Hanging on small dreams the year folds itself in the tired sunset like a mimosa leaf It murmurs and screams new names old promises lies retold at the same place where songs are set on the loose in unplumbed laughter and tears We lay wreaths of frustration with no other option but to see hope…
Abigail George
Abigail George is a South-African feminist, poet and writer based in Port Elizabeth. Born in 1979, she is a prolific writer: she has written a novella, several books of poetry and collections of short stories. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the recipient of two South African National Arts Council Writing Grants and of one from the Centre for…
Sarah Lubala
Sarah Lubala is a Congolese-born, South Africa-based writer. Her family fled the Democratic Republic of Congo two decades ago amidst political unrest. They relocated first to South Africa, then the Ivory Coast, before returning to South Africa and settling in Johannesburg. She has been twice shortlisted for the Gerald Kraak Award, and once for The…
All the World
Several times a day the same play features in the recesses of a collective mind while shying away from the intended message: “Stop the carnage! Stop the carnage! Stop the carnage!” Psychobabble in the audio world where roadside preachers yell out random truths to the suspecting mob. They know, they know, of course they all…
(Blue) for Sudan
(1) Clutched my heart a terrible invasive grief. One of my father’s calling my skin its own, as it shed cries of mercy. Of a divine pardon. Of an outpouring rahma* to reach the lives lost to the march. Mourning settled in the veins. Of a country that bled in each corner, wounded dreams of…
Remember The Days, Big Butt?
I remember the days when they called me Big Butt, imitated my walk, and stared. “Do you walk like that on purpose?” Today, they hold the titles for the biggest butts in show business, Australia, the world. The day they smelled chocolate. I said it was cocoa butter and they exclaimed, “Why would you put…
Fast Phrases
Sun bleached white door curtain invites rest, To the hours spent on my butt now numb. Ducks waddling defecating the backyard Us on a mat them centimeters apart Eight hands are expertly pinching extensions to my scalp A humble courtyard with five rooms A commotion of tenants and the landlord ‘Bibi Dina’ The entrance is…
Men-struation
You don’t know the history of my pain. I am Junub A woman in end-less men-struation Buying daily your pads to c-over and protect my skirt from stains I continue to bleed afr-aid to speak of my periods But now I say, “I am in pain, help me.” Silent guns shoot though…
Mother’s Touch
In the village compound which was cleanly swept and tidy a compound not easily accessible by road a group of old women sat huddled together. Sticks and pipes jutted out of their mouths which occasionally moved in unison. A sigh here and a look to the sky up here. Some sat with their chins in…
Priscilla Ayuen
Priscilla Ayuen is 22 years old, she studies Business and Management Science at the University of Juba. Her pen name is Wingless Bird, a name she cherishes and means a lot to her, although she doesn’t use it when introducing herself on stage, where she is always and completely herself. A stage she wants to…