Jaachi Writes

Writers Space Africa, an international literary magazine which features rich diversity of writings from African writers to a global audience, is calling for submissions for the February Edition. The theme of the edition is LOVE . Guidelines : Send your creative piece while considering the following :  1. Articles/Essays: 1,200 words. 2. Drama: 1,000 words. 3. Flash Fiction: 100 words. 4. Poetry: 1 Poem, maximum of 18 lines. 5. Short Stories: 750 words. Visit www.writersspace.net/submission to upload and read the terms. Deadline : January 15, 2018 For news of more opportunities from around the world, follow Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu on: Twitter:  @stefnsylvester Instagram:   @stefnsylvester Facebook Page:  Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu

I stare into the mirror,  What do I see? A lost boy that looks like me. I see his fears and desires dangling lifeless from a tree. I see his beards like fires consuming what's left of me Tell me, are you alright? Mirror, mirror Tell me, is this me? That frail boy  whose heart's ripped whose blood drip whose nose bleed whose eyes weep whose back bear scars of whips. Maybe I should end it all...  lean up against my wall,  mirror and I side by side and cry. Tears shall stream down my face as I make  incantations of names that did me much hurt... More tears shall begin to stream down as I begin to sing good-bye Good-bye sunshine,  good-bye moon good-bye flowers good-bye Uju I came, I saw Can’t say I didn’t try Heaven knows I swam but the waves... Mirror,  mirror please help me breathe. I lost view of me I come to you for comfort, not for vanity... Oh reflection! Self destruct! You are not me! You lie to me When I look happy, you frown When I look professional, you wear rags When I

Growing up a girl is not easy. You're teased because you're not the prettiest nor the smartest nor the sexiest.  Boys pick on you because society tells them that's acceptable behavior. You can't walk down the sidewalk without being constantly paranoid of your surroundings and just who might be watching you.  You're seen as a prize to be won, which makes you question the intentions of everyone you meet.  Growing up a girl is hard, I want to tell you something that could change your life.  Black. Short. Fat. Loner. They say she's too chubby. They laugh at her dressing. Everyone says she's old fashioned. She's timid, sad, withdrawn and just existing. Chinny's one wish for Christmas is death on the birth of Jesus.  Yesterday was suppose to be a normal day, but in a crazy twist of fate what Chinny needed was staring her right in the face, literally. At 11:00 am she found myself sitting in a church, refreshing her spirit, listening to the preacher speak on

Vivacious, atrocious Fire, ice. Never capricious Now that's just a lie. Precocious and ferocious Thunder and lightning. Precious and gracious, Peaceful when fighting. Malicious and facetious Half-man,  A soul ingneous Half-writer. Long lashes Gory gashes Fiery slashes Maddening mashes In the end,  Hannu! Hannu!! Hannu!!! Another birth- day!

YOU KNOW THESE ARE TRUE, BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOUR BEST WORK IS BREWING I had started writing stories, songs, poems, drawing people, things and imagining things, long ago when I was just a young boy.  Later, in high school, I was so shy, beaten down by inferiority complex that my writing career was jeopardized.  Few years ago, while at work, a colleague claimed I would never be a successful writer and he said this boldly in front of other co-workers. He argued writers are poor and never make it writing alone. After work that night, I walked back home in embarrassment and shame, and a positive anger to prove them wrong. I wrote a very emotional poem that night while staring at the moon and ruminating on what he said. At one point, I gave up writing. I doubted the possibility of my succeeding. Resorted to graphic designs and software development and abandoned my pen. Doubt had won, and thanks to that colleague who cast the spell, I had it on authority that I wasn't good enough to be a wr

Can you imagine viewing criticism as ‘a very small thing’ ?  Or being liberated from the need to impress people; your self-esteem no longer dependent on someone noticing how successful, smart, or attractive you are?  Think what it would be like to feel genuine love for someone who expresses their disapproval of you.  Is such a life possible?  Hell Yes!  Ever head of ‘approval addiction’?  Its symptoms include living in fear of what others think of you. Being easily hurt by what they say. A nagging sense that you aren’t even good enough a writer;  Constantly trying to impress important people. And like all addicts, you’ll go to any lengths for a fix.  One author I admire, writes:  ‘Many of my daily preoccupations suggest that I belong more to people that to myself and my Creator. A little criticism makes me mad... a little praise raises my spirit... I’m like a small boat on the ocean, completely at the mercy of the waves’.  Is this an issue you need to deal with today? Who are you tryin

So many people live around you, But not all get close to your heart. Some become so dear That with their thoughts, its beating starts. You are the one whose friendship explains the above. Your presence makes living worthwhile. Your birthday was in my mind, I didn’t forget Wishes though I couldn’t convey. There were so many hurdles Standing tall in the way. I have prayed for your good life And mental peace with good health. The rest of things are just temporary, Only these will be your real wealth.

Yesterday, I broke out of my shell of silence. I spoke to her. She laid bare her heart like a baby, she purred her pains on me she poured. Yesterday, I was her god In me was found salvation. Yesterday, I saw beyond that smile that lures every passerby. I saw wrinkled emotions I saw rheumatic lines I saw death, dirge, dust. Yesterday,  I lent a shoulder to a broken heart Every tear Pierced my ears... Every sigh Stole my smiles. Yesterday, I felt better for splashing a hue brighter on her fiend smiles. Today,  I regret not holding her hands not leading her to Christ -  the source of laughter ever after. Today, She died Dangling from the ceiling Smiling Free at last. #Pengician #SSA

2017 has been a watershed year for Black women speaking truth to power while reclaiming their time, transforming the conversation and controlling the narrative. We have reached the tipping point, wherein new voices burst forth on the global scene, in every field from business to politics, science to sports, photography to poetry. On September 3, Pulitzer Prize-wining poet Tracy K. Smith signed in for duty as the United States Poet Laureate – the highest position a poet is given by the government, with the express purpose of raising the national consciousness of reading and writing poetry. Black women are publishing new books of poetry, sharing their art, wisdom, and vision of life with the world. I'll spotlight seven poets whose work shows me the way that verse can transform the way we understand ourselves, each other, and life itself. JAMILA WOODS Poet and vocalist Jamila Woods was raised in Chicago, and graduated from Brown University, where she earned a BA in Africana Studies an

Long ago, a lad it was who went astray,  Away from his home one fine day. Finding himself in the midst of a mob, He was frightened and began to sob. They drew close and grabbed him And for once he thought they would stab him. 'You!' they roared, 'we know your father,  'And if you dare us we will beat you harder. 'Your father was a traitor to our community,  'He was treacherous and full of iniquity, 'For that reason we find you guilty And shall not regard your innocent frailty'. 'O people', cried the frail frightened boy, 'Listen to conscience and bring your hearts to your employ,  'The offences committed by my father  'For which I come under your hammer 'Were committed before I was born. 'O people, do not jeer and laugh to scorn. 'For one thing I do surely know, 'That a man should not reap what he did not sow.  'That were I a man by then born,  'At his folly I would be so forlorn. 'I would not have my fathe