Browsing category: SHORT STORY

Different Caps For Different Heads: Chibueze Darlington

And when the shimmering face of the renewed doctor met mine along the hallway, I knew for certain that my life would soon experience a turnaround, that my age long fascination for face caps would take a step below the ladder of priority, wane or even disintegrate into a mass of nothingness. I envisaged an enfolding green gloom forming around its frigid face as it dispassionately watched my joys of fatherhood detonate like an oil-bean seed, scattering across the red earth, grey sky and blue sea, refusing the lure of a backward

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BABY FACTORY: Chimee Adioha

Aba Aba was the city that vomited me; a rumbling city, a city drowned in filth air and successful commerce and unnatural moisture, loud people with loud senses, but she swallowed me. I wouldn’t recognize how Aba drew an identity on me except I leave her, and then someone would crawl close to me and say: Nne, are you from Aba; you speak exactly like them’ or another will come saying – ‘babe, you have an Aba blood in you’ and then I will smile and tell them yes, I am an Aba girl, a typical one for that matter’ Aba swept me

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DARKEST HOUR:Chinyere Akwuneche

I woke up to the dull thuds of rain drops hitting the thatched roof. The air was thick with smoke, making it difficult to breath. I tried to move my arms, but they were too heavy. My eyes burned with tears as I drew clogged air into my weak lungs. I willed myself not to choke, but it was too late; the cough shook me fully out of unconsciousness. My head felt as though it didn't belong on my shoulders. I sensed a movement, right before I felt soft fingers on my forehead. "She's awake," I heard Mama say. "Are you sure?" a

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A Walk Down Nostalgia’s Lane: Zainab Haruna

The door of House No 2 opened slowly and Old Man Adah shuffled out. He turned to make sure that the door shut securely behind him. The neighborhood used to be notorious for break-ins so he always took extra care. He turned towards the street and smiled at his wife, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Ashene moved her head in an abrupt movement making his smile widen. He knew what that movement meant. She was getting impatient. “Hurry up na,” she said and he chuckled. He knew her so well. They had been married for 35 years and

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Ibadan: TJ Benson

Pockets of warm air scented with okpa, firewood smoke and the mint of toothpaste float through the Ibadan morning haze from the rusted zincs stretched out as far as the eye can see, up to him on the second floor balcony of the Harmony Hotel. He is smoking again. He hopes the fire he sucks into his chest will extinguish the cold outside. A prostitute waits for him inside. He has no desire to return to the prostitute. He wants to stare at the collage of giant leaves, varying shades of copper below him. Maybe if he had gotten a room

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WOMEN LIKE ME DO NOT DIE:Chimdinma Onwukwe

It always begins with this numbness on the spot where I know my heart lies, my inside becomes heavy as though every organ has just been assigned a gruesome task - twist and pull. Then my mood dives, my children become intolerable and their whines irritate me. During the day, I eat everything, anything - like a lactating mammal, and at night, I get doused in my own tears. It is an unending cycle. I am telling these to my best-friend Ifeyinwa when she says in that gentle attitude of hers 'Look Oby, If what you want is for me to

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OKPA DI OKU:​Mark Anthony

Saturday mornings in Omagba are always characterized with incessant ringing of bells by little children who beckon other sleeping children for their morning mass. They ring the bell rhythmically so it can blend into everyone’s name. They stump their feet to the beat of the bell and clap amidst careless cum vibrant chants. This group of miniature fanatics never pass our yard without hollering the names of the catholic children who live in our compound. They go- "chibueze! Bianu morni mass, okenna! bianu morni mass, afoma! bianu

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SHOOTING STARS: James Becks Roberts

The irony of shooting stars is that they are dead, it's their last ember we see across the sky. And to know that we wish on them is appalling, has it gotten so bad that we cling our hopes on what has died? It wasn’t a dark night, thanks to the full moon and countless stars. I dipped my face into the bucket again, I didn’t want to know if I was crying – burying my head in a bucket of water was a safe bet, who can separate tears from water? So I continued with my bid to break the record of the longest mourner. I was on a streak,

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We are COAL

COAL’s mission is to support and provide opportunities for budding writers in Africa to develop their creative independent voices and to explore careers in professional writing. To help creative writers and spoken word artists realise their literary dreams by providing platforms for their self expression. .........

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