unfortunate that I’m doing this when ASUU is about to call off the strike.

I make up crazy scenerios in my mind, some come together well, some don’t, due to shortage of mind glue. Most times I try too hard to be funny. So even if you’re not amused, just comment LOL and let all be well with the world. For every comment you drop on this blog a starving kid gets fed in Somalia, a gangbanger in the hard streets of Detroit gets led to Christ and a Convenant female student gets impregnated. Do your part to make the world a better place!

There’s a Kenyan saying that “A man brags about his penis, no matter how small”. The originator of said saying definitely hasn’t seen Wande Coal’s nudes. I have no idea why I said that but apparently, I can. More importantly I’ve finally gathered enough mind to start organizing a blog challenge. All ye writers should pucker up for my ass kissing.

I’m yet to perfect a mind throbbing goodbye phrase, got some in the works though, so I’m gonna be using you guys as lab animals and testing them on yousa. Till the next post, stay straight.

Salaam.

Not Science Fiction!

Wrote this for the king of opinion @Sammoyd he has a cool blog, y’all should check it out.

Sam's Blog

So the other day I discovered my blog was gathering low-grade Peter Parker cobwebs and I decided I had to write about something except my writing mojo is still on vacation in the Bahamas…wherever it is that is. Enter Dankaro Shinto (yeah that’s a real name folks) who offered to guest-write. This is a first for my baby blog and Dankaro himself thinks it’s probably below grade, so be nice enough to send him an e-pat on the back. He also tweets as @volturi_Lord when he’s not making stuff up. Now to what he has to say…

You have read a lot of science fiction. 
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Don’t lie, obviously you have… Especially if you’re one of those weird people (like me) who derive joy from reading. I’m gonna tell you a story today though, one that doesn’t involve science (and definitely not fiction).

Currently I’m a resident of the greatest city…

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DankarO’s Purge

Flexible-Minds; The Mind's Eye

I love this piece by  DankarO ShintO, I hope you love it as much as i do…

All rights to this piece are reserved.

Send entries to loonpurge@gmail.com

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Purgatory

A lonely soul, swimming in a sea of seething pain.

A lonely soul, soundlessly crying out for help.

A lonely soul once reveling in primal urges, torture by visions of sins pasts.

My lonely soul….. Begging to be saved.

Rescue me from purgatory, free my bounds that I may right the wrongs of days bygone.

Enlighten the light within me that it can once again burn bright.

Gird my heart that it shall never again take flight from the evils of men and demons alike.

Take my soul to thee, that I may experience inner peace.

Take my thoughts to thine that I may catch a glimpse of thy face.

Your gaze soothes like a flood of cool water on a…

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HNIC Buffdae MixTape – Volturi_Lord

Welcome to A.g(r)eek!

 HOV (That’s Jay-Z to you non-MCHG lovers) : [#mylaugh] Yo, Timberland, hook me up with something to get the system revved up

[Timberland gets to work on making a high-octane beat]

**Twenty minutes later**

[Beat is pounding furiously, and HOV LIL WAYNERICK ROSSEMINEM and MI ABAGA are nodding lizardly. Well, it is Timberland afterall]

[MI ABAGA: (thinking) Omo, these oyibo pipo dey try for beat sha… (<_<)]

EMINEM: Well, lemme give the intro and the lot of y’all will come on and start your verses

LIL WAYNE: Naw. Naw, niggah, naw. You’ll be going all emo and shit. Let Rozay do it. He gots grunts and stuff.

HOV : But I have [#mylaugh]

RICK ROSS: Makes you sound like a shy pompous prick.

HOV : Good point.

MI ABAGA: Guys, guys, guys. I’m good with intros in Nigeria. Lemme…

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The Village Mourners Association By Wole Soyinka

June 19, 2013 – 03:28

Nigerians who are old enough will surely recall the source of the above title. For others, I ought to narrate its origin. Fortunately, early this year, I delivered a lecture at the University of Ibadan, where I made a passing reference to the true owners of that copyright. Here is the relevant section:

“At the passing of a short-lived dictator, his successor decreed two weeks of mourning, two weeks during which the nation went into a coma. Even the television and radio stations closed down – nothing but martial and funereal music was played, while churches and mosques took over the abandoned air-waves to drown the nation in suras and canticles of lachrymose outpouring. A very sharp group quickly formed something that was called the National Mourners Association – clever lot! While the nation was quarantined and bogged down in the orgy of lamentation, they were touring the world, sponsored by government, to take the gospel of anguish to every corner of the world that boasted a Nigerian diplomatic mission.”

Yes, that was at the death of General Murtala Mohammed. But now, we turn to address the latest progenies of that association, operating in a different clime and context, but cacophonously enmeshed in variations on that ancient tune.

When that day comes that individuals encounter hostility over their sensibilities in dealing with loss in their own way, privately, away from public eye, with or without symbolic public gestures, then we are witnessing the end, not simply of plain civility, but of civilization, and the enthronement of Fascism. It is not the intolerance and excess of a moment’s excitation, but of a cultivated arrogance and will to imposition, one that attempts to dictate the private responses of others to shared events. Once again we are confronted with the Nigerian phenomenon of the egregious appropriation of what is not on offer and thus, is not subject to dispute. Where frustrated, these claimants reel out chapters from their Book of Imprecations.

Let it be stated here, for the avoidance of doubt, that I am a solid believer in the collective rites of Farewell. I believe in Ritual. Humanity is often assisted to reconcile with loss in a collective, and even spectacular mode. The choice to participate or not, however, belongs to each individual, including even those who arrogate to themselves the mission of imposing on others their own preferred mode of bidding farewell. These self-righteous clerics are dangerous beings, especially where they flaunt the credentials of secular learning and gather in caucuses of presumed Humanities. From the herd, the mindless Internet fiddlers for whom the landing of a planetary probe, or a medical breakthrough is simply distraction from fraudulent internet mailing, nothing less is expected. What menaces the collective health of society is when the deserving highs of intellectual application of the former, become indistinguishable from the loutish low of the latter.

I do not pander to the expectations of the sanctimonious. I can absent myself from any event, for reasons that are personal to me. I can absent myself as the result of a mundane domestic situation, as legitimately as from a visceral rejection of occupancy of the same space, at the same time, in the same cause, with certain other participants. I may absent myself for the very reason of my disdain for that breed which is certain to cavil at the very fact of my absence. Such specimens pollute the very space they claim to honour. Sputter and rage they may, but even the most illustrious of that ilk cannot control that choice, neither will they be permitted free passage to encroach upon, and abuse the private spaces of human responsiveness.

I shall speak to them directly: your psychological profile is commonplace. It is not the honour to Chinua that agitates you, no, it is your own self-regarding that seeks to be reflected in the homage to a departed colleague. It does not take a psycho-analyst to recognize this phenomenon of greedy acquisitiveness, even of immaterial products. Like emotional parasites, you feed off others, but you have never learnt to value what others give, or be thereby nourished. I recognize you, atavistic minds – was it not your type that once disseminated an unbelievably primitive accounting for Chinua Achebe’s motor accident? Here goes the story, for those who seek light relief from ponderous unctuousness:

What happened was that I found myself unable to return to Nigeria for a Colloquium in honour of Chinua’s sixtieth birthday. My dramatic mind immediately scrambled for some striking manner of compensation. So I telephoned a business friend who had some agricultural connections in Delta State and told him: find the chunkiest, spotless ram in Delta State – all white or all black, but a thoroughbred of striking physique. Find a leather pouch, tie it to its neck with the following message and deliver it at the venue of the Colloquium. I no longer recall the exact dictated wording, nothing inspirational, just the usual felicitations and injunctions to turn that ram into asun for general feasting.

Those who attended the event will recall the grand entry of the gift – as reported by one and all, including the foreign visitors, and Chinua’s reported reaction, seated on the podium. He shook head and said, “Typical of Wole”. The ram was then led off to meet its destiny at the hands of the gathered. (As a side note, it was I who took a gift away from his seventieth at Bard University – a sobering flash of time past that resulted in my ELEGY FOR A NATION. I had that poem re-published to mark the day of his funeral.)

Our story is only beginning. On the way back from that celebration, Chinua had his accident and was flown to the United Kingdom. At the first opportunity, I made my way there and called up the High Commissioner, Dove-Edwin, who was certain to know the hospital location. It turned out that he also planned a visit that afternoon, and he agreed to give me a ride. We waited – I was joined by two others – waited, and waited, then a phone call came from him that the visit had been called off. The High Commissioner would explain why, on arrival – over a promised dinner, as compensation.

That explanation was this: Dove-Edwin had received communication that some of “Chinua’s people” – a university professor among them, who was named – had pronounced publicly that “Chinua should have known better than to accept a spotless ram from his enemy” – yes, that was the word used – “enemy”. I verified this report from various other sources. Later, an alternative diagnosis surfaced: “Chinua had been too long away from the chieftaincy politics of his hometown, otherwise he would have realized that the title that he took was coveted by some others – and these were deeply steeped in traditional psychic combat”. In short, those rivals “did him in”. Both diagnoses competed for dominance for a while, petering out eventually.

Before the promotion of that alternative cause-and-effect however, Dove-Edwin had re-scheduled, and we had a most bracing, optimistic afternoon with Chinua. Yes, our patient was eventually told the cause of the earlier postponement, and he had a good laugh. On my return to Nigeria, I could not wait to take the opportunity of a public lecture to invite all desperate enemies to please send me their rams of choice – spotless, spotted, piebald, striped or nondescript – so I could treat starving writers to free meals in my home for the rest of the year. And I promised to taste a piece of each ram before serving.

Yes, it is that same breed that continues to sow poison in the minds of the susceptible. Alas for you, it so happens that some of us insist on our own way of commemorating, of being there, even when absent. You, by contrast were never there, however ostentatiously you position yourselves at the event, or at vicarious gatherings to denounce, attribute sinister motivations, and inseminate hate against those whom your pedestrian vision cannot see. Your very loudness proclaims your absence. You were always absent. You will always be absent. So, this communication is not really meant for you but for those potential almajiri – whose minds you corrupt daily with your jeremiads in that accomodating madrassa known as Internet. As a teacher, I lament your failure to use the opportunity of the passing of a revered writer to turn your younger generation in enlightened directions. You have chosen instead to coarsen their sensibilities and breed in their minds misunderstanding, suspicion and above all – hate!

You will have understood by now how I have come to view you as no different from the homicidal clerics who arm youths with kerosene and match, cudgel and knife, a few Naira in their beggars’ bowls, and dispatch them to set fire to structures of comradely cohabitation, of reflection, of mind enlargement, and destroy communities of learning. Your gospel of separatism goes beyond the geographical – in which I have not the slightest interest! – but the humanistic. The difference is in the weapon – in your case, poison, mind corrosion. The means – Internet, and its wide open, undiscriminating generosity. That is where you lay spores of poison, and doom future generations to a confinement of human relationships within the darkest corners of the mind.

You are beyond pity. Kindly absent your selves from my funeral, when that event finally intrudes.
Wole SOYINKA

Syrup Sipping Niccuh

So I woke up this morning with an itch, an itch that took approximately 12 hours to scratch. It is definitely the most crazy stuff I’ve ever written and the mildest on his part.

Dudes and Dudettes, I present to you my first collabo with the awesome, the crazy and the extremely talented literary Maestro @oVunderkind. Prepare to be bamboozled!

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Disclaimer: the following story contains verses of strong languages, stanzas of violence! Strains of prejudice, choruses of sexually explicit exploits and of course explosive libretto!.

 

This is be  some kray story….niccuh who wrote this must be high on some very potent shii I guess, buh its still a hella cool story. I make no claim as to the authenticity of the story, it seems implausible that the dude was telling the truth, but you, the reader must decide for yourself. And please do not try this at home.

😀

 

SSN

 

Cuz I don’t wanna fall asleep

So just pour it in my drink and ima sip until I lean hard

Drink got me moving slower than a retard

So press record and hear these hot raps

                                                                   

Mehn I’ve gat just an hour left, how do you cram a lifetime into that?

Ha well….lemme get to it, this might just be my last chance. They call me le SSN, The syrup sipping niccuh. Some say I’m a superhero, to some I think I’m kinda a villain, while some fucked up dudes just don’t give a fuck about me….. Anyways, this here is my story.

 

*Some indeterminate time ago*

 

I woke up in a vague environment, misty and lacking any distinction

*shrugs*

 I always wake up hazy, that’s just part of being awesome. Got my pee on, Stretched a bit and reached for ma pack of ciggs.

There was just a stick let… this wasn’t even enough to kick start my day so I grabbed my hoodie and headed out.

Lemme tell you  dude, the best time to go buy ciggawets is that cold, misty early morning, the day just being born, the street ain’t yet been polluted by the exhaust fumes, loud chatter/music and of course,them holier-than-thou fellows. The sweet smell of morning dew greeted me as I stepped outta my crib, it was just 5:45 in the morning.

Mehn no need to dull you with sordid details of my stroll to the corner store and back, buh it was now 6:00am and I had me a packet of  Dunhill switch, a snap of my trusty goldplated lighter and it was time for my morning fix.

I am sittin on the clouds

I got smoke coming from my seat

I can play basketball with the moon

I got the whole world at my feet

Playin’ touch football on Marijuana Street

Or in a marijuana field

You are so beneath my cleats

Get high, so high that I feel like lying

Down in a cigar

Roll me up & smoke me cause

I feel like dying

 

 I see the world like steven spielberg while editing a movie….in slow mo. And that ma niccuh is my greatest power, I slow down time.

 

Lemme give this to you straight up, I’m not an alien, I ain’t from mars or neptune,krypton or whereever the superhero’s in your fucked up comics and perverted fantasies come from, like I always say “you smoke on dat reggie bush…..but I smoke on Kryptonite” What renders superman weak is what I smoke and it kinda tickles my balls too.

 

I’m a straight up Naija-Dude, I’ve been told I’m lanky, built like a weed and that I walked like I’m being swayed by the seawind on the quarterdeck of a ship. I don’t give a fuck bout all that, all I want you to know Is that I’m fucking awesome….repeat that please!

I eat once a day, don’t work out, don’t sleep( I just go into a trance, sorta like your pc, I hibernate) and fuck like a horse when the environment is stable.

Back to was I was saying before I rambled away….it was 6am and time for my morning fix. Like I said before, I don’t do beer, I don’t do wine, no spirit nor “shepke”.

 I only drink”the drink of life”the source of my one great power……

 

 

              The syrup

 

 

Sippin on some drink the color purple like sili

Really they say I should chill before it kills me

But so will a car crash or a nine milli

And I aint even mention cigarettes or airplanes

                                                           

like DMX said; “same old shii dawg, just a different day”….  Perfect line to set the stage for my tale about the syrup.

I got myself fixed up, no main lining toxins for this niggur, I just grabbed a bottle of good ole benylin and hit the road.

 

You might be wondering where I was off to this early morning, if you actually give a fuck, alas you don’t . I’m still gonna tell you tho’ I was on my way to meet up with my niggas, the alumni of me, myself and I and from there we were gonna meet up with them Gon squad and settle this shit. Today it all must come to an end.

 

I was too cheap for Timberland’s, so I rocked my Converse AllStars like I was brand ambassador or sum’n. Too cheap for Beats by Dre, too, ma niggah, so these “Whips by Drake” headphones were my constant headgear.

I love me my Aba niggies.

Hey. Niggah. You distracted. Focus on this story, mahn.  Ef Oh See You Ess…

Ah. So, as ah was driftin’, yo’ niggah is too cheap for every thing, that is, except my syrups. Heck, I play by a lotta things, but niggah, touch my syrups and you better got the Navy S.E.A.L.s on Speed Dial.

Shit. I lost the story again. Ef Oh See You…okay.

So, I hooks up with my guys, alry? The three other niggahs who managed to be as awesome as my hot self.

Me.

Myself.

I.

I kinda like I though, he’s got this squint that makes me laugh when I am feeling pretty fucked up.

Myself was the niggah that creeped me out. He had this low slouch, like he was thinking bad things, ya know, like he was thinking of doing the president doggy style while the whole country watched. Creppy mo’afucker.

Now, Me. Pretty cool bastard, if there ever was one. No trouble. No fun either. Guess he okay then?

So, here we go, three of us, rocking our converses and our Whips By Drake. We marchin’ up the side street, knowing damn well that we’re gonna bust more than our fair share of noses today, mate.

I shoggest some music to the squad. “We should be listening to “Many Men”, mahn. It’s kinda suiting our ambiance.”

Myself looked at me. “Fuck, niggah. Ambiance? What? You go to that night school now?”

Me chuckles like a bawse and smiles. “Ambiance. Niggah you cray. Next you’ll be telling us you wanna get a degree or sum’n.”

I squinted and suddenly I felt like laughing. Had to stop myself though, lest I be considered a mocker. Don’t want I to be thinking me a mocker, you see. I and I have been pretty cool.

I smiled. “What joint you want us to play then?”

Myself yelled, “Ghost Mode, mahn. Ghost Mode by Phyno.”

Crickets.

“Mahn”, Myself cried. “I am sorry, mahn. Forgive me guys. I dunno what came over me.”

“You should be ashamed of your self niggah.” I spat.

“I can’t even look at you right now.” Me was utterly disappointed.

You wonder what your boy was doing at the time? I was taking a swig off my syrup when  I stopped.

We had arrived.

The Gon squad was here.

Okay, so get a load of this.

Me. Myself. I. And of course, yours truly.

We wuz standing there, you know, really casual like, looking at the Gon gang. Bloody assholes didn’t even make like they knew we were there. Mosta ‘em facking niggahs were just sitting down, ya know, some standing, and a helluva lot of them just making a fucking ruckus.

Myself – I did tell you the niggah gat some thing in his eye – shouts. “Hey, you. Gon Gang! Bitches!”

Ah, heck. I love it when we take centre stage. All them bitch ass niggahs is looking at us right now, like, WTF? And get a load of this – we dun gi a fack!

I is looking pretty excited, and you remember he got some of those Chinese slit-eyes to start with, so I reckon his eyes have gotten as wide as buttons, and he is looking to start some real shit right now.

Friends, I am thinking. They always gat your back.

Now, I know you are probably thinking, you know, you are thinking like, what the fack did the Gon Gang do – how bad did the moafukkas fack up for me to bring three of my deadliest niggahs to whoop their ass?

See, this is a tale of romance, a tale of passion ignited at dusk, when two bodies meet and set off sparks that drench the skies with a kaleidoscope of colors…

WTF? O_O

My syrup dose must be wearing off. Hol’ up. Hol ‘up. Gotta refill. Chill.

**Couple of sips later**

Where were we? Yes. Bitches. ‘Course. Bitches be the only reason niggahs fight, didn’t ya know? Now, yours truly was casually toasting a beech of the Gon gang, and these niggahs had to go ruin it for me. Telling the beech that I wasn’t no good niggah.

Dat..dat…I sipped too many syrups.

Can you imagine that, niggah? How is it possible to sip too many syrups? That’s…that’s like a scienfiteek unpossibility!

Beech began to ignore me. Won’t take my calls mahn. And I bought a Blackberry and stuff so I could ping with the beech.

BEEEEEEEECH!

So, Myself, I and Me were here with me to collect me some pound of flesh.

A Gon goon walks up ta me, ya know, trying to touch me and stuff, and I blocks his way, yelling “Touch him, moaf’ka, TOUCH him, and amma slit your dick! Amma slit your dick and sew it buttons!”

Niggah is scared shitless. He rejoins his gang. Bloody cowards keep lookin’ a me.

Myself goes, “let’s fuck the beech in the ass and beat it.”

Me sighs. “No. Ass sex stinks.”

I coughs politely. “Niggahs. We gotta whip these dickheads before deciding what to do with the beech.”

‘Course. I is the smartest of the lot. Me is the slowest. Myself is the perviest. So we are gonna go bust us some Gon dicks when suddenly Myself pulls his pants and shows his hairy butt.

Me goes “niggah! What the fork mahn! What the forkkk?”

Myself says “Yesss niggahs! Kiss my hairy butt!”

I look at the butt. It is hair. It’s got jerry curls and centre parting and stuff.

I is not impressed. “Stop, moaf’ka, or amma slit your dick first.”

Myself does us another shocker. He takes a shit. Right there in front of the Gon gang. On the floor. Right there. There is a big black, pythony shit on the facking floor.

It stinks so much, tears come to our eyes.

It is so shiny, mahn. Like someone let Wande Coal stay too long near the Vaseline.

The Gon gang is in disarray, mahn. Beeches be running everywhere, some be throwin’ up, and some Gon dudes – gays, the lot of them – be pleading the Blood.

I can see Me about to drag Myself and beat the living crap out of him, and I flicks out a switchblade, maybe hoping to jam it up Myself’s offensive butthole, and I am like “We are supposed to be fighting them, niggahs. The Gon Gang!”

I am about to go twist the knife out of I’s hand when I see a Gon member approach me.

CRACK

Facking niggah’s got a mean left hook.

 

____________________________
“What got into him?” the dean asked.

“I don’t know sir. He just came into class, began talking to himself, and suddenly he pulled his trousers and took a dump in front of us.”

The dean sighed. “What’s that in his hand?”

“Just a bottle sir”

“What does it contain.”

“Not sure, sir. It says codeine here. Some form of cough syrup, maybe?”