DS 08: On A Water Dance of the Sexual Kind

Thursdays are for thirst-traps lol. My Gambian journey has been so ... interesting/entertaining/draining/seep full of experiences? But that's a story for another day lol. Today, I feature the work of one of the coolest people I've been privileged to meet during my short stay here. Here's Miss D.S. Lee's DS08. Clink, clatter! An assembly of … Continue reading DS 08: On A Water Dance of the Sexual Kind


We Will Not Pray For Ourselves.


Akotowaa Ntentan

People who are dying of thirst know that they need water to survive. That if they raise their voices to ask, someone may just bring it. We always assume those dying of thirst would like their thirst quenched. Sometimes, they would not.
It is a curious thing, the mind of a person who does not want to stay. I am talking about the kind whose eyes are open and can see the truth clearly. The kind within arm’s reach of the cure, whose hands remain demurely folded in laps, as disease ravages rapidly.
It is one thing to be exhausted of your own life. It is another thing entirely to be exhausted of life itself. To know that even if your personal, greatest problems were suddenly, magically solved, you still would not want to stay.
Whether or not we are impervious to burning does not change the fact that we…

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Shattered (A Long Short Story)

Sometimes death is not such a sad thing, its not the realisation that you have nothing to look forward to in this world anymore that matters, but that you have so much to on the other side. Akotowaa is an amazing writer, her characterisation in this one was through the roof, had to share this!

Akotowaa Ntentan

This post is dedicated to Simeon Mark Cofie. It’s been like 10 months, but I’m sorry about the Rose Quartz.

image You see that fracture at the right side? Yep, there’s a piece missing. This is my inspiration for this particularly story. Why do tragedies breed beauty?


Joshua Barth was dead. The word on the street was that he had died of starvation – at least, that’s what the doctor’s report said. “Died of starvation” was a bit euphemistic. “Starved himself to death” was perhaps the more accurate phrase.

Confining himself to his living room floor for days on end, he had deprived himself of food and water until all his vital organs had given up. His living room, to add irony to the matter, was situated right across from the kitchen, which contained a fully-stocked shelf of cupboards containing preservatives, a rather plentiful amount of food in his…

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…Best friends for life , arent we?…

A ray of sunshine, that still kind of leaves you sad. I’ve been someway about my future lately…I’m still alive though lol


When I was growing up in the dusty streets of Mthatha I had a best friend her name was Bongeka, she lived next door to us. I loved her with all my heart .Naturally like best friends do, we did everything together, we went to the same primary school. I never noticed much difference between the two us, except that they had a huge house a TV room separate from the dining area and they would have bacon for breakfast every day. Now you have to know that this was in the nineteen nineties.

I had never tasted bacon in my life until I visited my friend’s house, I loved it so much my friend would even save her fathers for me, she would say “ Arg daddy doesn’t like a lot of bacon so I just wait for him to finish , the I will give you his left overs…

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Sam Quinn’s Success.

Deformedly Gracious

This is a story, entirely fictional, of a young boy who thought he was following his dreams.

Sam Quinn, a young aspiring artist, moved to the city. He did not visit the sites, he did not see the Queen, he simply stayed in his attic studio flat and painted.

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He had forgotten time. The only indicators of the days passed were the scarcity of clean socks in his drawer and the wall of free newspapers blocking the front door. Sam Quinn decided it was time to leave the house.

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He walked up and down Gallery Street and visited gallery after gallery, trying to get his work exhibited.

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But he was laughed out the door every time.

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Filled with grief and remorse, Sam Quinn returned to his attic flat and did the only thing he could do. He painted. He painted and painted in such a frenzy that he broke his paintbrush.

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And cut his hand.

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