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cynthia robinson young poetry august 2024

The house on Tennessee Avenue,

like that one up on Beulah,

was gone in less than 30 minutes,

even though it had weathered


every storm in Chattanooga

for at least one hundred years.

The frame resisted the heat,

outliving the rooms that lay


charred and smoldering inside.


Green moss ignores

the No Trespassing sign, repainting the siding,

and the trees continue to deposit leaves into the awning,

no hands in autumn to remove them now.

A maple tree still guards and shades the house,


even with some limbs missing

from the fire that disabled it

the first time this house burned.

 buds bursting defiantly through what remains,


lush leaves growing, growing.

A sign says Condemned,

but memories are still dwelling there–

the stench from a white hood

and sheet robe, once a dingy white, now


 burned black

 in the bottom of the Tennessee family’s cedar chest.

A sign says Do Not Enter

yet it does not stop the ancient spirits,


whispered intentions to burn crosses and men


as religious sport-

plans drifting up and down

the splintered staircase on sun rays

filtering through the missing roof.


Add it to another chapter of darkness

and retribution perhaps?  in Chattanooga

Add it to the history of the neighborhood

Underneath the shadow of Lookout Mountain,

named

St. Elmo.


And Bobby’s Barbershop Didn’t Make It

Bobby’s Barbershop chairs are lined up

 in the junkyard.

It is their cemetery, and this is

 their gravesite.

At certain times at night, you can catch

a glimpse of chairs revolving,

as if Bobby and the other barbers are standing behind them,

discussing The Man with invisible clients, asking

If Covid was a conspiracy to take away

all they had,

all they were.


Dreams are in this junkyard–

The American Dream, A Dream Deferred, all

of what Bobby once believed would create

happiness, would take him on a vision journey

to that road not taken,

the road he took…


and now it’s come to this.


The tickets out of wherever that pit

the dreamers tried to escape from,

are now torn and scattered all over,

tornadoes cannot even lift and take

Over the rainbow.

Ticketed dreams lie in their own graveyard,

fading and indiscernible

under overcast skies.


Cynthia Robinson Young is the author of the chapbooks Reflections of a Feral Mother (2024) and Migration (2018). The latter was named Finalist in the 2019 Georgia Author of the Year Awards. Her work has appeared in journals and magazines including The Amistad, Rigorous, Poetry South, The Writer’s Chronicle, and in the anthology, Dreams for a Broken World (Essential Dreams Press, 2022). A native of Newark, New Jersey, she lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Cynthia is currently working on a novel. You can find her at cynthiarobinsonyoung.com and on Facebook.

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nwafor emmanuel short story august 2024

The dusty black jeep bumbles along the winding road and screeches to a halt in front of a refurbished white bungalow. In the shimmering sky, creeping gray clouds smother half of the yellow sun. An orchestrated cacophony of shrilling insects is a background chorus for the rustling branches whose trees perch along the brown road and sampling their buttress roots in Eziokwe village, Uju’s ancestral home. This is where Obinna brought his friends when he came to pay for her bride price and for the traditional marriage proper. 

Fruit trees line the driveway. The earth beside the plastered walls of the house supports trembling corn stalks standing in disorganized rows and other germinating shrubs. An anxious Obinna, his head now full of doubts, brings out his phone from his pocket and dials. The phone is on speaker as he announces his arrival to the female voice that responds.

“I am at your place.”

“Where? “I can’t see you.”

Obinna snarls, “Your village home. In front of the house we conducted our traditional marriage.’

“That is not my house. Drive to the next compound.”

The call ends. The scowls on the faces of his three friends, Emeka, John and Raphael reveal their mockery. He enters the car and slams the door with his friends scurrying after him. No words are exchanged on the short drive. They approach the next compound. A cracked bungalow with a scruffy façade faces them when they emerge from the car. Below, rushing weeds have eaten up the brown soil in the compound. Twelve plastic chairs are arranged outside in two lines. Six chairs face six chairs on the left and right side of the compound, and six beaded elderly men are already seated on the right. Kaleidoscopic colours dance before Obinna’s eyes as they walk to the men and pay obeisance. The elders tease him for not recognizing his wife’s ancestral home in a short while. He stutters an explanation and stops halfway realizing there is no need engaging the cunning foxes.

Obinna places the earthenware jar of palm wine- the expensive up-wine variety- before the elderly men. They exchange pleasantries again before he sits with his friends on the empty chairs facing the elderly men. His arrival is announced by Mazi Omenuko, a tall, sturdy, bald man with long fingers and a rich sprinkle of white and grey facial hair. He is the uncle of Uju – the woman for whom Obinna has paid the bride price. Omenuko has beckoned Uju to greet her husband and his people. Obinna perceives the mockery, and his crossed legs shake vigorously. He diverts his attention when she emerges towards the raw and cracked fence littered with nodding lizards desperate for the flying insects hovering above their little heads. Obinna watches two agamas as they drop on the rough ground, size each other in a circular pattern, and whip their bodies with their tails. He notices as the winner scurries after female lizards and the loser limps away in humiliation. Dead leaves float to the ground beneath the numerous plantain and orange trees that bear swaying fruits. The grasses are a playground for grasshoppers hopping from blunt blade to blunt blade. The shadow of a large bird glides across the expansive ground as foraging chickens and lizards scamper to safety.

Uju’s appearance distracts him. Her face holds no enchantment. She is just a woman he once knew. She curtsies before the men, mutters some incoherent words at his party and disappears as swiftly as she arrived. Her uncle, Omenuko, mutters a prayer, “He who bring kola nut brings life, Onye wetere oji, wetere ndu.”

Omenuko hurriedly breaks the small kola nuts on an aluminium plate and disperses the lobes to be eaten after the rituals accompanying the breaking of kola nuts has been justified. Omenuko beckons Obinna to taste the wine he has brought. Obinna walks to the jar which rests on the table, seizes it with his right hand, and grabs a glass cup with his left.

The elders scream. Then, Obinna freezes, and his face contorts like a rogue caught in the act. He stares at their agape mouths, stern faces, and smouldering eyes.

“Are you not an Ibo man, a son of the soil?” asks an elder in Ankara fabrics. ‘If you knew tradition, you would know that what you just did is a sacrilege.”

Obinna blinks severally, and perspiration enters his eyes as his friends stifle their smirks. The elder continues, “You don’t hold the wine cup in the left hand. Neither is the wine jar held on the right hand. And you just don’t grab the wine jar and start pouring. No, you shake the wine jar in a circular motion thrice or four times and place it on the ground before pouring.” He glances at Obinna’s friends for full effect and continues, “When you young men are told to return to your roots, your respective villages, to learn culture and tradition, you refuse. Your coconut heads are filled with exaggerated tales of hate your parents have peddled you about your respective villages and kinsmen. Most of your parents were taught by their parents but now those teachings which they ought to pass down to you have eroded because you prefer the white man’s culture. I am not saying the white man’s culture is bad. No, the white man’s culture has paved the way for us, but charity begins at home. You learn yours before learning another’s. Anyway, these traditions are inevitable. You will learn them one way or the other, just like this one, eh.”

The arena now silent after his speech, Obinna regains composure, does the right thing, and drinks the palm wine. The stern faces dissolve into smiles as they cheer him.

The uncle, Omenuko, rises from his chair, clears his throat and bellows, “My brothers, I greet you all. We are gathered here this evening because our son-in-law believes it is necessary to summon us. I appreciate every one of us for answering this call. We have a saying that once an in-law beckons, we suspend whatever we are doing and respond. Obinna, we are here now, and our ears are itching to hear the tidings you bring.” He sits down.

Obinna rises to greet the men for the umpteenth time and blurts, “I am no longer interested in Uju and I want my bride price returned immediately.”

A light murmur spreads amongst the gathered men. Some snap their fingers and wave their hands around their heads. Omenuko stands again. “Our son, we’ve heard you, but we have laid procedures for situations like this. I’ve seen your entourage, and there is no elderly person. You young men should learn tradition. You are Ibo, yet you behave like a foreigner. Is your onye aka egbe, your intermediary man, here?’

“He is here sir,” Obinna responds with a broad grin as he pats his friend, Raphael, on his back.

“Good, at least you have gotten one thing right today. Now, intermediary man, you have heard what your man is saying, is it correct?”

“It is his choice sir. I can’t make decisions for him.”

“I asked a simple question. Leave grammar.”

“It is correct.”

Obinna interrupts him, “I may not know the rudiments of traditional divorce, but one thing I’m sure of is that I’m not leaving this place without that bride price and the funds I spent on the traditional marriage. See, here, I brought my list.” He fumbles in his pocket and brings out a crumpled sheet of paper he waves before the men.

The elderly men giggle and tell him to relax his frayed nerves. “We are one here. The anger of an in-law shouldn’t be bone deep,” the Ankara-wearing elder reminds him.

“I can see your blood is hot,” Omenuko, the uncle, continues. “Nevertheless, we must continue if you insist. Once a river is crossed, we always anticipate the return journey. With patience a hot calabash of soup is consumed. We’ve heard your hasty words my son, but we’ll also hear from our daughter and confirm if she is still interested in this union. Whatever her reply is will determine our next action. As you can see, we’ve refrained from asking you the cause of the quarrel. I didn’t ask you over the phone when you called. We won’t delve into that matter. From your demeanour you have only one task in mind, and we pray it will be handled amicably.”

Omenuko asks a young elder to fetch Uju. When she emerges, she stands in front of Omenuko who faces and addresses her softly. “We believe Obinna is your husband. We know when he approached us and performed the prerequisites for your hand in marriage and then took you away. Now he has approached us with a new tale that we cannot comprehend, that he is no longer interested in the union. What about you my daughter, are you also not interested?”

“I’m still interested.” she replies.

Obinna chuckles nervously. It is obvious she has been coached.

Omenuko faces him this time. “My son, you’ve heard your wife. What do you have to say again? Those who speak the English language have an expression which says it takes two to tango.”

Obinna remains silent as the men watch him. He shrugs off a light tap from Raphael and sighs aloud. He has been trapped, and his chauvinism has overwhelmed him. He hears as crickets chirp in accord in the fluttering grasses and a goat bleats in the distance. Still the men stare at him.

“Alright then,” continues Omenuko after a minute elapses. “There still remains one more ritual to fulfil.” He beckons Uju who kneels in front of him. Another elder is called upon again. He rises and walks to the palm wine jar, fills a glass cup to the brim, and hands it over to Omenuko. He is careful not to spill the wine. Omenuko hands the glass cup to Uju. “Take this cup of wine to your husband. Whatever he does with it will decide your fate.”

“What, what, what sort of fucking shit is, is this?” Obinna rages, his eyes bulging on his dark face.

“Relax my good man,” placates the Ankara man. “We must see the end of this fucking shit.”

Obinna’s friends calm him, and he sits down. He watches her as she walks the short distance towards him. He turns his face away from her, still watching her from the corner of his eyes. She sips from the cup when she nears him and kneels in front of him. She stretches the arm bearing the glass cup to him, an act she performed during their traditional marriage ceremony. Her face as rigid as yam peelings, Obinna ignores her. His friends cajoling him, he faces her and receives the glass cup and pauses. He looks at her, and she stifles a chuckle. All eyes are focusing on him now. He rises violently and spills the content of the glass cup on the soil. She rises and hurries to the safety of her people.

Omenuko stands up from his chair and greets the gathered men. He faces Obinna and his friends as he speaks. “Obinna, you have rejected our daughter in our presence, but we won’t reject her. We are not angry. Rather your action has shown the sincerity of your quest. We’ll definitely grant you your utmost desire. Meanwhile I won’t forget to mention something peculiar at this moment. The rejection emanated from you.”

Obinna stutters, but Omenuko holds up a finger in the air and continues, “You spilled the palm wine and so doing waived the right for a refund. What this means is that your bride price will be returned, but the expenses expended for the traditional marriage rites won’t. If the rejection had come from our daughter, we would return that as well. Only your bride price will be returned to you.’

Omenuko dips two fingers in his shirt pocket and retrieves a shiny fifty naira note. “This is what we accepted from you when you came to marry our daughter. Remember, on that day I told you our daughter isn’t for sale when I returned the bulk money you insisted I receive. Intermediary man, is it true or not?”

“It is true sir,” Raphael answers, smarting from his previous flaw.

“Good. Now intermediary man, you can have it.”

As a flummoxed Obinna snatches the money from his palm to Raphael’s chagrin, Omenuko calls the young elder again and gestures the wine jar. The man carries it shoulder high and smashes it on the ground, spreading anguish and surprise on the faces of the seated men. This time, Omenuko speaks fiercely, “The union between Uju and Obinna is hereby broken. You both can now go your separate ways.”

The elders chorus, “So shall it be.”

Omenuko faces Obinna and his friends, “Gentlemen, you are no longer welcome here.”

Obinna storms out of the compound with his friends rushing after him unsure what evil might befall them if they delay. The sky is almost swallowed by black clouds, and the chirping of crickets is louder when they reach the Jeep.  Obinna reverses the Jeep, his bright headlamps revealing when the young elder places another jar of palm wine on the table. He sees the buxom women emerge from the building and dance toward the seated men, their enormous buttocks swaying like large fruits on a tree. They embrace Uju who joins them in their exercise. The men exchange high fives, laugh boisterously at the dancing women, and clang palm wine cups.

Obinna grimaces and screeches away in a cloud of dust but not before shooting a well-aimed missile of phlegm at the foolish gathering.


Nwafor Emmanuel lives in Port Harcourt, Nigeria and has an LLB from Madonna University. He has studied fiction and screenwriting facilitated by award winning Ugandan author of Tropical Fish, Doreen Baigana, late Nigerian author of The Bottled Leopard, Professor Chukwuemeka Vincent Ike and Nigerian screenwriter, Chris Ihidero. His short stories appear in both Brittle Paper and African Writer, and Nwafor is on the shortlist for the Toyin Falola Prize 2024. He is currently adding finishing touches to a short story collection and a first novel. You can find him on X/twitter at @eyesiclenwafor and on Facebook at Spirit Emmanuel.

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pleasant nneoma stephen poetry august 2024

On this lowly night,

in the middle of the earth,

the cold wind howls,

and the pale-ish moon eavesdrops as

the mother of my great, great grandmother holds

a conversation with me.

Soul to soul we rapport,

shedding flesh and puffing blood.

“The ol’ days,” she begins,


“I was a dog licking sand

and eating maggots wherever I saw.

I bore in tens and tens

and rubbed my face with 

the blood of my uterus

when my pups became merchandise.”


I puff blood into the air.

We growl and laugh.


She continues,


“Wasn’t I a good mooing cow

who milked and milked

and turned blood cream

when her breasts sagged and bruised?

I became beef before long.

Sweet, sweet beef

butchered unevenly, and dispersed abroad.

I bet the earth had a good meal.”


We growl maniacally, puffing and splintering,

whimpering and whining.

I see her soul stand up, dust her feet

and walk a distance.

She takes a quick look back at

my black bones shattered on the surface.

And in admiration, she mutters,

“Don’t you look so much like me?”


Pleasant Nneoma Stephen is a poet, student, and writing coach. She is an ardent lover of doodles, rainfall, and African mythology. Pleasant is a Gold Award recipient of the Senior Category of the Queen’s Commonwealth Essay Competition 2023. Her work, “Body of the Moon,” is forthcoming in Literary Forest Magazine.

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gloria d. gonsalves poetry august 2024

She made a regal entrance to their summit and instructed

they could keep the stolen artefacts, they’re world materials;

they could keep her dead children erased from their dirty files,

but she wanted back her children who were being ill-treated.

She wore a kaftan of rich brown and carried all her rivers in it:

Nile, Niger, Zambezi, Limpopo, Congo, Orange, Senegal,

Ubangi, Kasai, Shebelle, and their budding younger siblings.

When she walked, the river waves flanked her like warriors,

clearing the path for her determined feet to tread like a lioness.

The battalions of the big five flew above her as air guardians.

It was her savanna and no one had the rights to her children.

They adjourned in closed sessions to discuss her demands.

Her children held little value to them except as cheap labor.

Letting them go would impact their economy and global status.

They did not see it coming—her calling in the godparents:

Indian Ocean, Atlantic Ocean, Mediterranean Sea, and Red Sea.

They towered above the convention halls and rooms, ready to

sink any suggestions of takeovers, collaborations, or charities.

None of them understood the lessons she gifted on adaptability.

None of them understood the pain she endured to instill pride.

None of them had the right to imprison her children with wealth.

None of them had the right to strip away the nobility of her children.

She stood tall and adamant, bearing an insignia of rare Tanzanite,

and commanded her children to walk proudly to the front door.

They came from all the concealed crooks of suffering and indignity.

She stretched her kaftan of all the rivers and led them all out.

Her big five battalions—lions, leopards, elephants, African buffalo,

and rhinoceroses—roared above to ensure safe passage home.

The oceans sailed them back to the wealth of their African roots.

Today, no land dares offend or take her natural wealth for granted.

They no longer hold summits or video conferences to pressure her.

They no longer offer bribes for her fall or assume she is corrupted.

They no longer attempt to bend her will with economic sanctions.

Her children are re-learning pride and dignity of being Alkebulans.


Author’s note: According to the Alkebulan history of Africa, the indigenous name of Africa before it was colonized is Alkebulan, which means the Garden of Eden or the Cradle of Mankind.


Gloria D. Gonsalves is a poet, author of children’s books, and illustrator. Her poems appear in Brittle Paper, Galway Review, Eclectica, The Mantelpiece, Consilience, Collateral, Kalahari Review, Tiny Seed, and other literary magazines, journals, and anthologies in Africa, Europe, and the USA. Besides writing, she founded WoChiPoDa.com, an initiative to instill the love of poetry in children. Born and raised in Tanzania, she lives in Germany and occasionally in Tanzania. You can find her on her website at gloria-gonsalves.com, on Medium at gdgonsalves, on Goodreads at gloriadgonsalves, and on instagram at gdgonsalves.

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jaime jacques poetry august 2024

She sweeps around the mat.

I contort my body.

Should I move?

No, no te preocupes m’ija, estás bien.


I thought this poem was about privilege.

Then I showed it to a friend.

Get over yourself,  she said.

You deliver mail for a living.


The teacher on my yoga app says 

Come into chair pose. 

Call in something that you need.


I call in what I always call in: money. 

I don’t want to go back to the high vis vest,

tiny mail slots snapping frozen fingers,

supervisors in the depot saying

Let me see the treads on your shoes. 


Be open to abundance, the teacher coos.  

Complaining about capitalism feels so on trend.

We make jokes about our stolen lives,

waiting for the jobs we hate to be done by AI.

The problem is none of it is very funny.


One day while folding sheets into hard creases

Maria told me she used to sell tamales in the street. 

This work is a little better than that, she concedes.

At least she doesn’t have to get up at 4 in the morning.


You are the co-creator of your life.   

Here, surrounded by flowers and fruit

I move back into downward dog and

congratulate myself on this chapter. 

What I sacrifice for the freedom to travel:

pension, health plan, a living wage.

I’m considered casual.

Maria is called informal. 

We both know what we really are: disposable.


I roll up the mat.


Maria sweeps where I was,

leaving the ground immaculate.


Trust that whatever you need is coming to you.


The Organic Cotton Shop in Tepoztlan

A handsome man enters & declares

he needs TOW-ELS, wraps his

arms around himself,

drawing out the vowels.


His rocket pop blue eyes

land on mine: What’s your name? 

smiles like he’s just given me a gift.

Couldn’t wait to tell me his: Lucky.


Your parents called you that?

Me, taking the bait.

Well, Lucky is my last name, he says.

Still cool, I say.

Actually, it’s Lecky, he insists on telling me. 

First name is Steve.


Leaning against the towels now, he 

resumes the train wreck of disclosure, 

tells me he’s from Edmonton.


Lucky’s building a cabin on the mountain.

He does peyote, lives off of crypto.

His visa’s about to run out.  

He’s not worried though.

He’s got a guy. 


He flashes his expensive smile 

at the woman working, 

says he’ll take four blankets 

and four pillows with the towels.

I mean, it’s so cheap, right? 

I’m still debating a 10-dollar vest.


Listen, he says, 

I’m not a new-age type of guy.

I’ve spent time in the jungle of India. 

Did you ever wonder why 

some of the poorest people are the happiest? 


I tell Lucky I need to get going. 

I hope he doesn’t ask to connect online,

but I guess he won’t. 

That would ruin the illusion. 

He’s already on shaky ground. 

Steve Lecky from Edmonton. 

I leave without buying the vest, 

exchange a glance with the woman

behind the shop desk—we both know

I’m not the type of tourist Mexico wants.

I don’t buy organic cotton towels and 

I would never pay someone to renew

my visa. I would get on a bus and go

to Guatemala to do it— like any other

broke person with their given name would. 


Jaime Jacques (she/her) currently lives in the ancestral and unceded territory of Mi’kma’ki, where she delivers mail, sometimes writes poems, and always drinks too much coffee. Her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Rogue Agent, Variant Lit, Birdcoat Quarterly and others. Her reporting can be found on NPR , Salon, and Lonely Planet among others. She is the daughter of an Indian immigrant and has always felt most at home in the tropics. She has a deep and abiding love for Central America, where she lived for several years working as a travel writer while binge eating mangoes.

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musu bangura short story july 2024

Jeneba paused from sweeping the red dust from her porch and looked up at the familiar sound coming from the dirt road. It was the dry season, making the dust more relentless as it hit the hot evening air after another push from her broom. The rebellious swirl of the soil annoyed Jeneba; she was determined to have a dust-free porch that would only become tainted again the next day. It was the town crier making his way through the village. His tall, lanky figure swayed with speed; one arm swinging back and forth and the other resting on top of a small drum tied to his waist. He beat the drum at the top of each new announcement, repeating in rhythmic cycle, the evening news.

Prompted by the crier’s impending approach, Jeneba’s mother, Ramatu, joined her on the porch. She stopped and opened the front door again to toss a few insults at the house girls inside.

“You no de clean well! Don’t even bother showing up tomorrow!” She sucked her teeth and slammed the door.

Jeneba looked at her mother in disbelief. “Mama, why are you always harassing those girls? I don’t need you running them off like you did those two boys. I need the help!”

Ramatu grabbed a second broom that was leaning against the far end of the porch that was decorated with two black metal chairs. “That’s the whole point. Even though the girls are supposed to do the cooking and cleaning, you still need help.!” She joined her daughter in the sweeping battle, soon taking over with her high energy and strength. Her 80-year-old full frame defied any sign of aging.

The town crier interrupted their conversation, now passing in front of Jeneba’s porch. “The Sesay family has welcomed a baby boooyyy!” He slapped the drum to break out another announcement. “The thieves, oh! Beware of the thieves who continue to disrupt in the night!” 

Ramatu put her hands on her round hips, shaking her head. “This is ridiculous! Those thieves have been here at least two times now.”

By this time, other residents of the village had gathered in front of their homes, watching and listening to the town crier as he marched by. They chatted amongst themselves, concerned about the warning of the thieves. One couple, Jubal and his wife Isatu, who were close friends of Ramatu’s family, made their way over to Jeneba’s porch. Their faces, especially Isatu’s, were washed with concern.

“But what is all of this?” The neighbor, Jubal held his hands out, waiting for an explanation to fall out of the sky.

“Did you hear the crier, Ramatu? The thieves are coming back, oh. They will attack those they didn’t attack the last time!” Isatu, the wife of Jubal, was near tears. Her voice trembled.

“Nonsense,” snapped Ramatu from the porch. “You mean to tell me you’re afraid of those fools? Let them make the mistake of coming back here!”

“These thieves are relentless,” Jubal said. “The last time, they stole all of Pa Santigi’s crops. I even heard they took one of his goats.”

“Both of you make your way back to your house so that you can crawl under your bed and cry,” Ramatu replied. “I don’t care what they took, they will learn a big lesson if they try to come here again.”

Jeneba chimed in. “It’s simple. We will be vigilant, and we will also pray.”

Ramatu delivered a cold look at Jeneba with her slanted eyes. “Please, don’t start talking that nonsense. We have the protection of our ancestors. That’s why they didn’t attack us.”

“Mama, I know you don’t like hearing about God, but it is true. Our prayers to Him will provide protection.”

“You and your silly husband, talking about this God. In fact, he should be here with you now, preparing to deal with those stupid thieves, but instead, he’s running around with those pale-looking missionaries.”

The back and forth between mother and daughter continued, with the neighbors, Jubal and Isatu, fueling the conversation with their own fears. The evening wore on into the early part of the night. Then, everyone retreated to their homes and slept incident free.

The next morning, the thieves continued to be the hot topic of discussion, with the elderly Ramatu leading the conversation, gathering fresh crops to deliver to family and friends around the village. “Even when Suleman was alive, you think I waited for him to protect me?” Ramatu reminisced about her late husband with Jubal, who had stopped by in the late morning.

Jubal laughed. “I think Suleman had to worry about protecting himself from you more than anything.”

While they continued to reminisce, Jeneba and one of the local missionaries made their way to Ramatu’s yard, where she was still sorting the crops as Jubal looked on.

“Mama, you remember Sister Catherine?” Jeneba then turned to the small-framed woman with sharp blue eyes. “Sister Catherine, you remember my mother Ramatu and our family friend Uncle Jubal.”

Sister Catherine gave a huge smile, the wrinkled sides of her mouth and eyes on her vanilla-creamed skin gave way. “Ramatu, so nice to see you again.” She nodded her head at both Ramatu and Jubal. “I wanted to stop by and thank you all for your support. The Bishop and I are so excited about the new church that’s being built. We’re hoping to see you all at this Sunday’s service.”

Jeneba smiled at Sister Catherine, then looked at her mother and Jubal for a response. Ramatu, focused on separating the remaining crops, sucked her teeth and chucked a freshly picked yam into a pile, ignoring everyone around her.

Jubal decided to give a response to break the awkward silence. “Well, Sister Catherine, we are happy about the work you and the other Catholic officials have been doing. You’ve helped us build schools, taught us English, and helped us make good relations with the nearby towns and villages.”

Sister Catherine gleaned at his response. “Oh, Jubal, we are more than happy to provide in any way we can!”

Jeneba looked at her mother out the side of her eye. Ramatu refused to make eye contact, focusing on her growing piles of crops. After more small talk, Sister Catherine and Jeneba finally left, leaving Ramatu to finish her project. All the crops were assorted for nearby family and friends with whom she took turns growing and sharing fruits and vegetables. This late morning was her turn to dispense the crops. She recruited the house girls, distributing wooden baskets full of assorted crops amongst them to deliver as instructed. She grabbed one of the baskets and walked over to Jubal and Isatu’s place. She walked up the stairs, banged on the door and went back down the stairs. Isatu let out a sharp scream from inside.

“Crazy woman, what are you screaming about? It’s me!” Ramatu stood at the bottom of the front porch stairs, with one hand around the full basket and another on her hip.

Isatu came outside, her eyes bulging from her face. “Are you trying to kill me, banging my door like that?”

“But what is wrong with you? I always bang on your door. Anyway, here’s your portion from the garden.” She gave the basket a quick and hefty toss, sending the crops all over Isatu’s porch.

“Eh, Ramatu! Why must you always deliver our food like this? We never do that when it’s our turn. Why don’t you let me use the basket?”

“Agh agh! You will take the basket and I will never see it again,” Ramatu replied, waving her finger with disapproval. Walking away and heading back to her house, she turned back and looked at Isatu, who was now gathering the crops with a scowl on her face. “You need to relax, oh. You’re jumpier than usual because of the news of the thieves. We must be prepared, not scared…silly woman.”

That Saturday, two evenings later, the village carried on with their usual routine of cleaning up, gossiping, and chasing down the children for their baths while an underlying nervousness floated from house to house. It had been two nights of quiet and no thieves, but this encroaching night felt different, especially with the elderly Ramatu.

“As I told you all, those thieves better not make the mistake of coming here.” Ramatu was sounding off on her front porch, in the company of Jubal, Isatu and Jeneba, who was braiding her two-year-old daughter’s hair.

“Eh, Mama. Why do you insist on looking for a fight? Let us just pray for protection. I even mentioned it to Sister Catherine the other day. They are all very concerned!”

“What is that frail ghost of a woman going to do,” Ramatu inquired. “Is she going to protect us? How is she going to do that when she can’t even pronounce Jubal’s name properly?” She turned to Jubal and his wife. “You heard her the other day, eh? ‘Gee-buh’, hi ‘Gee-buh,’” she mocked with a nasal tone.

Isatu chuckled. “Eh, Ramatu. You nah’ case!” She clapped her hands, giggling.

Jubal also laughed, then reflected on their surroundings. “Since the past two nights have been quiet, everyone is wondering if something will happen tonight.”

“I will be right here in front of this house, waiting for them,” Ramatu asserted.

“Well at least come with us to tomorrow’s service,” Jeneba requested. “All the tribesmen and chiefs will be there to celebrate the new church that will soon be finished.”

“As you wish, my child. I will be there,” Ramatu said playfully. “Even though I will be up all night, I will make sure I’m there to shake my head at those foolish chiefs making deals with those pale people.”

Keeping to her word, Ramatu was on guard, in the dead of the night. Her failed attempt to recruit people earlier to join her on the watch didn’t curtail her from her mission. She marched up and down the dirt road, listening out for any strange sounds or movements, even announcing out loud that they better not make the mistake of trying her. Everyone else was sound asleep in their homes. After a few rounds of marching and looking out from the porch, Ramatu heard a rustle coming from a bush near Jubal and Isatu’s backyard.

“Who is that,” she demanded. “Don’t make me come over there!”

After a few moments, another stir gave way. Ramatu shouted, “Jubal! Isatu! Wake up!”

A stern thud came from the side of their house, sounding like something fell to the ground. Then, the light of a lantern came from the couple’s bedroom. Ramatu made her way to the noise, demanding once again, “Who is that?”

Then, the sound of panicked voices. A figure dashed back into the thick bushes that led to the village’s deep forest, then another one quickly followed suit.

“The thieves!”

Another rumble rose from the side of their house, followed by a clashing sound. Isatu screamed from inside. Jubal raced out his back door, picking up a big stick that was used to build fires for cooking.

Out of the darkness from Jubal’s yard, a young boy, whose face was painted with fright, sprinted from the side of the house toward Ramatu.

“Come here, you!” Ramatu attempted to grab the boy’s arm as he ran past her. He freed himself from her grip and pushed her to the ground before taking off into the bushes.

Ramatu, now on the ground, let out a sharp cry. Her left hip took most of the fall. Jubal came racing to her rescue. More lights were turning on, and people now stood in front of their homes trying to figure out what happened. A small crowd gathered around Ramatu, then Jubal and one of the other neighbors helped her to her feet. Jeneba burst out her front door and ran to her mother.

“Mama! Mama! What happened? Are you okay?”

Brushing the dust off while being escorted to Jeneba’s porch, she said, “I told you they were coming and that I would be ready for those fools. Their mission failed!” She paused from dusting herself and stood staunch, looking at her daughter.

Jeneba’s eyes widened. “The thieves were here? They could have hurt you!”

“But they didn’t,” Ramatu declared. “They ran off like the cowards they are.”

“You stubborn old woman,” Jeneba fumed. “This could’ve been a lot worse. Only God protected you!”

“Yes, the god of our ancestors protected me!”

“Mama, please. You have to let that nonsense go. There are no ancestors protecting you. All of that is rubbish. Don’t you know things are changing now?”

 Ramatu raised her hand and gave Jeneba a swift slap across her face. Jeneba stumbled back and held the side of her face in shock. The chatter amongst the villagers came to an abrupt halt. The only sound that could be heard was the heavy breathing coming from Ramatu and Jeneba.

That next morning, everyone gathered at the makeshift pavilion for Sunday services. Once everyone was situated, Sister Catherine made her way to a small wooden podium positioned in front of the crowd.

“We want to thank each and every one of you on this blessed day,” she said. “This church being built symbolizes that friendship made with the wonderful tribal Temne chiefs who have been so gracious to us, and to the families who have been supportive and sweet, making our mission here so successful.”

Jeneba sat in the front row, representing her husband who wouldn’t be back for several more days. Ramatu, Jubal and Isatu sat behind her. There was little exchange between Ramatu and her daughter since last night’s incident. Sister Catherine continued to make more announcements and give blessings before welcoming the main speaker. Ramatu was beginning to get impatient.

“But when is this foolishness going to be over?” Ramatu whispered to Jubal, who was listening to Sister Catherine intently.

“I don’t know,” he said before fixing his gaze back on Sister Catherine.

“And now, I would like to introduce to you all, King George Cummings, the Headman from Freetown!” Sister Catherine held out her hand to welcome the tall slender man who was dressed in British militant attire. His thin, wispy hair blew in the breeze as he made his way to the podium.

Ramatu nudged Jubal again. “Who is this King George supposed to be?”

“He’s representing our tribe and the Mende tribe in establishing the churches. I heard he has a big, beautiful office in Freetown.”

She looked at Jubal with surprise. “He’s representing us…in Freetown…doesn’t look like us, but he’s our representative?” Ramatu took another look at the man, looked around the room and noticed everyone’s eyes were fixed on him with admiration and excitement. She then let out a hearty laugh that rippled through the pavilion. In an instant, all eyes were on her. She threw her head back and let out an even deeper cackle, her chest jiggling with humor.

Jeneba turned around in horror from embarrassment. “Mama, what are doing?”

Ramatu, still laughing, pointed her finger at King George and Sister Catherine at the front of the room. “There they are! The real thieves!”


Musu Bangura is an established freelance writer in the Washington DC area. She recently published a short story in Brittle Paper. Her work has been featured in local and national media outlets, such as Hello Beautiful, a leading online platform for women that covers topics on health, resilience, and beauty. While connecting and supporting other writers, Musu is currently working on her novel, The Mango Tree Shade. You can find her on her website and follow her blog at musuwrites.com.

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joanne godley poetry july 2024

“How fearful they must be

That they shoot you children”

                       Sarafina, funeral song lyrics


let’s take the word 

scream


scream, screamed,

have screamed,

were screaming,

will scream,

are screaming,

be screamed

as in scream

me a nightmare


as in Soweto, South Africa

in the mid-nineteen seventies

when apartheid reigned king

and a simple scream

travelled


screams of 20000 parents

waded through blood fields

to collect

fallen book bags

and blood-drenched

bones

of children

mowed like errant

turf-grass


screams hallowed the gut

like an elevator in free-fall


in Sesotho hoeletsa:  scream

in Zulu ukuthethisa:  scream

in Xhosa memeza:  scream


the screams

tsunamied

clamored witness

echoed screeches


the entomology

of scream       fuses

Middle Dutch scremen ( yell, shout)


and Old Norse skræma (“to terrify; scare”)


as in Dutch schremen (“to shout; yell; cry”)

as in Dutch schreien (“to cry; weep”)


a persistent sound


as in Michael Brown  (18)  friend-walking                                                

as in Tamir Rice  (12)  toy gun-park-playing                                              

as in Ma’Khia Bryant  (16 ) woman–altercating                                                  

as in Adam Toledo   (13) police-complying

as in Daunte White   (20) girlfriend-driving

as in Breonna Taylor (26) bed-sleeping

as in Atitiana Jefferson (28) house-chilling

as in Stephon Clark (22) grandma’s backyard-standing

as in Botham Jean (26) sofa-ice-cream-eating                                               

as in Janisha Fonville (22) home-chilling

as in Gabriella Navarez (22) driving


as in


To My Formerly-Enslaved Great-grandmother, Missouri, Who, Once Freed, Would Not Speak

Ancestors.com

Ancestors don’t come

To the page

Are missing


Am haunted 

By the idea fact

My ancestors were numbers 

On a page

Not people


Portrayed lazy despite pyramids 

Despite the sphinx

And the White House    still white

Black   but invisible 

Black   come silent

Nameless

Silenced

Tongues meaty blue- red organs 

Twisted muted

Tongues never tried


Missouri is her given name

Miss her I

Missing ri  we

A missing people

Missouri 

Name her

Ma misery   I’ve named

This big black-boned woman 

Great grandma  

Missing but conjure-able

Through memories         imagined


   Not being      

                people


Her Silence as stunned

Her Silence as dunned

Her Silence as horror

Her Silence as deference

Her Silence as reverence

Her Silence as speech-free

Her Silence as shame


Here hear    we give back 

Your tongue  Missouri

To tell us   Tell us

What was it like?


Joanne Godley lives in Mexico City. She is a physician, writer, poet, and a Pacific University MFA student. She is a Meter Keeper in the Poetry Witch Community and an Anaphora Arts fellow in both poetry and fiction. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in the Bellevue Literary Review, Mantis, Light, FIYAH, Pratik, and Account, among others. She was twice nominated for a Pushcart prize. Her prose has been published in the Massachusetts Review, the Kenyon Review online, Juked, Memoir, and others. Her second poetry chapbook, Doc.X, was recently published by Black Sunflowers Press. You can find her at Joannegodley.com, on IG at indigonerd, and on X at DrJoanneGodley.

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caroline d. Le Guin poetry July 2024

Polished grains, seed pearls

opalescent white against

my white palm. Winnowed,

milled, pounded—husk

and bran and germ all

rubbed away—seeds denatured

ungermed to starch not seed

to feed and feed and feed.


“Cherokee blood” family would say,

marking my uncle’s rich and easy tan,

my grandfather’s broad face—

we descendants of

the rice people of the south,

the lowlands, the sea islands,

people of Savannah, Charleston.


Carolina Gold:  If I take

this rice into my belly

will I taste in the passage

over lips, tongue, back of teeth

the dry bitter remnants,

the dark parts, the bran, the germ—

what was milled and polished white

into what was to be forgotten?


I turn each mouthful on my tongue

before swallowing , hoping

to taste some sign of heritage

to name and to know the

power of pain my ancestors

held in white hands–power to consume

land, labor, the ancient knowledge

of the first rice people

people of Senegambia their knowledge

of the planting and flooding,

the winnowing, the pounding,

the baskets and the boards,

the soil and the sweat—everything

that was taken I seek to take

into my body and the salt of grief

salt of blood salt of the wide Atlantic

to eat, swallow, trying to remember all

that I have never known,

the dark germ, the winnowed husk


let it nourish the hidden germ

the dark seed once denatured,

polished to whiteness

and forgetting. Let each grain

teach my tongue to speak

this rift of history to speak

the debt of blood of gold to speak

to the broken kinship  

among the people of rice.


Caroline D. Le Guin taught English at Portland Community College until retiring a few years ago. She now writes and tends a small farm on the traditional ancestral lands of the Molalla, Clackamas Chinook, and Kalapuya peoples in the North Willamette Valley of Oregon. 

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zoe mahfouz flash nonfiction june 2024

Written by a person deemed ethnically ambiguous.

I know France isn’t a racist country, and I am not Arabic, so to speak. I’d like to believe that my resume, my showreel, my social media, or even my face speak for themselves, but apparently, they don’t. My mom has been fully integrated in France since she moved there as a child; yet she’s experienced systemic racism her whole life. She thought that giving me a French first name would be sufficient since I was born in Paris, white and atheist. Apparently not. In primary school, a kitchen server refused to serve me pork, said I should ask my mom if I could have some. That was just the beginning.

But France isn’t a racist country.

I started auditioning as an actress. Casting directors kept asking me about my origins, my ethnicity. I told them I didn’t speak Arabic, that I was born here in Paris, and raised in French culture. They continued asking about my origins.

But France isn’t a racist country.

They asked me to audition for a masseuse role, a Middle-Eastern-looking woman who loses her temper and starts “acting ghetto” with the customers of a five-star hotel because she “just can’t help it, it’s her nature”.  Then they asked me to audition for Fatima’s sister and learn a bit of Arabic. I could do that, right? They asked me to wear a hijab, to play a Syrian refugee. They asked me to play a Muslim YouTuber doing a DIY on how to put on a hijab. They asked me to play Samia, sitting by her husband’s side in a car before being pulled over by the police. “Hey, can you come in and audition for Suburban Arabic Girl Number Four? Basically, you’re with your homies in the subway, and you make a fuss, start yelling at people, throwing things around!”

 But France isn’t a racist country.

You can easily tell France isn’t a racist country when you walk around Paris accompanied by my mom who has dark skin. Besides the aggressive stares and whispers when we go to posh places, I have witnessed her getting pushed by a Karen’s trolly in a fancy market and followed by security guards when we stepped inside various stores. We even had a saleswoman tell my mom as she tried on clothes that she looked more like “someone dealing narcotics at the bottom of the building.” And then: “Are you going to pay cash? Wonder where that money comes from,” followed by condescending laughter. For the record, this last incident happened when my mom tried on a three-thousand-dollar coat that we bought despite everything.

But France isn’t a racist country.

It’s actually easy finding work in France when you have Middle Eastern ancestry. I’ve recently come across the most encouraging video on social media, about a Middle Eastern man who graduated as an airline pilot but couldn’t find work because of his name. A few years ago, I remember reading about another Middle Easterner who applied for a managerial position, got an interview where the employer told him he had the right qualifications, but couldn’t be hired because frankly, “no one will accept being managed by an Arabic man”. For my part, I remember when I applied for a job as a receptionist, and the recruiter pressured me to know if I had a criminal record. Because she “would find out eventually.”

 But France isn’t a racist country.

“So, tell me something: Where are you from? Really from? Oh, gee, why are you getting so cranky about it? It’s just a question! I’m trying to get to know you better! Are you ashamed of your roots? Don’t you want to act as a standard-bearer for all Arabic peoples? Stop playing the victim already! How dare you call me racist. I was about to introduce you to the best couscous restaurant in town! I bet it’ll taste exactly like the one in your country! What did you think of the movies directed by Riad Sattouf?”

But France isn’t a racist country.


Zoé Mahfouz is an award-winning actress, screenwriter and content creator. Her humor pieces have been published in Defenestration Mag, Wingless Dreamer Publisher, Spillwords Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Witcraft. You can follow her on Tiktok @lessautesdhumeurdezoe.

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Beth Brown Preston poetry June 2024

You sat with brushes in hand and the light flowing above and below,

a prayer like paper. The light illumined all our sacred trees.

Somehow, we forgot all our raucous and joyous past love

when I asked you to listen for the screen door’s slam

and the call to supper as I brought you the evening meal.


And then there was that folio of your recent sketches:

so many similar dark faces filled with joy.


Then I gazed at the rich, brown texture of a watercolor on the page,

a man’s tortured face, his beard, his tough glowing bronze skin.

You said it was a portrait of your brother,

who died overseas during a rain of fire in the Viet Nam war.


And you put down your brushes to confess

we are going to start life all over again 

without waging the private wars that keep us together.


You painted your dead brother’s face

against a background of blue.


Beth Brown Preston is a poet and novelist with two collections of poetry from the Broadside Lotus Press and two chapbooks of poetry, including OXYGEN II (Moonstone Press, 2022). She is a graduate of Bryn Mawr College and the MFA Writing Program at Goddard College. She has been a CBS Fellow in Writing at the University of Pennsylvania; and, a Bread Loaf Scholar. Her work has been recognized by the Hudson Valley Writers Center, the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, The Writer’s Center, and the Fine Arts Work Center. Her poetry and reviews have been published in numerous literary and scholarly journals.

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claudia wair flash nonfiction may 2024

Our grandparents sit us down and teach us where we come from: Africa, enslavement, Jim Crow. Our parents tell us where it’s safe to travel and where our brown skin makes us targets. Fear infects our dreams.

They don’t talk about us much in their history books. Erasing us and those whose land was stolen. It’s hard to find accounts of those who went before us, but we know we were resilient. We know we survived.

They teach us to be ashamed of the hair on our heads. We women are pressured to straighten our hair with caustic chemicals or cover it with a wig. Our wild coils are beautiful, but they say we look unprofessional.

We are paid less but are expected to be exceptional. If we dare to be average, they call us lazy. We have no money to leave our children. All we have are stories to pass down.

We have siblings, cousins, friends who aren’t here anymore, executed for the crime of being Black. We shout the names of the dead, write them on placards, print them on t-shirts. Trayvon, Breonna, George. When we protest the murders, they call it a riot.

Sometimes we dream of better days, but those dreams are haunted by the dead. Sometimes we dream of justice, but in the end, we always wake up.


Claudia Wair is a Virginia-based writer whose work has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Astrolabe, Tangled Locks Journal, JMWW, and elsewhere. You can read more at claudiawair.com or follow her on Instagram @CWTellsTales. 

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dana francisco miranda poetry may 2024

for Gaza

1.

my eyes 

              two dead seas

witness 

              daily slaughter


—the butcher’s feast,

the reaper’s bounty—


witness 

—the healer’s gauze,

the morphine’s mercy—


              Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! 

              don’t    you know? 


Gallant says human 

animals 

do not need      when

              corralled or culled.


life does not      need life.


beyond rations 

                or rationality, 

this is the desert 

where   insurgent winds

choke   on phosphorous

               where   open 

                             mouths 

                             have 

              stitched tongues. 


2.  

so, give me your 

              list of banned words


intifada – nakba – ya’aburnee.


              i will give you a list

of the dead—olive        trees

ripped from     root, sunbirds

plucked             from sky.      i 

will lay a tatreez of   martyrs

at your feet. i will craft lianas

from              amputated limbs

so even        Death can carry 

Palestine like a germinating

seed.      i will turn my distilled 

                tears          into bullets,

i will turn my          complacency 

              into a thing thrown,

i will turn the world

upside-down, 

              until all saplings 

              are replanted    as limbs 

                             returned. 


3.  

but if    you do not cease the fires, 

do not ask         smoke for balance. 

life cannot        home in death 

                           or occupation. 


              night is meant to be filled 

              with       dark delirium


              —the dreams of children,

              the impolite 

                            hopes of ghosts—


it is not             meant 

                           to be carcass. 

thus, let us 

              invent new ways to blush. 

let us 

              make bullhorns of our 

              dusted anger

                              until we exhume 

                              new futures. 

              let us 

              be shameless. 


Dana Francisco Miranda is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of Massachusetts Boston. His research is in political philosophy, Africana philosophy, and psychosocial studies. His current book manuscript, The Coloniality of Happiness, investigates the philosophical significance of suicide, depression, and wellbeing for members of the African Diaspora. His most recent work has been published in Creolizing Hannah Arendt, The Movement for Black Lives: Philosophical Perspectives, Journal of World Philosophies, EntreLetras, Journal of Global Ethics, Disegno: The Quarterly Journal of Design, and The APA Blog: Black Issues in Philosophy. Find him on Twitter at @DanaFMiranda.

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wangui wa kamonji flash fiction may 2024

You grabbed me! I didn’t expect it. Weren’t we smiling and greeting just moments before?

Passing each other, you and I, on our way to our own worlds, with our own errands, sent by our selves?

Your muscles were shining, sinewy, curved, beautiful even. They were strong, filled up, betraying the many fights already fought, and won. They shone with the sweat of effort.

Eating all your opponents is no small thing. Even their bones, you’d crushed in your jaws.

I felt your strength when you gripped me; it surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it nor this wrestle; yet here we now were, locked in an uncomfortable embrace. I gave my all in the tussle. I gripped back, arms around your middle, locked in, I braced myself, I would not be thrown! This way and that way we went, pushing, shoving, finding, keeping, losing ground.

My face contorted, each crease matching your own, ears closed to anything else, eyes tracking your every move. My muscles tightened as yours flexed. You would not get the better of me!

You didn’t expect my tenacity either, did you? A couple of times, you nearly had me on the floor, with your stealth and tackle, but the gazelle and the hare have taught me well. I jumped, regained balance, and pushed in new directions. We scuffed up the dust; it rose in a cloud all around us, blocking view of all but our struggle. We scarce could see it, locked in our embrace as we were.

And then — was that — a half smile — that just crossed — your face? Could it be? You enjoy this? You enjoy this! Your shiny muscles tell you that you will win, that I will tire, eventually, just now, you think you have me figured out. I can’t stand you, but I can’t bear to look away. I will keep fighting. I will NOT be thrown! Locked in this our embrace, cheek to cheek, brow to brow, muscle against muscle, jaws locked, teeth gritted, feet scuffing dust, some gain, some loss, we’ll wrestle on and on and…

You think you have me figured out? I’ll show you! I tighten my hold on your arms, put my back into it, dig my feet in, and push harder, searching for the opening to fall you.

But just as I kick at a new place, what’s that? Playing with the nape of my neck, flitting with the sweat running down my brow and shoulders? Dancing with my ears…A butterfly? A breeze? The sound of a god who is memory, who is wind…

Slow, within the quiet pupil of the noisy scuffle the message arrives, and lands: You don’t know me. You’ve only heard about me. I know myself; I know my self. I re-member. I look into your eyes and half-smile. I slacken my grip on you, dropping your arms, and our death embrace. I jump back.

Amazing, isn’t it? When I loosen my grip, you can’t hold me. I see surprise on your face, you weren’t expecting that!

Before you think to restart a fight that chases us in circles, I turn and walk away. I was on a journey before, one on which I sent myself. Butterfly song carries on the wind; I hear it.

Goodbye.


Wangũi wa Kamonji is a regeneration practitioner researching and translating Indigenous Afrikan knowledges into experiential processes, art, and honey. She centres Afrika, ancestrality and Earth in her multigenre storytelling extending ancestral invitations to rethink and reimagine everything with Indigenous Afrikan ontologies. Her children’s story “The Giraffes of the Desert” appears in the anthology Story, Story, Story Come. She is published in Shallow Tales Review, Open Global Rights, Africa is a Country, and The Elephant. Wangũi holds close Micere Mugo’s call to find the songs lying around and sing them for all to hear and sing with us. She is based in Ongata Rongai, East Afrika. She can be found on instagram at @_fromtheroots and @wakamonji and on X/twitter at @_fromtheroots.

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chinemerem prince nwankwo poetry may 2024

for girls frail & brittle.  for body crossed

with a disheveled spirit. & everything in

the     name of gender distill

salvation. how much illumine a reflection?

there’s a sag  story  in shattered glasses.

every ample breast hangs as a pendant

of grief. of past merge from                    jarring

voices. of future that splits in shards.

of many solitary night that craves

the gift of death.

my poem gradient to a girl. don’t

know if that                   counts. & each hour

past

flesh & blood  she loses identity.

it hurts to rove into strange waters.

but girls sail

broken                      in agitated waves.

what depiction are we? maybe a girl with

the shadow of a damsel. mother

says we’re feminine ‘cause our legs opens.

 & we immerse  a cycle of  ritual:

       splitting & opening. [daughters of Eve].


Chinemerem Prince Nwankwo, SWAN IV, is an Igbo apprentice poet and essayist who’s currently a final year student of the Department of History and International Studies, University of Uyo, Nigeria. Chinemerem is poetry editor at The Cloudscent Journal and an assistant poetry editor at Arkore Arts. He tweets at @CPNwankwo.

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Cheryl Atim Alexander poetry May 2024

Dearest, Lilith. Israel is carpet bombing Rafah, Gaza—right NOW.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. More than 1.7 million Palestinians are in Rafah, Gaza—right NOW.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. The Prime Minister said Rafah was a safe space for the displaced—

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. I am watching newborns and toddlers with their legs blown off in real time.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith—see these images teeming with terrorized children hanging from the rafters.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith.  Babies are being wrapped into the tiniest bags.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. Mothers and Fathers are weeping            wailing in desperation          trying to find safe passage for their babies.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. Multiple families are being decimated by Israel as we speak.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     Oh, Lilith. A little girl called Hind Rajab is starving to death among her decomposing relatives        and those who set out to save her are scorched alive    and strewn into smithereens.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     My Dearest Lilith. The world has tipped over onto its head and I am          afraid. Enough is enough                       and I am too weary                      to whisper      

          “No more?”

Shush now. Please! The President is tweeting.


Cheryl Atim Alexander is an Afro Greek woman who was born into a family of readers and writers. Her writing emanates from a plethora of life-affirming experiences and serves to inspire anyone who may have misplaced their voice. A tireless writer, she has been published in Wilderness House Literary Review, Written Tales Magazine, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, and Kalahari Review. Cheryl was recently nominated for Best of the Net 2024.