They did not born us as people that use to tell story very well, but they born us inside plenty of story. Some of our story is good, some of them is not good. But we supposed to be telling all of our story because is good for telling… [3mins]
He shoves his left hand into my pocket and roughly removes a couple of tens instead of asking for them as he normally does. I glance at Uyi, a small smile masking my surprise at his atypical behaviour, but he doesn’t smile back. Rather he has a strange look in his eyes which I struggle to interpret… [2mins]
The streets of Angwan Tiv were littered with hawkers, kiosks, money doublers, hungry looking prosperity preachers, buyers and sellers of love, change-thirsty police officers whose pants hung loosely around their hips, beggars whose begging dangled at an important distance from the pedestrians, and cars moving both left and right on a one way road… [4mins]
AFREADA and Africa Writes invite writers to participate in a 500-word flash fiction competition, based on a prompt from the much-loved, Somali British poet, Warsan Shire.
It could quite reasonably be said that Penelope Finch was preordained to be a pariah. After her mother died giving birth to her, she was solely raised, rather haphazardly, by her father, Gareth Finch… [15mins]
You and a group of friends arrived at Mr. Mugisha’s compound with the last echoes of the sun on a Thursday evening, eager and joyful, ready for all Maria’s Giveaway ceremony would bring… [6mins]
The summer I turned nine, my father surprised us all by announcing that he would be taking motorcycle lessons the following week. At the time, my brother and I were slurping spaghetti from our dinner plates, and my mother was spooning sweetcorn from the pot in her hands… [20mins]
