Self-censorship is painful, excruciating, debilitating… It feels like a betrayal of self, an abuse of my creative impulse, and self-entrapment in a cycle of doubt and frustration.
A Jealous Thing: Some Words About Writing | An essay by Moses Eduek
If anything, I only pity him. Writing is a jealous thing. It wants all of you and its rewards come sporadically, sometimes without promise or structure.
Freedom (Between Parenthesis) | a CỌ́N-SCÌÒ essay by Donato Cinicolo
All my thoughts and comments are scanned by ‘bots using AI looking for provocative keywords and other clues.
My Writing Journey: A Glimpse Into What Inspired Me to Start & What Keeps Me Motivated | an essay by Yahuza Usman
I look back at this journey with gratitude. It’s a journey filled with wonder, excitement, and productivity, rejuvenating my spirit during moments of doubt.
“Whom The Gods Would Destroy, They First Make Mad” | an essay by Temi Tayo
The gods play a dangerous game, tempting us with their gifts while slowly but surely eroding our minds. And as we spiral deeper into madness, we must ask ourselves, “Is this really what we desired?”
A Distant Elegy | A Memoir by Akal Mohan
Tonight in Kampala, you turn off your light but open the eyes in your head: to see Liz finish her life in a struggle. You see her flapping her hands as the waters lap on her face, helplessly as you yelp for any help. None comes and so she dies. You wish you had contained her spirit before it migrated to a different realm, leaving her body—lifeless.
Between Two Shores: The Migrant’s Tragic Duality | An essay by Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
You see, the migrant’s tragedy is not merely displacement, but also the denial of their potential. Opportunities—once alluring mirages from home—vanish at the point of need, leaving only the echo of the cruel refrain, “Go back where you came from.” Each rejection carves another notch on the tally of our exile.
Roving Bodies | An essay by Edwin Mamman
One of the difficult parts of moving was having to explain to friends and neighbours why we’d no longer be living ‘here’ next year. Saying goodbye and ending friendships you had forged. It was always sad to leave people behind.
Burning Dirt | a short story by Urhuru
“So, you….” Alex stares at his hands “… you don become my padi abi?”
Timi laughs as he walks towards Alex, “Ehen na’’. And they shake hands, in the weird way that guys do.
OF IMAGINATIONS & IMBIBING: A BOOK LOVER’S TRIBUTE TO AFRICA’S FINEST AUTHORS | an essay by Enit’ayanfe Ayosojumi Akinsanya
They merged all the way from my childhood and became the flame in my rocket today. It is only natural that, like murals, their portraits keep surfacing in my works, and yet, they leave me whole, undefiled, true, the writer child they had raised.