The Arts-Muse Fair

Organizers have announced winners of the 2017 edition of the AMAB-HBF national flash fiction competition. Damilare Bello with his story Roughshod, is winner of the 1 st prize of N100,000 worth of books. Michael Larry’s Still Miracle wins the second place prize of N80,000 worth of books while Atanda Obatolu’s The Day You Lost Your Virginity is the 3 rd place winner of N70,000 worth of books. The overall winner’s entry, Roughshod, narrates in simple but intricate style about a victim of childhood emotional and sexual abuse, who grows up to find himself, once again, entangled in a web of matriarchal dominance and abuse. Still Miracle a story of grief and loss, where a witness at the birth projects the life her son would have lived. The strength of the story lies in its style, where flash forward is used to examine the cycle of life and death as a continuous one. The Day You Lost Your Virginity takes readers through the ordeal of a character, where his fir

The Day you Lost your Virginity by Fred Atanda IT happened on a bright December day, in your tiny student-room, and afterwards, you lay outside yourself on the bed, staring at the ceiling above, thinking you'd finally done it. Later, you wrote in your diary: 'My life of nineteen years ended on a bright, sunny day, right before my eyes, right after a bout of rough, less-than-pleasant sex.' (You decided against ‘Life as I knew it ended…’, which was truer, or ‘I lost the last of my faith…’, which was more direct but less dramatic, because you wanted something of a drama in the whole affair.) The sex wasn't good. The bitch – you forgot her name as soon as she mentioned it, and she became marked in your mind simply as ‘the bitch’ – was filthy and wild, digging her fingernails painfully into your ass, asking you to bite her nipples and squeeze her neck. She tired you out. But you hadn't expected any better. John had warned you. 'Cheap girls like that a

The Last Man Standing by Deborah Oluniran 2am, December 2050 "Come back quick, husband. It seems the baby wants to join us for Christmas." Ibidun would  calmly say with a smile in her voice "I'll be home soon. Five minutes, tops." He would jump down from the plane; it would still be here tomorrow. He would only have to walk down the street before he would find a car he could loan for the night. He would be wearing a polo shirt, 3-quarter shorts and a smile, which would turn to a scowl soon. Nigeria, security would be tight. He would jog across the road and almost run into a police van.  They would hit the break hard and park. "I'm sorry, I'm in haste." he would try to hurry on but a strong hand would hold him back. "You almost got us killed. You didn't look at the road before crossing. "Are you a terrorist, or a thief?" the other officer would say, looking at his tennis and Rolex,  tastin

One Hundred Tales by Ogechukwu Samuel ------ I still regret using one of those biros to write stories, a hundred tales. I still regret discovering the power that flows from the mind through these biros. No, I'm not talking of writing great books and charming the reader with words, I'm talking of magic, of how true the saying "the pen is mightier than the sword" is. 2049, before father died, he showed me a box filled with twenty biros and told me "some things are better left untouched" as he looked at the box like it were Pandora's box. I nodded, of course, itching to write with the beautiful biros. After father's death, I gave one to my childhood friend, Magnus, and we proceeded to write many stories with these biros discovering that the ink wouldn't dry up. I remembered the legend of the papyrus, how biros were made to connect with the human mind by the gods and bring great power to writers who were revered back then. The ink

A man squats by the edge of the house, hands working as fast as they can. Hands working iron against concrete slab. He is etching the words as fast as he can, etching them as deep as his will: here lies a man w - just then, a scream is heard from inside the house. He dashes into the house. … 1. He began to board public buses, ditching his neatly tailored suits for khaki trousers and large formless shirts. He grew out his beard and began to dye his graying hair black. He knew the Federal Agency for Idea Dispersion and Control would be tracking him. He was trying to hide from them. They had emailed him on the first day of the year to remind him that it was his speculated year of death. They had ended the email with: thanks for your prospective cooperation . He had seen what happened to people who tried to die with their ideas. That Saturday evening in his Enugu home as he and his wife watched the news; reporters from all the news networks in the country sticking microphon

If you had stayed until you turned six, you would have witnessed the birth of Adanne- Small and soft in her toes and her fingers and lips too. You would have smiled when your mother say; “Nna, play with her na… she’s your sister”. You would have watched her grow like trees—strong and beautiful, and eventually get married like others do. You would have gone to same school with her and it would have been her who will tell you that the black girl with plump butt and long hair in her faculty is Chika and that she doesn't do boys. You would have been handsome. Of course your father was handsome. He had sparse gray hair sprinkled among the black ones. You would have caught girls in the web of your mouth. But you would’ve also been into guys too but on a low-key. Your sister would have been the only one who knew this about you. She would be the one you will tell about your first experience with Kosi when you went for Youth Service in Taraba. She would have asked how it felt and y