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Short Sharp Shot Literature. Art. Ingenuity :: November 2016. Issue 1 // Volume 1

Arinze Stanley Egbe: Apostle of Hyperrealism

Short Sharp Shot @shortsharp_shot www.shortsharpshot.com Creative Galaxy

POV “Get well soon. Don’t worry, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” the evangelist said before exiting the ward. Now, groaning, grimacing, Okon felt for his bandaged head, broken ribs and shattered knees. Then he concluded that the man was mad. “How does a ghastly auto crash make one stronger? Kadiri Alex

080 62619505

INGE


Contents

EDITOR’S ............................

Samuel Okopi

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On 24 November, 2014, we launched Shortsharpshot.com, with a clear vision to create a hot spot for fantastic art, delightful words and a blend of both. Short Sharp Shot, the art, literature and ingenuity magazine I now present to you, is the crystallization of what has been, thus far, an exciting two-year journey towards achieving our vision. Permit me to define the unique nomenclature we have developed over the years for our creative galaxy. Wordshots are short bursts of literary expression, 300 words max. Photoshots shine out creativity in pictures. Crossshots embody a blend of both art and creative writing. Podium is what it is: the big stage where we beam the lights on one creative individual — as we have done on Arinze in this edition. This is our first edition and we are so eager to receive feedback from you! Please shoot a mail to editor@shortsharpshot.com with your thoughts and suggestions. It is my hope that this magazine does what we want it to do: excite your senses and leave a footprint beyond your threshold of memory. Have a great read!

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All correspondence should please refer to: editor@shortsharpshot.com www.shortsharpshot.com Short Sharp Shot @shortsharp_shot

............................................................ Editor-In-Chief: Samuel Okopi Assistant Editor: Sibbyl Whyte Art Editor: Tobi Ajiboye ............................................................

Cover

Short Sharp Shot gives voice to stellar artistic expressions from Nigeria, Africa and beyond. The magazine is published by Cuttlefish Media Ltd, and was designed by Charles Achibi for Click&Smear studios Kaduna, Nigeria.

www.shortsharpshot.com

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Flash fiction

Short Sharp Shot magazine

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HIGH SCORE I

arrange my tiles: S-P-H-Y-N-X. "That's 15...plus a triple word score."

*head aslant* "Why d'you always do this?" "Uh?" "Form words that aren't real just to get ahead." "Oh Honey, it's a real word.” "That lacks a vowel?” "Not all words have vowels, Babe." "I see." Her eyes are liquid. We've plied this road before. The distrust highway. To think just yesterday the relationship therapist counseled us to practice plainness with each other. The dictionary, arbiter in matters of this kind, is midway between us—just as I'm torn between honesty and a high score. I slide it toward her. Across Boston Literary Magazine, Microbookends (Contest Winner), 81words, Drablr, 101 words, etc, and, more recently, Lifewords.org, Bunmi Oke has spread his ink. On and off drugs (easy, easy... he's a Pharmacist, okay?), he is busy entertaining story ideas in his distracted head. @itisbunmioke @bunmi_oke Bunmi Oke itisbunmioke@gmail.com

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Wordshot

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A BASKET OF MANGOES I

looked up and Ebuka was there, smiling, with a basket of mangoes for me.

I laughed and took it, selecting a clean mango. Yellow juice was dripping down my chin when he said, “I will like to make you my wife.” The mango dropped. “Ebuka, finally!” He laughed and dropped a kiss in my palm. “My family will come to see yours.” But the Biafra war started, and my soldier went to defend his fatherland. One day, two soldiers brought us a letter. I'd heard about these letters. I didn't need to read it before my heart knew. I still wear black every mango season. Enobong Odohofreh is a young lawyer who lives in Abuja and works to give bad guys what's coming to them! She's currently doing her NYSC and believes that one day she's going to finally get around to writing a book that will rock the world. +2348039194840 oenobong@yahoo.com


Flash fiction

Short Sharp Shot magazine

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POUCHED SECRETS e woke up one morning to find out that grandma had died in her sleep. Her posture in death didn't surprise us: she cradled her pouch, as if they both had crossed into the great beyond together. They had been inseparable in life, the pair of them, ever since grandpa had passed on.

away the antique. In one horrific moment, grandma had caught a hold of his hand in a firm grip and just as soon, she let it go.

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An involuntary jerk of death. That had turned Kezie (again) into a crying mass and us, into believers in the powers of fate. After the nerves had calmed down, someone noted that the pouch had been set free, for the first time since anyone could remember. And we realized that we could now peek into the essence of this age-long companionship.

We could tell grandma's moods from where she placed her most coveted possession: slung over her shoulders when she took strolls, hidden when she distrusted everyone but nobody in particular and waist-bound but visible when she received gifts and needed odds and bits to aid her storytelling. In whatever situation, however, she had executed her guardian duties to the tilt. Such that when Kezie, her first grandchild, seated on her laps, tried to pry open the pouch in one unguarded moment of storytelling, the alarm bells went off. Grandma let out a low growl, and with all the strength her eighty-five year old knuckles could muster, she rapped Kezie on his head, the little offender scurrying away like a fox with its tail on fire.

Having been stung by the bug of persistent curiosity, Ekene Noel Eziagulu falls in love time and again, with the melody and rhythm that words possess. He hopes that he will muster the courage to author at least one novel, in this lifetime.

As we all gathered at her bedside, none was bold enough to give form to the curiosity that had lingered for so long. Soon Kezie reached out, to whisk

jokersandaces.blogspot.com Ekene Eziagulu trivine2000@gmail.com +2348055902277

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Crossshots Wordshot


Wordshot

Flash fiction

Short Sharp Shot magazine

ONE SONG “N

ceda, Theresa … just one song.”

time at the inn. Richie was in the crowd that day. A few visits and many promises later, she was with a group of girls enroute Jo'Burg where Richie said they would 'blow'.

She hid behind her hands and shook her head slowly from side to side, like a shy virgin on her wedding night. Through her fingers, she peeped into the camera lens. “Kuphela enye?” Just one?

Blow, she did—the drugs, liquor, split lips and broken arms blew her mind, body and soul. And a 'forever' later, she returned with one suitcase and a viral infection to an empty home.

“Ewe,” the man affirmed in his terrible Xhosa. The rest of the crew behind him nodded in unison.

And so she turned back to 'Odeku'. “It isn't just her obvious talent,” the CNN African Story anchor was saying into the camera, “it's the ease—near boredom in fact—with which she makes such beautiful music.”

Securing the guitar beneath her right armpit, Theresa began to play. The cameraman rose from his crouch, camera forgotten on the tripod; his astonishment mirrored that of the entire crew. Theresa had seen it before. The first time she saw such awe, she was only fifteen and her folks had taken her to play at the local inn. She was only seven when she started playing with the old guitar Dada kept hanging in his room—a gift from a former Portuguese boss. 'Odeku' hung by the strap on the wall, its stringed nose angled downwards. And Theresa stood on tiptoes and tugged at the strings. She was gifted, Dada said, and so they took her to play many times at the Ingonyama's palace and that one

Chisom Ojukwu studied engineering, works in finance, and writes on his blog. His stories are often nonfictional, very descriptive and few and far between. He blames his lovely mother for the latter. wordsarework.com @wordsarework

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wordsarework@gmail.com Words Are Work


Flash fiction

Short Sharp Shot magazine

THE IZOBO RAID T

he night presses on us, a black smothering blanket.

Tonight is a disappointment. I hiss and head to Nagudia's spot, meeting only him there. “Where's she?” I ask. He shrugs.

We scamper across red sand with bare feet.

We head to her corner. There's a giant Iroko, and she's standing under it, clutching a large clay pot. Her eyes are fixed on something.

Electricity is out. Only an early moon allows us see the coal-tar crossroads, a few yards ahead. “Quickly,” I whisper in Bini, our native tongue. It's the only language we know and unanimously speak since we began sleeping under the ATM together.

“You found–” Nagudia starts, then freezes. Seven owls are lined up in the tree, staring right down at us, their brows furrowed and oval eyes white like a row of Christmas lights.

“I don't want to,” Ifueko protests again. She's a lean, tiny girl; the latest occupant of our ATM shelter.

Oval. Human eyes.

This is her first raid.

I hear the pot crash as I tug my friends.

“You'll go hungry,” Nagudia snaps. He's the biggest of us, curt and brash. Coupled with my prudence, we've survived our way through Benin's slums.

I don't know how we arrive at our ATM, and as we lay on the cold tiles, our bellies rumble, yet we feel nothing but afterchills borne of a baptism of new wisdom.

“But it's not ours. It's Eniwanren's izobo.” “There's nothing like Eniwanren,” I tell her. “Elders of the Night were invented for sacrifices.”

Suyi Davies Okungbowa writes crime and speculative fiction from Lagos, Nigeria. His works have been published in Lightspeed, Mothership Zeta, Omenana and other spaces. He is an alumnus of the Gotham Writers Workshop. Outside writing, Suyi works as a Visual Designer and searches for spaces to fit new bookshelves.

We arrive and split quickly. I scout two corners of the intersection while Nagudia and Ifueko do the others. The first has nothing. I move to the second, hoping for a hefty sacrifice. Days ago, we found roasted yam and boiled eggs. Our bellies smiled

suyidavies.com

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@IAmSuyiDavies

Crossshots Wordshot


Podium

Arinze Stanley Egbe

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Podium

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Arinze Stanley Egbe created a stunning portrait of the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, early this year, and it caused quite a stir. In this interview, Arinze shares with us some insights into the practice of his art, and the story behind his masterful portrait of President Muhammadu Buhari.

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Arinze Stanley Egbe

Short Sharp Shot magazine

When did your walk with art begin? I have always loved drawing ever since I was about 6 years of age, well as long as I can remember. I started drawing professionally in 2012 after meeting some artists that really inspired me to take my art more seriously. Your art is unmistakably hyperrealistic. Why hyperrealism, and who and what inspired you to journey into this style of art?

Kelvin Okafor is an incredible artist. You met him in person or stumbled on his works on social media?

I've always loved to reproduce expressions through my art in a very realistic way.

I came across Kelvin Okafor on Instagram.

In 2013, I came across a very Inspiring London based Nigerian artist, Kelvin Okafor. I marvelled at his works. I fell more deeply in love with Hyperrealism and decided to start my journey as an artist.

What moved you to draw the portrait of President Muhammadu Buhari and what was it like creating a visual likeness of your president? As most of us know, President

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Podium


Podium

Arinze Stanley Egbe

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Yes, Patience Practice and Persistence, these have been my guide throughout my journey as a professional artist. They have actually guided me throughout the years and are still guiding me till now. Constant practice, I think, made me better at what I do but it would have been impossible without persistence and patience as I take over 200 hours to make a drawing and I only have time to work during the night due to my busy schedule at work during the day. It must be hard combining your art career with a day job. Is your day job related to art? Muhammadu Buhari has a very interesting personality with a very strong intellect. Being an artist that I am, I was drawn to his personality and forced to reproduce his image. It seems the drawing of President Muhammadu Buhari generated a bit of controversy on social media. Can you tell us more about whatever happened? As we all know, Mr President has a lot of supporters and also a lot of non-supporters so I wasn't really surprised when a lot of people came up with nasty comments like 'why did you draw this and you could have drawn that' so I think it was only normal that people expressed themselves. I just didn't expect that such would be the case with a drawing. I really appreciate everyone who gave me mental support throughout the journey of that drawing. "Patience. Practice. Persistence." Three 'P' words in your Instagram bio. What is the value of these three words to you as an artist, and how have these attributes particularly influenced your style of art?

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My job is quite tedious and takes almost all my daytime so I only have time to draw at night. It's not quite related to art but has to do with a lot of paper as my dad owns a paper conversion company. Share with us one memorable moment or experience you have had in all your years of romance with art. Memorable moment... Hmm actually every day I pick up my pencil is a memorable moment for me. But all together, I think the best experience I've had so far was presenting my first commissioned work in 2014. The look on everyone's face was just priceless. Looks of frozen wonder I can imagine. Yes, I was referring to their 'looks of frozen wonder.' LOL. You must have had a painful encounter at one time or the other as relates to art. Please share a story of any such moment. The most painful part of my experience with art, I think that was when I started training myself. It was very hard. I had a lot of criticism on how my works weren't looking so realistic at all but I think those criticisms


Arinze Stanley Egbe

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Thank you very much also for making out time to interview me. It is my pleasure and I'm deeply humbled.

were the best thing that ever happened to my art career because I pushed myself to the limit and never gave up till today. Final words for artists still in the shadows? I just want to tell every artist out there that are still struggling to find their path to never give up on what they are doing and to patiently keep on practising with a lot of persistence...Nothing is impossible. It was great interviewing you, Harinzey. We wish you the very best in your climb to greatness.

@harinzeyart harinzeyart harinzeyart@gmail.com

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Podium


Photoshot

Food Art

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Cereal Art Everyday items can seem far separated from sanctums of inspiration. But sometimes, they surprise when transformed by great imagination. arah Rosado, a self-taught artist from New York did the amazing thing of creating portraits of musicians made entirely from cornflakes and fruity pebbles. The inspiration for the series came to her one morning while eating cereal and listening to oldies and R&B music, and, she says, “...the idea to create celebrity faces with cornflakes was born; ‘because music has never tasted so good’, I thought. And at that moment I was struck with the idea to create images of my favorite artists with the cereal.’’

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So, can you match each photo to its true name?

1. Taylor Swift 2. Nicki Minaj 3. Miley Cyrus 4. Jesse J 5. Iggy Azalea 6. Ariana Grande 7. Drake 8. Madonna 9. Lady Gaga 10. Michael Jackson 11. Beyonce

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Food Art

Short Sharp Shot magazine

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Photoshot


Photoshot

Drawing

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Alpha Male Charcoal on embossed cardboard paper

Nkwocha Leonardo is an architect with a passion for fine art mostly charcoal works. He realised his talent ever since he could scribble. He believes that individual creative expression is the closest an artist ever comes to playing God. His other interests include movies, music, video games and eating moi moi.

leo.naidus01@gmail.com +2348065825862

A Gaze In The Soul Charcoal on paper 14


Architecture

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Finding Badagry easide Resort, Gberefu Waterfront, Badagry, was designed with the goal of infusing cultural characteristics of the Dahomey people (original inhabitants of Badagry) into the form and character of a resort. Exhibition Hall I was shaped after an upturned boat, capturing how the Dahomey ended their

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sojourn and search for a new home in Badagry. The form of the multipurpose hall grew from two cut coconuts fused together. Coconuts, plentiful in Badagry, also inspire the skin of Exhibition II whose form takes after a gourd: gourds were used by the Dahomey as bottles with which the locally brewed alcohol was served.

Photoshot


Photoshots

Architecture

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Oyesina is a Nigerian born architect with a flare for green and sustainable architecture. He is presently a project architect at Newspace Consultants Ltd, a Nigerian firm, and also doubles as head of training.

oyerindegp oyerindeoyesina +2348068877346

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Flash fiction

Short Sharp Shot magazine

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OVERSIGHT ongratulations! You are now the proud owner of an Oversight device. We are 100% committed to child supervision. Please calibrate brain transponder by placing device near your child's skull.

CHINEDU'S HOUSE. Press OK to agree and continue…

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**** You have chosen to end command. Speak new command into the device mic and press OK.

Thank you. Press the green button to engage connection.

ERROR. Oversight does not recognize command SO THIS HOW SHE HAS BEEN MAKING ME…

Thank you. Your Oversight device is now in service. You can now fully control your child/ward. Do you wish to do that at the moment? Thank you. Speak new command into device mic and press OK.

ERROR. Oversight does not recognize command I KNOW WHAT TO DO… ERROR. Oversight does not recognize command OH I'M TALKING IN THE MIC…

Command Accepted. Your child/ward will now SIT DOWN. Press OK to continue command.

**** Please calibrate brain transponder by placing device near your child's skull.

Press END to end command. Press RETURN to end current command and issue new command.

Thank you. Press the green button to engage connection.

You have chosen to return. Speak new command into device mic and press OK.

Thank you. You can now fully control your child/ward. Do you wish to do that at the moment?

Command Accepted. Your child/ward will now DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING UNTIL AFTER I GET BACK. Press OK to agree and continue command. Press END–

Thank you. Speak new command into device mic and press OK. Command Accepted. Your child/ward will now ALLOW ME TO GO TO CHINEDU'S HOUSE.

You have chosen to end command. Speak new command into device mic and press OK.

Press OK to continue…

Command Accepted. Your child/ward will now DON'T GO OUTSIDE OR TO

Suyi Davies Okungbowa is a Suspense and Speculative Fiction writer.

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Wordshot


Wordshot

Flash fiction

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Short Sharp Shot magazine

BEING EVE he prospect of being married to a man who already had three wives was exciting. He had to be looking for something, right? And he was rich. So why not? I wasn't crazy about marriage, not after watching Mother remarry twice. For me, the words synonymous to husband were money and sex. “This is your room.” Wife One gestured. A room to myself meant privacy. Good. I sensed Wife Two and Three's hostility towards me. “Is…our husband around?” I asked Wife One, deciding I wanted her friendship. “No. You're sleeping in his room tonight.” “Wedding night festivities,” Wife Two and Three snickered. **** Mother had said my first time would be painful. I was determined to give my husband the time of his life as I matched him thrust for thrust; a reason to make me his favourite. “You lied.” A chill crawled up my spine at the sound of his voice, “what?” “Your mother said you were a virgin.” Even in the darkness I could sense something wasn't right. “I…” I hadn't been a virgin since eighteen, Mother didn't know. “You must be punished. You sinned.”

“No…wait…listen…pl…” the words hadn't left my mouth when the slap came just beside my eyes, blinding me momentarily. “Jezebel!” “No…” tears spilled from my eyes. Cowering, I didn't see the belt before it made contact with my bare skin. I screamed. “Demon of seduction! Every woman must come to her husband pure…and holy.” **** “If you leave, he'd kill you.” Wife One said, cleaning my wounds. “If I stay, he'd kill me,” I croaked, my throat raw from screaming. “Why do you stay?” “Where would I go?” she replied. “Why does he…punish us?” I asked, needing to know. She sighed, painfully. “For tempting man. For being Eve.

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Miracle Adebayo is a young lady with an incurable passion for writing. She is eyeing the New York Times bestseller list and believes she will make that list someday. Her main source of inspiration is God. mimiadebayo.com krystallemimi@gmail.com +2348184501078 Miracle Adebayo @krystallemimi

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Flash fiction

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Short Sharp Shot magazine

FATAL FIND omewhere along a busy road sits an apartment, and in the apartment a boy, and in the boy frustration.

words he seeks falling into place with each paragraph. His smile broadens, his countenance in peace with his find.

He stares across the dimly lit room at the empty pages of his notebook, then to the far right, at the winking cursor on the white page of his laptop. The blinking cursor rivals his countenance, and the open notebook his state of mind, and he shuts his eyes, listening to the buzz of city life and freeing himself to grasp words to immortalise his thoughts.

**** If he'd looked up then, maybe his smile wouldn't have died so quickly. But he doesn't look up and neither does he hear the rising market gasps nor the grate of screeching tyres.

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The approach disappoints him. Again. The wall clock says it's 2 p.m., his notebook says he's done nothing. He sighs, decides to distract himself, thinking maybe if he keeps out of doors for a moment, he might stumble upon the drive he seeks.

**** Somewhere along a busy road sits still an apartment, and in the apartment a glowing LCD screen, and on the screen a blinking cursor. But the room is dead silent and the cursor may keep blinking for a very long time.

Stepping into the baking afternoon sun, he squints around the raucous road, smiling at the impressive feel of the welcoming afternoon noise and the overwhelming run of inspiration from market buzz. Out of habit, he slips his phone from his pocket, and not long after, his Facebook app runs along with the pace of his mindless strides; swiftly. He shortly stumbles upon a short story on his feed. He reads as he walks, feeling the

Iwundu Wisdom is a teenage Nigerian writer whose passion for writing is only surpassed by his lionized reluctance to write. Iwundu Wisdom

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@whiz_writ

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Wordshot

Flash fiction

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Short Sharp Shot magazine

WHY ARE YOU HERE

hat do you want me to say? You already know why I'm here. You watched it unfold from your living room's safety. Safety. What a funny word. Funny because a year ago I was like you. I thought I was safe, loved even. I see now that true love exists only in those that will give you food, water and shelter when you have none. I remember when it all started. No. I don't. I can only remember the moment before and after. In between lies only numbness. When they told me all had perished, I said nothing. All that remained was grandma, unconscious and paralysed. I carried her and nothing else and walked for days with countless others. We walked, wearing our hearts upon our soles, every step tearing our already torn hearts until we reached the ships. What else shall I call boats that cross the Atlantic? The smuggler. Can he be blamed or explained? He sold us dreams of

Europe and Her peace. There was no bargaining. For the journey there was hardly any food or water, but an abundance of time to wonder which monster was greater, the ocean or the war. People fought over things like blankets, space, morsels of food. The smell and the cold clung like leeches. Land. A blessing to behold. And to think that after all our troubles you glare at us from your Almighty lighthouse and try to turn us back. You call us immigrants and ask stupid questions like why are we here. No! We are not immigrants but refugees. Now that home is no longer an option, we fear you more than the war and the sea. Just shoot if you won't let me in. I am all I have left. Grandma never made it upon this boat.

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FBK is a Nigerian and loves people. Both boys and girls. Her hobbies are reading writing and reflecting. @mysterious_mo @fatimooo

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Flash fiction

Short Sharp Shot magazine

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CHOKE

S I love you.

Three words that refused to grace her smiling lips. They hid behind her tongue, unyielding like a tree defying a blunted axe. Even after I sank to one knee and she said yes, after she brandished the ring like a victory flag for the flashbulbs, after I knew the heft of her breast and the taste of her thighs—the words remained stuck in her mouth like a stubborn tendon trailing into her throat and threatening to choke her—us. So I let us choke—to death—then I rose from the ashes and walked away.

Umar Turaki is a writer and filmmaker living in Jos, Nigeria. He loves well-strung words and tight-knit images. Above all, he loves stories. @nenrota

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Short Sharp Shot magazine

TRADE BY BARTER teje tried rolling the pounded yam into a swallowable ball but it lacked consistency and came apart in-between his fingers; even defying the intervention of his spittle. The plate of egusi soup fared much worse: it seemed the vegetables, pieces of meat and other condiments had signed a non-aligned treaty and each would sooner, happily jump ship. His newest wife, Ime, prepared the meal. She had rocked his world last night, rekindled his waning embers; her tenderness matching his hard desires. She had cooed in his ears about breakfast before leaving for her classes.

Eteje sighed. Then an idea popped in his head.

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“Show Ime how to cook and I shall be yours, for more than a week.” “Don't they teach her how to cook in the university?” “Are you in or not?” Needing no further prompting, Adakego left to prepare, swaying her hips in eager anticipation. Eteje looked at her receding, massive backside and let out a mournful gasp. He hoped that Ime would replicate her bedroom skills in the kitchen, in that short space of time.

But this? Eteje could feel the demons protesting their neglect, in his stomach. He needed a well-made meal at that very moment. “Adakego,” he called out. His first wife sauntered her massive bulk into his room. “I am hungry, do you have anything prepared?” Adakego surveyed the mess of a meal and chuckled: “She is not so desirable now, is she?” “That is not the answer to my question, woman,” Eteje spat out. “I have just the meal—ofe nsala—for you but I am also starving,” Adakego said, rolling her hands over her crotch area.

Ekene Noel Eziagulu hopes to author one novel at least once in his lifetime.

“Fill me, for a week at least.”

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Flash fiction

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Short Sharp Shot magazine

KINDRED H

er emerald eyes hold you in their web and momentarily you forget where you are; an alley curved into the road, forgotten.

It occurs to you that three years ago you wouldn't have been able to do this; look at someone or something for this long. The liquor didn't let you. You feel a charge crawling up your spine as you stoop before her. She looks abandoned like you did three years ago when Nadia announced to you that she was leaving you. When she told you drinking had become your new love. And in your drunken stupor you hadn't begged. Your lips couldn't form the words. They still can't. The pain has numbed you. But now when she smiles and you return it, three years of loneliness fall away. You open your arms. With a purr the sound of rushing wind, she leaps, nudging your chest with her fur. There's a tuft of white fur missing behind her ear but you're beyond caring. She's still the most beautiful thing you've set eyes on since you moved to this lonely town six months ago. She's a stray, like you.

Miracle Adebayo is a young lady with an incurable passion for writing.

And so you name her; Kindred. Kindred was inspired by A Gaze in the Soul, a photoshot by Leo Nkwocha on Page 14.

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Crossshot


“We live in a world where everyone walks around with a primed warhead waiting to pull the plug. Our only resolve has become war while we l o o k fo r exc u s e s o f racial, ethnic, political and religious differences to take life.� Austin Uzor

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Warhead Ballpoint pen on paper 25 by 35 inches 2015 24


Drawing

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Adesina Segun Caezar. “To Be Free.” Coloured pencils on chipboard paper. 2016 25

Photoshot


Photoshot

The Muse Point

Short Sharp Shot magazine

David Akinola is artistic style reveals itself as a magical dance of entangled threads going up in flames, refusing to burn away, intent on flaunting the images on the artist’s mind.

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David Akinola’s art in focus draws strength from its intense and bold use of colour. The artist created this piece while serving in Lagos under Nigeria's mandatory National Youth Service Corp (NYSC) program. “During my youth service, the bank allotted to me to register with was at Broad Street Marina. It was my first time of being in that area and I was amazed by how tall and closely packed almost all the buildings were, plus how busy with commercial activities the area was. Considering I was born and raised in Zaria, it was just an incredibly sharp contrast. So when I got home I tried to recall, then I did this piece, reduced the rowdiness of the street and reflected it with colours on the really tall buildings which primarily interest me.” And this is how this piece came to be, the artist freezing his surprise at the character of Lagos, into a piece that, somehow, manages to combine the solitude and quietness of many highbrow areas with the fiery spirit of Lagos.

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Born and raised in Zaria, David Akinola graduated from Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria with a BA Hons in Industrial Design. David works predominantly in Pen, Pastel and Acrylics. He draws from numerous sources of inspiration namely people, his environment, architecture, music; and upon this he continues to develop and refine his style. The portraits of Blackbird and Domingo S. Liotta on Page 44 & 45 were created by him.

davidakinola.com artsbydavid@gmail.com @artsbydavid +2347056998898


The Muse Point

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Photoshot


Photoshot

The Muse Point

Short Sharp Shot magazine

Robyn Mcintyre .................................................................................................

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obyn McIntyre’s charcoal portraits are created with a distinct, rough style that expresses so much emotion.

Recently, she made a portrait of Amin, an artist originally from Senegal who created a fashion label, Amin Couture in Berlin. Robyn narrates her creative process for this portrait: “I found his gallery on Instagram (@amincouture) and had noticed that quite a few people had tried to capture his beauty and his regal bearing in their art but hadn't quite done him justice. “I had hoped to make an attempt myself when one day I noticed Amin 'liking' some of my charcoal portraits. Since he had both found and also shown his appreciation of my work, I made the most of the opportunity and asked him if he would mind if I drew him. He kindly accepted my offer and selected which drawing he would prefer I do, advising me in the process that he had unsuccessfully tried this as a self-portrait. “I felt an obligation to myself and to Amin to capture not only his form, but also his essence and took my time over this portrait to ensure my finished drawing was an accurate representation not only of his beauty and bearing, but also his nobility of spirit that shines through. “My charcoal drawings are done using black

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The Muse Point

Short Sharp Shot magazine

and white General's charcoal pencils on toned sketch paper. I draw faces I love; and I love them not necessarily because of their form, beautiful or otherwise, but mostly because they are faces where the eyes so perfectly transmit the soul or the emotion that it becomes almost tangible to me. “I was very well rewarded for my effort when Amin liked my portrait enough to share it from my Facebook page to his; and also reposted it on his IG page—thus demonstrating that he was proud enough of it to show it to his own friends, family, acquaintances and everyone who inhabits his sphere!�

Robin McIntyre rediscovered drawing in April 2014 after an almost 25 year gap during which she brought up her family whilst living around the globe; her work has been in the Travel industry. She loves people and adores faces. She also loves travel, history, anthropology, culture, art, cuisines of the world and architecture! @robyn_mcintyre Robyn McIntyre Art 29

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WHY SHE WAS NOT AFRAID OF DEATH er eyes were like winter. I hated that they made me cold, but loved that they made me forget the heat. My life was burning to ashes but looking into the windows of her vulnerable soul brought me peace. Peace albeit temporal.

'This adventure takes me to a

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place you don't want to go, a place you cannot go, a place you are not man enough to go. Goodbye Simba, see you in the place where the lights never go out.’

We fed off each other's dejections. I was a lonely lion cub looking for love and she was a bereaved mother in the need for family. The sun met us and shared its light. We burned together like the romance of tinder, petrol and fire. We were toxic. We were our own poison. Feeding ourselves Arsenic with every compliment, every hair stroke, every dance, every candlelight dinner—one less atom of air to breathe. So on that day, when 'adventure' took her away, I looked into her cold eyes one last time. I looked to see if her pupils dilated on seeing me, or if her sclera would fill up with tears. She blinked and shed not a tear. With a smug smile on her glowing face, she said to me:

These were her words when she demanded to be euthanized. You see, cancer was killing us both but I was too afraid to die for it. I preferred it killed me. She hated me for leaving her; it hurt that she left me. I often wonder why she was not afraid of death. Two years later and the cancer has remitted. I am still that lonely lion cub, looking for a bosom to cuddle within.

Tomi Olugbemi is a poet and a student of International Studies. He spends his free time fretting about words and recovering from pessimism. tomiolugbemi.com @tomilade @TomiOlug

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SUNRISE AT NIGHT T

hat's sweat from a hero's face on my pillow case The world in my head is for hearts not for video tapes Where time is tamed so I feel no age My snores are the theme to all I want in a little place

I feel bad for the insomniac I wonder if he knows he lacks A model of reality where all souls relax Why strive too hard to be the burning light when you can be that creamy bowl of wax? If ironies are a better plan I might find forever in neverland Holding the remains of doubt in my left and success in my second hand Every night comes same story but several ends At the fin I fall awake Not knowing if I'm in reality or my world of fakes Maybe that's how it feels when your dream and your world are same Or maybe if I sleep back I'll fall awake.

Reuben Rane Nyaze is a rapper and poet originally from Minna, Nigeria. reubenrane.wordpress.com @ReubenRane reubenrane

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Architecture

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Cheese Towers

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Architecture

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“The project site is located in the central business district of Abuja. The client's brief called for a multipurpose building with two uses, visually and functionally separated. The building was to contain corporate offices for the client organization as well as lettable commercial space.

My solution was a building with two disparate wings, connected by a common concourse. I thus envisioned a double volume concourse, glazed to allow visual connections inwards and outwards, and connecting two towers, visually differentiated by their height and elevational character. These towers were imagined as two different fungal spores, sprouting from a block of cheese.�

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Adejoh Umar Odeh hails from Kogi State, Nigeria. He was born sometime in the 80's, in Makurdi, Benue State, Nigeria, and was trained at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. He is very interested in science, technology & gadgets and, as all real geeks, he likes to create.

ilventuri.blogspot.com.ng ilventuristudios@gmail.com +2348172284483 @stradox4u

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ROSE AND THE PASSER-BY ose rested on her branch, watching passers-by shuffle along. Some would stop to admire the petals and inhale the sweet fragrance, others continued with indifference. She never understood why any flower wanted to be plucked. She thought to herself; why would anyone want to be loved? To be the constant obsession of another, burdened with the responsibility of being forever beautiful. And there was the issue of the thorns on the branches. Everyone wanted the petals, but without the thorns.

The passer-by bent down and inhaled the sweet smell of Rose's nectar.

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It made Rose think; without the rosy smell and beauty, would she even still be a rose, a flower? Before she could conclude on that, she felt a tug, and then a snip. It was her day to be plucked. A life of despair flashed before her eyes. From this moment she had only the withering of her petals and fading of her fragrance to look forward to. It was only a matter of time till she was washed-up and ditched for a fresher rose. The passer-by looked on Rose with tenderness. 'Even after your perfume wears off and the last of your petals wither, you will still be mine, thorns and petals. On my wall you will be framed and in my memory you will be held, untouched by the sands of time. Love must nurture, never possess.' Rose smiled.

Unfortunately, without the branch of thorns, the petals had no anchor to rest on. She wanted to yell to the others; why would you want to be the centre of another's universe? Is it not much better being just a part of it? A passer-by stopped by Rose. It made her very nervous. 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet‌Shakespeare.'

Writer: William Ifeanyi Moore is a qualified pharmacist on paper but a full-time writer in real life. His first novel Lonely Roads has been published in Nigeria by Bookvine publishers and more of his work can be seen on willifmoore.com. He is currently working on his second book.

Artist: John Madu is a visual artist focused on portraying the obscurity of the human condition in relation with progress. He is constantly working on new material. @ johnmadu_art

@willifmoore

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GNAW e fumbles with his groundnut pod. A defiant three-or-fouryear old that will not call for help. It slips out of his fingers once or twice, and he darts in its direction each time, pulled by his fascination with the shell-hard thing that won't give in to his will. He raises it to his face for careful examination, gripping it at the tips with the four skinny fingers of his left hand, pivoted underneath by his thumb; observing the fine lines sculpted along its length by no human hands. After careful inspection, he bares his teeth—the first weapons of little ones his age, flat and chiselled little things they are—and sinks them into the once-upon-a-stubborn shell of the dry groundnut, and a satisfying crunch reaches my ears.

shell with it, and raises his right hand in a delicate, if not dexterous, dance to free the two halves of the now divided groundnut shell. He peers at the purplish-brown treasure encased within, a grin of victory on his face as he looks at me. I smile in return, knowing deep within: This one is a fighter.

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I do not often have such 'moments of truth' with scrawny looking children clad in dirtied pants, running around the marketplace; that would leave me queer. Perhaps that pant-clad child is a representation of mankind and our will to survive. Science lies. Perhaps the aged do not lose their teeth to age; perhaps they lose them to long years of gnawing through life and its woes, of cracking new spheres of emotion and even more-overwhelming loses.

One would expect a child so tender to have no insight into the rules for savouring groundnut. But he pulls his hand back from his mouth, the cracked

Plausibly, our teeth fall out from gnawing for SURVIVAL.

Writer: Ademola Adekunbi was born in Lagos, Nigeria, to books and words and the soft songs of indulging parents. He is a raconteur, poet, art enthusiast and word fanatic who believes, after all, that words are the oil that does not wash and the grease that does not dry.

Artist: Ken Nwadiogbu is a self-taught 3Dimensional Hyperrealist artist working with both charcoal and graphite. He started out in 2013, condemning each stroke until it attained the luster that is perfection. He is on a lifelong search for light: to see, and give "art with definition".

thepulcherconvict.wordpress.com jeffhugo01@gmail.com +2348184014871 @pulcher_convict @pulcher_legend

kenartng.com @kenartng nkbillion@yahoo.com +2348089196779

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CONVERSATION S

he stood as she watched her watch her with weary eyes and a troubled heart. She started to speak, but she cut her: “It's time to embrace this loneliness that surrounds you, to listen to the voices in your head.

“Your scars are too deep for time to heal. “Curse god, damn religion, rebel against humanity for they do nothing but make you a tool to justify their lies... “No one has been there to ease you of this pain, not the law, not the clergy, not humanity. “It's time to depart... Now take a piece of your broken reflections, slit along your wrist, end this suffering...” She was crying at this point. This was too much to bear... She washed her face, stepped away from the mirror, and left...

Writer: Ifedolapo Oseni is a closet feminist, an avid reader and a lover of music. She is taking advantage of her love for writing and having logical arguments by writing articles. She also writes poetry and short stories. She recently co-published CONTRITION , a poetry chapbook. She hopes to become a freelance journalist someday.

Artist: Ifedapomola Oluwafemi is a Nigerian born artist and a graduate of Quantity Surveying. After a promising start in portrait sketches as at August 2014, he decided to keep up at it, learning daily and becoming better. artbyqsife@gmail.com @qs_ife QS Ife +2348067055577

Ifedolapo Oseni @Ifedolapo.Annie

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@Ifedolapo_Annie +2349038098345

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IT’S YOUR KIND S

Scars for each day…

Moments into my thoughts, he walked into the bathroom.

Worth, esteem; gone…

“Why is dinner taking so long?”

Together, but undone…

“I'm sor—”

****

Before my heavy mouth could complete the ever so familiar sentence, I felt my head in his hand; my forehead hit against the mirror and I heard it crack as many times as my spirit did...

I cherish the hour I usually have to myself before he comes home; to gather myself and to prepare. “You are home late.” It was the unusual gentleness in his voice that stopped me in my steps.

**** Half a decade later, I got an hour to myself; to gather, to prepare and to say, “Useless man, it's your kind they leave.” This flesh will no longer know your scars and these thick thighs will no longer know your force.

“I'm sorry.” I was always sorry; even when I had a valid explanation. He was still talking as I walked into the bedroom. “It's your kind they beat; women who behave foolishly. You think you can come into MY house at any time you like?

His breath was warm on my neck and his palm met my cheek in a clout that startled me up from my sleep. “Who did you leave that blood for? Clean up your mess!”

It was 5:13 P.M. It is not my kind that is beaten. Is it we who are seen outside well poised, wellspoken and well dressed, that are beaten?

****

I took a long look in the mirror before I washed layers of make-up that hid the scars and his ancient words rung in my head, “In this marriage, you say 'not my will, but yours be done.'”

It is his kind they leave, but a girl can only dream. Writer: Sangjat Hauwa Machunga currently works with a Non-Governmental Organization in Nigeria. She holds a BSc in Psychology. She has worked as a Treatment and Support Specialist/Counsellor for people living with HIV/AIDS and as a teacher, amongst other things. She is also a freelance writer and runs a small business.

Artist: Ifeanyichukwu P. Nwachukwu was born and raised mainly in Lagos state, Nigeria. He studied Fine Art and then majored in Graphics Design. A graduate of Yaba College of Technology, he is currently a photographer, graphic designer, illustrator and painter who runs a freelance creative household called Feather Impulse. @keenflashb Feather Impulse featherimpulse@gmail.com +2349097761072

jaydablessed.wordpress.com s_machunga@yahoo.com +2347030061056 43

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Ingenious

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Blackbird washing clothes and developed a fashion calendar for Spain.

iryab (Blackbird) whose real name was Abul-Hasan Alí Ibn Nafí, was an Arab poet, musician, cosmetologist, fashion designer, strategist, astronomer, botanist, geographer and former slave who greatly influenced the culture of all of Europe. He lived in Medieval Spain more than 1000 years ago but was born in Iraq. Famed for knowing 10,000 songs by heart, he revolutionised music by adding a fifth string to the traditional four of the lute and improved its sensitivity by plucking the strings with an eagle's talon instead of the traditional wooden pick. Offered employment into the Cordoban royal court by Abd al-Rahman, the ruler of the emirate of Al-Andalus at that time, he rose to become a sort of minister of culture. He then opened a musical school that encouraged experimentation in different musical styles and instruments.

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His legacy in music was carried on by his eight sons and two daughters who all became musicians. One historian surmised Ziryab's accomplishment excellently by asserting that “There never was, either before or after him, a man of his profession who was more generally beloved and admired.” Read more on Ziryab https://sites.google.com/site/caroluschess/medieval-history/ziryab

His love for well-prepared food led to his invention of multi-course meals, table coverings and various splendid recipes that have survived to this day in such regions as Algeria, Tunisia and Spain. In the area of fashion, he developed Europe's first toothpaste, created trendy hairstyles for men and women, taught the shaping of women's eyebrows, introduced the use of salt for 44


Ingenious

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Domingo S. Liotta team that successfully implanted an artificial heart in a 47-year old dying

omingo S Liotta was born in the Argentinean City of Diamante, on November 29, 1924. He received training as a medical doctor from the National University of Cordoba, Argentina, graduating in July 1949. His intellectual curiosity and genuine regard for patient welfare led him to invent the artificial heart or Left Ventricular Assist Systems (LVASs) to aid patients with Advanced Heart Failure. On April 4, 1969, Professor Liotta led a medical

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patient, which kept the subject alive for three days, until a donor heart was procured. It was the first total artificial heart implant in the world. Dr Liotta is also credited with writing the Public Health Law for Argentina and presented this body of work to the United Nations. Many other countries have since adopted and adapted this set of health law codes.

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THE ESCAPE t dawn, after the first rain, another piercing cry went up. The women clustered around the bereaved mother, whispering consolatory tales of the greater good.

grabbed her child and a bottle of herbs, and ran. The midwife raised an alarm, and in minutes, villagers were on her tail with flaring torches, hurling stones and curses. Even the skies joined in with fierce swipes of rain.

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‘You have done well. The gods will reward you.’ Ivara watched from behind Mother, hoping the ritual that killed the first child born after the first rain would never fall to her. A student of the village missionary school, Mother said education was bad for her. 'You now call our tradition baba—'

**** From the glow of fires by the river bank, the woman's eyes showed fear. And murder. But the boatman only saw the former. 'Help me!' her eyes pleaded.

'Barbaric, Mother. That's what it is.’

He knew what she wanted. But helping her would mean he'd never fish near the village, where fishes that brought city merchants were found.

‘May the gods not slap your running mouth shut.' Mother hissed. Four years later, the heavens spat the year's first downpour as Ivara put to bed. The midwife lifted the newborn, her eyes dark with intent.

'Sorry.' He turned his back and made to row away when he felt the bottle sever a vein in his neck. He blanked out in seconds. Ivara climbed in and shoved the body into the water. With one hand, she held her child; with the other, she rowed till the images behind her were dots in the distance, never to be seen again.

'Our saviour!' Ivara felt her insides burn. She'd rather die than let the blood-thirsty deity have her baby. While the sun was still asleep, Ivara Artist: Raised in the Crocodile City of Nigeria, Uzo Azuonye is a natural artist who has found creative expression in illustration, compositing, creative writing, design for digital advertising and corporate branding. He believes pixels make everything possible.

Writer: Ife Olujuyigbe is an engineer with a heart for art. When she gets a chance to merge words and humor, her two favourite things, she feels invincible. She has an obsession with flash fiction, beautiful sentences, movie reviews and scrabble.

kraftah.com uzo@kraftah.com @youzzee +2348037180981

ifekleva.com @ifekleva Ife Olujuyigbe +2347067811862

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HOLLOW VICTORY L

ieutenant Uche Emenike had spent months steeped in hate.

been camped. The man shook his head, hefting his weapon. The bands of scotch tape around the gun's magazine gleamed. Uche's heart sank as he remembered the swollen bodies they had found in a shallow grave some days ago. They had found no living women. All the women were dead.

He hated his country's enemies and had sworn to fight them to his last breath. He grew furious when a marauding band of terrorists ambushed an army camp, killing soldiers and kidnapping women.

He stepped closer to the terrorists kneeling in the dirt. Most of them stared back defiantly, and still Uche felt no hate. “God have mercy on your souls.�

His platoon, deployed to track the terrorists down, had fearlessly plunged into the depths of the sparse forests of Northern Nigeria, vowing to bring back the women.

Like a deadly viper, one of the men suddenly lunged at Uche with a wickedly curved dagger, screaming; but he was immediately mowed down in a fusillade of bullets from the alert soldiers. The other men fell on their bellies and yelled in surrender as the rain began to fall.

That was three months ago. Now, as the remaining members of his troop surrounded the last set of terrorists they had overpowered, Uche felt too sad to hate anymore. Thunder growled as lightning seared the evening sky. The men kneeling before the soldiers seemed to flinch as though the spark of light was a whiplash on their collective backs.

Uche stared at the dead man, wondering what kind of hate created such evil. The man deserved no pity. And yet, as more drops tumbled down, Uche began to weep with the sky.

Uche turned as another soldier approached from where the terrorists had

Writer: Akpan-Nya, Alexandra Emem is an aspiring writer, pretend-poet and editor from Nigeria. Educated in the sciences, she loves to scribble and play with original ideas and has a fascination for speculative fiction and children literature. She dreams of writing normbreaking bestsellers that will inspire deep thought and the occasional chuckle.

Artist: Oscar Ukonu is a ballpoint hyperrealist artist focused on portraiture. His art captures in profound details, a personality or moment on paper, and portrays in the truest form, emotions that connect us all as humans irrespective of beliefs and culture. Oscar Ukonu Arts +2348034887781 @Ukonuoscar @oscarukonu_art

lexiscribblez.wordpress.com @pestilexi @mmlexandra 49

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TO OBLIVION S

he laid her back down gently. She pulled her skirt up and spread her legs wide apart. Then, she let her mind escape.

every day, regardless of how she was feeling. He would do 'it' till she wept. Then, he would buy her expensive gifts as if for compensation. That was before. Now, he practically raped her every day. And she could tell no one.

14th of February, three years ago, was the happiest day of her life. He'd proposed in the middle of the celebrations, so unexpectedly, and she'd gone wild with excitement.

Tade was solely responsible for her family's upkeep. She had nothing, was nothing without him. There was no one she could tell, that would take her side on this. She had to bear it alone.

She'd gotten increasingly happier as the wedding got closer, she was so enthusiastic that it literally shone through her. She kept announcing to anyone who cared to listen.

His rhythm had slowed, so she knew he'd be done soon. She tightened her grip on the knife she'd hidden under the sheets, and waited till he was done. Her heart rate tripled.

She was marrying Tade! Him! Who would have thought they'd actually be getting married? The road was rough but they'd gotten there.

She aimed the knife at his stomach. She pushed. But she saw that there was no blood.

At last, the day came, and passed. And the years rolled by.

He had seen it coming and gripped her hand. So, there was no blood flowing. Just her tears.

For the first few weeks of their marriage, it seemed normal: accumulated hunger from all the waiting. Then, it became strange.

Begging for death. For freedom.

He would demand for 'it' at least twice

Writer: Dolapo Amusat is passionate about connecting people and solving problems. He co-led the team that compiled the first Poetry anthology from the University of Ibadan, in 2016. He was also voted Poet of the Year, University of Ibadan in 2016. He immensely enjoys rap music.

Artist: Adebola Abimbolu is a fresh graduate from the University of Ibadan . He enjoys reading works of literature, writing, drawing and listening to music. His art style is inspired by music and other forms of pop culture artifacts.

dolapoamusat@gmail.com +2348100777281 Dolapo 'GeekyMidget' Amusat @thegeekymidget

debzywayne debzywayne_b debzywayne@yahoo.com +2348101123172

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NEVER LOVED MY ROOTS ou lusted after my flowers but never loved my roots. You never watered me but sucked the juices dry from my fruits. When I was a seedling, I should have known not to follow in the steps of my siblings. But I blossomed in colours so bright they blinded my foresight.

I forgave you every morning when the dew came to dampen my spite. Worn out by mercy, I shed leaves so you laboured to clean your yard. I hosted worms so you were scared to find shade here. I grew thick roots breaking your water pipes so I would have a drink. I grew thick roots cracking your walls for the fun of it.

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I entertained flattery from birds and bees. Unlike you, they took my pollen and nectar to induce more fruiting. You climbed and jumped on my branches hurting me and then devouring my fruits. You paraded your kids in front of my envious eyes, swinging them from my feeble arms.

You swung your axe and I fell in anger and defeat taking part of your roof with me. I stay down unforgiving even if you ground me into pulp and printed the Bible on me.

Writer: Reuben Rane Nyaze is a rapper and poet originally from Minna, Nigeria. He converts pictures in imaginations into words making his poems sonic artworks. He makes alternative hip-hop music and writes poetry. Rane also schedules music for CoolFM Lagos. Edgar Allan Poe and Henry David Thoreau are his literary heroes.

Artist: Eneze Aj Suberu is a selftaught visual artist. She has refined knowledge gathered over the years to make her own style of art. She focuses on life drawings and typography which she renders in graphite, ink, paint 17 and digital forms. She is also gifted in bead making and papercraft. thepawtfolio@gmail.com @ajsuberu Aj Suberu

Reubenrane.wordpress.com @ReubenRane reubenrane +2348058466074

+2347039760977

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Mohammed Aliko Mohammed captures, in five photo stories, the passion of Nigeria’s street food sellers.

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Bus park at Uromi, Edo State. The commission agent at the park told me this was standard breakfast in the area. He said it kept one strong all day.

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Meat factory in Gombe State. The owner fled the Boko Haram crises in Borno State and set up a big meat factory in Gombe. This young man preparing the chicken said if I ever become a governor, he would come to roast chickens in the government house.

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4 New Haven Junction, Enugu State. While chatting with the seller, I told her I would post my shot on Facebook. She said she wished she had a Facebook account to market her bananas.

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Bukka at Birnin Kudu, Jigawa State. The pot of soup belongs to a very popular woman known as Baibi in the area. She is Yoruba but must have been born and bred in Jigawa. Even though she sells in a shack, her cleanliness is exemplary. This must be the reason a lot of people patronise her, most of them politicians. The Local Government Secretariat stands just across.

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Kilishi spot at Sultan Abubakar Road, Sokoto State. I was surprised that tears weren’t streaming down the eyes of the man cutting up the onions. When I asked about this, he simply said he had been doing this job for a long time and his eyes were now immune to onion tears.

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Haneefah Adam “Jollof Woman� Jollof rice, fried plantain, plantain skin, chicken and cucumbers 2016

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BLACK AND WHITE NSUKKA when you dream in your sleep, the film you see in your head, is it black, is it white or is it black and white or coloured? you might be surprised my dear that you do not know the colour in your head, when you sleep.

There is a town I know in my head. Her name is Nsukka and her coordinate is: Latitude: 6° 50' 34.5912'' N Longitude: 7° 22' 23.7576'' E Nsukka is not a town of gigantic wonders, nor a town of hip-pop. Rather, it is a town of magic. A town of sunrise and sunset, of morningchirping birds, and night-creaking crickets: a land of green grasses and red earth hiding under green-carpeted hills. A town of gentle old folks and young scholars waiting for the first light of 'new' to break away and fly. It is not unnatural for me to find solace in wandering, hoping to find things art enough to tickle my wanting soul. And so, in my four years of stay at the University of Nigeria, it became typical of me to hike the length and breadth of Nsukka, seeking for the unobvious to document with my camera. I have chosen to share these pictures in black and white for I believe they're too saturated. 57

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one: the rods of the iron god

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six: anunuebe

two: rusted but trusted

seven: the solo hobo of a king hopper

three: the tree of life

eight: the rider and the Raleigh

four: the house in the bush

nine: the tower of babel

five: gravity is not a god

ten: the old shall young transport

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Contributors Extra Short Sharp Shot magazine

Cover Kadiri Alex is much a reader as he is a writer. He believes literature is like vintage wine, and because he intends to get lovers of good fiction inebriated with glasses of some of Africa's many untold stories, he s always punching away at his keypad. fictionalex.WordPress.com @alexwrites Kadiri.Alex

24 Born in Delta State, Nigeria, in the year 1991, Austin Uzor graduated in 2013 from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, where he trained as a painter and draftsman. His primary drawing medium is black ballpoint pen on paper. He had his first solo show titled Visitors in July 2016. @austin.uzor.7 Austin Uzor uzaustin@gmail.com

25 Adesina Segun Caezar hails from Osun state, Nigeria where he obtained a BSc from Obafemi Awolowo University. He seeks to use his art to challenge our imaginations and make us doubt our own sanity. @sceazar

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54 Mohammed Aliko Mohammed is a Senior Manager at The Nigerian Stock Exchange. He loves capturing in photos, the interesting places and subjects he meets on his many travels. @mma19999

56 Haneefah Adam is a Masters Degree holder from Coventry University, UK. The self-taught visual artist won Rele Gallery and Samsung Food Art competition, 2016 and is the creator of Internet sensation, Hijarbie, created to foster positive awareness for Muslim girls. She runs a lifestyle blog and works with brands to create engaging visual content. muslimahanie.com.ng

@muslimahanie

57 Nonso Edwin Emeka Chukwu likes to say he is neec a creative photographer, an xnigerian artist and butterfly. Yes, butterfly, because he loves adventure and seeking for beauty, wind by wind. He is a lover of art, rock music and the colour black. neecimagery.com @neecimagery neec imagery


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