Two months have passed since the night she lost her son Andre, and still she could hear him all around the house. Whenever she’s in the kitchen preparing supper for her husband, she sees him standing there beside her, tugging at her apron, wanting to see what she was preparing. He often asked a dozen questions, and it was usually a miracle for her to keep up with him. Time after time she wanted him to save his questions for his father when he returns from work, but now, in the deep quietude of the house, how she wished to hear the sound of him once more. At least just once, she would love to open his bedroom door in the morning to get him ready for school and find him smiling and laughing while jumping up and down on his bed. He once said he wanted to be a pilot, later on he changed it to wanting to be a cowboy, just like the good guy in that western classic The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

I am staring at a blank Word page on my laptop. I feel the need – the urge – to write down something, and yet I know not what to write about. It’s weird; never once have I suffered from Writer’s Block as I do now. It’s been a near two weeks since the thought of writing down anything crossed my mind. The doctor seemed pleased about this. He advised I try taking much time off and try my hands on something – anything – else that’s different rather than reach into my head for something to write about. He means well, this doctor of mine. Sometimes I can’t help but think of him as full of shit.

By Umar Abubakar Sidi

The trees, shrubs, gallops, ditches and streams interspersed all over the plain slowed down my speed, that however didn't deter me, I was still running. My heart was thumping as if it will break my ribs and forcefully jump out of my chest, my legs were weak like drought-affected corn stalks in the Sahara, but I was still running...

By Patrick Tagbo Oguejiofor

It was not the power failure that worried him.  Though it had thrown the whole house into darkness and ended his romance with a new movie.  Something else was eating deep into his soul. The sudden power failure with its attendant heat and song and bits of the mosquitoes only made his world more unpalatable.

By Juliet Maruru

I turned 16 sitting in the backseat of a battered Navy Blue Double Cab Isuzu pick-up truck that smelled of hay, cattle, sea and fish. I was smoking a tobacco and marijuana cigarette, studying for my High school Physics finals, hoping that my mum would make it through the second surgery that week and trying to ignore my scruffy 26 year old secret boyfriend’s horny groping. 6 days before, I called him in the middle of the night, because my mum was running a cold fever and complaining of intense stomach pains and vomiting blood. He came racing his pick-up truck and rushed my mother to the hospital. She had to undergo emergency surgery on an ulcerated duodenum to stem the bleeding. This second surgery had come up when she started bleeding again the day she was to be discharged from the hospital.

This is fiction, but it is based on the absolute truth, and may already be happening in or around your very neighbourhood. They climbed up a flight of stairs to the second floor before the old woman came to a halt before a door. She turned to face the couple, both of whom looked just as agitated at being in such an environment as about what they were here for.

This was rather an unusual question I thought coming from John, considering that we all used to come to the apartment as we pleased helping with the cleaning and so on. Something propelled me past John and I stormed into the empty seating room. Standing in the middle of the room was a half dressed Ada with tears in her eyes. I didn’t wait to ask questions, nor to be lied to by John about what had transpired, evil rent the air and all I could think of was to snatch Ada and run away, far away from the evil man closing in behind us. As I reached out for Ada’s hand, you could see the sense of relief on her face, and the fear lodged deep in her eyes. We both briskly hurried out of the apartment oblivious of John’s plea for me not to inform mum and dad about what happened, as if I knew but by then his devilish conscience had already started pricking him, but still his plea wasn't borne out of any remorse for the emotional scar he had just inflicted upon Ada for life but rather out of the animalistic sense of survival which in this instance was targeted at securing his daily bread.

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