The Black President looks fifteen years older. His neck has become a mere shoestring in a threadbare condition. Grey wisps of hair cover his scalp. His shoulder bones jut out from beneath his skin, which has wrinkled like a used foil paper, as if the ends of the bones were violin necks pushing out from beneath a damp cotton sack...

Leela’s screams brought Devi to the house and together they called the police. There were no signs of a break-in but Mrs. Manish’s insured jewellery collection – brought out of the safe in readiness for the wedding – was missing. The only person in the house at the time of the incident was Leela’s father, Mr. Manish – an ancient, infirm loner – and he heard nothing, being almost completely deaf...

 It’s been one year since the chaos and bloodbath in 12th Mile, but the relics of the violence and destruction still littered the streets; burnt-out cars down the alleys, a few houses razed to the ground in attempts to smoke-out their occupants, skeletons of motorbikes posing here and there – the human remains were buried in a hurry, their eternal homes unmarked...

The heavy thudding of the clop-clop chasing him died as Felix tumbled out onto the sand dunes. His momentum carried him head-over-heels and he reached the bottom of the dune in a twisted foetal position. His eyes darted up to the top. Why was he waiting? As if he needed clarity that this thing was following him… surely he didn’t want to be there when it erupted from the field… his thoughts were dammed up somewhere behind a wall of adrenalin, so fear and panic didn’t get a chance at constructing horrific tales of violence...

There is a man watching from across the room. He is sixty and a day. He struts over rather cockily. Makes a beeline for me. Of course. This is my week. He moves his hips to the music. Because he is white, his whole body goes with them. He flays his arms. And violently jerks his head. I watch his mouth. I am looking for foam. But no. It smiles. This is a mating dance. Mercy!

I do not like the portion of the river Ethiope River that runs through the side of my mother’s stall on the edge of the Sapele Market. It has always been a source of worry and trouble. At a very tender age I could sense my mother’s anxiety about that part of the river...

He went to bed that night trying to dream about moving beyond his fears. He again saw the black rhino, the spotted leopard, and the machete-wielding woman, still in her pristine white wraps. But the rhino was now kneeling before her in surrender, next to a slain leopard lying palsied on its back. Blood ran down the machete that the woman pointed at the rhino...

In time, with a little concentration, as if tuning in to a long wave radio station, she singled out the voices from below and their stories and laughter seemed to fill the empty spaces in her life. She heard talk of sick babies and vicious in-laws, torrid affairs and family reunions. She did not always know to whom they referred but relished weaving the disparate strands together. She spent many days and nights tallying facts, piecing together the lives of others...

Kyakkyawa she was called. I knew why she got that name. I was there when the morning sun glinted mildly in her innocent eyes; I carried her in her birth shawl. Yes, I was there at the beginning as every father should be. And I was there, too, at the end...

Tarbo was shocked to see the Police. They were always at least thirty minutes behind. Obviously, the Inspector General’s reforms were already paying off. If only the Power Company could catch up with reforms too. As if on cue, a powerful ray of light caught him in the face. It was at that precise moment that he knew the danger he was in...

I watched his wife as she followed behind, confused, her hands on her head.  Half running, she cried and begged the villagers to let him go.  She tripped on her loose khanga, then got up and followed the crowd, parting the throng with her hands, trying to reach her husband who was being shoved and pushed angrily...

Every Friday, when the sun folded the shadows directly beneath objects under its scotching brilliance, the adults in Zaria would have their hearts in their mouths until sundown. Activities of the spirits that often spilled into the real world characterised that period. Azumi became victim one Friday. She kept four goblins and sacrificed the blood of two-legged creatures to them. The blood of birds was the usual. On that Friday in the evening, however, the goblins demanded for human blood...

A little boy came to me and said; “I want to go someplace I can study and be a great man.” I looked at him. The flame of ambition beamed in his eyes. He smiled at me – that sort of smile that reached the ears without showing the teeth...

The clouds squirmed sickeningly in unvoiced protest. The fumes looked unhealthy, contrived, special effect smoke from machines hidden inside the clogged bowels of countless chimneys. I poked the clouds with a dithering finger and there was rain. The unclothed children who hadn't seen water since they were manufactured laughed and played in the black rain until they died of pneumonia...

She died slowly every day. He was a vampire sucking away the essence of her soul, draining the remnants of dignity she had. She became numb and her tear wells dried up. She did things like an automaton, mostly oblivious of the things going on around her. A thick shroud of self-hatred and depression insulated her..

An over powering sense of loss overwhelmed him. He saw his self-worth melt away like butter out in the sun. His spiritual strength accordingly plummeted and he knew that he had reached rock bottom. He could not possibly fall any further from grace. He was a wretched failure, a conceited, superficial old fool who had outlived his usefulness...