More from Kampala and Writivism

On our third night in Kampala, a young singer called AFRI took to the stage at the National Theatre. When she opened her mouth, a hand stretched out from inside it, plunged into my chest and grasped my heart. It held on to the beating lump for the rest of the song and for the one after it, pressing gentle fingerprints into each pulse...

Writivism 2014 Flash Fiction: No Juju That Strong

She sways and spins, her position held by hips as broad as a baobab. The feather-duster in her hand sheds ostrich plumes. They rain down hope on the woman kneeling before her. Mama Eve raises feet clad in green plastic mock-crocs. She stamps on a heap of cowrie shells, filling the room with brittle crackling.