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rita balogun short story march 2025

Sola Adebayo lingered in her bedroom to avoid her family. As Brent Faiyaz crooned in her ears, she watched the ceiling fan swirl into blurriness and smelled dinner creeping into her room, making its way to her nose. Sola was ready to live on her own. Her mother nagging her to pick up the clothes on the bathroom floor and both parents inquiring about her whereabouts were no longer things she wanted to deal with. She wanted to be in her own space, to be free and spread her wings. She thought about what she would do if she had her own place: walk around naked, let her small, saggy breasts flop with abandon, blast Burna Boy, dance on top of the couch like a madwoman, have a pint of salted caramel ice cream for dinner without anyone judging her. That was the way she wanted to live.

Tonight, Tina stood over a hot stove, preparing a meal that reminded her of home — fufu, spicy tomato and okra stew with assorted meats, suya, and dodo. Fragrant spices and the smell of stockfish left a permanent stench around the house. When Sola was growing up, she hated bringing her school friends over to her home because it reeked of African spices and goat meat. Sola preferred sleepovers at her White friends’ houses because their homes smelled like fresh baked cookies; their parents never cackled loudly into the phone; and their siblings didn’t act like fools. Her friends had normal homes.

“Oya! Food dey ready!” Tina shouted. Her voice was as clear as day even through Sola’s loud music. Sola paused her R&B playlist, removed the AirPods from her ears and went into the dining area.

Sam, her father, was seated at the table, reading glasses hanging from his bulbous nose as he flipped through the newspaper. Sam was a tall, hefty man with a protruding belly full of pounded yam and Guinness beer. There was a burn scar on his left forearm marking the spot where hot water was accidentally poured on him as a child. His dark, shiny head was completely bald, hair having escaped him once he reached his mid-thirties.  Sola could never relate to girls who had good relationships with their fathers. Sam was an old school Nigerian man who believed he was meant to be the breadwinner and dictate how the house should run. He believed he was responsible for providing for the house and guiding his family while the wife did domestic work and the children obeyed and listened to the parents.

Sola sat across from her dad, who continued flipping through his paper. Her sister, Chima, strode in and sat next to Sola. She wore an oversized faded black t-shirt with J Cole’s face on it and black leggings, her blond box breads in a messy bun. Chima had rich, dark skin that was fresh and clear thanks to her genes and her religious skincare routine. Her doe-like brown eyes were framed by wispy lash extensions. Her gap-tooth smile was slightly yellow and crooked, a flaw she was insecure about. Tina would always reassure her that her gap was a sign of beauty in Nigeria, but Chima couldn’t see it. In America, her gap was a deformity.

Without the assistance of anyone, Tina balanced dishes of food in both arms, setting them down at the center of the table. A bowl of oily, spicy stew with an array of meats swimming inside. A greasy plate of fried plantains with a paper towel underneath to capture excess oil. Well-seasoned beef on kabob sticks with sliced cucumbers on the side. Individually saran-wrapped, pounded yams on a serving dish. In front of each chair there were already plates, tumblers, and small bowls of water for washing their hands. Sam slapped his paper down and lunged for the serving spoon, piling his plate with fufu, dodo, spicy stew with shaki, fish, and chicken drums. The others silently piled their plates with food.

Sam rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, dunked his hand into the bowl of water, and tore himself a piece of fufu, dipping the sticky dough into the stew. He inhaled his food, making a loud, wet popping sound after licking his soiled fingers. Tina threw him a dirty stare.

“Must you eat without first thanking God for your meal?” Tina said in Yoruba.

“Oya! Praise Him then!” Sam snapped back in Yoruba. Tina kissed her teeth and forcefully grabbed her husband’s rough hand, closing her eyes. Sola and Chima followed suit as Tina blessed the food.

“Our Heavenly Father, we thank you. We thank You for the food You provide for us every day and every night and for allowing us to be fortunate enough to put food on the table. We ask Father that You bless this food we are about to eat and let it nourish us, and that You continue to guide our family towards prosperity and peace. We give You all the praise. In the name of Your Son Jesus Christ we pray, Amen.”

“Amen,” murmured the others, in unison.

Sola dipped the tips of her manicured fingers into her bowl of water, flicking off the excess, and sinking her fingers into the soft pounded yam. She drenched her fufu in the spicy stew and popped it into her mouth. The spices of the stew tickled her throat, causing her to cough.

Everyone ate in silence, as the space filled with the sounds of smacking and swallowing. Sola pulled out her phone with her clean hand, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram as she ate.

Sam peered at Sola from the top of his reading glasses. “Put your phone away at the table. We are eating.”

Sola sighed and shut off her phone, slamming it face down on the table. Sam dropped his ball of fufu on the plate. “What’s wrong with you?”

Sola took several beats before saying in a low voice, “Nothing.”

“It’s something,” Sam pressed on. “You would not be disrespecting me if it weren’t so.”

“I’m not disrespecting you. I’m just tired.”

Tina glared at the side of Sam’s head, willing him to stop. Chima bit into a piece of beef, her eyes trained down at her plate.

“So, it is not disrespectful that you slammed your phone down?” Sam inquired.

Sola was growing tired of her father pushing the matter and wished he would let it go. “It was an accident.”

“An accident, ke?” Sam let out a loud cackle.

“Sam, leave it alone,” Tina hissed at her husband in Yoruba.

“Jo!” Sam exclaimed, his anger bubbling over. “Don’t allow this girl to disrespect me. I am her father.”

Sola knew her father resented her for wasting his hard-earned money on an art degree. These days, she spent her life sitting in a four-by-four cubicle talking to angry customers about overdue balances on their accounts. Working as a customer service representative was the only job she landed after graduating with a useless art degree. Her dad probably hated her even more for not using the degree. Like most Nigerian parents, Sam and Tina wanted their daughters to be doctors, accountants, and lawyers. They didn’t travel all the way to America for their daughters to live the same struggles they did.

Sam and Tina continued arguing in Yoruba – a language Sola and Chima never learned because their mother didn’t feel the need to teach them. As long as their native tongue was English, that’s all that mattered to her.

Sam slammed his meaty hands on the table, shaking everything on the surface, his anger growing stronger. Tina kissed her teeth and returned to the food on her plate, done with the quarrel. Their marriage was full of nonsense arguments, and love was never present in their union.

Sam returned to chomping in silence. Tension filled the space as everyone tried to get through dinner.

Because Sam wasn’t a man who could let things go, he said in a low, calm voice, “If you continue to disrespect me, I will kick you out.”

Growing annoyed with her father, Sola massaged her temple with the pads of her fingers. This was one reason she wanted to live alone. Dinnertime was meant for family to be together at one table and enjoy each other’s company. In the Adebayo’s house, dinnertime was a mere façade to act like they were one big loving family.

Sola was tired of biting her tongue, tired of caring what her father thought of her. Nothing she said or did was good enough for him.

Chima poked at her food silently, a tiny part of her grateful that their father’s wrath wasn’t upon her. Chima had made the mistake once by siding with her sister, and Sam took his anger out on her, claiming that his daughters were against him and needed to read the Bible so they could be reminded to obey their parents.

“I don’t care if you kick me out because I don’t want to be here anymore,” Sola said, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them. Sam looked at her, his stare hard and menacing. Tina looked in disbelief. Chima poked Sola in the thigh, willing her to stop. Sola and Chima had never dared to talk back to Sam in his own home.

Fueled by the burning rage within her, Sola continued. “I know you hate me because I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be. You’re upset because I failed to secure a good career and thrive after graduation. I know that in your head you compare me to your friends, who have children who are successful doctors and engineers, and wonder where I went wrong.  Why can’t you just accept us as we are?”

Silence followed after Sola’s outburst. Finally, Tina cut through the silence and said, “Why we no fe have a good dinner?”

“I agree. Let’s just let it go,” Chima said, uttering her first words that night.

“But Dad started it!” Sola shouted. “I just simply put my phone down, and he thought I was disrespecting him!”

“Do not raise your voice in my house!” Sam exclaimed, slapping his hands down on the table.

“I’m tired of you resenting me! I don’t want to be here anymore!”

“That’s enough!” Tina shouted, silencing everyone with her words. “Stop this nonsense! Just eat and shut up!”

“Tina, you are the reason why these girls talk back to us,” Sam said.

“Me, ke?”

“Yes you.” Sam stabbed his index finger at his daughters. “You don’t know how to set them straight. Because of you, these two don’t know how to respect their elders.”

“What did I do?” Chima asked.

Ignoring Chima’s question, Sam and Tina started back up on their own argument, throwing insults at each other in Yoruba. Chima, used to their loud arguments, continued to eat like nothing was happening. Sola stared at the food on her plate, her appetite gone. All she wanted at this moment was to be as far away from her dysfunctional family as possible.

Once they were done with their screaming match, Sam cleared his plate, licked the leftover stew off his fingers, and stood up.

“Sola, I want you out of this house by the end of the week. I will not take any more disrespect from you,” Sam said.

“Sam—” Tina started.

“Don’t question me,” Sam snapped at Tina. “That is final.” Without another word, he grabbed his newspaper and went upstairs.

Defeated, Tina got up and grabbed her and her husband’s empty plate. Sola and Chima sat alone.

“Did that make you feel better?” Chima asked.

Sola scoffed. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, did it feel good to ruin dinner with your outburst?”

“I didn’t ruin dinner. All I did was stand up for myself. You should try it sometimes.”

Chima shook her head. “You know how Dad is. He’s never going to change.”

“But that doesn’t mean we have to tolerate his disdain for us.”

“I just wouldn’t have gone about it that way.”

“Whatever. You don’t understand,” Sola said. Being around her family depleted her energy. They could never just have a nice, normal family dinner. From this day on, she was done caring about meeting expectations.

“I do understand. I understand that you’re frustrated. I understand that you want Dad to see that you’re trying. I just think there’s a different way to go about it,” Chima said, tearing into a drumstick with her long black nails.

Sola tapped her nails on the edge of her plate, not responding to Chima’s statement. It was useless explaining something to someone who truly didn’t understand.

Once they finished dinner, they helped their mother with the dishes. They wiped the table free of stew drippings and vacated into their rooms. Sam — who had changed into his plaid pajama pants and ratty white t-shirt — lay in bed, reading the rest of his newspaper. Tina lay on the other side of him, nightgown and bonnet on, watching the 10 o’clock news on TV, its sound lowered to not disturb Sam.

 Chimah sat on the fuzzy beanbag in the corner of her room, listening to a guided meditation practice to cleanse her mind of the night’s debacle.

Sola, hoping to drown out thoughts of a dinner destroyed, popped her earbuds back in and listened to soft R&B music in her dark room. She wondered what it would be like if everyone in her family actually loved each other and worried if her father’s feelings would be the same tomorrow morning.


Rita Balogun is a Nigerian American writer who studied creative writing at Stephen F. Austin State in Nacogdoches, Texas. She currently freelances as a ghostwriter.

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tamara j. madison poetry march 2025

after “Born Again and Again” by DaMaris B. Hill, Breath Better Spent

“Your woman tongue can hoist bodies into heaven.”


That’s why I keep my

lips lightly rouged,

pressed, rarely wet.

My mouth opens

only upon conviction.

Heaven got no rooms for irreverent

‘hoes, liars, cheats, beasts.

Meanwhile, hell writing another bill of sale,

buying territory for expansion,

gentrifying dreams, redlining

degrees of treachery.

In a world of flames,

rent ain’t affordable.


My mouth opens

only upon conviction

in case heaven runs short-

free rooms Gabriel

prematurely assigned.


Tamara J. Madison, poet, writer, and editor, is the author of Threed, This Road Not Damascus (Trio House Press – print and EAT Poems – audio). Her writing is inspired by her ancestry and relations. Her work has been reviewed and published in various journals and literary magazines including The Amistad, Appalachian Review, Poetry International, Cider Press Review, and World Literature Today.  Tamara has also shared her poetry on the TEDx platform. She is a MFA graduate of New England College and an Anaphora Arts and Ucross fellow. She currently teaches English and Creative Writing and is completing a new full-length mixed-genre collection. Find her @tamarajmadison on Instagram, Facebook, and X/Twitter.

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leslie dianne poetry march 2025

I read that you walked

across the continent

searching for your

ancestral home

3 small moving dots

seen from the wide

sky’s view

the clouds pulling you

East whenever you lost

your way, the ocean mist

hiding you from your

enemies and turning

you into motion poems

ancient songs were

carried by magical

lizards and snakes and

spread across the earth

to show you the way

and you gather the

stories of your people

and hold them inside

your bones


There you are in

the midst of the past

dancing and dancing in

the flow of time

tying an invisible knot

to the constellations

strengthening your lifeline

to your people’s wisdom

as the ghosts of your people

appear around you like

notes to be played

and songs to 

be sung


Leslie Dianne is a poet, novelist, screenwriter, playwright, and performer whose work has been acclaimed internationally at the Harrogate Fringe Festival in Great Britian, the International Arts Festival in Tuscany, Italy and at La Mama, ETC in New York. Her stage plays have been produced in New York at the American Theater of Actors, Raw Space, Puerto Rican Traveling Theater, and Lamb’s Theater. She holds a BA in French Literature from CUNY and her poems appear in The Wild Word, Sparks of Calliope, Quaranzine, Flashes, and elsewhere. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee.

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ashley collins poetry february 2025

if i could color you dark,

i would.

you’d be just like me, a paranoia queen—

your heart always racing,

your ears always keen

for the bigoted men whispering.


if i could color you dark,

i would.

you’d learn how they see you young,

how to push when others hate,

how to live when a brother’s been hung—

you’d learn to carry that weight.


if i could color you dark,

i would.

you’d feel that bullet in your chest

as they wear that silent pin.

they trade your brown skin best

for the unarmed cost of melanin.


if i could color you dark,

i would.

you’d see your dark as the villian—

how they turn when they can’t profit.

white privilege starts to fill in

while your people take the grand hit.


if i could color you dark,

i would.

so you could know the pain is true—

so you could know the hurt it spits

as your color is returned to you

and my skin can’t be purged of it.


I See

I see dark red spilling out

On the concrete grounds.

It’s not mine this time, I say,

It’s not mine.


I see dark red filling the streets,

People are stepping over it.

They don’t want to touch it, they say,

They don’t want to touch it.


I see dark red drying in the crevices

Of the blue man’s shoes.

That boy was no good, he says.

That boy was an animal, he says.

That boy was reaching, he says.

That boy was a black man.


I see dark red spilling out

On the concrete grounds

And I wonder how long I got

‘Till I see my own dark red,

Right there, on the ground,

Drying in the blue man’s crevices.


marginalized

to be black & woman

is to learn how

quick they are

to love you &

how easy it is

for them to

dismiss you.


Ashley Collins is an Oregonian writer who received her MFA at Northern Arizona University. When she isn’t writing or reading, she is thrifting, collecting obsolete items, and watching bad movies.

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jeevan bhagwat poetry february 2025

In a white land                                       

where the antithesis to homogeneity

is a face of colour                                  

sprung from the root of diversity,

it’s easy to feel colonial privilege

weighing down heavy on your sprouting dreams

through closed doors and lost opportunities,

till your voice is voiceless

and you are relegated to nothing more

than a statistic that paints

your otherness grey.


In a white land

a man of colour

sticks out like a sore thumb

at a job interview where the employer

suffers from snow blindness,

or at a routine traffic stop

where the police questions your identity

with their fingers poised on the trigger.


In a white land

a man of colour

struggles to be valued,

to be seen,


to be.


Jeevan Bhagwat lives in Scarborough, Ontario. His work has been widely published in literary journals and websites such as Queen’s Quarterly, The Windsor Review, The Feathertale Review, The Prairie Journal, and is forthcoming in Canadian Literature. In 2003 and 2005, he won The Monica Ladell Prize for Poetry from the Scarborough Arts Council, and in 2015 he was the recipient of the Scarborough Urban Hero Award for Arts & Culture. His poetry books include Across The Universe Poetry Anthology (The Ontario Poetry Society, Beret Days Press, 2024), Luminescence (IN Publications, 2020) and The Weight of Dreams (IN Publications, 2012). You can find him on Twitter/X at @j_bhagwat.

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sarah sands phillips poetry february 2025

Staring at the floorboards,

warm cherry slat knots make

half a bison face.


She stares me down.

Sees I am also in knots.


The stain darkening her ears

also runs from me, trickling through

wood grain hair.


Surrounded by forest, and dripping

sugar bark, everything reminds me

of who I don’t know I am.


Everything almost the same colour

as the hide of her memory

As an already ripe, turning summer.


Sarah Sands Phillips (b. Tsí Tkaròn:to, Canada) is a Red River Métis/British-Irish interdisciplinary artist and poet. She holds an MFA from the Ruskin School of Art at the University of Oxford (2019). Sands Phillips has exhibited in Canada and internationally. Her art and writing have appeared or are forthcoming in tba: Journal of Art, Media, and Visual Culture; Tokyo Poetry Journal; Yellow Medicine Review; NUT: Volume II; and Hart House Review, among others. She is currently based in Tokyo, Japan. She can be found online at www.sarahsandsphillips.com and on Instagram @sarahsandsphillips.

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j.s. Clark poetry january 2025

“Is that a birthmark?”


You’ve kissed every shade of melanin on my body.

And never wondered why a hue was born.

Until now.


Curiosity is flattering

After all, desire is the dream of knowing


The dream of knowing love

The dream of knowing a lover


As far as you know now, every spot on my body was completed at conception

A divine design unmarred by clumsy falls and cruel hands.


So, I hesitate.


Not wanting to shatter perfection.


Perception.


My skin collects memories of pain in pigment

I am at my core, a nostalgic being


These markings are curated on my surface

Like masterpieces of a gallery

Viewed but never known


But as a creator of art

The maker of my marks

I owe my audience truth


“No, It’s a scar”


 Honesty is blissful in our world

Laying in your arms


The birth of the scar delivered from my memory

Transferred from my skin to your mind

By your fingertips


Caressing the outline of my creation.


J.S. CLARK (she/her) is an essayist and poet known for powerful explorations of vulnerability, love, growth, trust, and resistance. As a queer Black Brazilian-American writer, her intersectional identities deeply influence her work which seamlessly blends personal and collective experiences. Clark’s essays and poetry offer raw honesty and profound introspection, capturing the complexities of human relationships, framing sensitivity as a strength, telling stories of truth, and highlighting the transformative power of love. Her unique style and perspective make her a refreshing new face in contemporary literature, inspiring and connecting with diverse audiences through her compelling literary voice.

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Decolonial Passage is honored to announce the nominations for next year’s Best Small Fictions Anthology.  This list includes writing published from January to December 2024.  Congratulations to the nominees!

Flash Fiction

“A Striking Space” by Katie Coleman


“Fufu, Sardines, and Tomato Sauce” by Sabrina Moella


“Memory/I send myself” by Wangũi wa Kamonji


Prose Poetry


“I Come to You by Chance” by Richard De-Graft Tawiah

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eleanor jones poetry january 2025

how did Grandpa Brown get his land?

one hundred fertile acres incited

centuries of silly questions

like “were mules included?”

truth faded into mystery,

answers, hearsay

from dead voices.

Great Grand Lee of native blood whispered,

“do what white folks say,

and they won’t kill you.”

his life, our land depended on smiles and waves.


we were not warriors.

land rich. impoverished.

what remains?

battered boards,

remnants of our homemade 5-room shanty.

grouted well

that nourished 16 children, livestock, cotton.

pine trees

rooted in proud carolina soil.

dusty roads

with boot prints bound for northern highways.


after Grandpa died, i never returned to the farm.

in my mailbox, form letters from profiteers

begging for land or timber.

is there guilt in selling one’s homeland?

truth discovered it is not my land. it is God’s land.

no guilt or commandment in a smile. only life.


Eleanor Jones is an African American with Catawba and Monacan Native ancestry. A communications executive and equestrian, her Southern United States poetry and prose have been recognized internationally through contests and publications sponsored by Sun Magazine, Current Words Publishing, Maryland Writers’ Association, Washington Writers’ Publishing House, and Wingless Dreamer Publishing. Eleanor’s nonfiction has appeared in Essence, People and The Washington Post. Check out her new Instagram @eleanorjjjoneswriter.

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sabrina moella flash fiction december 2024

When Grandma died, I made fufu for the first time in years, even though I’d hated the taste of it as a child.

I bought cassava flour downtown in an African store where I hardly shopped. Had to ask the owner to point me to the correct aisle — twice — because I couldn’t find it on my own. How embarrassing.

Back at my place, I rummaged through cupboards for half an hour in a quest for a spatula that could serve as a fufu stick.

After eight years living in my fancy apartment, in the fancy neighborhood of my big fancy city, I’d accumulated an assortment of cute kitchen utensils, none of which could be used to make an African recipe from scratch. I had no pestle and mortar to pound yams, no knife big enough to crack coconuts, no pot large enough to make peanut stews.

It was too late to drive back to the African store, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the owner for a second time, so I settled for one of my big wooden spoons. It was made of deep brown acacia. Normally, I only used it to sample batches of dairy-free pesto or fine Italian Bolognese, but it was long and looked strong enough; I figured it could work.

When the fufu was ready, I didn’t bother setting the living room table or turning on the TV. I didn’t check my cell phone. I knew what my voicemail was like. Full of messages from people (colleagues, neighbors, ex-boyfriends) sending their short and polite condolences, not because they shared my sadness — none of them knew Grandma — but because they felt like it was the right thing to do.

I brought my plate to the dining table and lit a wax candle. We’d often do that back home whenever there were power outages. A bunch of us grandkids would gather, sit on plastic chairs around a rectangular table, then wait for Grandma to bless our food while silently praying for the day when our uncles and aunties would get their shit together and finally pitch in to buy their mother a generator.

The fufu was fuming but I didn’t wait for it to cool down. I scooped a first plate and ate it with thick tomato sauce and a couple of sardines canned in oil, just like Grandma liked. A simple but filling meal. After washing it down with a ginger drink that I’d had the good sense to buy at the African store, I went for a second plate.

This time I ate with my hands. Slowly and intentionally letting the juice of the tomato sauce mix with the oil of the sardines and melt the fufu paste. I kneaded a bit of that soft fufu between my fingers, blew on it to bring it to an acceptable temperature, then chewed and swallowed without hurrying, like our elders do.

I don’t know if it was the gravity of the moment, the many memories of Grandma rushing through my mind or that feeling — unbearable — of missing a home I’d probably never go back to, but suddenly it hit me. That combo — the cheap fufu-sardines-tomato-sauce mix that a younger me had complained about — was delightful. A world-class meal. It tasted like red soil, dry seasons and warm climates. It tasted like cousins’ daily fights and late afternoon reconciliations. It tasted like Grandma sitting on her plastic chair watching us from the corner of her veranda. It tasted like heaven.

I sank into my sofa chair; inhaled and exhaled gently. Then, for the first time in a very long time, I allowed myself to cry.


Sabrina Moella (she/her) is a Congolese-Canadian writer based in Toronto. Born in France from Congolese parents, she grew up in Paris and started writing as soon as she was old enough to hold a pen. Her interests include topics such as immigration, womanhood, body image and family lineage. She self-published her first novel Fifteen is for Padded Cups in 2021. Her first fiction podcast series A Song in the Sky/Nzembo Ya Bénie was launched in 2024. She is currently working on her second novel. She can be found at @sabrinamoella on social media and on her website sabrinamoella.com.

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stephenjohn holgate short story december 2024

Nah bruv, you should be talking to me, still. Not them man who did all kind of foolishness and got caught and sent back after four months in Harlesden or Moss Side or Handsworth. I never really done nothing wrong and they still shipped me out to this place. Fuckery, innit?

Still, could be worse, I could be like one of them man that don’t have any family left here. Sometimes you see them walking around like zombies. All cracked out and thing. Nothing else for them to do, it’s not like anybody likes them. I used to think the British didn’t like outsiders, but I was wrong. This place don’t like outsiders. They don’t even like man from the next parish over. They tolerate tourists cos they come in with a little money and thing. But man like me. We are at the bottom of the shit heap, I’m telling you.

Yeah, I was born here, but I left when I was two and only came back for one holiday when they buried my nan. I didn’t know shit about this place before they sent me here. I thought it was paradise. Before they deported me, I thought well, I got family here, it’s warm, at least it won’t be so bad.

I was wrong. Fucking wrong.

When I first turned up they had me in that little deportee house where they just about have electricity and you got to share some little room with next man. One man was in that place crying like a little boy the whole first day. I was like, you need to turn the volume on that wailing down, bruv. It’s not no-one’s funeral, you’re still alive. Shut up, you get me.

Still, pure noise so we booted him out of the house for the day until he calmed down. Two twos, we hear one big old bit of noise outside and when we look out the window there’s like five or six people just thumping him up out on road. I was like, what is this? Man runs down the street and back into the house and hides in his little room and starts bawling even louder.

That was when I first realised that this place might not be the paradise I thought it was. Still, he might have done something to somebody out there, you know? That’s what I thought at the time, didn’t want to believe that this place was gonna be difficult for me.

They didn’t want you to stay in the house so there was just about enough electricity for a little lamp in your room and a shower. A cold shower. That might not sound so bad considering it’s always warm here, but when everything else is shit, a cold shower is what can break you.

I only stayed there a couple of weeks, until I moved out here with my uncle. But in that time it was a madness. I seen two man get into a fight that nearly ended in a stabbing, I seen a man get chased by a woman with a machete, fucking thing looked like sword, and no-one helping him, I seen a crowd of people chase someone who they said was a thief and they beat him with bits of board and stuff they found on the roadside until the police come and take him away. I seen crackheads and drug dealers and teenagers with guns, mad people walking the streets and everyone ignoring them like they might catch something if they go near, people dressed in white packed on the back of pick-up trucks singing religious songs loud over Tannoy speakers as they drive past kids sleeping on the roadside. Bruv, this place ain’t no paradise. Especially the city. Nah, that place is messed up.

When my uncle come and picked me up, I was so happy. It was like escaping hell. I don’t know what happened to the mandem I left behind. None of us had phones, some of them didn’t have no family here, they might have just kicked them out to make way for whoever is getting off the plane next. Nuff of them man were getting involved with shotters, smoking crack and whatnot. Nitty behaviour.

I’m telling you, bruv! These streets is rough. When I was a younger, we used to do some foolishness for the olders on the estate, run this bag here, carry this thing there, all for one little cheeseburger from Maccy’s. But down here, especially in the city? Life ain’t worth a packet of crisps. And because we come in now sounding different, not Black in the right way or some shit, we have to go to the bottom of the pile. Even when I go market, I hear people talking about me. Talking about my kind and how it’s people like me that are causing all the trouble going on in the country.

I know some of the mandem that get sent back here get involved with criminals, but them dons who give them guns was here before the deportees returned. It weren’t like we come down here and set up a whole criminal organisation that never existed. But that’s the way people are, innit? Looking for someone to blame and we was the last ones in so it must be us.

That’s, like, the worst part, get me. In England all the newspapers and thing always running a bruvva down. It’s always immigrants coming here and doing this, or if something goes wrong how dark your skin comes before they say your name. Asian lawyer caught in drugs raid. African businessman in tax avoidance shame. Live in that country twenty years and wake up to them reminding you that you don’t belong in size forty-two font on the front page of the newspapers.

And then they send you back home, or what they calling your home, some place you can’t remember, that you only ever seen in faded, sepia photographs that your nan and grandad have locked up in the guest front room and the people who sort of look like you start telling you that you don’t belong here neither.

I’d like to know where I’m supposed to belong. Like, where is my fucking home, yeah?

All this for some traffic offences. As if running two red lights and failing to pay couple parking tickets means you should be sent from the place you’ve lived for twenty-five years to some next place where you was born but can’t remember.

Look, yeah, they took me to the detention centre, Home Office and that said I don’t really have no ties to the country because I ain’t married, don’t have no children and don’t own a house. How can I afford a house in London? I don’t know no-one that owns their own house. Still, before I could say nothing or call no-one, I’m on a plane headed back here.

Then when I reach the place where they keep us it’s ramshackle. One bruk down place that had roaches and all sorts. I left, cos I ain’t staying in that place. Some of them man stayed cos they ain’t had no options, at least I had family I could come live with. I knew them from when my mum would send us home for holidays. And family look after each other here, even if they are always in your business and think they can give advice when you ain’t ask for it.

At first, yeah, people was cool. They would say good morning and all that, ask about London and thing. Then they heard the story that I was one of them deportees and people changed. It was like I had some disease. People started crossing the road and avoiding me. Making up their faces like they smelled shit. I heard them talking to my auntie and uncle and complaining loudly about England was sending back home the dregs of society and how we were England’s problem and we shouldn’t be sent here.

Like I wanted to be sent to this place. It’s nice for a holiday, but fucking hell, I like having electricity and water that don’t go off for the whole weekend, you get me? Yeah it’s warm, but I had central heating back home. Home. Fucking hell. Home feels a long way away.

So I left one place where they say I don’t belong and come down here and hear people saying I shouldn’t be allowed back, telling me I’m England’s problem cos they created me. Fuckery, innit? Bruv, where am I supposed to go and live and find some peace?


Stephenjohn Holgate lives in Aotearoa New Zealand and writes fiction. He is a member of Writing West Midlands’ Room 204 writer development program and HarperCollins UK Author Academy 2023. His story, “Delroy and the Boys,” won a 2023 Pen/Dau prize. His short story “The Skull of an Unnamed African Boy” was longlisted for the Guardian/4th Estate 4thWrite Prize. He can be found @mistaholgate on social media and his Substack is Jack Mandora Story.

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P. Aubham edouhou poetry december 2024

Kɛl, bula pɛ ngur nɛ nam

Sister, go back to the abandoned village with me



P. Aubham Edouhou was born in Makokou (Gabon) and is a Bekwel and Ikota speaker. He graduated in Letters (Portuguese-English) from Pelotas Federal University (UFPel) in 2019. He has a Master’s degree in Letters (Language Studies) from the Federal University of Rio Grande (FURG) and is currently a doctoral student in Letters (Literary Studies) at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul (UFRGS) where he studies Kandian (African) Literature in Kandian languages. He promotes the hieroglyphization, coptization and meroitization of Kandian languages. Find him on Facebook at Obam Edhuu.

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albrin junior short story november 2024

If you’re willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land;

but if you refuse and rebel,

you shall be devoured by the sword;

for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.

Isaiah 1:19-20


“We are about to close sir.”

Elvis swiveled back to see the docent of Kelvingrove Art and Gallery Museum standing over his shoulder with a broad smile.

“Thank you,” he nodded. She walked away.

Since Molly got pregnant, he dreaded returning home at night. The setting sun was a reminder of the potential horror he would endure, and every night was a different kind of drama she blamed on hormonal imbalance. “Like you’re the first person to ever be pregnant!” he grumbled beneath his breath.

Elvis waited until the last person left the building before standing to leave. He flashed a smile to the docent as he walked past her holding on to the tip of his cap.

“Aye, he’s a gentleman now,” said the security man to the docent. “Why d’ye think he stays here so late?”

“Scared tae go hame,” she replied and shifted her gaze to Elvis as he walked down the stairs. “Probably got a naggin missus waitin fer him wi a fryin pan.”

“Aye! I feel for him, but I think mine’s is shittier. I’ll be goin’ hame to some charcoal tea.”

They both burst into laughter.

Elvis turned back, casting a long sad gaze at the museum and saw the pair laughing. They stopped at once, waved at Elvis, and feigned a smile. Elvis managed to wave back wondering what about him made them laugh.

He looked at his wristwatch; it was a little after 5pm. He shook his head and thought to go sit at the Kelvingrove’s Café but remembered coming across Molly’s best friend, Emily, the last time he was there. When Molly questioned what he was doing there when his shift had ended and asked if he wasn’t was supposed to be home, he’d lied and said he was with his boss.

He got into his car and drove down Paisley West Road to Cardonald, stopping to park in front of Jisto Misto, a small independent restaurant that served classic and contemporary dishes. The place was small and cozy, simple and welcoming, just as the owner and chef, David Brudnybn. Elvis had worked there as a kitchen porter when he first moved to Glasgow after absconding from Birmingham. Since arriving to the United Kingdom, the restaurant was the first place he was treated like a human being and not seen as Black.

“Elvis!” David exclaimed as Elvis walked in, “Alright!” He bumped his fist in a spirited fashion.

“It’s me in the flesh,” said Elvis feigning enthusiasm.

“I can see that! Just give me a few minutes. Let me do something in the kitchen.” He turned to a waiter and said, “Serve him anything he wants. It’s on the house.”

The waiter approached Elvis who sat at the far end of the restaurant away from prying eyes. Three months of working in the kitchen, and he still couldn’t name any of their dishes, except for Collin’s Italian Spaghetti. His mind was, however, too preoccupied to eat.

“A martini would do,” said Elvis to the waiter. “Thank you.”

He shifted his gaze to the Jisto Misto hoarding carved against the wall, grey and lit, its elegance adding beauty to the feel of the restaurant. His drink arrived just as David returned to sit with him.

“Yo my man, what’s up?” David asked.

Staring at David, Elvis contemplated telling the truth or replying with “fine” — a lie which had become a common response. He feared if he spoke the truth, the wind would blow his whispers to Molly’s ears and everything for him would be over. Molly was his last hope at cementing a better life or at least what would appear to be a better life compared to where he came from.

“I’m fine.” He feigned a grin.

“Alright!” David nodded. “And Molly? How’re she and the baby coming?”

“Fine,” Elvis responded in a low drone, then without warning, he burst into silent tears. “I am not fine David. I am in deep shit.”

“Fuck! What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Anywhere mate, anywhere.” David leaned forward.

Elvis sniffed, mulling over words to tell the man sat opposite him that he was an illegal immigrant and his love for Molly was conditional. He heaved a deep sigh and gulped down his martini for some form of courage but found none at the end of the cup.

“I’ve become an illegal immigrant and can be deported at any point.”

David’s eyes widened. “How did that happen?

Elvis looked into the cup; it was empty. He needed more than courage to tell him he was in this situation as a result of his stupidity, an eagerness to make quick money.

“Does Molly know?” asked David killing the silence.

Elvis’s phone rang. It was Molly. He silenced the phone with urgency and cursed under his breath. “Shit!” He looked around for any familiar faces then back to David who was staring at him in bewilderment.

“Are you okay?”

“No. Yes. I got to go.”

Elvis rose and started away leaving David agape.

In less than fifteen minutes Elvis was at Hillhead unlocking the door to his house. He walked in and met Molly sat on the couch in silence which he thought odd considering her routinely welcoming him with screams and questions of his lateness and whereabouts.

“Hey babe.” He made to kiss her protruded stomach, but she shoved his face away. “Are you okay?”

Molly folded her arm and looked away. Her countenance since Elvis arrived had been unpleasant. He followed her eyes and noticed his travel bag laid on the couch and his belongings scattered all over the sitting room.

“What is going on?” Elvis asked.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Molly asked.

Elvis winced. “Shit!” he exclaimed beneath his breath as he ran for the bag. “The letter!” He dived into the bag hurling the remains of his belongings until he reached the bottom, shaking the bag for something to fall out. He set it down looking terrified.

“Looking for this?” said Molly behind him.

He turned around and saw a familiar envelope on the center table. “Fuck!” he mouthed.

“Yes. You’re fucked.”

“Babe—I know you’re mad, but let me explain.”

“Explain what?” she scoffed. “You don’t even know what’s in the letter.”

Elvis opened his mouth to talk but found the words couldn’t come out.

“Go ahead,” Molly said. “Read it. I would love to know what the letter says.”

“Babe I don’t need to…”

“I said read the damn fucking letter!” she shouted, making a fist.

Elvis nodded.

“I’m trying hard to protect the baby,” she said rubbing her stomach. “So please just read the damn fucking letter.”

Elvis picked up the letter and cleared his throat. He looked at Molly, hoping she’d have a change of mind, but the anger on her face suggested otherwise.

“Dear Elvis Osahon,” he began. “This is to inform you that…”

“Won’t you at least let me know who it is from?”

Elvis scowled, concealing his distress.

“UKVI.” The tone of his voice was losing strength. Molly nodded and urged him on. “This is to inform you that we have withdrawn your right to live and work in the United Kingdom…”

Elvis paused as those words flushed his memory with recollected thoughts of how he could have avoided this letter, avoided Molly. “This is as a result of the University of Birmingham informing us of withdrawing your admission offer due to lack of attendance and tuition payment. You are hereby advised to…” Elvis stopped reading and slid the letter into his pocket. “Babe, let me explain.”

Molly’s face was livid. “You know I crosschecked the date the letter was sent. Isn’t it funny that we moved to Glasgow just weeks after that? And all of a sudden, you declared you wanted to have a baby with me.”

“Molly, you also said you wanted a baby.”

“No!” Molly shouted standing to her feet. “Don’t even go there, Elvis. Don’t!”

“The same want, just different reasons,” said Elvis in a fading tone.

“I want to be a mother. But you want a child with me to secure your stay in this country.”

“No,” Elvis said, shaking his head with impatience. “You’re an erratic junkie no white man wants anything to do with. You chose me because I am Black and can be used,” he retorted, “and if we’re being fair, you started using me before this letter ever arrived.”

She struck Elvis’s face so hard it sent a wave of shock down his spine. He paused a few seconds, holding his face, and when he lifted it, his right eye was sore red.

“I know you’re mad, but please can we just talk this out without cursing and fighting?”

“You lying bastard! ” Molly set out to hit him over and over again. As he stood allowing her to vent without impeding her punches, he closed his eyes disappointed that his secret was finally out, and he wasn’t sure what would happen next. With Molly, he wasn’t sure of anything. Her reactions made him feel worse than a cheating husband, like he had betrayed the very core of their relationship; yet in his guilt, he knew they had both betrayed themselves. Regardless of her fitful nature, he was sure she loved him, and he loved her, he always did — in a complicated way — until the letter from UKVI came. Then his love for her became selfish. He became focused on remaining in a land in which he was never welcomed in the first place.

Molly began to slam her feet against the couch.

“Molly please. Just stop. You’re hurting yourself and the baby.”

“Baby!” Molly exclaimed then burst into sudden capricious laughter. “You no longer have a baby.”

“Molly,” Elvis said with a sense of impending danger. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t.”

Molly looked over Elvis’s shoulder with a humorless smile. Following her eyes, Elvis swiveled. She was staring at the kitchen. She made an attempt to run into the kitchen, but he clogged her path.

“Molly, whatever it is, don’t do it. Please, I beg you.”

“It’s too late for that,” she yelled, trying to circle round him. She made a run for it, but he grabbed her, and she yelled in pain.

“The baby, the baby!”

Elvis set her free attempting to rub her stomach from worry when she hit him hard on the face and dashed for the kitchen, renting part of his cloth in the process. He was still tending to his face when she returned with a knife.

“Babe. Why are you holding a knife?”

“Is it this baby you speak of?” she said, lifting the knife to her stomach, poised to drive it in. “You won’t have it. We won’t give you the pleasure of using us to remain in this country. Go back to where you came from, Monkey.”

“Molly, think about this. You’ll hurt yourself too.”

“I don’t care.”

She lifted the knife, ready to drive it down when Elvis shouted.

“Okay, okay, okay. Fine, I will leave, just don’t do anything to hurt the baby.”

“Just leave and never come back.”

“Yeah. Yeah. At least let me get my stuffs.”

Molly looked down at his scattered bag and clothes and nodded. Elvis bent to gather his things, and in one moment of Molly looking away, he leapt at her, grabbing the knife but cutting her arm as he overpowered her.

“My hand!” Molly screamed. “You fucking bastard! You want to kill me!”

“It was a mistake, I swear it.”

“You’re not getting away with this.”

Molly grabbed her phone, dialed a number and held the phone to her ear.

“Who are you calling?” Elvis asked.

“What do you think?” Molly replied without looking at him.

“Molly, drop the phone. You know my life will be over when they get here.”

“I don’t care,” Molly said with a broad malevolent beam. “Hello,” she said into the phone. “I have a crime to report. My partner just tried to kill me—”

“Shit!” Elvis cursed, looking about in disarray. He shifted his gaze to the car key on the table beside Molly, then ran out the house with the knife in his hands.

Elvis sat alone in the busy concourse of the Buchanan bus station. He stared as the world around him moved in a hurry whilst his came crashing down. Staring long at the Wincher’s Statue, he thought back to the beginning of the decline of his life which began at age sixteen back in Nigeria: when his mother could no longer give him pocket money for school, when he didn’t read along with his classmates because he could not afford to buy the class text, when he had to carry tray along the minor arterial highway after school to sell bread so he and his mother could eat. He was amazed the day Bashiru, their neighbor’s son who had left five months prior, returned home driving a tear-rubber Camry. He couldn’t help but wonder why Bashiru’s parents, who claimed not to know his whereabouts, didn’t scold him. Instead, along with other neighbors, they dashed out praising his accomplishment at such a young age, and collectively prayed his business would continue to thrive so he could change his parents’ lives for good.

“What business are you into?” Elvis had asked Bashiru after the charade came to an end.

“The business of being smart and fast,” he replied.

“And in five months you bought a car?!” Elvis exclaimed. “Introduce me to your business.”

Bashiru laughed. He looked at Elvis from head to toe and could feel his aura of ambition. “If you say so. Have you heard of Yahoo Yahoo?”

“Yahoo Yahoo!” Elvis reiterated in awe. “What is that?”

Bashiru laughed at Elvis’s innocence.

“Take a walk with me and I will tell you everything you need to know,” he said.

Six months later, Elvis bought his own car, renovated their old house and put his mother on a monthly salary. A couple of years later, after the success of his yahoo-yahoo ventures began to dwindle, he gathered the remains to sponsor himself to study in the United Kingdom with the belief it would be a greener pasture, promising his mother before he departed that he would make her proud. He arrived in Birmingham to find the green pasture wasn’t so green, and that his yahoo enterprise could not thrive, a realization which came after he had squandered the little money he had. “School is not for me, I need to make money,” Elvis convinced himself.

“Hey, you okay mate?” a security guard, in reflective jacket, nudged Elvis out of his thoughts. “You look lost,” the guard said.

Elvis feigned a smile and shook his head. “Thank you, I am fine.”

He watched the guard move back to his post, leaving him to his loneliness. He returned his gaze to Wincher’s Statue, trying to imagine the story behind the sculpture. He found himself thinking about his mother and home. There was no home to go back to, neither was there one to look forward to; he had come to terms with his fate. The fault was not in his stars but in himself. He thought to close his eyes and whisper a prayer to God; perhaps God in his mercies shall come to his aid. But at a second thought, he reckoned his remedy lay in himself, which he wanted to ascribe to heaven.

Rather than let his story end in the ink of another, Elvis decided he would write his own ending in his own ink with the hope that his story would not merely headline the Metro to sell the papers, but to deter others from making his mistakes. All may not have been well for him, but all would end well.

He brought out his phone and typed,“Sorry how things turned out, would have wished it differently. I did love you from the start, maybe complicated, but love you I did. Till we meet again.’”

After a minute of indecision, he sent the text to Molly. He took one last look around the concourse, then closed his eye to inhale the cold night air. He removed the knife from his pocket and started for the center.

“He’s got a knife,” a woman shouted, pointing at Elvis.

Elvis quickly grabbed the woman beside him who was attempting to run to the other direction. He put the knife to her neck.

“Just do what I say and I won’t hurt you,” Elvis told her. She nodded in terror, and lifted her hands in surrender. “Keep moving till I say stop.” The woman obeyed. “Stop,” he told her on reaching the center.

In a matter of seconds, the concourse was nearly empty except for onlookers in the distance capturing the scene with their phones. The security guards stood in disarray contemplating their next action.

“Stay where you are or I will hurt her!” Elvis raised his voice at the guards, and then whispered to the woman, “That is an empty threat. Don’t be afraid.”

The woman gulped saliva. It was hard to believe a man with a knife to her throat.

“Please don’t hurt me,” pleaded the woman with a shaky voice.

“I won’t. I promise.” Elvis took the knife off her throat. “You can put your hands down,” he told her.

The woman nodded and obeyed slowly. She took a look around the concourse. All eyes were on her and Elvis. She swallowed, took a quick peek at the security guards, then shifted her gaze back to Elvis. “Will you let me go then?”

Elvis shook his head.

The woman sniffed her tacit tears. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Do you have kids?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she answered, concealing the terror in her voice. “Just one.”

“And are you proud of him? Or her?”

“Him,” she nodded. “Yes, I am proud.”

Elvis displayed a wide grin. “I have one too. Technically, still on the way.” He forced a laugh. “But I swear I love him, or her. Even though I did it for a selfish reason.” Elvis put his hand over his face in an attempt not to cry.

From the corner of her eye, the woman saw one of the security guards signaling at her to make a run for it. She shook her head slightly, swallowed, and refocused on Elvis.

“I fucked up,” said Elvis, between tears. “I really fucked up.”

The woman looked closer at him. She saw the sadness in his eyes, the puddle of tears hidden behind his cornea.

“You still have time to make corrections.”

Elvis shook his head. “That boat already sailed.” He burst out crying and placed his head on the woman’s shoulder. “Do you think my mother will be proud of me after she sees this?”

The woman lifted his face, searched his eyes, and with sincerity said, “A mother will always be proud of her children regardless of their actions.” She cuddled his face. Two police officers arrived pointing their guns at him while the guards kept the onlookers at bay.

Elvis turned the woman towards the police and held his knife firmly to her neck.

“We have you surrounded,” said an officer. “Put the knife down and kneel.”

Elvis ignored him and whispered to the woman. “At my signal, you’d break free and run left. Do you understand me?”

The woman nodded, her dread having returned.

“What direction?” he asked the woman. She made to point but he stopped her. “Stop,” he tapped her. “Just move your head that way if you understand.”

The woman turned her head to the left and back.

“Good,” said Elvis. “Now run.”

The woman broke free from his grip and ran to her left.

Elvis smiled and swiveled to the officer who shouted, “Go down on your knees!”

Elvis took a step towards the officer, who without hesitation, fired one shot to his arm, then another to his chest. The knife fell, then Elvis. And just before he hit the ground, he imagined hearing the uncultured cry of a toddler. He landed facing Wincher’s Statue and smiled. In an instant, he pictured himself arriving home. His travel bag landing on the floor as his mother ran into his open arms. Little by little, the life in his eyes withered. Nothing in his life became him quite like his taking leave of it.


Albrin Junior is an award-winning author, poet, scriptwriter, and director. His novel, Naked Coin, a historical-fiction, action thriller, was runner up at the Akachi Ezeigbo Prize for Literature and won the Lagos Book House Award for Book of the Year in 2020. Born in Lagos, Nigeria, Albrin holds a BSc in Geography and Regional Planning from Ambrose Alli University and an MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow where he was also honoured with the African Excellence Award. You can discover more about his journey at www.albrinjunior.com, on LinkedIn, and at Internet Movie Database. Across all social media, including Instagram, Facebook, YouTube, and twitter/x, find him at @albrinjunior.

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Decolonial Passage is honored to announce the nominations for next year’s Pushcart Prize Anthology. This list includes writing published during the 2024 calendar year. Congratulations to the nominees!


Poetry

Byron Armstrong – “We are Music”

Ada Chinara – “Gliding”


Short Stories

Musu Bangura – “Night Watch”

Nwafor Emmanuel – “You Are No Longer Welcome Here”

Michael Ogah – “Forgotten Memories”


Essays/Memoirs

Eraldo Souza dos Santos – “Everything Disappears”

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kamaria muntu poetry november 2024

O you couldn’t buy this incredible night beyond tender,

wouldn’t take nothing for the glory of it

the incense, the food, the fire

remembrance squared in golden frame.

We are here to know you beyond a funeral of clutter

beyond a dessert of thieves, beyond

the oppression of earth stationed dreams ——

here is where we break bread

here is where we play cards

here is where we pound our fists

here is where we down our wine

here is where we lay out the cloth

to spread the bounty in

a house of tables


Here is where we place the centrepiece of life

the brass hued glow of our every breath

here is where we figure the time we must eat and sip

the undercurrents in our warmest conversations

here is where we repeat like the ones before us

but right here in front of us now

as we offer libation with their eyes and contours

as our countrymen seam us in death shrouds

as we bring the scissors and the bandages

the liquor and balm for our mangled backs

our roughened sores

here is where we gobble the turkey

and lay our heads down in the midnight hour

while our loved one’s sleep

in a house of tables.


Here is where we take the minutes

at the meeting place

as we draw plans to stave off darksome shadows

sheeted white

imploding in our conscious wake

like ashes of our beloved children, boiled

and hailing over hallowed congregations

via fires direct from hell


Here is the good linen I tell you to cover the water spot

as we feed the living with communal potluck,

Hoppin’ John and hog maws,


            sweet potatoes and greens,


as we oblige the mirror of ourselves in ourselves,

keepers of our secrets, colours of our flesh

as we implore our gods as to the ways of our murderers

and the whys of our own self hatred

as we shine the wood and flick ashes in trays made by little ones

in a house of tables


Here is the universal thing,

favours of anniversary, christening and homegoing,

teaching grandfather to read by lamplight

the back and forth, the generations

the way we propped up that one short leg with the encyclopaedia,

a conceit handed down from mother to daughter in

a house of tables.


Kamaria Muntu is an African-American multidisciplinary artist whose poetry and essays have been published in Call and Response: The Riverside Anthology for the African American Literary Tradition, A Lime Jewel: An Anthology of Poetry and Short Stories in Aid of Haiti, Phati’tude Literary Journal, GIS Watch, Fertile Ground: Memories and Visions, Intersectionality in Social Work: Activism and Practice in Context, and The Journal of Pan African Studies. She has read at arts festivals and literary venues throughout the US and UK. Find her on Instagram at @kamariamuntu.