Baaji Joseph Aondoakura My first episode occurred nearly seven years after Katoro. Afterwards, I would think about the futility of escape, and how distance was no barrier for trauma. The episodes began during Prof. Mcarthy’s Physics class, and were triggered by his lecture on chaos theory. He spoke briefly on the butterfly effect in that nasal, wheezy and barely intelligible way of his—with words rushing out of his mouth like the flow of a river in deluge. “The flap of a butterfly’s wings in one end of the earth can cause a storm in another…” He rambled on as my mind drew a parallel between ..read more

Gospel Okoro // Winner, The Leonard Ugwuanyi Prize for Flash Fiction, 2024. Photo from Pinterest …every now and then, in between mouthfuls of fufu and ofe nsala, ma hides in your chest a garden of words: “Keep your head high, high, up above the water,” the water, whose heart beats of life’s troubles whenever you visit the stream—the stream of seven eyes, as they call it, one of the rivers that holds a cloud of darkness under its lips, you always end up not swimming as other girls of the village do, with their wrappers tied loosely around the waist for the onlookers to bury their eyes in lust ..read more

pixabay Mother says to pluck bitter leaves from the garden in the backyard, to make Ofe Nsala. I know bitter leaf isn’t used to make Nsala soup, but I do not argue with her culinary skill. She has a way of concocting everything into soups. Even though I am too tired for the task, I lay no complaints. I decide that I may find some inspiration for my writing out there. Out in the garden, I pluck bitter leaves. It is Harmattan so I can barely see any. As I pull at the tiny leaves scattered across the tree branch like the teeth of a 6-year-old, my mind hovers through my to-do list: Remind Uche of ..read more

source: Pinterest In the cold silence of the starless night, the bed creaks slowly—almost wearily, as Ife clenches in, shudders, and relaxes. It creaks, again, as he rolls over on his back to stare at the ceiling, pretending he does not hear the bed complain. He is too exhausted to save it anyway.   The pots and pans too rattle from the kitchen in audible fury, making the girl raise her face. “Rats?” she asks. He nudges the question away with a sneeze, wondering how he could possibly say that it was his dead mother speaking to him through the noise. It was his first time bringing a g ..read more

source: freepik.com We’ve gradually fallen into the habit of patching things up, Mother and I. Like nodding our heads as we cross paths in the house or mending the bucket I had broken while taking water from the kitchen on the day Ezinne left – a stone occasioned my misstep. A bad omen. Still, Mother comes around with grief now and again. Some days she comes into my room, sits on the far end of the bed and stares into space. When she sighs with that strain, her breath heavy and echoing in my head, her lips quaking as though in search of words, I know grief is there. On days like these, I stop ..read more

Month by Eze Ndidiamaka Vera The love I have for Doremi is a watermark, not a pencil line. I tell her this often but she wants diamonds on her fingers and gold beneath her feet. She says she doesn’t want a vacation in Dubai but that if she could get a house in Banana Island, a Bugatti and a Samsung Galaxy S23, perhaps she could then think of accepting me. I want to give her all the nicest things I can think of but I am still an SSCE holder aspiring to study Medicine in a federal university. I will surely graduate within six years (If ASUU permits), secure a Job and give her all the world’s fin ..read more

It is guilt that wakes me up from sleep and says that I don’t deserve rest. I don’t immediately hear what it is saying. I just look at my pillow in resigned alarm and nod that I have not earned the right to a peaceful sleep. Bribing a soul to not cross over until you have paid off your debts reminds you of purgatory. And when what you owe is your life, you think this part of limbo is closest to hell. For the fifteenth time, seven nights in a row, you write an unworthy poem. It doesn’t need a looking- at-twice to tell you that this cannot do. Of everything that has been done for you, of every ..read more

Aondona wants to think. But, the guy some seats away would not just stop blabbing. Aondona’s phone continues to beep. Kosi has been relentless with the messages; Aondona had told him over the phone this morning that he was scared he was only using him to fill a hole. “I don’t think I can die for you.” “Must you?” Kosi replied, as if his breath had caught. The boy around Aondona is still blabbing. He is tripping on his words, meandering his way around a nasal, dramatic accent. He is saying: baby, my daughter, she want see you. I tell her Russia and Ukraine is a fighting, not safe, not safe. Bu ..read more

I imagine God as a chubby, aged man that sits all day, clenching everything to himself, the wind, the sun, the earth – very possessive fellow. I imagine my mother as his favorite disciple. The first time I walked home with a boy from my street, mother had held me tightly, her teary eyes glaring at me. “Oluebube, kedu ihe i mere? What have you done? You’ve left God?” “No, mother, he’s a friend. No, mother, I wasn’t sleeping in church, believe me. No, mother, I’m still here. It’s me. Mother, please stop crying. Mother, please forgive me.” And this was how I sinned every day. I grew up fearing ..read more

He tells you how electrifying your poetry rendition had been; how deep the words and emotions you poured had sunk into him, and you tell him that you had seen him staring too long at you even when you descended the platform. He smiles and folds his arm across his chest, and you want to tell him to be snappy and tell you why he had pulled you by the arm past the crowd of students streaming out from the Faculty Lecture Hall, where the Spoken Words evening is held. He tells you he had always been a poet, and you only grunt, not even sure he hears it because he continues immediately telling you h ..read more