Those That Remain We have been quarantined from the sins of the world long before the pandemic hit.
“We have been quarantined from the sins of the world long before the pandemic hit.”—Those That Remain by Roland Watson-Grant.
Fatima’s Dog When he sets eyes on you, you feel as though gangs of street cats are engaged in a deadly fight over your body.
“When he sets eyes on you, you feel as though gangs of street cats are engaged in a deadly fight over your body.”—Fatima’s Dog, a short story by Abdel-Ghani Karamalla.
A Cure For Loneliness Everything that ever gets brought in this house belongs to the tiny tyrant.
“Everything that ever gets brought in this house belongs to the tiny tyrant.”—A Cure For Loneliness, a short story by Tessa Harris.
Now That I Have Seen You You cannot judge a woman until you’ve walked a mile in her shoes—or sat by her stirruped legs while she winces through an abortion.
“You cannot judge a woman until you’ve walked a mile in her shoes—or sat by her stirruped legs while she winces through an abortion.”—Now That I Have Seen You, a personal essay by Sylvia K. Ilahuka.
Ouma Sofie’s Gold Hospital staff said she could have gone home long ago, they simply never knew where to send her.
“Hospital staff said she could have gone home long ago, they simply never knew where to send her.”—Ouma Sofie’s Gold, a personal essay by Natasha Uys.
The Street Below An auralgraph from Maputo, Mozambique.
“I hear the swish. Before my eyes drink in the light, I hear the swish. An orchestra of brooms at play. Sky burns through the pane.”—The Street Below, an auralgraph from Maputo by Zerene Haddad.
Escaping Places I’ll be nothing, a nothingness creeping on the body of existence.
“I’ll be nothing, a nothingness creeping on the body of existence.”—Escaping Places, a poem by Abdel Wahab Yousif.
Church Of The Informally Settled For Heaven there is a price to be paid.
“For Heaven there is a price to be paid.”—Church Of The Informally Settled, a poem by Ndaundika Shefeni.
Destined To Go Everything is dying: Time. Language. Screams. Dreams.
“Everything is dying: time, language, screams, and dreams.”—Destined To Go, a poem by Abdel Wahab Yousif.