JUUC FirstLight

BY KAMSI MAFO Her head rests on his lap. His hand runs through her hair. She looks at him, a smile on her face. He seems not to notice, his brow furrowed with thought. She reaches up and touches his cheek lightly and his face lightens. "What smart thing are you thinking now?" she asks. He laughs gently, his baritone voice causing a vibration at the back of her neck that makes her tongue tingle. "Bits and pieces, here and there… nothing much," he responds. She looks at him funnily. "A funny anecdote or a paradox? Perhaps it's another story about another mad man," she says, laughing too. There’s a bit of quiet, and the only sound they hear is the night. "Tell me one of them," she says. "One of your stories." He smiles and tells her that it's not as easy as she thinks. "It comes and goes… like a whisper in the wind," he tells her. "There's a lot of breeze about," she responds. "Listen—perhaps it'll ...

 BY TREASURE EKANEM “I think I’m losing faith in humanity.”  I get too engrossed in the things I do sometimes, and my roommates and friends have gotten used to repeating statements before I get to hear them. So, when I looked up at Sandy, the look on her let me know that she had made that statement to me more than once. I was piqued cause Sandy is one of the few friends I have that wholeheartedly lets me be the talker. She doesn’t voice out her thoughts and issues words sparingly. I knew whatever made her come all the way to my bed to say this must have burdened her a lot. So, I put my PC down, and asked, “Why do you think so?” No one truly loves any more. No one truly cares any more. No one gives selflessly anymore. No one trusts wholeheartedly anymore. We hate ourselves and we let it show in everything we do. We have become so self absorbed that as far as a concern doesn’t directly affect us, we wouldn’t care if it all goes to hell. We are so consumed in our own interests th...

BY EDIOMO MORRISON  There were nights that 'I could not do it again.' Those nights, I would cry my eyes out, lick the catarrh that had moved from my nose to my mouth, and use my pillow as a kerchief. Those were the nights I dreamt. About giving up. They were good dreams. Somehow, those nights, I wouldn't know how, but I was working with my friends in places I wanted to work in, I was married to the best man in the world and had the most beautiful kids I ever wanted. On nights like that, I would smile because I walked into big rooms, moderated interviews, owned a podcast, bagged a law degree with a first class and lived a comfortable life. On nights like that, I was happy. The next morning, when I'm woken by the mosquitoes that seem to sing better by my ear, the irritation from my skin dripping with sweat, or my alarm blaring "Praise the Lord" by Brandon Lake & Elevation Worship, I hear myself say, "you cannot give up on it". It's like I see m...

BY JESAM IBIANG Life often presents us with circumstances that challenge our core, moments where the ground beneath us seems to crumble. It is in these instances of profound hurt, overwhelming challenge, or urgent need for help that we frequently encounter denial. Denial is not merely ignoring a problem; it’s a profound, internal choice to cling to “what is not,” even when we know, deep down, the stark reality of “what is.” The truth is, there is no shame in acknowledging vulnerability or fear. Denial is a form of fear and it is often difficult to acknowledge fear. Denial, blurs the truth, offering a distorted lens through which to view our circumstances. I am not saying that denial is altogether a terrible thing. Denial is not inherently malicious. It serves a primal, protective function. Imagine the immediate aftermath of a sharp cut—a knife or a machete. For a few crucial seconds, there’s a numbness, a strange void before your brain registers the trauma and sends in the searing pain...

  Anything the devil gives to you is never for free Even after many, many years, you still randomly remember the time you watched your father’s coffin being lowered into the earth by four men who looked like they had an eating disorder. You looked around and saw your younger siblings in tears, all six of them. Your mother had cried so much she couldn’t cry anymore, so she just stared blankly with her swollen eyeballs. Some other people who you’d never known were present and crying and you wondered whether your father even knew them at all. You would’ve thought they belonged to the community of drunks who beat up their wives every night, but they looked responsible. Well, your father did too. Then you willed yourself to cry, not because you were worried about people asking why the deceased’s first son was dry eyed as his father was being buried, but because you didn’t want to risk anybody catching any clue that it was you who ended his life. Life was tough. Too tough. You had gradua...

   I am the colour of my mother's eyes. At birth, she spat cataracts into my eyes and beckoned me to see. I grasped for shadows, blindly obedient  until my fingers grazed a spindle. I learned in that moment that this darkness is a two-faced friend, and I am its blindfolded dancer, swaying to its echoes. At 13, I sat with this darkness and christened it 'friend'. I was forced to memorize this night's fierce pulse, and to engaged it in whispers and pillow talks . Until at 18, I bade it farewell. I learnt to take giant steps and minute leaps, or so I thought. Then this darkness whispered in syrupy tunes, "Have your scars not taught you anything? Don't you know, dear child, that these cataracts are yours to own And your children's children?" Now, at 24, I am the color of my eyes. I am neither blind nor seeing. I've come to embrace these shadows as my heritage and drink from the depths of its secrets. I've learned too much from my scars to find sola...