Men Who Get It
I’m not attracted to him. At least… I don’t think I am. I spent a few formative summers at conversion camp. Daily prayers. Ice baths with shards so sharp it’d cut any temptation right out.
Best of the Net Nominations 2025
Announcing the Decolonial Passage Best of the Net nominees for 2025!
Moon Blues
When the flooding starts, and the rich flock to / their yachts, the rest of us will inherit the beach-front views / only to climb up trees and whine at God — but you promised!
and how shall i walk when the street sings of fire?
they uploaded a song / before the blood dried. / it asked us to leave. / leave what? / the land that remembers our ancestors’ coughs, / the wells we named after heartbreak, / the callouses of our dead / still softened in its soil?
One of Those Summer Nights
Then, the noise started. Guns screamed. Humans screamed. Animals screamed. The kid didn’t know which side the screaming guy was on. He learned that dying men scream alike. He was scared. He was embarrassed by his fear, but he couldn’t help it.
Ocean Antidote
I remember longing for death in elementary school. Why am I here? What’s the point of living? No one wants me here. In those moments of desperation, I imagined the ocean’s waves crashing on the shore and beckoning me to reunite with her. The second my feet hit the sand, none of that mattered.
Eid Mubarak, America
I asked my classmates who then referred me to other moms who also spoke to me about what children of color face in school at a young age and how to deal with it. So much figuring out, how to fit in, how to make things better for my daughter — a child growing up in America.
Standing Ovation
In America, a murderer receives a standing ovation. / Meanwhile, bodies tally against the ground faster / than we can count. / I can’t quite decide what is more disturbing; / the chilling sound of applause cheering genocide, / or the large-scale catastrophe scorching the world.
operasi seroja
the night comes for us, / when mercenaries / scan palm leaves / for drops of blood / of martyrs. martyrs who / write poems about / the living.
The Visitor
If my mother had her way today, I would be with her at the market or sipping tea with wives and daughters of military men. But I find solace in Machiavelli and Dante, the speeches of Azikiwe, the discourse of men.
I, too, am California
But this, too, is a California story. Better than the glossy, glamorized image projected on television, this California is real. It’s brown-skinned and frizzy-haired, and mixed-race, and multicultural, and queer, and it’s me. I’m it.
A Voice Note from Johannesburg
In the excitement of our meeting, we did not exchange numbers when we parted. Then the light faded and so did he, into the Johannesburg shadows, a cold Jozi night.
How to Survive the Apocalypse
At some point, / you’ll stand on the porch, / watching a hydrangea fight / for its life in the wind, / and think: / This is survival. / This is all it ever was.
Who Let You In?
“Who let you in?” / “How can you afford to walk through / these doors?” / “Wrong color, wrong place.”
Best Small Fictions
Congratulations Wangũi wa Kamonji! Her flash fiction will be published by Alternating Current Press in Best Small Fictions 2025. Thanks to all our nominees for submitting their writing in 2024.
the Decolonial Passage 