No one had ever questioned James like this. Something tightened inside him. After she’d left, the day seemed to drag on, imposing on him a detached obligation so that he worked as if in limbo.

Penned in Rage Journal, Amplifying Marginalized Voices Obiora I didn't understand why the village breeze felt cooler than the one in Abuja, even though Suleja was located at a higher altitude. Maybe it was because of the many trees that were scattered on every street. Two Oroma trees, one Aki Oyibo tree, and one ube tree. It was like this in every house. Except for Izu's house. They had planted Egusi at every corner of the house. So much that if you should walk around t

My husband bought the aso ebi—gold and silver patterned silky lace. The kind of lace that doesn't scratch your skin or argue with your body. It simply rests there like it knows it's expensive.

Earlier in the morning a young Somali was complaining about the parking meters. What do they think this is?! In Footscray… Rich people: Sudanese, Somali…

God, if this is how your followers are, then I do not want to be a Christian anymore. The worst thing God ever made was human beings, rotten from the marrow out. Once, even He had regretted making us and wiped the slate clean with a flood. I do not know why He keeps making more of us, why even now, there is one growing inside me, another soul He has decided to send into this broken place. Another one he would regret later, another of His mistakes

My friends and I are sitting on a log near a stream. We didn’t plan to get lost in the woods, but we wandered off the path and lost our sense of direction, and now here we are, far from home. It’s scary to not know where you are, but at least I’m not alone. The three of us will figure out a way to get home, to get back to our tablets and games consoles and safe bedrooms. We just have to be clever and come up with a plan.

FICTION || Ola W. Halim's Oversized Prison Uniforms

The woman in the room closed her eyes as the breeze caressed her soft face, inviting lingering memories to the forefront of her mind. She rose from her desk, the soft frills of her expensive gown brushing the bottle of ink and spilling it on the letter that she had been writing. Nimbly, she grabbed the bottle, saving most of its contents.

Ramon, the tour guide, and bus driver was an expert storyteller, adding to the majesty of each landmark with insightful facts. All of this resulted in hours feeling like minutes, and days seeming like fast-forwarded VHS movies

Kiara was amazed at the fact that she had accepted the warped reality so easily, adapting to its rules without question. But here she was, floating above her house and looking down at her roof. The soft crisp air of the night caressed her, sending ripples through the fabric of her nightgown as she flew higher. This felt too real, yet it was impossible – wasn’t it? Kiara slowly accepted that she had to be dreaming. It was a lucid dream, but a dream, nonetheless.

The uncut grass of her yard was a stage, and the two butterflies danced among the blades, a minuscule courtship in the vast urban jungle. Rhianna, on her way to work, would normally ignore the dance of the butterflies, but that morning, it spoke to her. She found herself with an induced longing – a need for a personal story. ​

The humid Enugu air clung to us like a second skin as Nneka and I weaved through the stalls of the Kenyatta Market on a beautiful Saturday morning. Laughter spilled from overflowing bowls of palm fruit, bargaining calls intertwined with the rhythmic thrumming of highlife music from a nearby stall. Nneka, ever the explorer, pointed towards a commotion near the back of the market.

Ngozi squeezed herself further into the back of the yellow *Molue, the Lagos air thick and sluggish against her damp skin. Beside her, a woman with a headwrap the colour of ripe mango nursed a whimpering baby. In front of her, two men argued in raspy voices, their hands clenched into fists that rested on their knees. The air vibrated with the competing sounds of the Molue's groaning engine, the conductor's rhythmic shouts of "Oshodi! Oshodi!" and the noise of street life fil