Who will marry me? Who will marry this smeared calabash on my head? It sort of looks like treasure passed down from my three mothers: one who wore stolen necklaces made of gold plated silver; […]
Underneath the heap of rocks and stones a restive but captive stream waits, listening to the hilarious uproar of tumultuous world and of gaudy nature and cries to be a part of them and a […]
Congo. A bongo. A drum and a joke. A man on his knees with a knife to his throat. Bombing The Congo. A Belgian pastime. Lay out the bodies and dust them with lime. Rubber, […]
I was set at the very onset of the olden time when history was just born engraving me on a piece of stone, diagonal to the eyes but still straight to touch the universal heart […]
Something stirred inside Duma. Something dark, restless and wild. It called to her from the depths of the jungle, luring her from a life where nothing ever changed. Her tribe had spent centuries dancing to […]
Abdulaziz sat on the floor and listened to the screams and the music through his window. Outside, everything was wild. He wasn’t old enough to remember the last election, but he couldn’t imagine it being as loud as this one.
He was scared.
All that noise, those colors… It was too much.
When his bedroom door creaked open, he jumped. It was only his bibi, though. It was only the old woman who took care of him. He loved his bibi. She was the only person who treated him like a normal child.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “You’re safe in here. You’re always safe in here. That’s why your father keeps you inside.”
“I thought it was because of what happened to Mama,” he said. He looked down at his hands, at the little, dark wrinkles that crisscrossed his palms.
“That too. Dear, you know you’re special,” she said. “It’s just a precaution.”
You chant, plead and pour libations on tethered stones,
call forth lost gems trampled beneath desecrated soil
while palm trees wave to dried up sappy sap.
Amulets are but charmed wishes, imaginary
baits of burnt out fretful fishermen.
Treasures are only worth a dime to the hungry.
I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills. The equator runs across these highlands . . . and the farm lay at an altitude of over six thousand feet. —Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa.
It is difficult for me to relate to Isak Dinesen’s experience. New York Jewish women do not live on farms in Africa. I will never reside at the foot of the Ngong hills. I merely met an African supernatural potential husband named Ndugu. I feel much more at home on a starship with my clones than on a farm. Isak Dinesen, a non-Jewish writer incarnate, did not begat moi, that is to say Shira Schwartz.
Ghozye Nelson is a young aspiring writer. She is Nigerian and has a couple of poems and articles to her name. The multilinguist lives in Nigeria with her family, but is presently undergoing her postgraduate […]
Fatigue only pushed them onward. Concepts of time diffused in their wake. Hunger atrophied– a hollow thought redressed by expectation.
On and on and on they soared through the comforting cold of liquid space. Above them the great void; below the dense, rocky base of the world; ahead only blackness. Gliding up, then down, the congregation moved as a single entity, graceful behemoths linked by a shared resolve. But the longer their pilgrimage progressed, the warmer their environs became, the more unorthodox their course seemed. Uneasiness circulated throughout the cluster. At first it was only a feeling, a vague sense of apprehension. Then a solitary voice cried out.