'From D to D' by Fleuranelle Duwhaz

Growing up I knew one place that I loved being almost every day – and it wasn’t nursery- It was a walk from my family home to a street that felt like another home. My family were always hard workers and that’s something I appreciated because it meant I never went without. Some of my relatives built a livelihood on the street that created a market that overflowed with eager people who protected themselves from the sun that illuminated its presence above the tree trunks and straw roofs that formed individual stalls. The aunties that were immersed in conversations in Lingala, French or Swahili - back then I had a loud, outspoken mouth that didn’t know two words of English. There were mountains of oranges, lemons and limes that piled on top of each other next to the peppers, kwanga and fish, as you walk through, you would never smell the same thing for too long.

...

Lured from the confines of my own home to get on the big sky bird that was going to take me...home?

...

    From a livelihood to the inner city hood, I was free but not as free as in the DRC. My freedom was defined in different ways now. If you were to ask anyone from Congo, they would tell you how I should have felt blessed beyond belief. Now if you were to ask anyone who was where I was, the different perspectives will make you realise that the streets were not paved with gold but carved with potholes that didn’t make your journey easy and the cement that paved the way was as heavy as the burden and pressure that was carried on everyone’s back.

'There Is A House' by Monika Ewa Piotros

There is a house, a three-floor building

With garden wide and green,

With dark, long curtains and old stickers

On the windows’ shiny screen.

The metal gate with iron tulips

With broken necks and twisted wrists

The helpless guards and silent hosts

Of the garden and the house of mist.

In the backyard empty red swing

Crying with each blow the wind will bring

Standing near dead flowers

They listen to what the swing sings.

The song of lust and lost desire

With each note the swing goes higher

Trying to escape.



There is a house, and a family of three,

You, my mother, me,

A five-year old, counting clouds and riding bike

Wondering how a cloud tastes like.

A woman, standing tall in front of every storm

Being strong, counting stars and singing tulips’ songs.

And you, the father, middle-aged man

With hands dirty and eyes full of shame

You, who made me learn why the windows stay shut

And the curtains never met a single blow of wind.

You, who turned around

And not stopping the rage coming from within,

Taught me why your hands were crimson-stained

And why the place I cherished should be never named

A home.

There is a house,

A distant building,

With garden full of fear,

With silent guards

And hostile hosts,

With broken window

And one weeping tree.

The house of secrets, loss and tears,

With never blooming daffodils.

.

The Sahara' by Michael Laniyan

“THE SAHARA”.

An ancient citadel of isolation, “the Sahara”, named the world’s vastest tropical desert known to man. It’s very physiognomies seem to combine against life, yet its menacing attributes belies hidden secrets that even deserts hold water, thus life, the Sahara stretches from the west coast to the east across the entire length of the northern part of the African continent. Africa’s nomadic tribes have dwelled in the deserts for ages embracing change and continue to do so even as the topography of the landscape is being added to and subtracted from. With every land, arid or not comes customs, myths and conflicting histories passed down from one generation to another most times. Sahara Desert, a hostile and less known region stretches from the Atlantic coastal desert region to the lower point of the Eritrean coastal desert close to the Gulf of Aden to its highest point at the eastern desert bordering the Sinai by the red sea. From the Atlantic coast in the west this arid landscape boasts of reddish rock steep mountains and sand dunes, the western Sahara stretches for 3,000 miles to the eastern Sahara, volcanic eruptions left behind solidified black coloured rocks that rises into the heavens.

Views of a chains of gigantic red dunes and an array of endless mystically shaped red rocks and clusters of solid black rock mountains dominate the landscape, demanding the traveller’s minds consider seriously their undertaking that is as bizarre as the land formations unveiling, giving credence to a hail of legend, and myths with superstitious mysteries. The fractured red soil, solid at the outer rings of the desert before giving way to simmering sandy terrain, and hostile sand storms with a merciless sun overhead. Only the valiant venture into such unreceptive habitat, despite the occasional remembrance of life by a darting lizard that soon disappears into the boiling sand it emerged from. How does one draw a written observation of such an unwilling land and to what purpose? Nomadic natives never venture beyond certain points guided by invincible myths and legends, and for the exploring spirit the strange high pitch howling sounds of varying ghostly ancient tales serves as a caution to such souls who travel beyond the last clusters of makeshift huts dwellers with malnourished herds and a few camels for possession.

The pitiless heat emanating from centuries of baked layers of red soil rises with puffs of eerie doubt in the traveller’s mind as one journeys deeper into the unknown and unfriendly landscape of red and black Rocky Mountains with incredible shapes that suggest they were moulded into shape by mystical hands with centuries of magical prowess, impresses upon the traveller through the fiery air available to breathe in the African Sahara. A few kilometres into the unknown and mirages of water pools seem to appear out of nowhere re-enacting centuries of legendary illusions on the unwearied, as mirages of distant dwellers appear and quickly disappear as the distance is breached through sheer will and an insatiable desire to account for one of the world’s most inhospitable land mass. The clear skies array’s scanty small light clouds speeding along in a hurry made obvious by the fleeting shadows they momentarily cast on the desert floor, occasional darts by heat shy reptiles across the blistering surface compounds the doubt in the mind of the weary tourist.

The Sahara is no walk in the park, gruelling thousands of miles without trees, then the mindboggling few are so scorched they offer no respite to anyone in a prevailing scorching sandstorm that changes direction at will shaping new and reshaping old observations, imposing upon the traveller an illusionary landscape. This characteristic of the prevailing windy storm renders the hope of an artist hopeless, for no sooner did one note an observation that at the next gust it is altered. Distinguishing dominant landscapes that aren’t susceptible to modern layering from disappearing ones or rather the easily altered. Hostilities prevalent here defies conditions essential for human existence, our camel’s grunts increased with their burden of equipment taking its toll, inflicting pains in leg muscles trekking slowly become unbearable, so our native guide suggest we pitch our tent for the night. The howling of the wind increased bringing with harrowing promises of ancient wraths,     

    

'Forgotten Nights' by Fran Sutton

The room is bare and dark. I am all alone, and I want to cry. But, try as I might, the tears refuse to spill over my eyelashes and run down my cheeks, which would create paths through my freckles and leave grooves in my already flaky make up.

I glance up and take in the old cobwebs hanging from the upper corners of my four foot by three foot prison. The dark trails of mould crawl down the faded off-white walls, and the dim moonlight illuminates the bare room.

I close my eyes and my head begins to swim, the world rotates and warps, and the space around me shifts and seems to shrink even further. I start to feel my body slide down the damp wall and cover my closed eyes with my cold hands, desperately trying to make sense of this overwhelming dizziness.

   I must have blacked out, because when I open my eyes again it is freezing cold, and judging by the dark sky I outside I assume it to be early morning. I have a desire to use the toilet, and nervously ty to scramble to my feet. The room contorts once again, and I fall back to my knees and crawl towards the door. The handle pulls down but there seems to be a weight pressed against the other side of the door.  I bang my hands against the door and try to call out but my voice doesn’t seem to be working. I realise how thirsty I am.

There’s a crash from the other side of the door, followed by a deep voice yelling ’shit’, and I quickly retreat into the corner of the small room, backing into the wall below the window, as though the structure will give me some protection.

The door opens and the outline of a tall, bulky man stands under the rickety frame of the entrance. His face is large and he has a shiner over his left eye, his dark stubble reaches across his sharp jawline and down his throat. He walks into the room and crouches in front of me. His large frame fills the room and I suddenly feel claustrophobic. My voice still doesn’t seem to be working, so I just stare at the floor and try to pretend I’m not here.

“Do you need some water?” His gruff voice echoes off the bare walls and I nod. I move my right hand towards my crotch and look at him questioningly.

He nods, stands up and leaves the room. Before I can even think about running, he’s back with a tall glass of water and a black plastic bin.

“Relieve yourself in here, “ he grunts and slams the door behind him. I hear the shuffle of a heavy object and then a small bump as it hits the door from the other side. I look incredulously at the plastic object, and steeling myself, pull it closer to me. Using the corner of the room to push my torso upwards, I slide my leggings down and cringe as I hover over the small receptacle. I don’t know how I got here, but I hope this is just a dream.