Fiction

Credit: Issa Benn, used with permission.

Mute

Aunty Aggy swatted flies from the pyramid of tomatoes she was trying to sell, the ones at the bottom resting in a soupy mess of imminent rot.

“Ah, madam! This one kaa worry! Everything is fresh, just for you!”

The …

Numb

Amadi’s gaze travels to the screen of his tired Samsung S4. Following the red blink dotting the device, he fiddles his way through messages queued on the blackberry app. He stops at one, his brows furrowing to a deep frown, …

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Ireti


First published in the Survival Issue.


 

Perhaps it was the colour of her eye-liner – swimming-pool blue – that made me wonder if she had been crying.…

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Writivism Stories 2015: Justice

By Adeola Opeyemi Salau—


Of all the days to die, you die on a Saturday morning with the grime of Friday night clubbing clung to your skin.…

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Writivism Stories 2015: Lagos Doesn’t Care

By SOCRATES MBAMALU

Rashidat had just completed her secondary school education and was waiting on life to give her new directions. She’d been hanging around Seun since the day he moved into the neighbourhood. Her breasts were big and her …

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Writivism Stories 2015: Curd

By VALÉRIE BAH


Just before Sunday feast the cheese maker hovers over the pasteurizer, checking on the last batch of curd. He dips a thermometer into the vat and reads it, bowing his head with the same reverence he displayed …

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Writivism 2015 Stories: Overcome

by CHIVIMBISO GAVA

I knew I was in trouble when the red rivers of my body did not flow for several months. My menstrual cycle had always been unusual, but it had never evaded me for more than a month …

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Writivism 2015 Stories: Juliet

By MAGUNGA WILLIAMS

The big toe on your left leg hurts. It throbs with a pain so violent that you walk with a limp. Your right leg steps harder than usual. Your left drags lightly above ground.

James, your friend, …

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Memory on Canvas

He throws his frustration at the canvas, and with every stroke he makes a stab at forgetting; forgetting what she looked like; forgetting why he failed her.

There was such a time when he took pride in the decision he …

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When I was writing my bones

ABEOKUTA

I’m sitting on the cold floor of a hotel room in a strange town, crying. I’ve finally figured out why I came here. It wasn’t for solitude, as I had convinced myself and told my sisters when I left …

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Saraba is a literary magazine focused on the work of new writers in Nigeria and other parts of the African continent. Since 2009, we have published several issues of a magazine, editions of poetry chapbooks, and online-only work.
Our ongoing Manuscript Project supports the publication of long-form fiction and nonfiction by ten new Nigerian writers.
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