The Arts-Muse Fair

  "We are Creatures of our own inventions.   Possibly, we are inventions of our past, and of our times possibly even of some mad dream in the mind of fate, But in the end, we are our own Inventions. That is our tragedy and our hardest fate."  - Julia Cleaver Smith from the novel MORNING GLORY " Not to Resign to Fate is Madness" - Ola Rotimi. "A glowing nimbus of light surrounded the area where I sat, against a huge tangerine ball of a setting sun. A booming, black and red thunder-head of sound cuts across the air from the Northern zone to the South, ruling the night with a majestic zest. Calls so long and loud resonated and rumbled through the earth and bounced on the moon, roaring back in rage to the earth. Then they softened and fall, mournful and low, grieving for the pain of the evil of the night. It was an awesome night in Jos, 1999. No clouds sailed the skies. A white cumulus built on the horizon seeking a late good rain to soak the land. The gras

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

By Marjaan Sadiq "Lick the lollipop, sweetheart." He said into my ears as his fingers continued to explore my "treasure chest", cementing the "bond" between us. I pressed my eyelids tightly together, and closed my quivering lips over the bulb, willing the tears to not spill, forcing the sob back down my throat. I didn't want to cry. He said crying was for weak girls, for servile girls. Princesses and queens do not cry. I was his little princess. I was to be strong. But I didn't want his hands, or mouth to touch me in the places they did, those places were already too sore, too bruised. I didn't want this kind of love, it hurt too much. I was five when it first happened. Mama was out of town. Her business took her away most times. He said I had become big, and well rounded. "I want to show you something," he had said, caressing the back of my hands. "It's a secret bond every father shares with his daughter. It

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,