The Arts-Muse Fair

IT HAS NO NAME BY NANA SULE There is something that starts walking inside your throat. It drags with it, all the emotions that you own. Except that it forgets to pull along the happy ones. That is why you hold on to the smile on your lips, you hold on because there isn’t much to do. This thing, eating at your heart, it must have a name. Outside, there is rain. It drums violently on the roof and crawls through the small leak in the ceiling, just on the right side of the kitchen. When the rain first came, Samira and yourself had pushed the cooker a bit to the side. Then an orange bucket was placed beside the cooker. Now the insides had dark rings from where water had overstayed. Kind of like your heart, from where doubt had overstayed and have now become clarity. Dark clarity. It is on this rainy day that you fold all the senses you own in a neat pile, lock them somewhere behind your head where you wouldn’t reach. It is on this night that you make what you know she lo

Photo: Aminu S Muhammad. WAVES AND TIDES BY  SOPHIYYA EMBEE The first time she'd seen him, she was dazed. She'd never seen someone so beautiful she thought she must have been crazed. He had a skin so light and he made her think she'd never seen someone smile as bright. She kept images of him in her head all night, he taught her, firsthand, the concept of love at first sight. They'd met in school. She'd gone back to class lighthearted and told her friend, "man! He's so cool!" They'd chatted, laughed about it, in a way only a true friend could understand it. "Don't fall too deep," her friend would tease, yet she marvelled at how she did with ease. Time flew! That thing..! You'd never know when everything will become new!  She'd gone to camp and the feelings bloomed, little did she know it'd turn right around to gloom. He had her heart, at the tip of his hat. He had her smile full of anticipation, dr

Photo credit: Aminu S Muhammad OLD LOVE BY  NANA SULE There was a knot in her throat. It was always there in moments like this. It would tighten right there, then well its way into her stomach, just below her navel. There, it would settle and the decision would be made. And she would feel the words climb all the way from her stomach, claw at her mouth, till she let them spill. The it’s not you, it’s me theory. And so when she opened her mouth this time and they came out, she did not stop them. “It’s not you. I have… I have so many things I need to… to, to do. First” The silence lingered a little longer this time. Longer than the ones from the last three. There was the one she really liked. The one with the beard like Ahmed’s; trim and covering only his chin. The one that she had told over the phone, because she couldn’t look him in the eyes, that it wasn’t him. It was her. And then she listened quietly, memorizing every sob he tried to stifle, every word that

Book : No Longer at Ease Author : Chinua Achebe Reviewer : Nana Sule If you were among the many that wondered what became of Okonkwo’s family after he hung himself in Things Fall Apart, then wonder no more. And no, this is no longer about sacrificing an adopted son, evil forests, wrestling, wars and conquering villages, it is about a time from a bit more present. The descendants of the great Okonkwo find themselves as a devoted Christian father and a well-learned son. Obi Okonkwo is the name of the grandchild of the late Okonkwo of Umuofia. He is the first person from Umuofia to cross the seas of Nigeria into the great England. Sent from a loan contribution by all the households in Umuofia to study law, Obi returns to Nigeria, an English graduate and in love with an Osu . Although the people of Umuofia are ready to condone the change of profession, and even give him all the time in the world to repay the loan, what they would not condone, is an outcast, marrying

By Marjaan sadiq    My hands were trembling as I knocked at his door. Music blared from inside the apartment. I recognised the song immediately; Unleash the Dragon by Sisqo. I smiled, the man is some old school. He opened in less than a second, almost like he had been by the door, awaiting my arrival. His appearance didn't help, it made me flustered. He was wearing a multi-coloured button-down shirt. The only problem was that the shirt was not buttoned-down, all the buttons were undone and he was not wearing anything inside it. I halted. That was definitely unprofessional. Then it hit me, coming to his house was also unprofessional. I shifted my eyes from his torso to his face, willing them not to wander further. He was young, younger than I expected a bank manager to be. He was probably in his mid-thirties. "Nina right?" He asked, smirking. My eyes widened: did he just lick his lips? Hmm, I was probably imagining it. I toyed with the idea of lying that

By NANA SULE Maryam used to like the market. It had colors, and people, and food. Something about the smell of daddawa was all it took sometimes to send her to the market. Other times, she just wanted to find a veil, or a wrapper. Or on some other days when Habeeb was away, when no one would ask why she loved the market so, she would throw a gown over her body, and a veil over her head. And drive to the market. There, she would, in no particular order, wander from shop to shop, haggling prices and eyeing wares she would not purchase. She would then return home, exhausted. These days, she did not enjoy the market as much. As her stomach expanded with the life Habeeb had put in there, she found the best spot in the world was on her bed. Although Habeeb was not one to encourage her to go to the market on normal days, whenever he did come around, he would start at her. You should be taking walks, he would say. You shouldn’t spend all your days in bed, go to the market sef,

ALONE AND COLD By Marjaan Sadiq A shiver ran up her spine as she pressed the knife harder until it penetrated the smooth surface of her wrist. Bright red liquid gushed out of the small cut even before she felt the sting. She looked up at herself in the wardrobe mirror, her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Her face, blotchy with purple and black, was streaked with thick lines of dripping red where she had made marks of sorrow from one temple to the other, from temple to chin and across her jaw. Blood dribbled into her eyes, obscuring her view. Her disheveled hair formed a curtain around the bloodied face. The front of her white dress was partly soiled. She could not believe that he had succeeded in making her into what she never dreamt she'd be, that he had made her suicidal. Her knees weakened. She gripped the metal tighter. Groaning wildly she pushed it further into her skin, feeling her flesh tear open as she sliced. More blood oozed out, spilling on

********THE MORGUE********* The air was cold and damp, more from the rain than the air conditioning, the walls white and pristine. Over a hundred silver freezers were scattered across the tiled floor, in a sequential assemblage. They glimmered under the white fluorescent, the glow hurting his eyes a little, the reality stinging him; not everyone ends up in a mortuary, but everyone ends up dead. Someday, somehow. "This way," the medical examiner's voice broke through his thoughts. He'd forgotten her name the minute she said it. But she was taking a left turn, and he also made the turn, just in time to avoid colliding with a freezer. A few paces, and she finally stopped in front of a three body refrigerator with the figures "85" engraved in it. Numbering. He thought sadly. An easy way of identification. "The diener just left." She said quietly, turning to look at him. "Your wife may have been here only six hours, but the other

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