African writers and publishers should place themselves at the forefront of innovating both the forms and formats of fiction.
One Sunday evening in 2010, I was at the dinner table, set up with my phone and earphones, indulging in my end-of-week ritual: listening to the classical music show on Capital FM from 9 to […]
i’ve watched leaves raining down from their mother tree,
yours was a droplet of salt on our wounds.
In a Nebraska grocery store, packets of corn yellow
at me from the shelves and I’m back to the planting
season, when the rains have appeased the land.
everything I am
is wanting & needing/
every bone, every
hollow, this image/
is a god fashion-made for you/
But you can see me there.
In the picture of the birds.
In the church of avian beings.
Small, colorful, and endangered.
he insists, we lost the civil war
because i kept aiming at a god, only i could see
hiding behind a cloud.
how do i tell him that he’s my grandfather
& i wasn’t born until 28 years after the war?