There was something very claustrophobic about being in Nigeria. Nigeria gagged its people. Nigeria strangled people’s voices. People were often afraid to speak out. People were always afraid for no reason, and so being in Nigeria was the last thing you wanted to do. You wanted to move out of Nigeria. If that would not be possible, then you wanted to connect with people who were not Nigerians. You wanted to know more about the world. You wanted to move into the real world. You wanted your mindset to morph from Nigeria to The World.
Category: Cultural criticism
ONE POEM – Sarah Degner Riveros
Mama hugs
her son. Can we get
horchata? No. Not today.
It’s Tuesday. Treinta tacos?
De asada? Para llevar.
The wait’s worth it.
COMFORT FOODS // Cutlets – V.M. Braganza
Cutlets (also called potato chops), much like my family and their language, resist any attempt at tidy or singular classification.
ONE POEM – Poppy Frean
listen
words pass overhead
spoken broken in dialogue slang where South
is said “SOUF”
ONE POEM – M.E. Muir
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past
Interview: Matilda Battersby, Editor of Popshot
I find the process of actually writing fiction to be like some sort of mysterious alchemy. You have a plan and then what actually comes out is completely different.
ONE POEM – Stephen House
we keep walking
maybe fearful of touching
in front of others
unable to be completely who we are
two men with love
happily growing older
together
The Red Daisies of Prague Spring – Garrett Zecker
An exploration of feminist indulgence, excess, and gratification via the colour red in Věra Chytilová’s Czech New Wave masterpiece Daisies (1966).
REVIEW – The Liars’ Asylum (Stories) by Jacob M. Appel – Vanessa Braganza
Appel turns his professional interest in the workings of the human mind to a narrative exploration of the reasons we tell lies.
ONE POEM – Maura Way
I’m ready for the ritual
where I get crowned a
crone.
ONE POEM – Fran Root
Their guitars stand somewhere in an empty room on American soil
Dust spots in the sun settle on their strings
SHORT STORY – Tamara Lazaroff
My grandfather who was not gay was born in 1930 in Seville, Andalusia. He worked as an itinerant labourer for the señoritos, the rich landlords, tending their olive trees and their domesticated animals.
Porridge 