Decolonial Passage is honored to announce the nominations for next year’s Pushcart Prize Anthology. This list includes writing published during the 2025 calendar year. Congratulations to the nominees!
Poetry
Jesse Gabriel Gonzalez – “Moon Blues”
Yanis Iqbal – “and how shall i walk when the street sings of fire?”
Short Stories
.Chisaraokwu. – “The Visitor”
Essays/Memoirs
Bright Aboagye – “Do They See You?”
Stone Mims – “A Letter to My Grandfather”
Kimberly Nao – “I, too, am California”
Daniel picked up the sandwich as a black ant’s head appeared above the paper plate’s rim. Antennae wiggling in time with the hum of the house’s A/C unit, the ant paused, assessing the situation.
“It’s OK,” Daniel said, breaking off a few crumb-sized pieces of bread and dropping them onto the plate.
Stomach rumbling, he bit into the sandwich. Dry meatloaf between two stale pieces of hard bread. No ketchup, mustard, or mayonnaise. Chewing steadily, he tried to turn the lump in his mouth into something edible. As he swallowed, he felt the thick, gummy wad scrape down his throat.
Earlier that Saturday morning, Daniel was surprised to see his eight-year-old sister drawing at the kitchen table.
“You got baseball?” she asked.
“No. Work.”
“Dad said we might go to the town pool.”
“Uh-huh. What you drawing?”
She held up the paper, revealing a rough sketch of a cerapter.
“Pretty good.” The mythical unicorn with wings was one of her favorite things. Drawings and posters of it decorated her bedroom walls.
Daniel bit into the sandwich as the ant climbed over the rim and onto the plate. He’d planned to go home for lunch. But the man insisted Daniel stay and said he’d give him lunch, as if afraid Daniel would leave and not return. So, here he was, sitting on the concrete backsteps of the man’s house in the sun.
The death of Michael’s father had made no sense to Daniel. But death itself wasn’t something any twelve-year-old fully understood. The week before, in a father and son softball game, Michael’s father hit a blast that shattered a row of lights in the center field tower. The following Monday morning, after saying he didn’t feel like himself, he returned to bed. As she sat weeping at the funeral, Michael’s mother repeatedly mumbled, “He’d never been sick a day in his life.”
Daniel and Michael met while playing town soccer when they were six. They quickly discovered they lived three blocks from each other and shared an obsession with Spiderman. South of Maple Street, where Daniel lived, Black families now owned every house previously inhabited by white families. Michael lived on Hadley Ave. Hadley and the section of town north of it remained an exclusively white residential area. The areas were separated by three blocks of properties owned by absentee landlords. Rents there were cheap, and the tenants tended to be transient. That area was strewn with dog feces, Styrofoam cups, and fast-food wrappers the wind blew onto the well-maintained properties to its north and south.
Daniel finished the sandwich, stood up, and stretched. Though the intense heat and humidity had drained his adolescent body’s energy, he was determined to complete the task.
Seeing the ant had carried away the crumbs, he walked down the steps, picked up the garden hose on the ground, and held its bare end away from himself. As he opened the water spigot and took a drink, he heard the man call to him.
“All done?”
Closing the spigot, Daniel looked up. He raised a hand, sheltering his eyes. The man was on the landing atop the steps. Daniel nodded.
“Good. Back to work then.” The man bent down, picked up the empty paper plate, and disappeared back inside the house.
Before Michael’s father’s death, there’d been no plans for Michael and his younger brother to visit their grandparents that summer. So, Daniel was surprised when Michael asked him to take over his lawn mowing and paper route customers until he returned. Daniel agreed to do it, realizing the additional customers might help him to earn enough money to buy the sleek, black, three-speed boys’ bike on display in the downtown department store. Then he could give the hand-me-down girl’s bike he used to deliver newspapers to his sister.
Before leaving, Michael introduced Daniel to his customers. Most seemed fine with the
temporary arrangement, though Daniel did notice he got a few odd looks.
After mowing the man’s lawn earlier that week, the man told Daniel he had work for him on Saturday. Daniel said he could be there at 9 a.m., but the man insisted on 7. Daniel proposed 8. But the man remained adamant about 7. So, not wanting to potentially jeopardize Michael’s relationship with his customer and having been taught to always behave respectfully to adults, he agreed to 7.
When he arrived that morning, the man led Daniel to the large moss-covered mound of dirt, rocks, and glass bottles. He told him he wanted it moved into the woods on the other side of the backyard. Then he gave him a shovel and a bushel basket.
After making a few trips with the bushel basket, Daniel spotted the rusty wheelbarrow leaning against the woodshed. On his first attempt, he overfilled it. It tipped and dumped the load. His next effort ended when its wheel struck a tree root as he struggled to keep the wheelbarrow’s handles level. The tray then pitched sideways, spilling the load onto the ground. It took a few more tries before he finally got the hang of it.
Ready to resume working, Daniel picked up the pointed shovel and drove its blade into the mound. With slightly more than a week until school started, the money he’d earn today would likely ensure he could buy the bike.
Working through the afternoon, a layer of sweat built on Daniel’s skin. Calluses and blisters surfaced on his hands. Ravenous mosquitoes in the woods attacked him, and the
earthy odor of its black soil and decaying fallen trees covered with sprouted mushrooms grew more intense. He soon lost track of the number of trips he’d made, but finally, by late afternoon,
he’d finished.
“All done?” called out the man from the back door’s landing as the house’s central A/C fan shut off.
“Yup,” answered Daniel from alongside the shed, where he was placing the wheelbarrow, bushel basket, and shovel.
Avoiding contact with the black iron handrail on the steps, the man descended, huffing and puffing.
“God, it’s hot,” he sighed upon reaching the bottom of the steps. He then pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Let’s see how you did.”
Daniel followed the man to where the mound had been. He watched him inspect the area, then trailed him into the woods.
“Good job,” said the man, nodding. He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a fist. “Here. This is for you.”
As he placed the money in Daniel’s palm, he wrapped his fingers around Daniel’s.
“Don’t go spending it all on candy.”
“I won’t. Thank you.”
“No. Thank you!” said the man. Then he released Daniel’s hand.
Daniel shoved the money into his pants pocket as they walked across the backyard side-by-side. The man then told him he might have some more work for him next Saturday. They then said goodbye and parted.
Though his arms were aching and he felt tired, Daniel was pleased with the job he’d
done. About mid-way through the three blocks separating the Black and white sections of town,
he reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of money. In his hand was three dollars. Daniel immediately felt angry. Some customers always gave him more than they owed. Others often offered him lemonade or cookies after he mowed their lawns on scorchingly hot days. Today, he’d missed baseball practice and worked all day. He’d assumed… but then, he hadn’t asked about the job in advance or negotiated a price for doing it.
When he arrived home, Daniel went straight to his room. He put the three dollars with the other money he’d been saving in a tin can that summer. Then he stripped off his sweat-drenched clothes and went to take a shower. Though the cleansing water felt refreshing, its warmth made his mosquito bites itch.
After dressing, Daniel counted his money. He then added what he expected to earn the remaining week of the summer. Despite repeating the calculations many times, there wouldn’t be enough money to buy the bike.
“You missed out.”
Daniel looked up. His sister was leaning against his bedroom door frame.
“We even got slushies after we finished swimming.” She flashed a self-satisfied smile, then turned and walked away.
Sitting on his bed, Daniel tried to think how he could earn the money he needed. The man had said he might have some other work available. But for three dollars?
With school scheduled to start on Monday, Daniel stopped at the downtown store after baseball practice to buy the latest Spiderman comic books. Near the sporting goods aisle, he
saw the bike. Feeling hopeful, he went over and checked its price. No reduction.
Daniel took hold of the bike’s handlebars, swung his right leg over the crossbar, and closed his eyes. He imagined himself riding the bike through his neighborhood.
“Please don’t play with the merchandise unless you intend to buy it.”
Daniel’s eyes snapped open, and he looked at the female store clerk apologetically. He gave the bike’s handbrakes an affectionate parting squeeze and dismounted.
Following one last look at the bike, Daniel walked over to the comic book section of the store. There, he selected two Spiderman comics to share with Michael upon his return. As Daniel approached the cash registers, he saw a large stuffed animal. A cerapter. He stopped and flipped its price tag right side up. Buying the comics and the cerapter would take almost all the money he’d earned that summer. Shaking his head, Daniel began walking away. But then he stopped, walked back, and wrapped an arm around the stuffed animal’s midsection.
J L Higgs writes short stories from a Black American perspective that explore the interplay between human emotions and actions. Since July 2016, he has amassed over sixty publications along with a nomination for a Pushcart Prize. He resides outside Boston, Massachusetts. You can find him on Facebook.
And you were inconsolable.
Initially when they rescued you half dead at the shore, you barely cried over the loss of your husband. But some weeks afterwards, you started crying profusely. No one knew why, except you. No one knew the details of the boat accident.
You and your husband both loved to sail. And that day you both set out, an uneasy calm lay between you.
But then, the storm happened. The weather changed from sunny with clear skies to dark and grey with heavy rainfall which quickly turned to a storm, a deadly one.
You were a much better swimmer so, when the boat capsized, you held on to a plank, able to fight against the powerful currents. But your husband of ten years wasn’t as good as you. He panicked and cried out, his eyes scared. He held out his hands expecting you to save him, even as he fought in futility against the strong currents. You looked at him, your eyes cold and unfeeling, seeing opportunity in this misfortune.
And the strong waves of the sea swept him away in minutes with the debris of the boat, his cries ringing in your ears. Somehow you made it to shore.
Everyone thought you had tried to save him, tried your best. Everyone also thought you had a perfect marriage. But you and he knew there were cracks, he was already discussing with a divorce lawyer how to be rid of the marriage as he had found someone new. What was most painful for you, seeing as you both had no children, was that he was already in talks with his legal adviser on changing his will, a will that named you his sole beneficiary.
You had been considering your options since you knew, so the storm was a blessing in disguise, a way to be rid of your husband and then come in possession of all that was rightfully yours.
But now? The problem was a heavy weight of guilt lay on your shoulders. From where? Just weeks after his funeral, you could not fathom. This was the cause of the tears.
Not only that, but you now had nightmares where he appeared to you, his eyes scared and his cries of anguish making you go crazy.
Solape Adetutu Adeyemi is a dedicated professional with a Bachelor’s in Microbiology and a Master’s in Environmental Management. She is a researcher, consultant, passionate environmental sustainability enthusiast, and a talented award-winning creative writer with work published in Writenow Literary Journal, Poetry Marathon Anthology, Kalahari Review, Indiana Review, TV Metro, and The Guardian among others. Find her on Facebook at Solape Adeyemi.
The way he hoists the bag of rice over his shoulders — slouched under the weight, but moving with grim, determined purpose. Exquisite. Sure, he’s got a bit of pudge. But haven’t we all? I’m certainly no peak male specimen. Could stand to lose a few pounds, trim a few hairs.
I’m not judging—only admiring how masterfully he carries the bag. If rice-hauling were an Olympic sport, he’d podium without question.
This is pure respect. Athlete to athlete.
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. One counselor, Brett, said it came from the Devil.
I like to think they did their job. Especially Brett. Though he seemed to struggle with temptation himself — mostly after lights went out. I try not to think about it.
So no — definitely not attraction. Just deep, reverential appreciation… of the human form in motion.
My ex used to say I didn’t appreciate her body. I did. She was like a painting — curves, color, softness in all the right places. I admired her the way you admire something in a museum: respectfully, from a distance, trying not to touch anything.
Sure, sometimes things didn’t… function. But that’s normal. Performance anxiety affects a lot of households. Viagra is a billion-dollar industry for a reason. Millions of couples suffer every year.
That’s why I like being back down South. Feels like there are plenty of men here who just get it. Nobody says anything, of course. Not at church, not anywhere public. But there’s a kind of silent nod we all share.
She wouldn’t understand. So no, I don’t mind that she kicked me out. More time for community, I’d say. Out here, we don’t need fancy labels like “homosexual.” We just keep to ourselves. God-fearing men. Men like my Pa. Men who respect hard work.
Like the rice-bagger. God, he’s good at working. So good. There’s a rhythm to it — shoulders straining, back glistening, that steady, unbothered focus. He was built for labor.
And those scars. Pale whip streaks across his back. He must’ve gone to one of those camps. If not, maybe his Pa just picked up the slack. Hard to say. Could be either.
I think I’m gonna ask him out for a beer. Nothing weird—just to say I respect his work ethic. One hard-working man to another.
And the way he’s been looking at me lately?
I think he gets it.
Sanum Patel is a South Asian writer and attorney based in New York City. He writes both to unsettle and make you laugh, exploring emotional complexity wherever it lives. His writing has appeared in Out Front Magazine, Silly Goose Press, Poetry for Mental Health, and Little Old Lady Comedy. He has been recognized with personal editorial notes by The Missouri Review. You can find him at www.sanumpatel.com and on instagram at sanumpatel.
Decolonial Passage is honored to announce the 2025 nominations for the Best of the Net Anthology. This list includes writing published between July 1, 2024 and June 30, 2025. Congratulations to the nominees!
Poetry
“His Tousled Hair, His Toothly Grin” by Eric Braude
“color you dark” by Ashley Collins
“The Ancestor’s Song” by Leslie Dianne
“Sonics” by Joanne Godley
Fiction
“Michael, Deportee” by Stephenjohn Holgate
“From Glasgow Without Love” by Albrin Junior
Creative Nonfiction
“I, too, am California” by Kimberly Nao
“Note From Nonpeople” by Serhat Tutkal
In the Great Room of the mansion his father’s father built with the purse the colonialists paid him for his service in the first war, my Papa, dressed in full regalia, his favorite pipe snug between his lips, motions the visitor to join him at the table. Papa, a shrewd-minded military man with a penchant for stout and three-fingers whiskey on the rocks, had successfully commandeered a ragtag troop into battle over the amply equipped rebels and won. Three times, officially. Unofficially, ten times. When he demanded retirement after achieving the rank of General, the President was so distraught he named Papa the first and only Field Marshal in our nation’s history.
Above Papa’s head, the fan whirls a frantic hum into the room. Sweat builds across the visitor’s brow despite the simple white and silver agbada he is wearing without head covering. He removes a pale red handkerchief from his pocket, dabs his eyes — avoiding Papa’s — and folds it in his hands. Papa daftly moves his pipe to the other corner of his mouth. The visitor shifts in his seat and licks his lips. He ignores the glass of water before him, his leg quivering beneath the table. Papa eyes the visitor patiently, swirling the ice cubes in his glass of whiskey to shapelessness. A passing police siren joins the fan’s hum.
The visitor, not much older than Papa, has the lazy demeanor of a lousy crook whose sole talent is to steal stolen things from those who have already committed the crime. The type to boast of his feigned bounty while dribbling palm wine from his lips, staining his shirt. The kind our people dismiss until necessary. A scar from his left ear to his chin assaults his otherwise unremarkable face. His scent of malt, sweat, and menthol cigarettes fills the Great Room, invades my lungs. Papa is testing him.
Papa breaks the silence with a joke meant to insult the visitor. The visitor laughs loudly, at first, then chuckles as if he understands nuance. Papa knows the laughter is false, but he indulges him. This, after all, is the way men are with my father: they love him and fear him at once, show all their cards while desperately trying to convince him that they have no cards at all.
“Adanne,” I recall Papa saying to me while we hunted deer, “Not everything we do is about right or wrong. Rather, it is about hierarchies of power and powerlessness. Know where you stand.”
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. Papa never discourages it, indulges his first-born’s proclivities. Gives me seat at his table, always. Permits me to speak at will. To the chagrin of his peers, though they’d never show it. I have learned secrets in the Great Room — its high ceilings and oversized furniture conceal nothing, expose everything.
Today, I sense something amiss. I do not speak. My hands press into my lap. Waiting. After the briefest of exchanges, of which no one outside this room will ever know, the visitor rises from the table, walks past my chair, and brushes my shoulder with a single finger. His touch lingering long enough to brand me in the manner of old men, from the old days. This done in the same manner as in the stories my mother used to tell me when I was small, before I thought them too childish to remember.
“Nne,”Papa says, “Please show our visitor to the door. Eh-heh, you’ll be going to his place next Tuesday to pick up a gift for me.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I, too, rise, joining the men.
The visitor smiles, this time his gapped teeth showing, his tongue at the edge of his dry lips. He follows me to the door, bows his head, then leaves. I won’t soon forget the smell of him.
.CHISARAOKWU. (she/her) is an Igbo American transdisciplinary poet artist. Drawing inspiration from her Igbo heritage, quantum physics, indigenous healing practices, and the natural world, her poetry weaves archives, film, and collage to explore memory in the African diaspora. Published in literary and academic journals, .CHISARAOKWU. has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, Cave Canem, Vermont Studio Center and more. Learn more about her practice at www.chisaraokwu.com, and you can find her on instagram at naijabella.
Hey, big sister. Just my weekly report. So, I met someone.
It was Sunday afternoon, a time when Johannesburg, but for a brief moment, is its beautiful best.
“How quiet the sun sets,” he said.
We shared the bench, just sitting, watching the children play in the park. Children and mothers like us, so far away from home. It was how our conversation began as the sun dipped into a fiery horizon — the sky sprayed with colours of gold dust over the mine dumps.
The golden glow softened our words. We exchanged stories — he left home; I left home.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because home had become impossible.”
“Yes?” he replied.
“Maybe one day we won’t need to cross borders to find happiness.”
He laughed. I liked the way he laughed, a sense of sadness in his eyes.
I asked him to take my picture.
“It’s to send to my sister,” I explained.
He laughed again. “Are you not afraid that I will take more than your picture?”
And to quickly assuage the hesitancy of my response, he asked, “And will you take mine?” He passed me his phone; I took his picture. We scrolled down each other’s screens and laughed at how we imagined each other, such happiness in our eyes. I felt an intimacy when our fingers accidentally touched. A feeling of warmth.
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.
That night, wrapped in blankets in my tiny room, I kept looking at my phone. Will we meet again? Johannesburg is such a lonely place, alone.
Bye, love.
Your little sister.
Bobby Marie is a South African living in Johannesburg, . He has been a worker and community activist. He is currently writing a memoir, re-membering his life in the liberation struggle in South Africa and the struggle of his ancestors as ” coolies” from South India.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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”
Short Stories
Nwafor Emmanuel – “You Are No Longer Welcome Here”
Michael Ogah – “Forgotten Memories”
Essays/Memoirs
Jackson Snell lived for his morning coffee, his routine, his ritual. Growing up on a truck farm with his parents, younger brother, and sisters in rural Alabama, he cultivated this penchant for morning coffee. It traveled with him to Chicago, some forty years ago. At sixty-seven years of age, it stayed with him. This daily routine fortified his resolve that his decision to accept a transfer forty years ago was the right one.
Now he lived in East Lake View, not a swanky neighborhood, but lovely nonetheless. As he walked through the doors of his neighborhood coffee shop, a warm greeting waited as it did every morning.
“Hey, Jackson, how are you this morning?” asked the young barista.
“Jest fine, Mindy, jest fine. How ‘bout y’all?”
“Can’t complain. The usual?”
“Sho’ ‘nuff. Like they say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. But maybe this once get me one of them lemon squares today.”
“You got it.”
After paying for his coffee with a generous tip, he settled into his favorite window seat. The morning traffic on Clark Street punctuated a smile across his face.
He settled into city life with such ease it surprised him; he made friends and grew to love it. It took a while, but he managed to even switch his allegiance from the Braves to the White Sox and didn’t find the designated hitter rule the evil he always thought it to be.
His smile broadened as his mind drifted back to those hard scrabble days on the farm. It wasn’t a longing for the good old days, but it was for the change his life had taken. Like they say, ‘Life is good’.
Retired now, he found his life a lot more than good — morning coffee and this afternoon at the zoo with his grandkids. What could be better? Life was damn good, he thought.
While he sat contemplating his life and how good he had it, he didn’t notice the attractive, matronly woman enter the shop, go to the counter and order tea. Jackson paid no attention to her, until she sat at his table directly across from him.
A quick glance around the shop revealed a half dozen empty tables, but here she sat right opposite him at his window table. She placed her purse to her left, grasped her tea in both hands, and took a deep sip, closing her eyes to enjoy the warmth drifting down her throat.
Looking up, Jackson saw an attractive older Black woman, not as old as himself, but north of fifty. Soft, hazel eyes, no make-up, a pale-yellow blouse with no jewelry completed the picture. Her smile beamed, yet it seemed shallow and forced.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but do I know you?”
“That truly saddens me, Mr. Snell. Of all the folks that done crossed yo’ path, surely, I thought you’d remember me; Viola McBee.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have no recollection of that name, or such a lovely face.”
“Well, maybe this will jog ya’ll’s memory some.” As she reached into her purse, Jackson took a sip of his coffee. When he looked back up, Viola McBee dead aimed her small .25 automatic at his face.
She pulled the trigger twice. The impact of the shots threw Jackson out of his seat and onto the floor. Viola McBee nestled her gun onto the table and resumed her tea.
Two hours later she sat in an interview room at the thirteenth precinct. Her hands folded demurely on the table in front of her, her expression calm and unruffled, at peace. As the detectives watched her, the only items that seemed to be missing were white gloves, a pillbox hat, and a bible.
Detectives Frank Lintelli and Martha Stanton observed for a while. Viola said little more than to confirm her name and address.
“I don’t get it. Mr. Snell was overheard telling you that he didn’t know you, yet you shot him to death. I don’t get it.”
“Mr. Snell misspoke. He knew me, he just didn’t remember me.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Stanton. “Did you know he was planning to take his grandkids to the zoo later on today? What if they were there?”
This seemed to jolt her back to the present. She stared at the interrogators. “I would have waited. He had grandchildren?”
“Yes, but thanks to you, they don’t have a grandfather anymore.”
“It would seem so, but they didn’t need this one. No, not this one.”
“The family will never be the same. Never.”
“Happens to the best of families, don’t it? Look, I done what I done and ain’t gon’ apologize for it neither.”
“We’re beginning to get that, but the question still remains: why did you do it?”
When the words were out of the detectives’ lips, Viola’s eyes averted theirs, tears formed in hers, the hazel color shrouded with moisture. She reached into her blouse and brought out a small, unsealed envelope and plopped it on the table.
“This be my answer to your ‘why’.”
Martha Stanton handled the envelope as if picking up a double-edged razor; she gingerly opened it. Inside she found a folded, yellowed newspaper clipping — a small article and picture. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. Lintelli reached over and took it from her hand.
“Jesus!” he said.
The article was an explanation of the picture. It was a lynching in Coffee County, Alabama, August 1968; White people standing around; men, women, children as if at a Fourth of July picnic. Drinking from cups and bottles, smiling, eating snow cones. No caption, no explanation under the photo, just two figures circled.
A black man hung from a tree; his neck elongated, his tongue purpled and swollen, bulging out his mouth, his pants pulled down around his ankles, the lower half of his body drenched in blood.
“They done hung my Daddy. That be August 1968. Them circled pictures be Mr. Jackson Snell and his buddy, Caleb Potter.”
“They lynched your father?”
“Yes, suh, they surely did.”
“Why?”
She threw both detectives a glance that revealed to them how stupid their question was.
“’Cause it was 1968, Coffee County, Alabama. Cain’t you read? That’s all the reason they needed, but they did have another.”
Lintelli glanced once again at the photo. “Why just kill Mr. Snell? I mean it looks like there were a lot of participants here.”
“Maybe ‘cause everybody there didn’t rape my Daddy’s eleven-year-old daughter, his only daughter; only Jackson Snell and Caleb Potter.”
Viola’s bottom lip quivered; the tears poured out now. “They raped me. They yanked me off the road. I was comin’ home from the store. They took me back in the swamp and took turns.
“When they had they fill, they let me go, tellin’ me they’d be back when I got older and learnt some things ‘cause they loved them some dark meat. I can still hear them laughin’ as they drove off.”
“I tol’ my Daddy and his mistake was he went and tol’ the sheriff. That sheriff went and tol’ them dirt farmer Snells. Next thing I know is they breakin’ in our house and draggin’ my Daddy out.”
“As they was draggin’ my Daddy out, my Mama held me back. I was cryin’, screamin’, and beggin’ them not to. That’s when Mr. Jackson Snell turned, smiled, and winked at me. That’s also when I knew this day would come.”
She lowered her head, gazing at her lap, then slowly raised it to face the detectives. “So, you say, Mr. Snell had grandkids? Well, I ain’t got none. Aftuh they done what they did, I couldn’t have no kids. No kids fo’ me meant no man evuh looked my way. It was like I was marked since I been eleven. Yes, suh, marked. No man wanted me, but they was no man I wanted aftuh they done, what they did.”
Both Lintelli and Stanton sat there, stunned as if hit by lightning, not knowing what to do or say. After a somber silence, Stanton spoke. “Ms. McBee, I don’t know what to say. I… “
“Don’t fret about it none, sweetheart. I knew what I was doin’ and I knew what the outcome would be, so it ain’t yo’ problem. It’s between me and the Lawd. Hope She will understand.”
“She?”
“One of my last remainin’ hopes fo’ forgiveness.”
As if on cue two uniforms came in to escort Viola McBee away and back to the holding cells. She turned one last time before exiting through the door.
“You might wanna call the Coffee County Sheriff’s Office and clear up a missing person’s report for them. They can find Caleb Potter’s body down by Bryson Creek. That’s where they took me that day.”
“Also tell them they woulda been another, but the devil came up and snatched that sheriff befo’ I could.”
As she left out the door, the detectives sat, each in their own way, trying to define justice and its true meaning.
Arnold Edwards is an author, retired teacher, and coach. He graduated from Quigley South Seminary in Chicago. He holds a BA in history from Southern Illinois University. He has sold eight short stories and is currently working on three novels. He has authored two full-length screenplays and several teleplays, a few of which were for now-canceled shows and three in search of a series. His published stories appear in Black Lace Magazine, Cricket, YAWP Magazine, Downstate Story, Gemini Magazine, Frontier Tales, and Mystery Tribune.
She raised the axe. Her grip, inexpert but powerful. The heft of the wooden shaft in her palm, the glint of the flared blade, droplets of rain reflecting the meagre light shining through the clouds. That first sundering had seemed so impossible. A primal roar ripped through her in release as her triceps tightened and loosened and the blade fell with her breath. It didn’t do much damage, but she had all the time in the world for this.
Her strength was depleted from the time she spent in this place already, the months of her life she used to feed this thing in place of her own growth. It could contain her, this patch of land, that was hers. It could encase her human form, just barely, yet with ease consume all she ever was. Her chest heaved, sweat pooling between her breasts as she lifted her arms high again.
The descent split the planter that she had so lovingly made. It was a struggle to separate the axe from where she had lodged it, so she abandoned the weapon and dropped to her hands and knees, fingers groping through the moist soil for roots. She felt the cuts in her fingers responding, pulsing. Fibers of her flesh pulled away from each other, eagerly stretching to split themselves and moisten this earth alongside the rain. The feeling too familiar, she withdrew before the roots latched on to drain more from her. She was here to end this. She yearned for some destruction with her bare hands and pressed her palms together, compressing the head of a buoyant red bloom, the feathered petals slight and delicate; its spiral offshoots usually layered and lifted, rubbed between her hands until they fell away, curled into themselves, with white seams cleaving through the clot of red.
She brushed off her hands, staggered to the communal shed, and found the large shears. They trailed behind her as she returned to her plot. Her blood streaked down the handle as she adjusted her grip. She dug the shears into where her hand had reached and sliced along the rivulets of her blood, opening and closing the blades as if hacking at weeds. They weren’t weeds. She had created something beautiful — at least, to a fresh eye she was sure it would be, but to her these bloated buds were decay even when bursting into bloom, in that moment when they were all potential and wonder. She could find beauty in other things, she knew, at lower cost. She hacked at each exposed bit of root until it was too weak to hold on and the soil released it to her destruction. Uncoupling, extracting, discarding.
As she proceeded, any remaining tightness in her movements released, her attention drawn inwards, her mind in her body. Suddenly, she was gripped by the strong desire to burn these roots and dance on their ashes. She wanted to dance. She carried the shears to the spout and rinsed off her blood into the communal drain before returning them and taking a large fork. With that, she tossed the earth.
Everything she had learned to rear these plants, she used to destroy them; every kind word she had thought to help them grow, she reclaimed for herself. The contraction of the muscles in her thigh, her knee joint swinging forward, her heel pressing down, her biceps finding the strength to pull up; the rhythm — it felt like dancing, like a prayer to herself. And she was so afraid it would feel like sacrilege. At the thought, she let out a laugh. She invited each breath to reach the deepest part of her lungs to mark the moment she carried the feeble stems to the compost, dropped them in; never returned again.
Mon Misir (she/they) is a writer and recovering lawyer based in London, UK. They use their writing to explore facets of their experience as a Black woman, with a speculative bent. When not writing, they enjoy reading, theatre (musical and otherwise) and learning how to wield a longsword. She has won nothing, doesn’t have it together at all and is working on a short story collection titled Am I Supposed To Be Here? This is their first publication. You can find their links at NomOnBooks. You can also find Mon directly on Instagram at nom.on.books and on TikTok at nomonbooks.
The bright morning sun could not take away the chillness of the crisp mountain breeze swollen with the woody freshness of cypress leaves. Tourists in tees, shorts, and fancy western dresses were overflowing on the narrow roads. They smiled standing close to the trees, flowers, name boards and every other little thing they thought unique to the hill station in a desperate hurry to capture them in their mobile cameras. They forgot to enjoy the sights with their eyes and store them in their memories.
The old colonial structure housing a prestigious club of the elite in the heart of town was likewise not spared. Travellers posed for selfies with the building in the backdrop. The security made a stern look dissuading them from venturing into the premises.
“Mr Narayanan asked me to meet him here,” I told the guard.
“There he is,” he said, pointing towards a top-end sedan parked in the lawn of the club house.
A tall slim man who looked fit for his age emerged from the car. What struck me most was the mismatch between the real persona and the image the name had created. He wore his three-piece suit to perfection. His formal black shoes that glistened, his perfectly made necktie tucked into the vest, his brooch styled after the British crown on the lapel of his coat, for a moment, transported me to a ballroom. His hair was immaculately cut with each strand gelled to another. The closely shaven visage and manicured fingernails could impress anyone. He looked every bit an English gentleman, but anachronistic to a milieu where hundreds of tourists thronged the streets in their casual best.
He clasped my hand in a tight grip while his face turned pink with warmth and excitement. A certain energy beyond his age emanated from him and passed on to me. “I am extremely glad you paid a visit,” he said.
“The pleasure is mine.”
He invited me into the club house. “This was built in the 1800’s by the British who would retreat to this hill from the hot sultry weather of Chennai. The structure was strongly built to stay for centuries.” As he pointed towards a plush sofa with the pride of a privileged member of the club, I took a wide look at the large wooden beams and pillars of the British era construction.
“While we talk about freedom struggle and British invasion, we forget the fact that the British have made several contributions in our path towards modernity,” he said. “Look at this hill station. The flora — the Cypress trees, eucalyptus, wattle, acacia, pine and tea are among the vestiges of the colonial era. Balsam, petunia, begonia are just a few among the flowering plants that make this hill station exotic. They painstakingly brought each plant and each seed in their ships from the other side of the globe.”
“From uniting the country to leading it in the path of industrialisation, their contributions cannot be dismissed.” I nodded my head without getting into a debate. “They brought a train up this hill from the plains. We won’t dare do that even today.”
“And this was a club they let Indians in since inception.” His appreciation for what he thought a privilege was immense. “Shall I order tea for you?” He chose to cash that privilege in the form of tea.
He gestured to the waiter to take orders. A few minutes later the manager of the club came closer. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I have a word with you,” she asked him.
“Please excuse me for a second,” Mr. Narayanan said as he walked behind her towards the office.
When he came back, he looked disturbed and embarrassed. “I am extremely sorry. They have a dress code issue. Can we move into another room?” He bent his back a bit and whispered, “My apologies.”
I became aware of my appearance. I wore a blue tee, grey track pants, and two-strap slides. My face displayed stubbles that had sprouted after the previous day’s shave. I was carrying a cheap transparent plastic bag filled with a bunch of carrots freshly bought from a street vendor. I had not made any attempt to ape an English gentleman to enter these premises.
“No worries,” I did not feel inadequate. Instead, I tried to make him feel at ease.
He took me to an adjacent room, which looked like an enclosed corridor. An old wooden table painted with cheap yellow-coloured varnish and a long wooden bench were squeezed into the narrow room. His face remained pale with embarrassment. The waiter brought tea in two glass tumblers similar to the ones used by street-side vendors. He placed the tea on the table and left. I sipped the tea, which was unusually strong for me. My host looked at the tumbler with contempt and refused to touch it. As soon as I finished the tea, he got up and made a phone call.
“My daughter and grandson are coming today from London for a fortnight-long holiday,” he said.
“Oh! Hope you are not late. I shall take leave now,” I got up and shook his hands. His grip was no longer firm, and he lacked the enthusiasm with which he greeted me some time before. I walked past the gate and looked back once again at the British relic.
Sangeetha G is a journalist in India. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Sky Island Journal, Down in the Dirt, Academy of the Heart, Mind, Kitaab International, Indian Review, Nether Quarterly, Muse India, Storizen, The Story Cabinet, and Borderless Journal. Her stories have won the Himalayan Writing Retreat Flash Fiction contest and Strands International Flash Fiction contest. Sangeetha G’s debut novel, Drop of the Last Cloud, was published in May 2023. You can find her on Facebook as Sangeetha Pillai, on X/Twitter as sangitunes, and on Instagram as san.pillai.
the Decolonial Passage 