Call for Submissions:2016 Etisalat Flash Fiction Award

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How to enter

  • The Prize is open to all writers of unpublished short stories (of African citizenship but can be resident anywhere in the world)
  • All entries will be submitted online via the website and short stories submitted should not exceed 300 words
  • Follow this link to apply:

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Commonwealth Writers

Deadline Wednesday 5 October (11.59pm in any time zone)

We’re inviting writers from islands in the Commonwealth* to submit stories for a new anthology.

 The anthology will include poetry, short stories, and nonfiction – which can include creative non-fiction, memoir, and photo or narrative essays – from an island perspective.  Continue reading


Call for Writers

Deadline: Monday 29 August (11.59pm in any time zone)

adda is Commonwealth Writers’ online gathering of stories, a place where writers and readers can talk to each other across global and geopolitical divides. Continue reading


I could not eat the food in front of me even though a few minutes ago, I was hungry. We were brought up never to complain of anything, especially food. It would result in a slap from father and a long tale from mother. She would tell us how much she suffered to get food for us. She would list all the things her friends had in twos and threes which she didn’t possess because she was more concerned about putting food in our bellies. She would remind us that the reason why she didn’t have a George wrapper was because she had to take care of three children.

“You’re not eating, abi” mother said breaking into my thought. I was so startled that I spilled some grains of rice. Mother’s eyes were fixed on me although she couldn’t see me well because the light from the lamp was dim. Mother must have noticed that I was not knocking my spoon against the plate as was my habit. Her eyes were still on me as she carried my younger sister, Aku from the sofa to the floor. I hastily beat my spoon against the stainless plate but mother was not fooled. She turned the wick of the lamp but the fire flared against the glass and touched the paper that had been used to patch the broken glass. The smell of burnt paper caressed my nose and I sneezed. The lamp continued to burn slowly. I watched as mother lifted the lamp from the stool and shook it, placing her ear close to the base. The sandy rattle finally convinced her that there was no kerosene in it. She placed it back on the stool and in slow measured steps, walked across the small room to where I sat in one corner like a cornered animal. I trembled under her unseen gaze. Continue reading