This week’s issue features excerpts of fiction, some poems, and a non-fiction piece from a writer’s residency. Chris Ihidero, a columnist from Lagos, makes a debut with two poems exploring pain and nostalgia. In Bolaji Olatunde’s Straw Dogs, a young man explores his own sexuality and confrontation with the forces of Christianity. I strongly recommend it. Alkasim Abdulkadir also makes [...]

by Temitayo Olofinlua    “Is there anything to eat in this house this evening?” Barbara asked. “There’s porridge,” I replied. “Porridge is not food. Porridge is just something that I will drink with the main meal,” Barbara announced. We were both confused on our definitions of porridge. She told me that porridge is made from corn or millet. From her [...]

by Chris Ihidero   I Don’t Want to Cry  I don’t want to cry It’s just that it’s hard to walk pass you daily as you lay in the ground beneath the banana tree when you should be in my arms   I don’t want to cry It’s just that my swollen breasts need to express and my empty tummy [...]

by Bolaji Olatunde November 22, 1997. I stared at the ceiling of my very dimly lit room – the outside lighting of the building provided the little illumination – with, I am sure, the usual blank, post coital expression which I discovered long before that cool Saturday morning that I always seemed to have on my face after indulging in [...]

by Alkasim Abdulkadir 1. Stoning from Glass Houses! The took away our lands And built glass houses They took away the stones So we won’t throw stones At their glass houses. Yet they throw stones at us! They forget that those who sleep and snore In glass houses don’t throw stones! Verily soon we shall smuggle stones from abroad Dredge stones [...]

I often run into a fascinating interesting dilemma of sorts whenever I read and edit submissions to this magazine. Do I turn “favour” into “favor” as my spell-checker suggests; neighbour to “neighbor” and labour to “labor”? After all, such decisions are usually based upon the sole discretion of the imperial editor, he himself taking a cue from the rules set [...]

by Kola Tubosun The voice seemed reasonable, locution Different. The young man swore he lived Close by. Nothing remained But self-confession. “Gentleman,” I warned, “I hate a wasted journey—I am big.” Silence. Silenced transmission of Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came, Huffy, short minted breath As a husky radioman. Caught I was foully. “HOW FAT?” . . . I had [...]

 by Ikhide Ikheloa   Brother – teeth flashing in the cant of compliments Brother – gold-rimmed glasses Across eyes that go blue at a word from the Master Poor brother in your silk-lined tuxedo Chatter and whisper and swagger through condescending drawing roomes We pity you The sun of your land is no more than a shadow Across the calm [...]

by Abimbola Adelakun A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike…. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. - John Steinbeck _____ I have set before you an open door which no man can short. I read the sticker pasted on one of the cracked windows of [...]

A while ago, I stumbled on an old email from my friend Uche Peter Umez, the prizewinning author of Sam and the Wallet and a bunch of other publications. In it were a couple of paragraphs he called Fragments from Sanskriti Kendra. Uche knows something about the beauty of words. He has won the BSU creative writing competition, been a commended winner [...]