TagShort story

The encounter by Austin Obi


It was the long holiday break and Buchi came back home from school because he didn’t have any allowance to stay in his lodge during the holidays. He was mostly helping at Mama’s shop and also doing his final year project. On a cold Friday morning after doing his choreshe decided to log into the yellow app. the app where queer men who wanted to hook up with other queer men went to when...

If you ask tolani by Joy Humphrey


Tolani was starving. At least, that was what it felt like being deprived of Tunde’s love. For as long as she could remember, he was all she knew. He was her friend, her lover, her husband- he was her everything. She was so intertwined and dependent on him that she knew nothing else, she refused to know anything else. She couldn’t imagine living without him but now, she has no choice for all her...

Do you see me? by Oluwatumininu


Do you see me? Do you think I am human, a child worthy of love? Do you not see that I want to go outside and play with children my age? Why then do you tell me to shut up and stay indoors? Do you not see that I can not be kept in a box? Do you see my worth? Am I nothing but a kitchen maid, waiting to be bought?  Do you not see that I want to run away, as far as I can?  Do you know I...

Death by juju by Kandie Scribbles


This disease is hereditary, I remember the doctor telling us about it. He told my mom he wanted to speak to her children. We went over to my mum’s place against my father’s wish, he didn’t openly stop us but we could see it on his face. The slight frown around his lips, the croaking sound from his throat when we say are going over to her place “it’s okay but come...

Sponge by Adigun Peters


I grew up in a tenement house popularly known as “Face-me-I-face-you” in the far end of Ajegunle. Ajegunle is the abandoned Lagos. A place where a fight is like a football game where scores are counted for the number of people dead, and each side trying to make the scores even.  It is a place where dilapidated hospitals, schools, and infrastructures live. The only standard...

The Little Bird by Nwadinma Chizalum


T.W(selfharm,violence) 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 of belt buckle meeting flesh rang in her ears so loudly that she didn’t have time to fully register the pain, coming from her back, travelling down her arms and fingertips, up to her head and back to the tip of her toes. The buckle of the belt met her skin again, the sharp cold metal digging deep and tearing out her flesh and the wielder of the...

Maroon by Clara jack


“Let her live. Take me Reaper . Let her live” Maroon, the poet who wrote one good poem and nine hundred and ninety nine bad poems in a collection she titled Crumbles of an eon. No one could understand why she did that nor why they kept buying the collection. That one good poem was worth it perhaps. No last name .Just Maroon. She was like none of the other poets. She didn’t hide, she didn’t live...

Chicken by Emmaline Elvis


This isn’t a story about love or heartbreak or even trust. No. This is a story about hate. Will it be too much for you handle? I don’t know. It isn’t for me so I’m feeling the need to tell you. Also I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut. You’re probably wondering who I hate and why I have to let you know. Well it’s very obvious and if you’re still racking your brain on who, I’ll save you the...

Afanikõn : Wahala by Angel James


I was nodding my head to Alpha Ojini’s vigilante bop. It was a coping mechanism, a push tobrace myself while I stood on the long and scattered queue that was nowhere close to moving. It was a distraction from the men that deemed it fit to toast me at a crucial time like this. I watched how their eyes accessed my loose jeans and fitted top as I walked to the queue. It made me wonder what motive...

How do I keep this memory at bay? by Deborah Koche


I have a thing. Sometimes I cannot remember what happened 10 minutes ago. My train of thought diminishes until it’s nothing and so I try to start from my earliest memory. The one I dubbed “The Indelible.” The flashes usually start from his sickening hands on me, but what happened after that? Another flash comes and he is lifting my dress. I am only five years old, but I know that this feels wrong...


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Pencilmarks and Scribbles Magazine was founded in 2017 by Clara Jack to be a home for African writers, asking them to come as they are and giving them room for growth. The publication aims to give back to the Nigerian Literary scene for the things it has given us.