Afropolis: The Child of Prophecy
The moon was rising above the skyscrapers of Afropolis, dark and gloomy. It was difficult to make it out in the night sky, only the edges gleamed a shimmering blue—the effect of a million ZEOS solar panels playing tricks with the sunlight. I’d jacked mem-bits from the 21st century that showed the moon the way it used to be when it still reflected sunlight, before the solar farms. It was fucking beautiful.
Alexander Ikawah
The Battlefields
If my face is the earth, then there is an active volcano, the very Mount Nyiragongo, ready to ooze out with the lava of pus on the continent of my right cheek. This much I see in the mirrors stacked on the shelf. I am returned from the corporate battlefields and waiting for my sister to come get me. I walk down the aisles of the supermarket. My favourite Gillette shaving foams are standing to attention in a neat line. The Nivea aftershaves, dressed in blue and white stripes, are posed like disciplined Kenya Navy cadets, waiting for orders on a serious Mogadishu beach. There are other men like me prowling the aisles. Some, I have to admit, are even more messed up than I am. They are crashing like wild waves on the supermarket shelf beaches. Adidas aftershave balms fall to the supermarket floor and their bottles crack on impact. Liquid oozes out.
By Mehul Gohil
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