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Bobby Brown has always enjoyed working with his hands. His inspiration comes from a variety of sources, including watching his mother make dolls and especially from his observations of young children during the many years he spent as an early childhood educator. He has also worked with a reuse and recycle center that collected and distributed materials for artists and children. Having a large supply of free and interesting materials encouraged him to experiment and find his artistic voice in mask making, sculpture, collage and painting. For many years he has led workshops using found and collected materials to make art, with adults and children. He has shown his work in several solo and two-person exhibits at the Multicultural Arts Center in Cambridge, MA and elsewhere. Find his work at www.greenbrownart.com.

I always pride myself as the best waiter in Faaji Restaurant and Lounge. Maybe even in the whole of Ibadan. But all afternoon as I skid around the hall, taking orders and filling the pockets on my apron with tips, I am wary that my full-faced smile hangs like an ill-fitting piece of clothing. I won’t lie, the smile can only be fake if you have to plaster it on your face all through a ten-hour shift, every day, but usually I have the confidence of a magnet hunting metal to pull it off. Today, all thanks to Moh, that confidence is tied to my ankle, its weight mopping the floor behind me, dragging me down, reminding me that I’d rather be elsewhere crying my eyes out into a bucket. Twice, I’ve stolen away to the restroom to shed the burden of pretence. My reflection is broken through the cracks and blind spots in the old mirror sitting on the tiled wall. I imagine my heart broken into more pieces, struggling to keep beating as one, each pump a laboured effort. My tears ache to break through the misty clouds around my eyes, but there’s a huge reason I cannot cry here. If even one of my fellow ankara apron-wearing colleagues catches a whiff of Moh’s breakup with me, I’m sure the news will grow wings and fly to quarters that will ridicule me. Amira might not work here anymore, but I know I can’t stop her from hearing eventually, too. I must first grieve this day out, however. Only six months ago, I was everyone’s darling. Well, everyone except Amira. She always wanted my finesse, my reputation. It was only because of her one-sided competition that the others began to insinuate that she was better than me, and then Moh changed everything. It’s not my fault that my voluptuous backside got to him. Neither is it my fault that he is so sweetly handsome. And as much as they’ve all agreed not to believe me, we already had an all-night romp before he told me he was involved with Amira. Alas, it was her who told me she didn’t want him anymore when I tried to confirm with her. Sorry, I’m not one to taste good food and bin it because someone else doesn’t want it anymore. And thus it all started. They raise their noses when customers request for me particularly. They call me aproko, saying I never mind my business. But in the end, there’s a reason why even Obiageli – the ginger-haired workaholic who could balance four trays on her two arms all at once – got the sack and I’m still here. I’ve been here longer than any of them, and they think that’s all because I don’t mind my business. I wonder if they remember that taking care of other people’s needs is our job, and so, minding our business means sticking our noses in places other than the space between our eyes and mouth. The way I see it, if being an aproko helps me retain my spot as the best here, then I’ll wear the title like a badge of honour. About a month after Moh and I started dating, Amira got her last laugh anyway. I was serving my radiant smile at a nearby table when Monsur, one of our richest customers, climbed out of his seat and fell on one knee before Amira. Well, at least I thought he fell, like it was some kind of mistake, until all the gasps and cheers and the gleam of the stone on the ring he was holding out suddenly dawned the situation on me. You should have heard the way she screamed yes as if she was scared her spell might wipe off him if she didn’t answer quickly. I couldn’t help smirking in disdain because I knew just how this happened. Amira was not the only one who heard Mr. Bayo commiserate with Monsur the first time we saw him in Faaji Restaurant and Lounge. I did too. The music gulped most of the other sounds in the hall, but I heard him talking about how cancer had taken his wife, and how he was going to be frequenting our place because he always loved the food before he got married. Just the same way I heard one of his guests tease him about considering dating again on the same day I asked Amira about Moh. It’s therefore a wonder that my colleagues pretend as though my ears leave my head and wander around the restaurant picking up random words, and Amira’s don’t. Well, she is the one who now lives in a glass house on his private estate in New Bodija, not me, the labelled one. Amira mastered the poke-nose, and it has rewarded her with a posh life. One would think the beef would end there, but no it didn’t. Every single time she’s been back here since her status changed, it’s one other colleague or the other serving her, never me. Not like I would like to serve her anyway, but she never misses an opportunity to relegate me and make someone else look like they’re better than me. Her only comment ever to me is: How are you and Moh? Later when she’s gone, she’d call them to laugh and laugh, I imagine, in her rich woman robes with maids and stewards cowering at her behest. And later when I get home, I’ll lay my moodiness on Moh, reminding him in all the ways I can think of that he doesn’t have money. Without actually saying the words. At least, I had someone to nag and complain to when Moh was there. In the vast abundance of everything swimming about in this big world, he was all I could call mine. At a certain age, being an orphan no longer gets you any favours. I remember how much I hated living with my grandma; her incessant bickering about being the best at whatever you do. I remember being passed on by everyone when I ran off to Ibadan, thinking I could move in with other relatives here. I remember hawking wares in Dugbe market at just seventeen so I could afford a nightly bed space. It was sewing for the next two years, and serving at a local buka for another four. It’s now five years since fate brought me to Faaji Restaurant and Lounge and it is here that I’ve perfected my grandma’s mantra. Now that Moh is gone, this place has a whole new meaning. I know I said I would rather be elsewhere crying my eyes out into a bucket, but where else am I truly welcome, really? I open my eyes to a glimpse of myself in the mirror and brush off the mild wetness that has slipped onto my eyelids. I sniffle back a powerful urge to let the tears flow. I run my hands over the fringe covering my forehead and pat the ponytail at the back, then I run both hands down the sides to my ears to ensure the wig is sitting pretty. Just as I straighten my apron and step away from the mirror, Bolaji’s unmistakable raspy voice filters into the restroom. ‘Jolade, are you here?’ I hesitate at first, but the voice is close enough so I might as well respond. ‘Yes, I am.’ I try to sound as firm and confident as I can muster. And around the corner she appears. But it’s not just her. There’s also Bisi, Chioma. And even Akin. Did he not read the ladies sign outside? Why the hell is he in here? ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, my eyes darting from one to the other, searching them for answers. ‘Oh dear.’ It is Bisi, coming over to place her palms on my shoulders. ‘We heard about Moh. We’re so sorry.’ I feel my heart sink, taking all the defences I had built up all day with it. Within seconds my face is gleaming with so much tears, it is as though everything I bottled got set free at once. ‘Look at you, Jolade, your fine skin and your big big hips,’ Chioma’s face is in mine, her big eyes, narrow nose and thin lips too close for comfort, her cheap body spray assaulting my nostrils. She reeks of an eagerness to appear sincere. ‘The only thing Moh can lose that is bigger than losing you is his life.’ The others chorus a nod. Bolaji guides my head to rest on her bony shoulder. Bisi wipes the streams of tears from my face, her badly painted nails threatening to poke my eyes. Akin stands at a distance and packs such tenderness into his ‘sorry babe,’ which he says at regular intervals like it is programmed. It irks me to feel this vulnerable. Damn! Losing one’s boyfriend should have a guide; something that helps to deal with all the many strange ways one feels all at the same time. Because even though I came in determined to get through the day without letting them know, my body shakes so much in response to the comfort and concern they have offered, and both my nose and mouth have joined my eyes in seeping, weeping, and I have absolutely no control over any of it. Soon, the buzzer goes off and we’re forced to disperse. I take a few extra minutes to powder my face and get myself back together. Some moments later, I’m back strutting through the hall, hovering over the tables with the biggest smile I’ve ever worn in this place, leaving with notes and returning with trays of foods and drinks. It does not matter what type of customer sits at the table – the smiling ones, the straight-faced ones, the not-bothering-to-look-up ones – my exaggerated facial stretch stays intact. Before long, my enthusiasm at executing my job eclipses my heartbreak, even if only for brief moments in between. My walk is straight. My steps are elegant. My colleagues all smile and let me have whatever table I want. It’s a different kind of day today, maybe. The twin pockets on my apron bulge from all the tips. Table after table, I serve, and my confidence builds. The next one is occupied by a smiling man sitting all by himself. ‘What a beautiful girl,’ he says as I arrive at the table, a gold tooth peeking from his neat dentition. His eyebrows are so full they almost kiss and his dark and shiny sideburns join with his beards to give prominence to the pinkness of his full lips and the brightness of his smile. I blush and giggle. My heart starts to beat fast, but a nagging ache quickly cautions it to slow back down. I take his order and hurry away, abandoning my practised straight walk and elegant steps. At the counter, Bisi reads my notes and hands me a glass cup and a bottle of water. I lay them side by side on a tray and carry it back to the table, the stretch on my smile so wide it hurts my facial muscles. I look searchingly for the gold tooth to peep from behind all the rich hair around his lips, but the lips remain shut, and his eyes wear a sudden uneasiness. A slim woman in a brightly coloured gown and with gold adornments shimmering from all over her face – ears, nose, eyebrow, lips – slips next to him at the table. The way his face doesn’t leave the TV on the nearest pillar to him until I take my leave, he might as well have been a statue. I struggle to keep my smile from shrinking as I head away from the table. There’s a weakness in my knees, and all of a sudden, the cool breeze from the multiple ACs high on the walls seem to have gotten under my skin. My misery, again, starts to gather itself within me, and my eyes, again, find themselves sitting behind gathering mists. I’m still many steps from the counter but I can already sense the switch in demeanour. I can already tell that the topic making all four of the other waiters jeer so heartily is me. I can’t believe I allowed myself to fall for their charade of care and concern. My heart, again, slips down my chest and is at the soles of my heels by the time I place my empty tray on the counter. ‘I can’t believe you actually didn’t know he was with a woman,’ Bolaji smiles, the mockery unmistakably simmering in her raspy voice. ‘Don’t you always know everything about everyone from the moment they walk in?’ ‘It’s the Moh thing, I’m sure,’ Bisi says from behind the counter, sounding all-knowing. ‘When they bail on you like that, sometimes you forget food goes to the mouth and not the nose.’ ‘Amira scored a big one, but I’m sure she didn’t have to smile so hard,’ Chioma lets the words trail her as she strolls away to take a customer’s order. I feel a big hand press down on my shoulder and squeeze lightly. The voice is Akin’s: ‘Keep smiling babe, don’t mind these ones.’ I wish I could help it, but in all honesty, I do mind them and their words. I can’t deny it’s the Moh thing. Am I not rightly labelled an aproko? I’m the one who reads a person from his silhouette behind the entrance door before he pushes it open to reveal himself. By the time I appear at a table, I already know if it is ‘bonjour’, ‘buenos dias’, or ‘good morning'. More than anyone else, I know better than just walking up to a customer and asking what they would like. I gave tutorials to each of these four when they started here, teaching them how it’s better to stand aside, smile and wait to be spoken to if the customer is one that is typing away on their phone. And every time any of them forgot and the customer bit their head off, I was the one they always ran to until Amira decided to extend her competition to teaching. Yet, it is from me they all – including Amira herself – learned that smelling a cheap perfume often means no tip; that if a customer is sweaty in this our air-conditioned atmosphere, they’re likely too tensed to want a waiter breathing down their neck; and that if the customer happens to be talking on the phone, or to someone they’ve come in with, that’s an especially lucky situation because their tone and mood tell you all you need to know. These four here didn’t quite grasp that last bit because it is difficult for most people to discern coherent words in a hall engulfed by loud music, but not Amira. How else did she get Monsur to give her a ring? Right now though, all this knowledge has cleared out of my head for the ghost of my breakup to roam free. I know these four think it is karma, but they’re smiling in my face and patting my back anyway. I imagine any one of them already whipped out their phone and typed out my nightmare to Amira. When Moh left her for me, she had laughed and pretended like she didn’t care. I bet she would laugh even harder hearing this, holding out her phone to confirm that she read it right as she pampers her skin at some stupid rich woman spa, or sits in a bedside jacuzzi in her stupid rich woman glass house. Two gentlemen – one black and one oyinbo – walk into the restaurant as I sit there at the bar, swimming in self-pity. They are having a tense exchange as they make their way to an empty table by a window overlooking the car park on the outside. They settle in on either side of the table, ignoring the world around them and continuing their exchange. The black man has pushed his sunglasses up so his forehead now wears them, and the oyinbo has set his fedora hat on the table. My mind is still cloudy, and my head, haunted, but my body is already halfway through the hall, moving towards the two men in slow, measured steps. ‘...this is how we do things here, Craig,’ the black man is saying. ‘It doesn’t matter if you are marrying your best friend, you have to pay the bride price, and of all the beautiful young girls that I know, my sister’s price is still the cheapest.’ ‘Come on, Chi Boy,’ his oyinbo friend, the Craig, responds. ‘What you call cheapest can land me a moderate house in the fucking Hamptons. You and your family need to know that I’m only marrying your sister, not fucking buying her like she’s some commodity.’ The bit I’ve picked up from their conversation is my cue to keep walking. Past their table, I’m smiling at other customers, especially those whose tables I’m waiting, asking if they need anything. Most have their eyes glued to their phones or to the huge TVs hanging down from the walls and pillars. The woman with gold adornments follows me with her eyes, her arm ensnaring her statued man’s neck. My mind debates with itself on whether I saw the oyinbo smile at me, or not. I can swear his eyes stalked me as I floated past him, and if they did, then he must have seen my big behind swing carelessly as I swayed all the way before completing a full circle at the counter. These four are more vicious with their mockery now, but I still smile like I’m convinced their words are genuine compliments. I stand at the counter, flipping through the familiar pages of the menu. My back is in the line of vision of the oyinbo, but that’s only if he’s looking. Bolaji must have said something funny, because the others all chorus a laugh after a low murmur. It must be about me, but I smile all the same. Akin swallows his laugh midway and points at himself, his expression asking a question. Then he’s pointing at me saying, ‘it’s you they want.’ I look over my shoulder to find the oyinbo’s eyes fixed on me. This Craig, ehn. ‘Come over here, will ya?’ Somehow, his high-pitched voice finds its way to the counter despite the loud music. My heart runs into a misstep as an idea flash across my mind. I love my job, but Amira loved it more, and even she was able to conjure up a ring somehow and move on from here. The story these four tell is that Amira had been a caregiver for Monsur’s wife before she died, and she was the reason he became a customer at the restaurant in the first place. But I’m not fooled. I know better – she heard him on the phone like I did, and she must have taken her chances, period! As I scribble a note on a torn piece of white paper, I feel cold sweat build up on my palms and down my spine. I’m not going to die waiting tables here, my mind fights back. I, too, want a man and a home and children, all the things my ailing grandma has hounded me for all these years. At twenty-eight, perhaps I can finally grant her a last wish. And so, I place two menus side by side and push the white paper into the middle of one. I pick the two up and head to the table, sliding my wide smile back into place. ‘...a distant cousin, kind of like a different alternative, but this one is not as fine as my sister.’ I catch Chi Boy’s words as I advance on the table, my arrival making him pause the conversation. The oyinbo runs his long fingers through his scruffy beard and rubs his bald scalp, his ocean-blue eyes saying more than his thin-lipped mouth. Craig, Craig. I hide a faint smile. Chi Boy turns his wrist and looks down at a watch strapped on it, then he turns to me and says dismissively, ‘we’ll call you when we’re ready.’ I curtsy and drop both menus on the table, stealing another look at the oyinbo before turning and moving reluctantly away from the table. My mind is in panic mode and the sweat on my palms can drown a small insect. This is thirty minutes later and I’m standing here at the bus stop opposite Faaji Restaurant and Lounge with my packed bag and a dazed mind. Over and over, I ask myself what I was thinking. Stupid. Stupid. Stewpeed! I thought losing Moh hurt. I’m not sure how to describe losing my job. If only I can wind back those gruesomely embarrassing thirty minutes and take my stewpeed note back. When the buzzer sounded, the others thought it was for Akin, as usual, but I knew it was for me. The stupid oyinbo’s eyes had trekked all around my body so hard he paid little attention to the menu I placed in front of him. A few seconds later, Chi Boy sprouts up like a human-shaped mini rocket, shooting me a hard look before making for Mr. Bayo’s office. The manager’s office is small and crowded with cartons of water and a few bottles of different drinks. He was seated behind his crowded desk when I answered the buzzer. A fuming Chi Boy sat across from him, his eyes hard like painted buttons. My little note laid on a number of files like a naked me longing for clothes. In crawly, clear handwriting, it read: Low bride price, call me – 07069536501. Love, Jola. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ asked Mr. Bayo, his anger more animated than the complainant’s. ‘Have you not seen a white man before, ehn? I couldn’t find words for a response, and even as I stand outside the restaurant now with my head hazy, words still desert me. In less than twenty-four hours, I no longer have either my boyfriend or my job. It’s like the world got punctured and it is now shrinking in and trying to suffocate poor me. I think of Amira and wonder what she did differently. I think of Moh and imagine him whispering the same sweet words he told me to his new girl. I think of the four I left behind and a frown flutters across my face. They had an unmistakable extra layer of mockery pulled on as they helped me pack, incessantly asking me what happened. They will find out eventually, I’m sure. Amira will hear it too. Maybe even Moh. They will all learn how I paid the ultimate price for being an aproko. A black Mercedes, with gleaming rims and windows too dark to see through, glides to a stop before me. Still lost in thoughts, I start to move aside but the window rolls down, and inside is Craig, his fedora hat making him look even more attractive. He flashes a dimpled smile and beckons to me to hop in. In the rear mirror, I can see Chi Boy chasing and cursing. I sigh deeply and it feels like I exhaled a burden. I relax in my seat and watch as he grows smaller in the distance. Amira will hear this story, and so will Moh, and it will really piss them off how it ends. A soft smile hatches at the corner of my lips. It spreads until my entire face is covered, stretching all the way in and ridding my heart of all its tension and hurt. Perhaps, like a clingy dress on a shapely outline, or better, like the linking of my oyinbo’s fingers and mine after his hand leaves the gear stick, I don’t need a mirror to tell me that this wide smile fits just right. Ibrahim grew up on his grandmother’s storytelling of African folklore and thus fell in love with stories, and by extension, literature. After he was forcibly sent to science class in high-school, it took Ibrahim 20 years to find his way back to his passion, in 2019, when he left a successful ten-year career in media & entertainment to become a writer.In that time, his work has been published in Typehouse Magazine, JMWW, Ake Review, Zone 3, Brittle Paper, Landlocked Magazine, Popula, and more. He won the 2022 Quramo Writers' Prize. Among other things, he has been shortlisted for Miles Morland Writing Scholarship and Moon City Short Fiction Award, and also longlisted for Commonwealth Short Story Prize as well as Dzanc Diverse Voices Prize. He has also been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. In July 2022, he was named Writer of the Month by Brittle Paper. He is endorsed by Arts Council England for his writing exceptionalism.Ibrahim's work explores the human experience from an African perspective. He’s @heemthewriter across social media. More information about Ibrahim can be found on https://heemthewriter.com/ and https://linktr.ee/heemthewriter.

He’s all ground up… And his dreams are soaked… “I think I want to quit,” I told my little sister, Ruby, as we drove to work on a painfully early Saturday morning in October. The words came out of my mouth and then just floated right there in front of my face. I was waiting for Ruby to grab them and throw them back at me, telling me all about how great this job was, or how I needed the money for rent. Instead, she just looked at me, quiet, taking me in for everything I was worth. I appreciated that about her. She was usually a mile a minute with me, but she knew when I needed her to slow down. “Okay,” she said sweetly, as the sunrise’s shades of citrus glistened off her gold earrings and nose piercings. Our skin like sand at the beach was light brown and warm. Her short hanging braids swung to one side as I made a left turn. Meanwhile, my short flat top stood frozen in time on my head. She continued after a beat, “Did something happen? I thought you liked it?” We were both baristas at the 13 Bean Cafe downtown. I had been there for two years at that point. She, meanwhile, was only there for the year while she took a break from college to be… well, not in college. Honestly, It made sense. College was a nightmare for me. I hadn’t even gone yet. “No, nothing happened,” I remarked. I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel and watched the sleeve of my red uniform t-shirt crinkle. “And I do like it here. I think. I don’t know. I’m tired. I want to do something else.” “Okay, like what else?” She asked. “What else would you want to do?” I took a second to think, while watching the cars ahead of me slow to a stop at the red light. “I don’t know,” I responded. “I’ve never really wanted to do anything so… I just ended up here.” I looked down and away. Ruby grabbed my shoulder hard, startling me. “Dizzy, we’re both young, okay? Can you relax please? We’ve got time to figure these things out.” “Easy for you to say,” I snapped back. “I’m the one paying rent. I’m out of the house. I have responsibilities now. Like taking care of you, for example.” Ruby was staying with me for the year at my place. I thought there wouldn’t be enough room for us both. But we were used to sharing a small space. That’s how we grew up. “Mom and Dad only let you stay here cause I’m secure now. And I like being secure. If I left the Cafe… I have no clue where I’d be.” Just as I glanced out my window at a closed-down gas station across the street, the light turned green. I had to move forward. “You’re so dramatic,” Ruby said, grinning at me. “What are you scared of?” “I don’t know,” I said. The corners of my mouth hung low with the weight of my thoughts. Ruby said. “Dizzy, you’re gonna be fine. Whatever you do, wherever you end up, I know you’re gonna do great things. I know you didn’t wanna go to college, but you know that doesn’t matter, right? If you have something you want to do, you can get it. You just gotta work hard. Like you do every day at the Cafe.” I did feel better, honestly. “Thanks,” I said. “Sorry, I was kinda… spiraling for a second there, wasn’t I?” I chuckled. “Yeah,” Ruby said as she smiled.. “You’re good.” And I was. I appreciated her. ♦ ♦ ♦ He’s lost in the smoke… He’s searching for a way out… We arrived at the Cafe slightly earlier than we planned. I was able to get a parking spot pretty close. The street’s silence was pure. The trees by the entrance stood perfectly still, and I heard nothing but the whistle of the warm breeze. I felt the air settle on my skin and stay there. All of it gave me a good feeling about the day. Like, maybe things would be in my favor for once. Ruby and I had hoped that James, the owner and manager of the 13 Bean, was already there, because he had to unlock everything for us before the day got started, including the doors. Thankfully, they opened for us. We walked into the 13 Bean and greeted its violently red walls, looming over us with devilish grins. We walked through the congested array of tables and chairs and past the bar to get to the back hallway where our lockers were. Because we got there early we got to take our time, which was nice. Also, James didn’t seem to be around anywhere. Maybe he was in his office. Or the bathroom. “By the way,” Ruby began out of nowhere. “What the fuck is up with Jessi and Rollo?” “Jessi and Rollo?” I asked. Those were the other two baristas at the Cafe. They started working there shortly after I convinced James to hire Ruby. They were closer to Ruby in age than me, so it made sense that I usually heard about their drama through my sister. “What about them?” “I think they’re fucking,” she said. I laughed. “Yeah, like you would know.” She sucked her teeth. “It’s just a feeling. They’ve been acting weird since I’ve known them, like a ‘love at first sight’ kinda thing. They’re always staring at each other and shit.” “Well, even if that’s true, that’s none of my business,” I said. “But isn’t that, like, not allowed or something?” “They're both baristas so it’s not like there’s a ‘misconduct’ thing going on. Honestly, I don’t really care, as long as it doesn’t affect the work.” Which it hadn’t. So far, anyway. Just then, we heard a booming voice echo from down the hall. “DIZZY!” James called as he waddled into the locker room. He was balding, with a full curly beard that hid the majority of his layered neck. His outfit wrapped somewhat loosely around his wide frame. He was dark like our coffee. “Dizzy, it’s good to see you here so early! I just knew if somebody was gonna be here early, it would be you.” Ruby stepped out from behind me and waved sarcastically. “I’m also here early, James. Nice to see you too.” “So Dizzy,” James continued. “Can I speak to you in my office for a minute? Before people start showing up?” Ruby shot me a curious expression. I was more annoyed than concerned. What made me so special? Why couldn’t I just enjoy this morning in peace? “... Yeah sure,” I said, subtly massaging my temple. James nodded and signaled me to follow him. I walked behind him slowly until we arrived at the end of the hall, and walked through the door with his name on it and into his office. He went and sat at his desk and pointed at a chair across from him. I sat down in it. “Dizzy, I have to say that these last two years you’ve been working here, I’ve been very impressed with your dedication, your diligence, and how you conduct yourself out on the floor. I’ve been very happy to have you here.” Interesting. I really didn’t think I had been working all that hard. I was just making coffee and dealing with idiots all day. But he was sort of right. I did care about my job, whether I enjoyed it or not. I liked having somewhere to be, something to do. Responsibility. “Thank you,” I said firmly as I clapped my hands together. “I appreciate that, James. Means a lot.” “I’m glad you do,” James said. He leaned forward and rested his folded arms on his desk. He looked me in my eyes intensely. He was making me nervous. “Dizzy, how would you feel about being the new manager?” New manager? I didn’t even want to be a barista. “I uh-” “Look, you don’t have to make a decision right now,” James said quickly, cutting me off by the grace of God. “It’s just something I really want you to think about. Right now, however, there’s something else I need to ask, and I need an answer right away.” “Okay,” I said, squeezing my arm rests. My chair was beginning to feel like an electric one with each new tangent of this conversation. “What’s up?” “My doctor called me this morning and told me that I need to come in today for several tests. At my last physical, they found some things were… out of order.” Suddenly, I saw all the light from his face go out. He continued, “I’m not sure what’s wrong, but that’s what today is for. So I have to be absent for a good portion of the morning. While I’m gone, I really need you to be in charge.” I leaned back and grabbed my face. “Well… I don’t know, James.” “Look, Dizzy, I know this is a lot to put on your plate so suddenly, but I really don’t know who else to ask. You’re my oldest employee, the most responsible. I’ve seen how you handle things, and I know you’re the man for the job.” I wanted to turn him down. I really did, more than anything I’d wanted in a while. But I just couldn’t look away from him as he stared into me, and I saw his eyes become glossy as he tilted his head and tried to smile. He was begging me. I knew he needed me. I finally nodded. “Good,” James said. “Thank you, Dizzy. I appreciate this.” He reached out his hand for me to shake it. I did. “I’ll be back by noon.” I sulked back into the locker room, where Ruby was sitting in a chair, calmly waiting for me. She saw my demeanor and perked up. “What’s going on?” she asked. I said, “I guess I’m in charge now.” ♦ ♦ ♦ He’s being tested… And he might not make it out okay… I paced around behind the bar until we officially opened, with burning anticipation for the day ahead of me. Ruby stood still, like stone, and kept telling me things would be okay. Shortly before we opened our doors to the ravenous public, Jessi and Rollo arrived at the Cafe. Jessi’s long locks were tied up with a headband, and her black sweatpants stuck to her curves like honey. Rollo had his cornrows, his magnetic brown eyes, and his black necklace with a silver pendant shaped like Africa. They had arrived together. Ruby shot me a knowing glance. I rolled my eyes. “How y’all doing?” I said, trying to sound confident as I greeted them both. “Fine,” Jessi said. “Yeah, fine,” Rollo said. They turned away from each other. Meanwhile, Ruby and I stared at them in confusion. “Well okay then!” I continued enthusiastically. “Listen, I wanted to let you guys know that today’s going to be a little bit different. James had to go handle some personal business. While he’s gone, I’ll be in charge of the morning. So, if there’s any issues, you can come to me. Cool?” “Yeah, whatever,” Jessi said, heading to her locker. “I don’t care,” Rollo said, following her not-so-closely behind. Ruby and I watched them curiously. I turned to Ruby. “So are they fucking orrrrrrr are they about to kill each other?” Ruby shushed me. “Careful, they might hear you.” “Sorry,” I said, putting my hands up in defense. By the time Jessi and Rollo came back out, the morning rush was upon us. Usually, Ruby and I were both on drinks, with Rollo helping us when he wasn’t preparing most food orders. Jessi was on register. Because of how busy it was, I felt afraid to leave my usual post, so I continued to make drinks with my sister for as long as I could. For most of the morning, things were going pretty well. I should have known better. This was the 13 Bean after all. Something always went wrong. “I need to use the bathroom,” Jessi said suddenly. “Dizzy, can you cover?” “You can’t wait till your break?” I asked. “I need to go now. Please?” I sighed. “Okay. But try and make it quick. You see what we’re dealing with here.” “Thank you, Dizzy,” she said quickly with a grin. I could tell she needed it. She exited the bar and walked around, through the thick line of customers, to the back hallway. Rollo glanced at her. She didn’t do the same. Meanwhile, I assumed her position and looked up at the next person in line. “Hi, what can I get for you?” Just then, a woman who had already been served rushed up to the register. “Excuse me, can I speak to a manager?” Oh, brother. “Ma’am, can you please give me a moment?” “You guys gave me the wrong sandwich,” the woman continued. “I asked for the turkey club. This is ham!” I looked back at Rollo. “What’s going on, man? Are you good?” “Sorry,” Rollo said sheepishly. “I’ve been a little distracted.” “Get it together please. I’m counting on you. And can you please make another turkey club for her?” Rollo hung his head and turned back to his station. I turned back to the next person in line. “I’m sorry, you were saying?” “Dizzy!” I heard Ruby say. “This coffee maker is acting up!” I swung my head around to address her. “What are you talking about?” She pointed at our industrial coffee maker, which had 4 different dispensers and a myriad of settings. “It’s not working right. I don’t know. It’s not making the coffee fast enough.” “Can you fix it?” I asked. “No, dummy. That’s why I called you.” “Just give me a second.” Jessi returned from the bathroom. She walked around and entered the bar. Rollo leaned over. “You okay?” he asked Jessi. “Can we not do this right now?” Jessi said with piercing diction. “Why aren’t you talking to me?” Rollo pleaded. “Just… leave me alone, Rollo,” she said as she turned back to the register. I put a hand out to both of them. “Hey, guys, I don’t know what’s going on here and it’s none of my business, really, but get a handle on it now. Okay? I need you guys to be focused.” “It’s not me. It’s her,” Rollo said, pointing a finger. “She’s the one who ain’t saying shit.” “There’s nothing to say, so drop it,” Jessi said through gritted teeth. “Dizzy, something is seriously wrong with this coffee maker,” Ruby interjected. “I don’t know what’s happening. Can you come look at it?” “I’ll get to it,” I said sharply. The line was growing longer and longer and beginning to form into more of a crowd. The woman from before, still standing by the register, said, “Where’s the manager?” “That’s me,” I said nervously. “You’re not the manager. Where’s the fat guy?” she inquired. “He’s not here. What is the problem?” “I want my sandwich!” she demanded. “I’ve been waiting here for 5 minutes.” “It has not been that long,” Jessi said, checking her. “Rollo! Where the fuck is her sandwich?” “Can you relax?” Rollo said. “I’m working on it. Like Dizzy told me to.” “No, I can’t relax!” Jessi ranted. “This lady needs her food, and you on bullshit, so she don’t got it!” “Dizzy!” Ruby shouted through the commotion. “This coffee maker is acting really weird, and the buttons aren’t doing anything. Can you please look at it?” I wasn’t listening. “What the fuck is wrong with you today?” Rollo said, glaring at Jessi. “I’m trying to talk to you and you’re not giving me anything.” Jessi balled up her fists and looked up at the ceiling before glaring directly at Rollo, right into his soul. “My period is a week late, okay! That’s what the fuck is going on!” Rollo shuddered and stumbled back. Then he stood perfectly still. They looked at each other. Suddenly, James came in through the entrance in a daze. When he saw all that was happening in the Cafe, he absolutely lost it. “What’s going on here!?!” he shouted. “DIZZY!” “I’m sorry, James. I’m trying, okay? Things just got a little out of hand.” “Dizzy, I thought I could trust you to take care of things. How could you let this happen?” “Dizzy, the coffee maker isn’t making coffee anymore!” Ruby yelled. “I can’t press the buttons, and nothing’s happening. Help me please!” I ignored her. “You know what, James? I don’t wanna do this shit anymore. I can’t do this shit anymore! I don’t care what you think! It’s too much, and I’m just not the guy for the job! I QUIT!” The coffee maker exploded. Erupted in flames. The crowd and all my co-workers screamed as the place quickly filled up with smoke. Everybody bustled through the exits, stumbling over each other for dear life. James, lost in the smoke, grabbed his chest as he searched for the way out. ♦ ♦ ♦ He’s a little nervous about it all… But he has help… Everybody was surprisingly calm once we were all outside, watching the flames slowly consume the Cafe from within. While James and a handful of loyal customers frantically called the fire department, people in the stores across the street and next door brought their fire extinguishers to try and help. Fire trucks and ambulances swarmed the Cafe no more than five minutes after the explosion. Most people left, seeing as there was no way for them to get their coffee. A few had stayed around, as well as those just passing by, to gawk at all the commotion like children. Just outside the entrance, Jessi and Rollo sat on a bench. Rollo had his arm wrapped around Jessi as he caressed her with a comforting hand, and softly kissed her on the cheek. He said something in her ear. She said something back. I wasn’t sure what they were talking about. And frankly, it really wasn’t any of my business to begin with. Ruby and I stood next to each other across the street, both of us exhausted. I turned to the right and saw James, sitting on the sidewalk. I walked over to him. “James, I just wanna say I’m sorry about everything. I tried really hard to keep it together.” James sighed. “It’s okay,” he began. “You’re just starting out. These things happen early on.” My eyes darted back and forth. “So how was the doctor’s?” “It wasn’t good. … It turns out I have a heart disease.” “Oh my God,” I said, gasping. “That’s terrible.” “I know,” James said. “I need to get bypass surgery right away. They say I’ll need to take time off from work. Maybe 8-12 weeks. … I’m sorry for how I yelled at you back there. I’ve just got a lot weighing on me. And I was… I was really hoping I could count on you to take over for me. In my absence or… just… take over: period.” It was a daunting prospect. But at the same time, it was security. Responsibility. The things I wanted. And the path to them was right there. I just had to walk down it. But after today, I knew once and for all that this was not for me. As scary as it was to go another way, and to walk down a path I wasn’t sure of, I knew it was right. And I believed Ruby when she said I could do great things no matter what. I wanted to do great things. I really did. “I’m sorry, James,” I said. I looked at him the same way he looked at me that morning. “I’m not cut out for this. It’s not what I’m meant to do. I wish you the best of luck. This is a great place, and the people here are great too. You included. But I have to go.” James held his head in his hands. He looked back up with glossy eyes. “It’s okay,” he said, holding something back. “I’m sorry if I made you feel pressured. I just believed in you. And I still do.” He reached out his hand for me to shake it. I did. I walked back and found my sister. “Are you ready to go?” “Yeah,” she said. “Are you?” It was a good question. I didn’t have an answer then. We walked back to my car. I felt the warm breeze again. But it was different this time. I felt so light and free, like the breeze could just pick me up and take me anyway I wanted to go. I unlocked the car. Ruby opened her door and smiled at me. “I’m proud of you,” she said. I smiled back. “Me too.” Before I got back in my car, I took one last look at James. He was looking at his dreams. They were all soaked in water. He was crumbling under the weight of that fact. I was afraid of the same fate for my own dreams. But I knew at this point in life more than ever, it was worth it just to say I tried. A Note From the Author: I am Sekou Hamer. I am an actor, singer, performer, filmmaker, artist, and storyteller. I write fiction, screenplays, stage plays, teleplays, poetry, lyrics, and music. I became an artist at a young age as a way to escape the world and find solace in universes that I created to be perfect just for me. I grew to realize that the real world is the most beautiful thing because it’s unpredictable. Real everyday life contains the best characters, the best stories. Once I realized that, I've never left this world, not entirely. My best works always come from the heart, directly or indirectly inspired by a deep connection I have with a person or thing. They have to begin with what is real because that’s the only way people who consume my work will feel anything real themselves.

I try to look cool like the girls I’ve seen you drive around before. Trying to pretend the sweat beading my forehead is my natural dew and I’m glowing like the girls that are on the covers of the magazines you keep hidden in a box under your bed so your mother doesn’t find them. This– right here– is what people sing about on that playlist of love songs you gave me. Real music with a message that is too complicated for anyone else to understand. I think I am beginning to outgrow all my friends. But when I talk to you you introduce me to so many new things, you’re the smartest person I know. We take long drives on the weekends and during the weekdays you show me the best places to sneak off campus, we sit in your car and I stare at the lines of your face until the gray smoke you blow stings my eyes, but I don’t mind, I think I’d sit comfortably in the seventh layer of hell if it meant I could sit with you. Sometimes I wish we could be that far from everyone and I wouldn’t have to listen to everyone’s opinion but they just don’t know you as I do. “You’re not like anyone I have ever met before.” My body went numb when you said that, every hair on edge. It felt like taking a deep breath before diving into water. Days in the sun with you are forever where I want to be. The wind starts to blow colder and we are no longer laughing with the windows down. Even though summer is over I still have you to keep me warm as I watch frost slowly creep on the windows. Leaves fall and trees become barren and I want to say everything is the same but things look so much more different now that the sun isn’t in my eyes. I have to cover up to protect myself from the chill– but nothing has left me shivering more than facing your cold indifference. The girls who came before me watch me walk down the halls with knowing looks as pitiful frowns grace their identical lips. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize how similar my frown has become to theirs. I drown myself in layers upon layers, but I still feel as bare as the trees who have been robbed of their leaves. Trees begin to stir back to life as spring comes in full bloom and I see you picking green girls not telling them you have no interest in them once they become ripe and will leave them to rot in the dirt. But, it is nice to see the flowers and leaves come back to the once-dead trees. What was once dull and gray has been brought back to life– but the dead leaves are still on the ground, staring at the foliage that is as green as their envy Spring passes, and I walk through the summer heat and you slow down beside me and offer a ride. I say yes, I don’t know why, but I’ve done things that don’t quite make sense when I’m with you. Maybe you missed me terribly during the winter too and the spring fruit you devoured didn’t satiate your cravings. Maybe you had to try it all before you realized right beside me is where you should be. I hiss as my thighs make contact with the hot leather and the heat makes sweat drip in my eyes and I feel so terrible the whole ride I can’t believe I ever enjoyed this. I look at you and see that too many days in the sun have deepened the lines on your face and leathered your skin. I want the summer to fill me with sickening joy like before. I want to feel as bright and colorful as the leaves and flowers that cover our landscape, but the foliage from last summer has died and fallen off. The leaves that hang on the trees now are new, the flowers have bloomed new petals. It is summer again but I am no longer a sweet summer child. I tell you to drop me off a few blocks from my house, and you can’t understand why I don’t find joy in the same things we used to do before. I can’t help but feel a twinge of pity that I feel for you. Poor Peter Pan can’t understand why I want to leave Neverland. But, more than that– I can’t even imagine how silly I must’ve looked driving around next to you. Kevina Wright is from San Diego, California. Kevina is 21 years old and focused on narrative fiction.

Beautiful Sorrow Hollow Decay in Bloom Luminosity I'll See Jelly Daisy I Am the Final Girl The End Sadee Bee (she/her) is ever-evolving, as living with mental illness is never a straight line, and she hopes to be a voice and advocate for those like her. She also uses art as an outlet, creating whatever comes to mind, and is heavily drawn to speculative and out-of-this-world elements. She is inspired by strange dreams, magic, and creepy vibes. Twitter: @SadeeBee Instagram: @sadee__bee Website: sadeebeeauthor.com Etsy: artbysadeebee.etsy.com

Bucket list(s) i. Things to do/achieve list 2019 Go horse-riding Learn how to play the guitar Learn a new language Buy a (very) nice party outfit Learn how to change my car’s tyre(s) Bake bread Watch a play at the theatre Donate/volunteer at/for a shelter/charity Go skydiving Ride a motorcycle See the northern lights Get a tarot card reading done Go to Japan (take many many photographs) Make pizza at home Get a poem featured by a literary magazine/journal/website Buy a (proper) fitting bra Lose some weight (maybe 5 kg) Go for shooting training Learn archery Go on a helicopter Go on a train Learn how to roller-skate Go on a hot air balloon ii. Things to do/achieve list 2020 Learn how to play the guitar Learn a new language Learn how to change my car’s tyre(s) Go skydiving Ride a motorcycle See the northern lights Get a poem featured by a literary magazine/journal/website Go for shooting training Learn archery Learn how to roller-skate Go on a hot air balloon Try to leave the house at least once a week Be more grateful Pray that the people you care about survive iii. Things to do/achieve list 2021 Pray for the people you care about Find my purpose in life Being accepted for who I am (completely) Being loved despite who I am (completely) Can you hear me? Moulding Protective mechanism caused by an abrupt change makes them unpalatable. We human call shock a burning match under the tip of a leaf in rapid succession s l o w l y up, d o w n, like watching in slow motion, pain or any emotions – they seek the light – rise, straighten or bend as gravity dictates. Adjust. Must adapt. Grow. Burrowing with rain; decaying, the good will support, but when the demand become too great nothing concrete; – an abstraction – utterly unreliable and changing, neither can possibly say how much rain will fall unpredictable, changeable. Every day. Every night. Shiksha Dheda is a South African of Indian descent. She uses writing to express her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures, but mostly to avoid working on her master's degree. Sometimes, she dabbles in photography, painting, and baking lopsided layered cakes. Her writing has been featured (on/forthcoming) in Wigleaf, Passages North, Brittle Paper, Door is a jar and Epoch Press amongst others. She is the Pushcart nominated author of Washed Away (Alien Buddha Press, 2021). She currently has chapbooks published with The Daily Drunk Mag and Fahmidan Publishing & Co. She rambles annoyingly at Twitter: @ShikshaWrites. You can find (or ignore her) at https://shikshadheda.wixsite.com/writing

If someone asks, "Are you with me?" then you say yes, or a-ha; something to show that you are with them, because this is how they know they haven’t been left to manage the present by themselves. If you were to ask most people, most people would say they rather not go it alone, they would rather have someone with them to help them cope with the chaos. And here, it’s a demand that you never put yourself outside of the present because it’s all one really has. The crows cawing in the distance, the man stopping traffic to open his trunk and sweep small clouds of dust out, the barefoot child cackling up the dirt road and you watching it all on top of your balcony contemplating whether or not you should jump off. This is the present, and if I can let myself admit it, I must say, it sucks. Grandma doesn't like that I’ve been dreary like this for most of the month. When she sees me sitting with a blanket over my head watching downloaded movies on my laptop she pokes me through my shield asking, "Why are you in darkness, Tata?" The dark bags under her eyes pull her skin down, adding more texture to her face. I won’t answer her because I'm not sure if I'll end my vow to stay present. It’s because I’m not strong like you, ok? She snatches the blanket from my body. "Go sit outside.” She says. “Let the air rejuvenate you. It is well." I feel like she’s ripped me out of a womb but I don’t cry. Instead, I trudge out to the veranda and sit in the white plastic chair. I hear bristles brush against the tiles in a rhythmic swish-swish hum underneath me. The chair is coated in dust but I plop myself down and look through the metal bars. Papa drops his broom on the ground and limps to the men putting barbed wire around the fence. His name is Papa but he isn’t my father. He’s an elderly man who wears an old black newsboy cap that’s as worn as he is. His main job is to open and shut the gate, although he’s usually quite grumpy and never wants to actually get up to open or shut the gate. For a month he’s taken to sweeping one particular area in front of the balcony, going over it again and again while he tortures himself standing on his bum knee. He insists on being the one that sweeps and the one that bears the pain. "Go get a ladder now!" He says to a boy in a ripped red and white wife beater. Back in the states that's what we'd call what the boy’s wearing, a wife beater. But here I think they would just call it a shirt. He can't be more than fifteen but he has muscles that are twice the size of my fist. "You are very stupid! How you go bring men but no bring extra ladder? Are you stupid?" Papa’s developed a habit for shouting like a maniac, lately. He was once a gentle man who never spoke above a mumble. Daniel, the manager of the house, goes to see what the trouble is. He's also short but unlike Papa, he’s light on his feet. He’s fashionable too, wearing a fade. "Go bring ladder, now." He says, coming to the old man’s defense. But when one of the workers says it's 1000 naira to use a ladder from the house further up the dirt road, Daniel loses his calm and yells. He calls the boy an illiterate. When Daniel’s not yelling, or watching Papa’s back, he’s an apologetic mess, cornering me in the house whenever he can to say, “Ma, sorry for not being there. I had a lot to do that day.” He had been sent to Wuse market that day and no one could reach him because his phone was switched off. Grandma nearly drove him out of the compound with a shovel, and he got on his knees to beg for his job, his knees covered in specks of sand. “Daniel, it’s not your fault.” I said. “We’re all hurting.” But I wasn’t sure if I meant this, really. Had you answered your phone, Grandma would have yelled at you and it would have put her at ease. Everyone needs a punching bag when devastation hits. He had kept his head down as I spoke, and I had hoped I had reassured him. The boy in the wife beater rubs the back of his head and walks up the dirt road to get the ladder. His long arms are like paddles propelling him forward. The other men, I believe there are three, continue. I imagine how it will look when they are done; the barbed wire curling above the gate like a snake. "Tata, there's ogbonno and amala," Grandma says. She walks over, barefoot, putting an arm over the curved rails to lean over. She likes taking off her sandals for comfort at times, this instance being one such moment. "You should eat." In the past week I have not eaten much, maybe I'm averaging one meal a day. I barely drink water, which means I keep peeling dead skin off my lips. I did eat biscuits yesterday though. Those Pure Bliss milk cookies are good no matter the heartache. Yesterday Grandma said she noticed my backside was going down. "Are you sure?" I said in disbelief. "Just a month and I'm already losing my yansh?" Grandma yanked me by the arm like I was a rag doll, ordering me to turn so she could assess my behind. "Yes o." She said, taking a good look. "Better eat your rice." She's not so lighthearted today, and calls for Blessing to bring the food. "Put the table in front of her. Right here." She motions to the lithe girl with the rainbow clogs where the tray must go. Blessing’s feet must have bricks in them, because she moves as if she’d rather be asleep. She likes to vanish in the house for hours, and no one bugs her because we know where she hides. It’s the spare room on the third floor of the house. The room where Dad stayed to get better and then where Mom stayed to cry. Each time the room was vacant, Grandma would order Blessing to clean it well. Now she stays there when she can, sitting on the floor playing a game on my old phone. "Am I paying you to be Miss Slow Poke?" Grandma shouts. Shouting is the usual for Grandma. Her stock and trade. She points a wrinkled finger to the food that has just been set down, slicing her arm in my direction like a karate chop, she gives her command. “Eat.” I look at the ogbonno with the piece of Titus poking out. It looks like a bowl of brown snot. I tear off the amala and scoop soup with it, letting the goop coat my fingers. Grandma grunts in approval and walks away. Blessing watches, rolling her eyes like she can’t be bothered. She’s been given to rolling her eyes lately. “Aunty, this life no go kill me,” she said this yesterday morning while making my bed. This is when I told her she better be careful with her attitude. That if she wasn’t careful Grandma would kill her. I mean really kill her. I warned her that Grandma’s love could easily teeter into rage. The girl straightened the bed sheet, tucking the cloth under the bed. “Aunty, like I said. This life no go kill me.” She then stood with one arm by her side and the other arm raised to point to the black and blue bruise circling her right eye. When it was fresh it looked like someone had painted purple and red on her face. I averted my gaze, unable to look. She now watches me as I chew the fish, swallowing the sludge in my mouth. “Aunty, if you don’t eat, save for me. Dis food sweet, well well.” She cooked the meal herself and can eat her way through any grief. She walks away, leaving me to myself. The boy in the wife beater walks down the road carrying the ladder with another man. Papa stands up from his chair under the roof of the tiny shed that sits behind the gate and begins shouting, telling the workers to move faster, to hurry, to stop wasting time, which doesn’t make sense because all we have is time. Daniel paces the perimeter to ensure the men putting in the barbed wire do a good job. We agreed that the barbed wire should be high enough to keep unwanted persons out, especially those who could climb walls made of cracked brick and carry themselves up and over a barricade. *** Grandpa had wanted the fence wrapped in barbed wire for more than a decade, but we never got around to it. He said it was bad luck to build the family house on an incline, said Dad should have built the compound on flat land so those living above us couldn’t peer down and see what we had. “Those boys that live on top of us are getting bigger. Youth are cruel when they’re hungry. And the country’s getting worse, sha. We’re naked here. They’re seeing our buttocks and inside our thighs.” That was Grandpa, crude until his death. I’d visit every year with my parents during the Christmas holiday and the families who lived on the hills above us were always there, living in what looked to be tin boxes with dirty white buckets lined across their makeshift houses. From what I recall, all the women in the area were mothers, the fathers were few, and most of the children were boys, except for one or two girls. Occasionally, I’d give one of the children a small bag of peanuts wrapped in plastic on my way to buy data with Grandma. I’ve always been good with faces, and I knew who each child belonged to. The one child I especially enjoyed giving peanuts to never smiled much, always staring at me quizzically when we walked by. He appeared curious about life which endeared me to him. He’d snatch the peanuts from my hand and hide behind his mother, poking his head out from her leg to observe me from a safe distance. When he got tired I’d watch his mother wrap fabric to tie him on her back. He had to be about three years old, and I was about twelve. Grandma said she knew most of the mothers in the area, and those mothers and their families kept to themselves, save for the times they walked or ran on the dirt road and gave their greetings. “Stop giving them things,” Grandpa said, scolding us whenever we got back. “Do they look like dogs you give biscuits to when you are feeling nice? They are human. Humans with needs. See, eh? This house we live in makes the mouth water. You let them come close, one day they won’t hesitate to come closer.” Grandma would wave him off, defiantly. “Shut up your mouth. God’s watching over this house.” He’d grumble to the tv while he sat on the couch shaking his head. The house had been there before I was born. When I was younger I felt tiny compared to the house which appeared to be like a large and sprawling giant. I always had to jump to sit on the furniture as I could never reach it. But as I got older, the house started to look different. It needed painting, and the cushions of the couch I used to break my back to get on had deep grooves in them and were no longer so comfortable to sit on. It was too large to maintain. But Dad loved to boast about how he was the only son who could buy a family house. He would boast that even his oldest brother couldn’t do that, and Mom would scold him for showing off, said his brother could feel his arrogance and was probably trying to find a way to put him in his place. When we went to see…We ended up traveling to see Grandma in February because we were too busy to fly during the holiday. There had been reports of people dying from a strange virus that had started in China and was now spreading to other countries. Grandma said it was the white man’s disease and that it wouldn’t hit Nigeria. She said this to my Dad to protest his insistence that she stay indoors and keep away from crowded areas, especially the markets. But Grandma, as old as she was, loved the markets and since no one was really there to watch her, she did as she liked. That’s when Dad said we should get one-way tickets to see how things went when we got there. Getting a one-way ticket seemed final somehow, and I always appreciated the feeling of getting a round-trip ticket, knowing there was proof that I could always go back, but I saw Dad’s concern and put my own concerns to rest. When things got worse, Grandma wanted us to fly back to Maryland, but I had just told Dad about a dream where I saw blood dripping from the metal bars of the balcony and he said, “We’re staying.” Grandma begged for Dad to put everyone on a plane, but he said it was better to stay and burn white prayer candles. “You have to watch your health,” he said, “And if we leave, you’ll be alone. Everyone else is in a different state.” Grandma protested, said “Nothing will kill me, I’m fine,” but when she saw Dad wouldn’t budge she changed her tactic. “Send your pikin home, then. The country is getting worse. This soft girl won’t last. What does she know about this life past festival season?” She pulled her chair closer to me, giving me a once over. “I’m staying put.” I said, matching her stare down with my own. She shook a wrinkled finger at my nose. “No. You don’t understand.” She said, trying to talk to my Dad to make the final call. But I, having had the dream of blood didn’t flinch, “I’m not leaving.” I said. And then I said nothing more because I knew she was right. Dad, who was never at ease if he didn’t have Grandma’s approval, tried his best to appeal to her. “If we leave,” he said, “we’ll be turning in one problem for what could be a more dangerous one.” But Grandma, being the wisest of us all asked, “What could be more dangerous than death?” Mom, our resident skeptic, was never one to indulge my dreams. It’s not that she wasn’t a believer, it was more that she had adopted the logic of the West. I must see it to believe it. If it wasn’t yet seen then the supernatural could be rebuked or thwarted for another time. She ran her hands through my braids, probably to comfort herself more than me, “Tata’s always had these dreams. They’ve never been dangerous. Let’s not worry.” That was mother, never interjecting herself in her mother-in-law and husband’s spats. She rubbed my hand with hers and I admired how smooth hers were. She looked at my father. “We’ll stay. I wouldn’t want to be without you all at a time like this.” Dad put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. Two pit stains in perfect ovals had darkened his gray shirt. His arms that were once solid now jiggled in some areas. He had first seen Mom at a Catholic church in Maryland, when she was more solid herself. Dad, perhaps recalling those days, took one hand from behind his head to tap her hand while he turned his gaze away from her. He was always cavalier in his affection, but after forty years of marriage she never seemed to mind. “We thought Ebola was bad, but this, I don’t know. A virus that constricts the lungs? I tell you, not my cup of tea.” He said, ending his sentence with a tsk tsk to emphasize his disdain. He was watching CNN, the BBC, and Arise as much as he watched the televangelist channels, reciting the numbers of the dead and the gruesome details of people who had coughed themselves to death in overcrowded hospitals. “I hate it myself but it’s best to stay calm. See how things work out. God always finds a way.” Mom said this, but she didn’t sound as certain as she usually did. Grandma, disagreeing with Mom, stood to go to the kitchen though everyone knew she had no real work there. These two disagreed on many things, and when one was in disagreement the other would walk away. On her way to the kitchen Grandma spoke loud enough for us to hear before the door shut behind her. “This Covid no go kill this old woman. I’ll survive it, sha. But this Covid -- hear me well -- it will kill. It’ll beat the lungs purple and blue.” Mom flashed a glare at the kitchen door. Dad looked to Mom and fixed his gaze, letting his hand rest on top of hers. He titled his head back and whistled, maintaining some levity. “Ah! I thought everyone was saying 2020 would be humanity’s best year. Kai! What a year to retire, eh?” He laughed well that day, and we joined him, thinking it wouldn’t catch us. He died a month later, complained that a snake wrapped itself around his lungs and that there was nothing he could do about it. *** The month after Dad died robbers had entered the compound. They climbed over the wall, one by one, jumping from a hill. Not one of them broke a bone, which made me wonder what they were made out of. It was four of them I think, but Grandma says she knows they were five. Mom was sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her. They scurried about the compound, two of them running to where the generator was in the back, and the other two running to get inside the house. Grandma stood on the balcony. “Get out!” She said, screaming. “May God punish you!” Papa was chasing one boy in a red hoodie with a shovel, aiming the blade at his face. The boy grinned as the old man jabbed the weapon at his heart. “I’ll beat you. Beat you well.” Papa said, adamant about the matter, and if you had seen his face, you may have believed he could have won. He lunged the blade to strike, but the boy stuck his leg out tripping the old man who fell forward on his knees, rolled over on his back, and yelped. The boys at the back of the house were talking, don’t ask me how I heard them, but one said the generator was too big to carry. Grandma’s shouts turned to screeching, a sound that mimicked the birds who crowed wildly when the sun was out. Mom stood on the balcony behind me, screaming. She wasn’t a yeller, so her voice began to croak. She had woken up from her sleep. “Tata, get out of there. Do you hear me? Run!” I was outside, unable to move, but I could watch and hear everything. The quiet and calculated chatter of the robbers, Grandma’s screeching mixing with the cawing birds, the clanging of pots and chairs coming from the house. I could even feel Papa’s pain too in one knee. The boy in the hoodie walked towards me and another boy followed, rushing ahead to grab my shoulder. Mom and Grandma argued. Can’t you hear Blessing fighting them in the kitchen, if you go down you won’t make it outside. Don’t tell me what to do old woman, they’ll hurt her. You can’t go, she’s in God’s hands. I’ve lost a husband, what more? Papa tried to move towards me, sliding on his back, doing his best to protest the oncoming assault. The noises were fast becoming one, and Mom’s words came out in jagged bits. Don’t touch her. If you do, blood. If you do, blood. I was sure the boy in the red was a boy I had seen. His once pudgy face harsher and more defined than before. I closed my eyes when another hand grabbed my shoulder. When I heard a large thud and Grandma’s screeching no longer sounded like a bird crowing, but became the exact noise of a crowing bird, my eyes opened. Horror swept the face of the boy in red. The other boy who was a bit taller spoke, maintaining some calm. “Get out.” He must have clued the rest of them to flee, as they climbed up the wall, carrying a battery, a Jerry can, lights, containers of cassava, garri, and a 24-pack of toilet roll. They also took rice, all the rice. When I turned around I saw a body splayed out on the tiles, arms and legs spread out like a star. Grandma stood on the balcony flailing her fists, yelping like Papa. She’d go on to say my mother made a sacrifice. That her heart gave out before the fall. God’s mercy, she’d call it. And when I asked what happened to Blessing, she told me that Blessing made her sacrifice too. “But you,” Grandma said, looking weaker than before. “Your sacrifice starts now. You’re an orphan. You have to focus yourself, now. That’s the only thing that can be done.” *** A man comes with a medium sized pail filled with cement to seal in the cracks between the bricks. He’s somewhere in age between the boy in the wife beater and Papa, not too old, not too young. I sit on the balcony, watching Papa follow the locksmith like a shadow, his neck craning over the poor man’s shoulder. Daniel has gone to get something from town, “My phone is on, ma.” He says, “I’ll be quick.” I gave Blessing the rest of the amala and ogbonno, knowing she’d appreciate it more than I could. Grandma doesn’t like this about me, she says it’s because my parents never raised me to appreciate the small things, but she says that now I must learn. When the birds stop their noise Grandma walks to me, barefoot. She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Still out here, hmm?” She asks, content that I have stayed outside. I nod. “Yea.” We listen to Papa who’s outside the wall, knowing that though we can’t see him, he is yelling at the man sealing the bricks. “Pack in the cement well!” he orders. Grandma laughs a little, patting my shoulder before she walks inside the house. “I’m going to rest.” She doesn’t enter the house until I answer her. Daniel runs up the road carrying a black nylon and he enters the gate. He waves up at me. “Ma, I’m back” he says, hurrying to get the words out. “I’m here.” I give him a wave and cross my legs, looking out to the hills. There, I hear children laughing and squabbling, unwilling to contain their noise. I think this moment is a nice one, but then I spot a few of them who have ran from behind a tree and now see me. A shorter kid whispers to a taller kid and points to the men putting the barbed wire in. They watch and give me a proper greeting while I consider the time we have left. Itoro Bassey is a Nigerian-American writer, journalist, and educator. She has received writing fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center, the San Francisco Writers Grotto, and The Edward Albee Foundation, among others. Some of her popular pieces of writing include Running, Anti-Blackness and the African Immigrant, and A Visitor in My Homelands. She has just debuted her first novel, Faith, which follows several generations of Nigerian women grappling with migration, ancestry, and spirituality. She was living in Kenya and Nigeria for five years before relocating to Washington DC to work at the BBC as a producer and journalist.

“Next question! If a man with a white van pulls up next to you and asks you if you want some candy, what do you say?” “Why of course I’ll love some candy, kind man! Could I also take a spin in your sweet ride? I heard there’s nothing like cruising in a white van with no tags, I’m sure you won’t unalive me,” I deadpanned. They both glared at me, but neither could stop the grin that took over their faces afterward. My mother slapped my arm. “My Child, oh God help me,” she managed to get out between laughs. “Okay in all seriousness, I left the emergency numbers on the fridge. If you need anything, call us and if you’re unable to reach us, Beatrice is also just a call away. Don’t open the doors for anyone you don’t know. You can have a few friends over, but don’t go crazy. Be safe and make smart decisions, Mercedes.” Dan was all business now as he handed me some money and with a kiss on my cheek, headed out the door. Mom walked up to me and held me in a tight embrace, “I love you darling, and we’ll see you soon.” And just like that she was out the door. I ran to the window and watched Dan's BMW i8 speed out the driveway. I waited a full 15 minutes before I called Keisha. “Hey girl,” answered Keisha's raspy voice. “The parents are gone and the party tonight is a go!” —----------------------------------------------- I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided that throwing a party was a good idea. All three of my closest friends had shown up to help make sure this was a night to remember, and that was chaotic in itself. When my mom married Dan three years ago, my life was uprooted from Boyz n the Hood to Clueless, and my friends reflected that. Keisha had been my girl since I was 5 years old when some boy had been tugging at my hair and she pushed him off the swing set in retaliation. Ten years later and Keisha still didn’t mess around when it came to me, she was my ROD and my sister, no blood was necessary. Olivia and Tracey were the two blonde girls that took me in when I transferred to East Middle School in seventh grade and had no friends. I had sat alone at lunch for two months as with my background, I was even too black for the black kids that had grown up in the suburbs all their lives. One day, my mom grew tired of my sulking and forced me to go to a cheerleading interest meeting, and being the only two girls that could do a back handspring, Olivia and I bonded. After that day, she invited me to her lunch table which sat Tracey and a few other people. Olivia, Tracey and I soon became inseparable. Olivia and I ended up making the team and just like that I became very known, and with my new friends, the new school wasn’t so terrible anymore. I remember introducing them to each other thinking since I loved all of them they would love each other. That was so far from the truth. Olivia and Tracey were uncomfortable with Keisha, always flinching when she was too loud and seemingly unable to hold her gaze. One time they told me they thought she was too aggressive. Keisha claimed they’re racists and are only tolerable of me because I’m a pretty rich black girl that waves pom poms for fun. I think they all need to get over themselves. And for the sake of this party, that’s what they were doing. “Ahhhhh, omg omg! Cedes, Nathan just rsvp’d to the party,” exclaimed Olivia referencing the cute musician I had recently found myself crushing on. “No way, let me see!” responded Tracey as they both knew I had it bad for the Latinx hottie. “It’s no big deal,” I said with a wave of my hands, refusing to look up as the huge smile on my face would give up the nonchalant act. “Who’s Nathan?” “Shut up! Shut up! You know you loveeeeeee him. Nathan is so cute! ‘Do you think Nathan noticed me today? I wore this outfit just for him,’' Olivia mocked me. I hadn’t been able to shut up about him for months now. That boy was the finest thing high school had to offer. “WHO’S NATHAN,” screamed Keisha. Olivia and Tracey went silent immediately but I didn’t miss the roll of Tracey's eyes. “It’s nothing Keish, just some boy I like,” I responded gently. “And I your best friend am just hearing about this, wow. He better not be white.” “He’s not,” I defended. “And why does that matter?” asked Tracey, full of annoyance. “It just does, and I ask that you please stay out of black women's business, Mercedes understands,” Keisha rebutted without sparing the girl a glance. This was not going well at all, and with the party only a few hours away, I needed them to not fight. I knew there was only one thing that could do the trick. “Girls follow me to my closet for a pleasant surprise.” Everybody was on edge but they followed me anyway. When I revealed what was in my closet, eyes widened, and smiles broke out. Bottles filled with tequila, rum, vodka, and any liquor I thought to tell the cute senior with a fake that had obtained these precious commodities for me. “Now that’s what I’m talking about, let's get this party started!!” screamed Olivia, and we all, including Keisha, cheered. —-------------------------------------------- After hours of drinking, games, and dancing, the last of my guests left the party around 3 a.m., and my girls and I found ourselves alone again. The party was a success and I knew it would be the talk of the school come Monday morning. I almost couldn’t wait to ride that high of endless praise that was sure to come. First I had to tackle the mess that the party had left behind. Thankfully, my girls had all told their parents that they were sleeping over at mine. And as they were my ride or dies, they were helping me out with cleaning. I was on backyard duty, Olivia was on kitchen duty, Keisha was on living room duty, and Tracey was on bathroom duty. I was picking up garbage in the backyard when I heard a blood-curdling scream come from the bathroom. I dropped everything and ran as fast as I could. Was Tracey okay? Both Keisha and Olivia had also heard the scream and were in front of the bathroom when I arrived. Olivia pushed the door open and what I saw made me stop in my tracks. Tracey was crying hysterically next to a girl that was slumped over on the bathroom floor. She had light brown skin and looked to have been throwing up in the toilet before she passed out. The stench was all-consuming and the girl was unmoving. I recognized the girl. She was from my old neighborhood. I tried to rack my brain for a name but couldn’t come up with anything. “Is she…” asked Olivia hesitantly as her voice trailed off. “I don’t know! I don’t know,” responded Tracey still in hysterics “Calm down,” demanded Keisha. “Move out the way and let me check her pulse.” She put two fingers to the girl's neck. “She’s breathing but it’s extremely faint,” came Keisha with the final verdict. We all gasped in relief. At least she was alive. “Okay that’s good, I’ll call the cops so they can get her to the hospital,” I said while beginning to dial the number on my phone. Olivia hit the phone out of my hand. “You can’t do that,” she exclaimed. Tracey and I looked at her in pure shock, mouths agape. “What the fuck do you mean that I can’t do that Liv, what do you want me to do?!” “I don’t know! Just not that! This is bad, like really bad, Cedes. If we call the cops and she doesn’t make it, there’s no going back from this,” said Olivia with a crazy look in her eye that I had never seen before. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Olivia. We can’t just let a girl die,” Tracey burst out. “Not let her die, just….” Olivia faltered. “She’s right,” Keisha spoke up. “If this girl is found dead in your house, we’re fucked. Me and you, Cedes, more than the others.” If this were another situation, I would’ve jumped for joy. Keisha and Olivia had never agreed on anything. I, however, was mortified. Who were these people and what did they do with my best friends? What they were suggesting was unimaginable, actually, what were they suggesting? Tracey voiced my thoughts, “What are you guys saying?” Keisha and Olivia looked at each other like they finally understood the other and said in unison, “No cops!” “You guys are crazy. There’s no way we could not involve the cops when there’s a person in this condition in my house,” I said. “Exactly. Your house. And not even your house. Dan’s house. How quickly do you think it’ll take Dan to toss you and your mom aside when the news is reporting a dead girl found at his house during his stepdaughter's party? Forget that. Do you think you’ll be able to continue living in this town, finish high school, and go to college? Hell, you may even end up in jail especially if the cops were to check your alcohol level. This would be bad for all of us, but it will absolutely ruin your life, Cedes. This is your house,” said Olivia looking me in the eyes without missing a beat. Tears filled my eyes because she was right. This scandal would ruin everything my mom worked hard for, the better life she always wanted for me. Keisha took a sharp intake before continuing Olivia’s monologue, “Not only that, Cede, but you’ll be the black girl from the hood that threw a ghetto rave and got somebody killed. That’s what they expect of us, don’t give it to them.” “I don’t agree with not involving the cops at all but they’re right, this falls on you, Cedes. Whatever happens, you’ll get the worst of it. The decision is yours,” added Tracey. I always viewed myself as a good person that made moral decisions, but I somehow found my mouth moving, and the words that came out discredited any good deed I’d ever done in my life. “Okay, no cops” Tracey and Keisha audibly gave sighs of relief. “So what’s next,” asked Tracey “We have to get her out of here,” responded Keisha. “And do what with her exactly?” “Okay, I got it. She’s still alive and I doubt she’ll die. She probably just drank too much alcohol. We could drop her at the hospital, and they’ll just have to, like, pump her stomach or something. Everything works out, we don’t have to call the cops to your place and get in trouble for underage drinking, and she’ll be good as new tomorrow,” exclaimed Olivia. I looked at her in disbelief, did she think this was a Disney movie? I seemed to be the only person that hadn’t completely lost my mind because the other girls were nodding their heads in approval. “Okay so we drop off a half-dead girl at a hospital, and just drive away, no regard for cameras, just vibes?” I pointed out the gaping hole in this plan. “We don’t need to worry about cameras, Cedes. I know her, she’s from home, and nobody will be looking for her,” said Keisha solemnly, “And when they find out what’s wrong with her, it’ll be obvious that there’s no foul play involved.” The sad thing was I believed her. Whatever happened to this girl, nobody would care. “Alright, so let's do this. I’m going to start my car and make sure it’s good to go. You three bring the girl to the car. After that, Tracey, you stay here and clean, we need a cover just in case. Keisha and Cedes, come with me to the hospital.” “Why I gotta go?” Keisha protested. “I need you to drive. Tracey can’t drive yet. Cedes and I will stay in the back with the girl and make sure she’s okay, and when we get to the hospital, we’ll carry her to the bench as we’re the strongest, got it? “Got it.” “Got it.” “Got it” —---------------------------------------------- Keisha checked the girl's pulse before we left, and she still had a heartbeat. We sped on the freeway to get to the hospital. I kept praying that everything would be okay. Keisha cut the trip in half getting to the hospital in eight minutes rather than the usual 15. When we pulled up to the edge of the white hospital building, the girl looked more gray than brown and her body felt cold to the touch. I had never felt a human being that cold. I copied the move I had seen Keisha pull earlier and checked for a pulse. I couldn’t find one. “Guys Guys! I don’t feel a pulse! Why don’t I feel a pulse? Am I doing something wrong? Keisha, please check!” I almost screamed at the top of my lungs. Keisha felt around for her pulse and tears filled her eyes. “She’s fine, go put her on the bench,” whispered Keisha urgently, not sounding like she quite believed her own words. Olivia also had silent tears streaking her face and had been whispering to herself that we were doing the right thing the entire car ride to the hospital. I pretended that I didn’t hear her. I looked at the girl knowing this image would forever be frozen in my mind. This girl’s last memory would be of a party of someone who couldn’t even remember her name. Olivia and I struggled to carry the girl to the wooden bench fifteen feet away from the entrance that read in bright red letters, Emergency. She seemed to have gained a hundred pounds in the last ten minutes, as though she were weighed down by our sins. The two of us attempted to prop her up on the bench, but the girl’s body didn’t cooperate so we ended up putting her in an awkward laying down position where her legs hung over the side and it appeared as if she would fall over and topple onto the ground at any moment. I glanced at the two empty ambulances not far from the benches, and the various cars spread throughout the parking lot, and realized that time wasn’t on our side. In the dark of the night where our faces were only being illuminated by a sole street light, it felt as if we were alone, but looking at the building of finality, I knew that was far from the truth. It would only take one heartbroken mother coming out for air, a nurse coming out for a smoke break, or a security guard patrolling the area, for our entire world to crumble. Olivia and I locked eyes, and I knew she had come to the same conclusion. We turned our back to the girl and ran away without a second glance convincing ourselves she would be saved and that we were good people.

We're all lips and limbs under a velvet blanket when my crush's mother barges in, she’s all hands when she yells whaddya youse doing, he’s all mouth when he says nothin', then she points to the phone, it's "the nice Italian girl next door," snatches the blanket from me and folds, when she asks where I'm from, I know what she means, and later I'll learn my crush, with his Saturday Night Fever smile, is not a "nice Italian boy," and his mother's hips will block the door when my father darkens it with his voice, and she'll pretend not to understand his rapid-fire speak, the crisp roll of his r's, the soft j of his y's, and I'll pretend not to see my crush's shadow behind her, remembering the stain of his sweat, the violating crush, the crush of being nothin'.

In Blood, Sweat and a Glimpse of Hope “we will walk through darkness till daybreak” — The President who never Was Angels, gather. Sing hosanna to the Most High. A country is now a 100m race with a Champion who will wear diapers & aim to run faster than Bolt. We don't have to guess his outfit 'cause we know the only brand that can contain the speed of light to teach a country the difference between day and night is an agbada that covers bones over- shadowing flesh just as the sun overshadows electricity to the point high tension lines become driers for washed clothes and bodies to receive fresh air and sparkling sunlight. The economy is paraplegic and infrastructure is in crutches but the first thing he must do in the race is to hit the ground running even before "on your marks." Manifestos are swill-supping man-dog-fucking porn -ography so the second thing to do is continue running although his eyes hold scales to cloud sight that college is not elementary school where money is harvested from a mother's wrapper and the finger -ing 4 years does to a brain is enough to last for a lifetime. Shall we pray.~ God save the president that wears diapers whose third plan is "Don't rest." Eyes that cannot tell a mic from ice cream must know what rest looks like— A depravity that has sockets carrying bags enough to make a child wonder if a presidential statement is an incantation from odùduwà's rest or a statement that yes a country is a race but maybe a drag race. Where tribe is worn on skin and is a guillotine blade chopping off sanity to weave barbaric woe into pun. Confetti is popped champagne glasses clinked and still I can't tell if after bodies turned to apostrophes for hours feeding on stench from unwashed bodies & sordid breath was enough for lots to be casted into swines like the Christ did or maybe just maybe a successor to Usain Bolt had enough running juice to run a country infinitely and utterly into the ground– the neverending divine comedy across all seas. I Echo is a Ghanaian-Nigerian journeyman writer writing to save his life. Previously published under the name "Chris Baah," some of his works have been published or are forthcoming in African Writers Magazine, Kalahari Review, New Note Poetry, among others. He tweets on @AyeEcho

Preserving Ecosystems Three generations—one of each, huddled around the living room at evening tea, our ancient shawls against the February chill of the countryside. A while ago, Ma had snapped at her old-school communist and Stalinist bapi: “So what if Ukraine was once a part of the USSR? War is bad, and Putin is horrible!” Her bapi didn’t agree, didn’t argue. A Bengali serial fills the empty space: poor single mother to a gymnast daughter, family and class politics, forbidden love—the usual. Idiot box, indeed. My empty tea cup aside, I target mosquitoes, applauding them dead in single precise shots. Ma is amused when her bapi asks for the corpses. “Why dadu?” I tease my old man. “They’re food for the ants,” he says, unflinching; gathers the dead bodies strewn across the cement floor, lays them out on the window sill. “To preserve the ecosystem.” I wonder if it is the same sentiment that keeps him from reasserting his pro-Stalin stance. If families are ecosystems, preserving them is more important than shallow ideologues, isn’t it? I choose not to ask. A detergent ad fills the space. Glossary: Ma: Bengali for “mother” Bapi: Bengali for “father” (the usual term is “baba”; “bapi” is a variation) Dadu: Bengali for “maternal grandfather” My Fading Reds I can feel my reds fading, riding out of my eyes and into the wild, threaded around the splitting wisps of my soul, jumping ship before it inevitably sinks. Some of my reds are on a Gulmohar tree still blooming in my old school campus, hoping I will peel the red off the five sepals and stick them on my fingernails, transform into a little green-nailed monster in pigtails and a pleated skirt. Some of my reds are on a Rangan tree at the corner of the old children’s park, hoping I will pluck one flower off and suckle on its honey stem. Some of my reds are in expired pastels and watercolour paint tubes, hoping I will scratch amateur roses on white shirts and yellow sheets. Some of my reds are in hardened lipsticks, hoping I will leave a stain on a charmer’s jawline. The rest of my reds are looking for places to perch. They need roots, memories, but I have none left with red in them—all my love stories being unwritten, my friendships coming undone, and my blood unbecoming family. Tejaswinee Roychowdhury is a writer, poet, and artist from West Bengal, India. With her fiction and poetry nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2023, her work has been curated in eleven countries. Her publications include Muse India, Driech Magazine, Amity (Hawakal), Taco Bell Quarterly, miniMAG, San Antonio Review, and more. She's also a lawyer and the founding editor of The Hooghly Review. Catch her tweeting @TejaswineeRC and find her work chronicled at linktr.ee/tejaswinee.

The Place I Call Home An Ode to jersey City, New Jersey ,my home for more than 15 years I'm from the most diverse city in the nation, a nation's icon, its pride A melting pot of its own kind— cradling the identity of everyone in its womb I’m from heaps of spices and color-filled festivals marinated with bay leaf turmeric-laced hands, I’m from eyes filled with endless dreams carrying our identities across the border, calling this piece of land our beloved new“home”. I’m from Diwali, Christmas tree, Holi, and Easter Egg, together giving a new meaning to our festivals back home I’m from dressing up for Halloween, while filling a home with the aroma of homemade Diwali sweets. I’m from carrying our hyphenated identities with accented voices across the border like a dandelion trying to stay rooted— living a life perched at the crossroads of being judged Thinking always “Does an immigrant have a right to be heard?”. I’m from working hard and ignoring slurs hurled at the Townsquare “Go Back to where you belong” ringing like hot lava in our veins Still carrying the love for the land and people, we now call our home carving hyphenated identities for our loved ones, evermore. I’m from the land of Buddha and Gandhi, the sound of “OM” ringing in our ears for eternity, where nonviolence is the sacred core of one’s existence and its sanctity. I’m now from a place that teaches the meaning of empathy, coexistence, and acceptance that teaches you might be broken but you are not done yet. Is the Blood Drained Enough This Time? More than 349,000 students have experienced gun violence at school since Columbine - Washington Post The darkness of this arcane truth keeps getting mystifying. It takes yet another senseless incident for our not-so-intelligent brains to find the viridity of the truth. The truth with its stained teeth that laughs at us every time we look in the mirror, mind seeded with a bowlful of questions like maggots trying to find their way out of rotten fruit, after everything good and golden has been masticated. A truth stripped of its logic and sense. We know that the silvery truth lies in the core seed of everything which is pure but forgotten. The innocent cries of the soft innocent bodies in the cold corridors of the school, whose walls are now painted with the dark shade of dried blood instead of the rainbow laugh that once bounced back uninhibited in these closed corridors. Who are we to define freedom with our false sense of perceptions? Does a handful of weapons sticking out of a tight belt with its metallic craving for death, curbing the laughter of many, make this country free and great? The brackish taste of death impinged on the small graves carving their screams in the shallow womb of earth devoid of their existence. How much more blood do we need from the bodies of our young and vulnerable to irrigate the parched earth of our motherland to satiate its endless thirst? The land doused with the blood of those innocent supple hands crumbling under the weight of small bones—a cold quarry of screeched screams resonating endlessly in the cold corridors of our schools begging one question: Is the blood drained enough this time? Megha Sood is an Award-winning Asian-American Poet, Editor, and Literary Activist from New Jersey, USA. She is a Literary Partner with “Life in Quarantine”, at Stanford University. Member of National League of American Pen Women (NLAPW), Women’s National Book Association, and United Nations Association-US Chapter. She is an Associate Editor for the journals Mookychick(UK) and Brownstone Poets (USA). Author of 3 books including Chapbook ( “My Body is Not an Apology”, Finishing Line Press, 2021) and Full Length (“My Body Lives Like a Threat”, FlowerSongPress,2022). Co-Edited anthologies ( “The Medusa Project”, Mookychick, UK) and (“The Kali Project", Indie Blu(e) Press, USA). Her co-edited anthology “The Medusa Project” has been selected as a digital payload to be sent to the moon in 2023 as part of the historical LunarCodex Project in collaboration with NASA/SpaceX. You can find her at : https://linktr.ee/meghasood