This year’s shortlisted stories are, in particular, products of a severe depression in the prize’s character.
This year’s shortlisted stories are, in particular, products of a severe depression in the prize’s character.
Had I become a roaming syringe deployed by the federal government to inject pregnancies?
It saddens me to realize that everyone I know will die. I, too, will die.
We were all African women in that room, and it has always been clear to us that your sex life does not fully belong to you.
The sun burns brightest on the morning after a night-time rainstorm. That Thursday in June, when my partner and I awoke to find our Surulere apartment windows washed clean by rain, with the glass slats sparkling in the sunlight and the floor tiles as dry as an ark’s insides, we decided to celebrate our good …
The phone rang. I picked it up at the first beep. “Waziri, how are you?” “Fine sir. And you?” “Have they called you?” “No sir.” “These people! Don’t worry, I will sort it out.” The conversation ended within thirty seconds. This was around noon on Tuesday, 23rd February 2016. I did not have to probe. …
All writing is speculative. No matter how grounded in history or current reality; even nonfiction requires a reimagining, a speculation on what we think we know. I sit comfortably with ‘speculative fiction’ as a way of seeing rather than a genre because it is impossible for me to divorce it from everyday life. Consider Harry …
