#soho house takes nigeria

[lady-divine-writes]

Fic prompt "Open your eyes? Please? Do this for me?" for GO. Love your writing, btw

Hey, nonnie! Thank you so much :) Here goes. Hope you like it

In Trade

Crowley doesn’t enjoy working underground.

The noise-sucking quiet, the oily darkness that snuffs out even the strongest lights, the stench of earth, the dampness that seeps through his clothes and into his skin …

Some creatures find comfort in these things but Crowley never has. It’s the closest one can come to the experience of being entombed alive, which he has been once or twice.

Not for long though. And mostly just for show.

Unfortunately for Crowley, Hell happens to be the basement of the whole Goddamned planet, so there are times he can’t avoid it. But he doesn’t spend more time down there than he needs. Below ground is where the world forgets about you.

Which is why Evil tends to reside there – scheming and dealing and lying in wait.

Like this latest pet project of Hastur’s, grown from the seedier alleys of SoHo downward, churning through the underbelly of the city.

A bordello - one that appeals to a very specific clientele with detestable desires.

And Crowley doesn’t approve.

As demons, they’re supposed to influence humans to act upon their baser instincts not physically create the means for them to do so. If Hastur wants so badly to infiltrate the sex worker industry, then he should get the humans to build their own bordellos. Of course, humans have been doing that for thousands of years without demonic influence, and worse.

That’s the problem.

Like Crowley told Aziraphale ages ago, humans come up with much more diabolical ways to bring each other down than he ever could so he’d often let them have at it. Is it his fault that Hell commends him for things that were never his doing? The First Barbary War, the Second Barbary War, Fulani Jihad in Nigeria – he got the credit but he was asleep when all of that went down.

Best century of sleep he’s ever had really.

Hastur doesn’t have anything close to Crowley’s reputation (or dumb luck), but that’s because they spend a great deal of their time below. But they crave the recognition. And this haven of sin has managed to reap some pretty remarkable souls for their Master – everyone from celebrities to clergy.

Crowley can’t stomach it. He would rather be creative with regards to his tempting than to simply put a gun in someone’s hand and aim it for them. This masterpiece of Hastur’s is on a level of Evil that Crowley, even as a demon, doesn’t subscribe to. He feels that Hastur has gone a bit too far, but seeing as it has tipped the scales in Hell’s favor, Beelzebub chooses to routinely overlook some of the finer points of the demon’s plan.

But it’s a slave trade, pure and simple.

Crowley has seen slave trades - centuries of humans caging fellow humans and using them against their will as labor, guinea pigs, or for sex.

That’s what this is. A sex slave trade.

And some of the slaves that Crowley has seen being held here are children.

It turns his stomach to the point of wringing dry but he’s not in a position to say anything. Demons by the hundreds work down here, lurking in the shrouded corners, overseeing the day to day in order to raise their own numbers. Crowley can’t possibly fight all of them single-handed.

If he can sneak Aziraphale down here to bless them, maybe this can get sorted out without anyone knowing he was involved.

“So what do you think, Crowley?” Ligur asks, closing in on the end of his unsolicited tour. Hastur had summoned Crowley down there – to gloat, more than likely. But they’re nowhere to be seen, so Ligur has been playing guide. “Impressive, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s one word for it,” Crowley grumbles, ambling along the yards of musty hallways, peeking over the frames of his glasses into room after room. They all look the same – a table, a lamp, and a single bed with some poor, hypnotized bastard chained to it. Crowley gets no joy out of this, unlike Ligur, beaming villainously, particularly when they pass a room housing a whimpering teenage boy and Crowley grinds his teeth together.

“Don’t be a sore loser just because you didn’t think of it … then again, you wouldn’t have, would you?”

“Probably not,” Crowley says, massaging his tense jaw. “The zoning laws alone must be a nightmare …”

“Always with the jokes, you.” Ligur grimaces in disgust, presuming disrespect by this clown for Hastur, an esteemed Duke of Hell. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. You have a soft spot for these mortals, don’t you?”

Crowley chuckles. It’s hollow, rather unconvincing, but he’s never actually cared what Hastur’s pet lizard ever thought of him, Duke or no. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only care about one being on that miserable marble of a planet and that’s me. That’s all.”

Ligur snickers. “I bet. Speaking of, Hastur has arranged something special for you. Sort of a consolation prize, seeing as you won’t be the favorite around Hell anymore. Not when things here get off the ground.”

Crowley looks at the demon with his eyes popped, not a single clue what that could mean and not in the least eager to find out. “Oh, uh … I … no. That’s alright. I’ll abstain.”

“Are you sure? Because I think you’re going to want to see this.”

There’s a surreal sing-song quality to Ligur’s voice that leaves Crowley cold. Ligur is an old-school demon with no sense of humor that Crowley knows of. Even the sarcastic quips he’s come up with are uncharacteristic for him. His attitude over the past hour can best be described that way.

Uncharacteristic, but in a cocky way.

Confident.

Yes, that’s it.

He’s confident about something. Something he thinks can make Crowley change his tune.

That thought sends armies of sharpened steel nails crawling up Crowley’s spine.

“Fine,” Crowley says, grousing to cover up this new and very real concern. He suddenly feels he’s walking into a trap, and like an imbecile, he waltzed into it willingly. “I’ll take a look. Why not, right? While I’m down here. Before I go. Seeing as you lads went through the trouble ...”

Ligur leads Crowley further into the labyrinth of this bordello, hallways winding in on themselves, opening at the last, then leading to new ones. Farther and farther they walk - down, Crowley suspects when the air gets chiller and the torches around them flicker, each one after burning lower and lower, struggling to find air to breathe. With each step, the hallway gets darker, quieter, more removed from the hustle and bustle they left. Crowley stops seeing rooms before they ever reach the final hallway, no more poor souls trapped against their will. There is one room up ahead – a single doorway that this hallway was built to house.

That fact disturbs him on its own.

But it’s the light coming from the room that raises every alarm in Crowley’s body, every hair on his skin standing entirely on end.

A soft blue glow.

A familiar blue glow.

So familiar, in fact, that Crowley calls out before he’s even at the room.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley runs for it, forgoing the cool, calm, and detached act he’d been plying until he could get himself out of here and go for help. He slides into the doorway, the slick soles of his snakeskin shoes finding no traction on the smooth stone floor. Crowley expects to see the same as the other rooms – a table, a lamp, and a bed. But there’s none of that here, and their absence makes the scene in front of him that more sinister.

In the center of the room he sees an angel on their knees, white wings extended outward in both directions, kept spread and aloft by chains dangling from the ceiling wrapped around the joints. The angel looks like Aziraphale, but in many ways not like Aziraphale. He looks ethereal but artificially so, as if his wings, hair, and skin have been miracled to appear whiter than they would normally whilst down here with Evil slowly seeping into his brain. He’s bound, arms behind his back tied from elbows to wrists in a complicated gauntlet made of steel rope, simmering with the subtle red cast of damnation so they can’t be miracled away by holy magic, the ends locked around his ankles, giving him no slack to stand. He’s been re-dressed from his usual attire into a loose-fitting drape of a garment, reminiscent of their robes from Eden, only this one has no sleeves and a neckline so baggy Crowley can see straight down to the angel’s chest and back. Aziraphale’s exposed skin seems to be marked, carved with symbols whose origins Crowley doesn’t know.

It’s not just the marks on Aziraphale’s skin that bother Crowley. There’s a hardness to his face. Instead of looking peaceful in this semi-sleep state, he looks charged, ready to fight.

Ready to kill.

Crowley glares at Ligur, his eyes behind dark lenses burning like a sulfuric flame. “What have you done to him?”

Ligur grins. Crowley doesn’t scare him. Who cares if he is one of Satan’s favorites? He’s a joke. A fool. Hastur tells them constantly. Vain and insipid Anthony J Crowley, who drives a human car, wears human clothes, drinks human alcohol, lives among them like a native.

And worst of all – who fell in love with an angel.

“Wat? We’ve done nuthin’ to him. Nuthin’ at all.”

“Then what the Hell are those marks!?”

“They’re demonic locks, meant to keep him down here. Hastur’s latest and greatest idea …”

“Hassstur …” Crowley hisses under his breath. “That ssson-of-a …”

There’s no reason for Hastur to devise such a plan against the angels. Demons don’t kidnap angels. That’s not in the nature of their battle against one another. Besides, Gabriel and Beelzebub are too egotistical to let their sides duke it out on their own and risk anyone rising victorious without the virtue of their leadership. So in their infinite wisdom, they decide when and where wars between angels and demons take place.

Another one’s due in about eleven years – an all or nothing, take no prisoners battle between good and evil – so such a weapon would be pointless.

Which means these locks were created to target Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone.

But this doesn’t end with Aziraphale. Crowley would be blind not to see it.

Capturing Aziraphale and bringing him below ground, binding him to this place and then parading him in front of Crowley …

… this was a plan by Hastur to get to Crowley as well.

Either to exact revenge or to figure out where his loyalties lie.

“Each demon put one on, that means each demon would need to unlock their own for the angel to leave, so don’t get any bright ideas. Unless …”

Crowley’s eyes don’t leave his angel’s face. Only a single raised brow signals that he’s still listening. “Unless …?”

Ligur shrugs as if the answer to Crowley’s question is ridiculously obvious. “If you corrupt him, you can save him.”

Crowley swallows hard.

Corrupt Aziraphale?

Make him fall?

Crowley can’t do that, not even to save him from this. Of course the horrific truth is he’ll have to if there is no other way. Would Aziraphale understand?

Would he forgive him?

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

“I don’t know. You’re an expert on corrupting humans. You spend all your time with them. I’m sure you can think of something.”

“Ligur!” Crowley growls at the demon’s back as they begin to saunter away.

“He’s already on his knees,” Ligur says, waving a dismissive hand. “That’s a good start from what I hear. Use your imagination.”

Ligur’s cruel, throaty laugh echoes as a door appears, just to slide closed behind them. It seals out the light, plunging Crowley and Aziraphale into total darkness. The only hint of illumination Crowley sees comes from the angel himself, but only just. Overwhelmed by the Evil around them, it’s fainter than Crowley has ever seen.

And growing even more so.

Which means he may be running out of time.

If that light goes out, Aziraphale won’t need Crowley to corrupt him.

The deed will be done.

The only difference is Aziraphale may turn on him after.

Crowley has often suspected (backed by things he’s seen and things he’s heard) that if Aziraphale were to fall, it would need to be at Crowley’s hand, or else he risks Aziraphale becoming his enemy. It’s the nature of demons to avoid one another when possible, be distrustful of each other constantly.

In his wickedest dreams, he’d hoped that if Aziraphale ever fell, it would be whilst the two of them made love, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Then they could be with each other forever.

If that is to be the way of it, Crowley refuses to let that happen here.

But will he have a choice?

Crowley drops to his knees. “Angel!?” He grabs Aziraphale’s upper arms and gives him a shake. “Can you hear me?”

“Mmm … Crowley?” Aziraphale replies, the voice sliding between his lips a mixture of the one Crowley knows and something tainted and coarse.

“Thank God,” Crowley breathes before he can catch himself. “Angel? I need you to open your eyes and look at me. Can you do that?”

Aziraphale hums in response. “I’ll … I’ll try.”

“Don’t try! Do it, Aziraphale!” Crowley’s head falls forward, his forehead finding Aziraphale’s and pressing gently against it. “Please, Aziraphale? Open your eyes. Do this for me. I need to make sure …” Crowley can’t finish, the words clogging his throat, wrenching his windpipe shut.

“All … all right.” Aziraphale clears his throat in between but it does nothing. Every word becomes rougher, the lyrical nature of his angelic voice eaten away. “I’ll … try.” His face scrunches as his eyelids pull, fighting to split and look upon his demon. Crowley hears him groan with the effort, this small task Herculean for some unknown reason.

Except there is one Crowley can think of, and it makes what’s left of his soul wither with the agony of defeat.

After several tense seconds of active praying on Crowley’s part, Aziraphale tips his head up, opens his eyes … and a single word escapes Crowley’s mouth. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Please, God … no,” as Aziraphale comes to and blinks blood red eyes.

[richincolor]

#ReadingAfrica 

Catalyst Press held a #ReadingAfrica Week during the first week of December. The campaign just ended, but we encourage everyone to #ReadAfrica all year long. Here are some of the Young Adult books we’ve enjoyed and recommend:

It's Trevor Noah: Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (Adapted for Young Readers) by Trevor Noah - Delacorte

The host of The Daily Show, Trevor Noah, tells the story of growing up half black, half white in South Africa under and after apartheid in this young readers' adaptation of his bestselling adult memoir Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood.

Trevor Noah shares his story of growing up in South Africa, with a black South African mother and a white European father at a time when it was against the law for a mixed-race child like him to exist. But he did exist--and from the beginning, the often-misbehaved Trevor used his smarts and humor to navigate a harsh life under a racist government.

How Dare the Sun Rise: Memoirs of a War Child by Sandra Uwiringiyimana, Abigail Pesta - Katherine Tegen Books

This profoundly moving memoir is the remarkable and inspiring true story of Sandra Uwiringyimana, a girl from the Democratic Republic of the Congo who tells the tale of how she survived a massacre, immigrated to America, and overcame her trauma through art and activism. Sandra was just ten years old when she found herself with a gun pointed at her head. She had watched as rebels gunned down her mother and six-year-old sister in a refugee camp. Remarkably, the rebel didn’t pull the trigger, and Sandra escaped. Thus began a new life for her and her surviving family members. With no home and no money, they struggled to stay alive. Eventually, through a United Nations refugee program, they moved to America, only to face yet another ethnic disconnect. Sandra may have crossed an ocean, but there was now a much wider divide she had to overcome. And it started with middle school in New York. In this memoir, Sandra tells the story of her survival, of finding her place in a new country, of her hope for the future, and how she found a way to give voice to her people. 

Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - Harper Perennial

Fifteen-year-old Kambili and her older brother Jaja lead a privileged life in Enugu, Nigeria. They live in a beautiful house, with a caring family, and attend an exclusive missionary school. They're completely shielded from the troubles of the world. Yet, as Kambili reveals in her tender-voiced account, things are less perfect than they appear. Although her Papa is generous and well respected, he is fanatically religious and tyrannical at home—a home that is silent and suffocating. As the country begins to fall apart under a military coup, Kambili and Jaja are sent to their aunt, a university professor outside the city, where they discover a life beyond the confines of their father’s authority. Books cram the shelves, curry and nutmeg permeate the air, and their cousins’ laughter rings throughout the house. When they return home, tensions within the family escalate, and Kambili must find the strength to keep her loved ones together. Purple Hibiscus is an exquisite novel about the emotional turmoil of adolescence, the powerful bonds of family, and the bright promise of freedom.

Aya: Life in Yop City by Marguerite Abouet, Clément Oubrerie (Illustrator) - Drawn and Quarterly

Ivory Coast, 1978. It’s a golden time, and the nation, too—an oasis of affluence and stability in West Africa—seems fueled by something wondrous. Aya is loosely based upon Marguerite Abouet’s youth in Yop City. It is the story of the studious and clear-sighted nineteen-year-old Aya, her easygoing friends Adjoua and Bintou, and their meddling relatives and neighbors. It’s a wryly funny, breezy account of the simple pleasures and private troubles of everyday life in Yop City. Clément Oubrerie’s warm colors and energetic, playful line connect expressively with Marguerite Abouet’s vibrant writing. This reworked edition offers readers the chance to immerse themselves in Abouet’s Yop City, bringing together the first three volumes of the series in Book One.

Hope is Our Only Wing by Rutendo Tavengerwei - Soho Teen [Rich in Color Review]

For fifteen-year-old Shamiso, struggling with grief and bewilderment following her father's death, hope is nothing but a leap into darkness. For Tanyaradzwa, whose life has been turned upside down by a cancer diagnosis, hope is the only reason to keep fighting. As the two of them form an unlikely friendship, Shamiso begins to confront her terrible fear of loss. In getting close to another person, particularly someone who's ill, isn't she just opening herself up to more pain? And underpinning it all - what did happen to her father, the night of that strange and implausible car crash? Rutendo Tavengerwei's extraordinary debut takes an honest look at hope, and the grit and courage it can take to hang on to it. 

This Book Betrays My Brother by Kagiso Lesego Molope - Mawenzi House Publishers [Rich in Color Review]

What does a teenage girl do when she sees her beloved older brother commit a horrific crime? Should she report to her parents, or should she keep quiet? Should she confront him? All her life, Naledi has been in awe of Basi, her charming and outgoing older brother. They've shared their childhood, with its jokes and secrets, the alliances and stories about the community. Having reached thirteen, she is preparing to go to the school dance. Then she sees Naledi commit an act that violates everything she believes about him. How will she live her life now? This coming-of-age novel brings together many social issues, peculiar not only to South Africa but elsewhere as well, in the modern world: class and race, young love and physical desire, homosexuality. In beautiful, lyrical, and intimate prose, Molope shows the dilemmas facing a young woman as she attempts to find her place in a new, multiracial, and dynamic nation emerging into the world after more than a century of racist colonialism. A world now dominated by men. There are no simple answers.

Akata Witch by Nnedi Okorafor - Speak [Rich in Color Review]

Sunny Nwazue lives in Nigeria, but she was born in New York City. Her features are West African, but she's albino. She's a terrific athlete, but can't go out into the sun to play soccer. There seems to be no place where she fits in. And then she discovers something amazing—she is a "free agent" with latent magical power. And she has a lot of catching up to do. Soon she's part of a quartet of magic students, studying the visible and invisible, learning to change reality. But just as she's finding her footing, Sunny and her friends are asked by the magical authorities to help track down a career criminal who knows magic, too. Will their training be enough to help them against a threat whose powers greatly outnumber theirs?

Akata Warrior by Nnedi Okorafor - Viking Books for Young Readers

A year ago, Sunny Nwazue, an American-born girl Nigerian girl, was inducted into the secret Leopard Society. As she began to develop her magical powers, Sunny learned that she had been chosen to lead a dangerous mission to avert an apocalypse, brought about by the terrifying masquerade, Ekwensu. Now, stronger, feistier, and a bit older, Sunny is studying with her mentor Sugar Cream and struggling to unlock the secrets in her strange Nsibidi book. Eventually, Sunny knows she must confront her destiny. With the support of her Leopard Society friends, Orlu, Chichi, and Sasha, and of her spirit face, Anyanwu, she will travel through worlds both visible and invisible to the mysteries town of Osisi, where she will fight a climactic battle to save humanity. Much-honored Nnedi Okorafor, winner of the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy awards, merges today’s Nigeria with a unique world she creates. Akata Warrior blends mythology, fantasy, history and magic into a compelling tale that will keep readers spellbound.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

People Magazine was the press corps! So much for plans to support grassroots (minorities) media outlets 🤡

Whose HAIR is this?

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

So-Ho takes Nigeria on Mother's Day & w/the deception of duper's delight tried to SPIN the reality of 2 scamming grifters into a narrative that it's actually appropriate for her NOT to be mothering her caucasian invisibles in America because it's better for her to be at HOME in the MOTHERland. Only a master manipulator like THE Meghan Markled could contort so many lies into such a stupid explanation for her grifting lifestyle. 🤡

"...and although we are missing our children----we are missing our babies..."

"...it feels very appropriate to be in the MOTHERLAND..."

"...and amongst family..."

"...we cant wait to come back"

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Messy Misan Harriman

The Eugenie York (of course) Soho House fraud friend hired to take engagement photos of York sister, Beatrice & her fiance Edo.

"Leave those babies alone" misan's favorite twitter clapback about the INVISIBLES.

"...we are missing our children, I am missing my babies." -here we see megain markled yet again misappropriating their culture to curry favor & win influence

Nigeria is the "FATHERLAND"

In 2014, MEgain used Misan to join One Young World. Misan introduced her to Boris Becker who introduced her to Gina Nelthorpe Cowne.

In July 2016, MEgain says she met Misan for dinner after her drinks w/Piers Morgan. Supposedly this was the day prior to her 1st official date with Prince Harry

Update: Misan Harriman is "manifesting" the Portrait Gallery (like his mistress) as his photoshopped photo of The Meghans was only accepted for "evaluation."

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Meghan, the Duchess of Sus, brings BODY POSITIVITY to Nigerian Kids

H: "Shall we go back and have you change into something more appropriate."

M: "I want to get across to the children & teachers the concept of body positivity and I'm feeling quite positive about mine...before you know it they'll crown me princess of Nigeria...let's get this show on the road"

Kids sing: "Jump and turn around RUN American. Please go home soon!"🤣😂

"Jump and turn around run American. Please go home soon!"🤣😂

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Grifter's House video set to the tune of Full House

Created by Meghan Markle Parody @queenofmemes80