Excerpts

EXCERPT

EVERYONE IS A ROBOT UNTIL PROVEN OTHERWISE

BONGANI SIBANDA

There was no mistaking it. The globular eyes on the young man’s shiny forehead confirmed Dube’s suspicion that he was a godforsaken robot sent to infiltrate Operation Shanela. Wearing an inscrutable visage, Dube shook hands with him.

‘Ncube?’ he inquired.

‘That’s right,’ Ncube replied, taking a tour of Dube’s spacious office with his enormous eyes.

‘I hope this early meeting is not an inconvenience to you?’ Dube asked guardedly, the air too thick for his clogged nostrils.

‘Not at all! Not at all,’ came the confident answer, delivered with the calmness of one who was sure of his business.

‘In your application you said you are a vet of the Zarnaira war?’ Dube said. ‘I was commander of the Limpopo infantry, and I never knew you?’

‘I was with the Khumalo battalion in Richards Bay,’ Ncube replied. Hands in his tight-fitting trousers, he strolled leisurely, examining the identikits, drawings, and writings, pasted on the white wall. ‘I’m very excited to be joining Operation Shanela, General Dube, and I assure you, I’d run it with the integrity that it deserves.’

Dube moved closer and peered keenly into Ncube’s eyes. ‘How has it been run so far? Whisper me, please.’

‘Very well! Very well! Quite effectively, I should say.’

‘Is that a fact or just lip service?’

‘Both,’ came the answer, accompanied by a sly wink that threw Dube into a momentary rage.

Trying very hard to restrain himself, Dube thumbed his e-smoke and took a long drag. He could feel Ncube’s eyes sitting on him, and they were as alert as daylight. Obviously, this devilish little robot had a strategy, and it wasn’t just throwing a few quips at him. He had to be smart. Exposing and busting it wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought.

‘You’re aware,’ he said cautiously, ‘that you’re still supposed to take the Human Confirmation test before you assume the job, right?’

‘Yes, yes, absolutely,’ Ncube replied without hesitation.

‘And if you fail the test, if we discover you’re a robot, we’ll ship you to Mangaung?’ He took another drag of his e-smoke.

Ncube nodded, his expression still guileless. ‘I understand.’

‘Excellent. I thought I should make that clear, you know–’

‘From the get-go,’ concurred Ncube. Earnestly, he asked: ‘Can you take me to the testing station? I’d like to get it over with and perhaps start the job right away.’

As they walked along the brightly lit corridors, Dube said, ‘You’re well acquainted with our basic tasks here at Operation Shanela? I assume we can take that for granted?’

‘This and that,’ Ncube said. ‘Using the powers bestowed on you by Section 46 of the Constitution of South Africa, you’re arresting, testing, and detaining 2^nd generation 2099 humanoid robots to prevent the feared rebellion and subjugation of humans predicted by AndroidsWatch.’

They entered a lift. As it carried them swiftly upwards, Dube said, ‘And you’re aware of the shaft of litigations from Avaaz and other postliberal organisations, who are accusing us of committing crimes against humanity?’

‘Read about that. Pure madness if you ask me,’ Ncube countered with conviction. ‘Robots aren’t humans, surely.’

‘But we can’t prove that, can we?’

‘The HC test does just that, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, that’s exactly what bolsters our detractors. You can tell a monkey from a human being without deploying a sophisticated machine, can’t you? But in this case, we have to employ machines to prove the inhumanness of conscious humanoid beings who can laugh, smile, cry, and love, just like us.’

The lift let them out, and they again paced down a white corridor.

‘We call them robots. But they’re so technologically advanced at the nano level that their composition of melded organics and circuitry seems almost identical to ours. The only measurable difference is in their cerebral cortex processing speeds which gives them superior intelligence, which we’re now abusing to target and persecute them.’

Doors opened and closed, and they were in the testing room. Ahead of them rose impressive banks of equipment—the data receptors and the computing mechanisms that tested, measured, and calculated the brain’s processing speed. And beyond the machinery queued a group of uniformed men and women, almost lost to view behind platforms.

‘Here we are,’ Dube said. ‘What do you think?’

The altar-like testing machine, boasting an enormous computer screen mounted on one side of the wall cast the room in an eerie dream-like blue light. Dube pocketed his e-smoke and strode to the back of the queue, motioning for Ncube to follow him. They walked past three positive-tested suspects, who were handcuffed, and being led away, protesting and fighting. Then Ncube’s face lost its bright cheerfulness. Fear and wonder crept into his eyes. ‘They…’ he stuttered, his pitiful eyes lingering on the handcuffed robots. ‘They look so… so…’

‘Human, you mean?’

‘Yes. They look so human…’

‘Perhaps a little more human than us humans, don’t you think?’ Dube teased, joining the back of the queue.

‘And what if the machine gets it wrong? Surely it does, sometimes. I mean, no machine is perfect.’

‘We have an identical one at K. Moyo Biotechnologies, where we send all positive suspects for corroborative testing,’ Dube assured him. ‘In my memory,’ he added after an awkward pause, ‘there has never been a false positive.’

Nodding to the machine, Ncube inquired, ‘And how does it accurately determine the difference anyway? How can we trust both machines’ infallibility? This is one huge gamble with innocent lives.’

Didn’t you bother with a bit of research? Dube thought impatiently. But loudly he said, ‘The machine tests by comparison to humans.’

‘Meaning that we could be sending our more intelligent brothers and sisters to Mangaung?’ Ncube countered, not letting up.

Dube swallowed, but outwardly, he maintained a calm expression. Ncube was hard to place. Before the warning from AndroidsWatch, these conscious 2^nd generation robots had served humans in both general and specialised fields, providing groundbreaking discoveries in medicine and extraterrestrial mining, cleaning toilets, and manning toll gates. They were meant to be machines yet alive and conscious, and they were conferred superior intelligence yet expected to be subservient to humanity—two conundrums that existed even in conception and had since exposed the pitfalls of humanity’s unbridled ambition. For many years these robots remained man’s darling. But their own sense of community and passion for self-determination kept the government ill-at-ease. As fervent enthusiasm over man’s apex creation began to wear off, a threat was identified in them, likely to revolt, conquer, and subjugate. Repressive laws were imposed targeting their ability to replicate, congregate, or mobilise. As this stilled their hearts, AndroidsWatch—set-up strictly to determine the amount of danger they posed to humanity—warned of an imminent uprising.

And Operation Shanela was born. To round them all up and lock them at the Mangaung Special Prison. End the apprehension and deliver respite to the fearful nation. Indeed, many were captured and detained and hope for a robot-free South Africa was envisaged. But some fled and facialled, taking up the faces of ordinary South Africans and killing them—a development that made the hunting and identification process tougher for General Dube and his team. Hence Dube knew, more than anybody, that facial features were useless in identifying these robots. Yet his gut remained stubborn on Ncube.

A dreadlocked officer stepped into the cubicle. Every cell of his pinkish-grey and dough-like brain appeared on the dozen screens that lined the wall. With strange sounds, sheets of information rose from screens. Finally, a deep and peremptory voice, calling the officer Subject Eleven, declared him negative for being a robot.

‘For our officers,’ Dube fibbed, ‘The testing happens daily to avoid infiltration by facialled 2^nd gens.’ He was enjoying seeing the confused look on Ncube’s face. It confirmed his suspicion.

‘I see,’ Ncube responded, his eyes pinned to the dreadlocked officer. ‘But why does he look so relieved? Did he think he might test positive?’

‘It’s always a relief to be certified human, even though you know you are one,’ Dube informed him calmly.

‘Negative,’ the HC test declared Subject Twelve, as Subject Thirteen followed, the queue shortening.

Finally, it was their turn. Dube confidently stepped onto the blue cubicle and stared straight at the enormous screen of the HC test, his heart pounding with anticipation. He had to go first. Set an example.

Lights flashed from the giant monitors—green and blue. He could feel his brain being examined as he stood, frozen with concentration. Computers beeped. A gigantic dataset rose, creaking and whirring. Then finally came the deep, peremptory voice, declaring Dube, Subject Nineteen.

But it wasn’t what he had expected. It wasn’t what anybody in the testing station, those who knew General Dube, would have expected.

For a few seconds, Dube remained frozen on the cubicle, fear and incredulity scribbled on his thin face.

The HC test had declared him positive for being a robot. It was wrong, repugnant, and utterly deplorable. A travesty. He knew, with absolute certainty, that the machine had been tampered with and that he had been set up. And Ncube was behind it.

But Dube was a tactically astute man; a veteran of the Zarnaira war. He hadn’t come this far through indecision. Such occasions required quick, crisp thinking.

‘All right,’ he cried, turning around. ‘Faulty machine. Tests suspended for today.’

A chair creaked at the far end of the testing station. A machine whirred as if in protest. Even as he spoke, he could hear his voice shaking, crackling, lines of self-doubt and fear popping out palpably. Someone murmured in response. Ncube brushed his shaven head with the palm of his hand, his face inscrutable. An elderly detective coughed. A young woman opened and closed her mouth. But Dube was in charge.

‘I’ll call Dr Thuto at the K. Moyo Biotechnologies, so they come and look at it,’ he thundered, emboldened by his subordinates’ indecision. ‘Captain Pheko,’ he said, focusing on the elderly detective. ‘This is Colonel Khehla Ncube, my new deputy, who would be replacing Mlangeni. Familiarise him with everything.’ He nodded towards Ncube and bowed, a thick bubble of anger roiling inside him.

As he turned his back away from the gigantic cables and screens and exited the testing room into the white-lit hall, Dube knew that he had to run. Run as fast and far as he could.

He walked along the hall, his body tingling with nervousness. It wouldn’t be long before they rose from their stupor and came after him.

But why? Why hadn’t Ncube pounced on him already? Sure, his plan worked perfectly. He only had to put the last nail in the coffin, and Dube would be on the airtruck to Mangaung Special Prison. Could it be that he lacked the killer instinct and would be slow after him? Or maybe it was Dube himself being paranoid and Ncube was just an innocent young man there for work!?

Either way, he had to run.

<...>

Bongani Sibanda is a novelist and short story writer based in Johannesburg, South Africa. He is the author of the collection of short stories, Grace and Other Stories (Weaver Press, 2016), and the children’s fantasy novels, Jimmy and the Giant Insects and The Goat that Refused to be Slaughtered. He has published short stories in magazines and literary journals such as Munyori, Lolwe, Kalahari Review, and many others. In 2018, he attended the Caine Prize workshop held in Gisenyi Rwanda, where he wrote the story ‘Ngozi’, which was published in the Caine Prize anthology, Redemption Song and Other Stories. In 2015, he was longlisted for the Elizabeth Jolley Short Story Prize for his story ‘Musoke’, a fictionalised account of the Ugandan rebel, Dominic Ongwen.

Release 1^st Jan 2026.

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The ZamaShort imprint series is solely focused on the amazing powerhouse that is the short story. We give each short story its own publication so that it may be read and enjoyed fully as a stand-alone publication. As per the StoryTime Publishing mandate initialised in 2007, ZamaShort continues to champion and add to the ever-growing canon of African literature excellence and diversity.

EXCERPT

THE OFFERTORY

TABITHA WANJA MWANGI

The strange offering was on a white saucer at the bottom of Pastor Mmoja’s special basket. A perfectly smooth, dark-brown twisty sausage. Selina Kumi retched from the stench as she let it slide off the saucer into the toilet. She flushed, scrubbed the saucer under the tap, and placed it on the sink counter next to Pastor Mmoja’s special basket.

The special basket, woven with fine white wool, was about the size of a junior football. It was kept in a cabinet, that stood at the front of the church, partially obscuring the baptism pool and back door. Pastor Mmoja was the only one with a key to this cabinet. At any point during the prayer session in the Sunday service, he would unlock the cabinet. The excitement in the congregation at this point was palpable, people would reach into their pockets and bags to retrieve and wave KSH1,000 notes in the air. Pastor Mmoja would hold the special basket to his chest and walk between the pews. He would stop in front of whoever he chose and declare, ‘Give and receive your blessing!’ The selected person would touch the basket then place their money within. Only five people were selected each week. On touching the basket, some collapsed in what appeared to be ecstasy.

Selina, like many in the congregation, believed that this was no ordinary basket. Pastor Mmoja’s special basket was overflowing with prayer-answering power because of all the spiritual investments of the people that prayed over it. Many in the congregation believed that any prayer request accompanied by financial input into the basket was all it took for their world to be put right.

The prayers that imbued the basket with this power were many.

There was a team of women, referred to as the “Prayer Warriors”, who would fast all day Thursday and at the end of the day, would gather at the church, surround the cabinet where the basket lay and spend at least an hour praying and weeping loudly. Pastor Mmoja would often come into the church just before they broke their fast in the evening and they would all wail, shout, and sing, together. The youth team would fast all day Friday, and after work, walk around the cabinet seven times, then let out a loud shout—whilst praying and singing. On Saturday evening, Pastor Mmoja would come into the church, lock the doors and spend an hour praying at the cabinet.

There was no shortage of testimonies about the miracles that placing money in the basket had brought into the lives of the chosen few. People had been gifted with pay rises. Others had bought cars and houses, the keys of which were brought to the church for a “show and tell”.

Selina had longed to touch that special basket every week. She always had her KSH1,000 in her backpack, hoping that Pastor Mmoja would choose her. In the two years since he started using that special basket, she never had the luck.

Yet here she was in the toilet, staring at the special basket. She stroked it gently. It felt like a very ordinary basket. She reasoned that perhaps today’s offering, on the saucer at the bottom of the basket, had cancelled its power. Selina was horrified that anyone would be driven to foul the special basket and felt compelled to try and work out who had done it.

Selina had watched many murder mystery series over the years, but nothing beat her childhood favourite, Derrick, a crime television series that she had watched on her family’s black and white TV. The genius detective, Derrick, was a tall, bulky German with huge bags under his large watery eyes. He solved murders with such certainty and would rush out of the building in time to catch the murderer before they escaped. His partner detective was always left in awe of Derrick’s wisdom, but the clues were always just under their noses.

Selina had learned a few things from watching this series and others. To solve any mystery, detectives looked for a motive, an opportunity, and means.

That strange offering in the special basket was placed there by someone who wanted Pastor Mmoja to soil his holy hands in public. Someone wanted to show him that they did not give a damn about his special basket. Selina felt righteous indignation on his behalf. Pastor Mmoja was a good man, not faultless, but good. A kind soul. Selina was sure she would solve this mystery.

She started where she believed all good detectives start, by retracing her steps.

The day had not started well. There had been an accident on the way to church, and the police had taken over half an hour to get to it. When she realised she would be late, she texted Pastor Mmoja to apologise. He had not responded. She was nervous about that and by the fact that the side doors of the church would be closed by the time she got there. She would have to enter the church through the main door and walk down the aisle to her seat next to Pastor Mmoja’s family. She dreaded that people would turn and stare at her. Being the centre of attention was not something she relished. Sweat trickled down her armpits as she did her best to be as silent and as small as she could be as she tiptoed to her seat, her backpack suddenly feeling heavy. The worship team was leading the congregation in songs and were swaying gently, some lifting their hands in the air, eyes closed. The tall frame of Pastor Mmoja in his typical dark grey Sunday suit, was standing by the cabinet, facing away from the congregation and looked to be in deep prayer. The phone in her bag vibrated.

“Come with your backpack to the cabinet. Be at ease”, the message from Pastor Mmoja read.

Selina walked up to the cabinet and Pastor Mmoja very discreetly slipped the special basket into her bag.

‘Before God, swear to me, you will not tell a soul what you find there,’ Pastor Mmoja whispered to her. Selina looked up at his smoothly shaved dark-brown face, his sad heavy eyes, and would have given her life to make him happy again.

‘Amen,’ Selina responded.

Selina used the back door, just behind the baptism pool. She shut the door quietly without looking back, hoping that the congregation was too busy in praise and worship to be bothered with her.

She was able to breathe easy once outside the church and it was then that she caught the first whiff from the basket. The church offices were to her left, but she turned right to the staff toilet. Once in the toilets, she locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. She placed her backpack on the sink and retrieved the special basket.

“You will not tell a soul what you find there”, Pastor Mmoja had said.

She did not imagine that anyone would believe her even if she told them. She was not even going to tell her son, whom she told almost everything. Pastor Mmoja need not have feared.

Selina could not think of anyone who despised Pastor Mmoja this much, or someone that he had offended enough for them to consider such a revenge.

Despite having flushed it away, the offering had left a strong smell in the toilet, like that produced by a person who ate too much meat or did not fare well with beans or milk. There was something about that smell that was familiar, a waft she had encountered in church when a rare silent fart seeped through the congregation. Selina had her first culprit: Dior!

<...>

Tabitha Wanja Mwangi is a mother of three lovely people that give her joy and strength to keep going. She has spent most of her life in a university setting, learning, teaching, and now as an administrator. Her first published works were scientific journal articles, and she later became a freelance science journalist, writing pieces that make health research accessible to general audiences while highlighting the contributions of local researchers. She has written for the Daily Nation (Kenya’s leading newspaper), Msafiri (Kenya Airways flight magazine), and The Conversation, as well as her blog, Tabitha on Health. Her first book, 12 Remarkable African Life Scientists, profiles scientists from Sub-Sahara Africa, with the aim of inspiring young people across the continent to consider careers in the life sciences. Tabitha has also published fiction, contributing short stories to the African Roar anthology, Spark anthology and The Matatu Journal.

Released 1^st Dec 2025.

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EXCERPT

WHEN TWO SORCERERS COLLIDE

T.L. HUCHU

On All Hallows’ Eve the darkness blanketing the city is pierced by the daring beams of solar and generator powered LED lamps, since all the streetlights were broken decades ago. Harare decays slowly like felled mukwa. Regardless, day or night, the music in the Avenues never stops. It’s the spirits who power the melodies of long dead sungura legends spilling through the speakers recalling a bygone age. Whiny electric guitars punctuated by thumping drums compel the hypnotised bodies on the open lawn to gyrate in Charanga’s Cocktail Bar on Central Avenue. It is these vibrations that keep the eternal night at bay.

A tall, slender man wearing brown herringbone tweed and a matching fedora stalks through the jivers. He is overdressed for the sweltering African night and his impeccable visage glistens with beads of sweat that pool at the corners of his moustache and drip down to his bare chin. Thankfully he is outside; if the bar were indoors it would be an inferno. The man pauses in the middle of the heaving lawn, marking his quarry, a small woman in a green dress with a puffed-up Afro sitting at the bar, an untouched cocktail lingering in the coupe glass next to her. Unlike the other working women, and most of the ladies in the bar are on the clock at negotiable rates, she politely declines any male attention and keeps her own company. Her eyes gaze into nothingness as though she is distracted, seeing past people into…

Perhaps she’s a dreamer suspended in time right here in the haze of cigarette smoke.

Someone in a red shirt bumps into the man in the fedora and mumbles an apology, but the man doesn’t care. He ignores this and draws closer, wary that she will fly and his efforts will be in vain. He was sent for her weeks ago—and, despite spending a small fortune on local informants, had thus far been unable to locate her—but at last, after a fortuitous tip-off, he has her in his sights. Everything in the bar becomes a synesthetic blur of colour and sound, the movement of dancers dripping oil in the corner of his consciousness. Just a few feet from her, an overwhelming wave of nausea hits and he dry heaves, cupping his mouth in his hands. In the second or so it takes to regain himself, the man notices the woman in green is gone.

The chair is empty.

Desperately, he scans around the bar, before noticing her slipping out the metal gate perimeter behind an intoxicated couple.

He rushes to follow, barging through the dancers and earning a few choice curse words in Shona, a language he does not understand. And he stumbles outside the gate, scanning left and right before someone taps him on the shoulder from behind. Startled, he turns quickly before spotting the woman holding her palm up. She seems annoyed, maybe a little impatient too.

‘If you must insist then I suppose I should take that business card off you, Ian Callander. But know that my answer is no, and I have more important things to do than stand here talking to you,’ she says, glancing anxiously down the dark street.

‘You know my name?’ he says and snaps his fingers making a gold foil business card appear in her open palm.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ she replies, dropping the card onto the ground.

‘Forgive me,’ Ian stutters, embarrassed. Usually people are impressed or at least surprised when he does the card trick.

‘Follow me,’ she replies. ‘I’ve decided you might be useful after all. The spider weaving this web hasn’t drawn your thread to mine for no reason, Mr Tourist. If you’d rather not come along, then I advise you go back inside and confront the man in the red shirt who picked your pocket on the dancefloor and now has your cell phone. I’m sure you can handle him yourself.’

Ian checks his right trouser pocket and discovers the smartphone is gone. It’s an expensive piece of kit his employer, the Royal Bank of Scotland, will easily replace. He’s annoyed by the theft, but this is more important, so he follows as she briskly walks into the darkness. This is his first time in Harare, but Ian has no fear of the muggers he was warned prowl the city centre at night, and he follows with an ease that’s indistinguishable from arrogance positioning himself beside the short woman who barely reaches his navel. They pass drunkards pissing on walls, street children begging at the intersections, some homeless men sleeping on the pavements cracked by the roots of old jacaranda trees.

‘I have a profitable business proposition for you, Ms Mhondoro. Or can I call you Melsie?’ he says, flashing a smile to add a bit of charm. He is only in his twenties and is savvy enough to know women are swayed by his good looks.

A stray mongrel trots across the road.

‘The Royal Bank of Scotland will be bust within a year, and your rivals will be picking at your carcass. They’ve had three hundred years, which is a good run by any standard. If I were you, I’d seek alternative employment… Normally I charge for information like that, but you get it for free since you look like Bambi looking for his mum,’ she replies brusquely.

‘There are other powers tied to the Bank and they have a vested interest in its continued success,’ Ian says, trying not to be offended by her condescension. He holds up his palm and incants, ‘Spark of Prometheus.’ There’s an instant entropic shift and bright light illuminates the night, driving away the shadows. A scent, like paraffin, wafts into Melsie’s nostrils. It’s a strange flame he’s conjured, a sort of glowing black giving off an ultravioletesque effect.

‘I don’t need proof you are a magician, Ian Callander. Kindly put out your unnatural light; it’s blotting out the stars.’ She’s squinting, a slight frown on her brow.

Ian turns red, a bit embarrassed, and curses himself out for employing cheap parlour tricks before extinguishing his spell. It used to be that one could come to Africa with trinkets from Europe and turn a profit. He can’t afford to disappoint the Bank. He is young, very hungry, and intends to rise to the top, which means making sure it survives and thrives, continuing to print money well into the future. Prognosticators have already hinted at its demise, as yet unknown to the bullish stock markets where its share price continues to soar. In secret, a new division is being founded to help it through these choppy waters. They need rowers and he has been told Melsie Mhondoro must become one of them. The bank is ancient and cannot be denied. Entire countries have been born and wiped off the map while it has endured. Supreme Leaders, Führers, Emperors, Prime Ministers, have risen and fallen, their lives mere fluctuations punctuating the bank’s graphs. Wars, famines, languages and entire peoples wiped out, stock market crashes and rallies, all these things and more, and still the bank continues.

They walk through Josiah Tongogara Street, following rows of flats near the CBD that have seen better days. Now and again, they are blinded by the headlights of a passing car swerving to dodge potholes. Ian’s getting wary. Following a strange woman in a strange city in a strange country in the dark would unnerve even the most astute practitioner.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks, turning to scan if they are being followed.

‘To a party,’ Melsie replies.

She halts in front of the gate on Calder Gardens and flashes Ian a mischievous grin. He understands she’s toying with him; the obvious Scottish name this block of flats bears, the dubious history between his people and hers. He’s read files prepared by the experts at the bank about her and her peculiar talents and she is signalling she’s read him too. Ian scoffs. The brown brick cladded four storey flats look nothing like anything they have back home anyway. The building is dotted with small satellite receivers on each unit. It’s then he notices the blood red tinge in the sky above the building. Were it twilight, one might mistake it for the palette of sunset, but this late at night, the colour is an aberration.

Melsie leads him through the car park to the locked door of the communal entrance. The steel security door is locked.

‘Open it.’ Not a request. A confident command and Ian sighs. He employs these petty power plays at work too as he jostles for position against other junior practitioners.

Let her think she’s in control until I have her in Edinburgh. That’s all that matters. Ian knows power is fluid and it moves with the tides.

An inexperienced practitioner might resort to something brute to crack the lock, perhaps a Hephaestus forge spell to melt the mechanism, damaging it permanently. Not Ian, he touches the door and pushes it open with a subtle Hecate incantation, her whose keys connect her to the underworld, and it works with hardly any noticeable entropic shift.

Like a gentleman, he gestures for Melsie to enter first. He doesn’t trust her behind him in a narrow space, as she slips in and scurries up the dimly lit stairs.

<...>

T.L. Huchu’s work has appeared in Lightspeed, Interzone, Analog Science Fiction & Fact, The Year’s Best Science Fiction and Fantasy 2021, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mystery Weekly, The Year’s Best Crime and Mystery Stories 2016, and elsewhere. He is the winner of a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award (2023), Alex Award (2022), the Children’s Africana Book Award (2021), a Nommo Award for African SFF (2022, 2017), and has been shortlisted for the Caine Prize (2014) and the Grand prix de l'Imaginaire (2019). The fifth and final instalment of his Edinburgh Nights fantasy series is titled Secrets of the First School. Find him @TendaiHuchu.

Released: 31^st October 2025

Available here:

Direct from ZamaShort at our shop in our Bundles or by Subscription: https://www.zamashort.com/p/shop.html

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EXCERPT

SINDI FAIR

DARE SEGUN FALOWO

Once upon a time, in a kingdom called Uju, now lost to unrecorded time in the jungles of West Africa, a chief traded his only son for medicine.

The boy’s mother, Janu, was ill with a sweltering sickness that made her slip away from wakefulness with the rising of every sun, to lie on the tuft of the mat like a dead thing. This shook his father down to his gentle core, shook him enough to make him take himself and his son on a journey into the wild jungles, to go find the god of health, Gbew.

In this time of Uju, which was a time of prosperity and abundance, there was a shaman-king, Pogg, who could summon the gods and goddesses who had founded Uju and lived within its sprawling domains in the air, water, and earth.

He governed the land with five chiefs, each tethered to a divinity, and all skilled in the arts of divination, the casting of spells, and the unweaving of mysteries. One of the chiefs could spit fire in anger, and another could walk across swift-flowing rivers. One could burrow into the soil to find raw metals then beat them into smoothness with his bare hands, while the other could catch and pull down storms with long invisible ropes.

His favourite chief was the boy’s father, Len, the last—he who could cure ailments with the breath from his mouth, with the spittle off his tongue, with the brews of his ikoko, or by sounding prayer to the god that he was tethered to.

King Pogg had three children Sugg, Begg, Rugg, and dearly loved an enormous fire-spitting nlangba—a flying lizard that slept in a ring around his bed by night and protected the compound of his aafin by day. His stars-in-my-sky queen, Nun, was also one of his chiefs, but that matters less now, for Len is on his way into the jungles that gird Uju and is pulling Fren, our boy, along briskly.

Early on this morning, the dawn had brought the almost-death into Janu’s body for the seventh time; denying her a rise from the mat to greet the day. Gbew had appeared to Len suddenly in the sky, wide as a cloud, while Len prayed over the steaming brews he gave his wife to drink, saying nothing.

The god was clothed in an ornate buba made of the finest gold and green leaves of the goyaro tree and though his lips stayed still, his eyes had held news for Len to see and understand.

It was his only time appearing in any form since the sickness befell his Hand’s wife, for Len had used all the ways he knew to try bringing health back to Janu’s body, and nothing had worked.

She lay there, stiffened by too much rest, observing him, as if from the top of a mountain, while he held her ice-cold hands and whispered to her, ‘Come back.’

Beside them, Fren had boiled the same bitter agbo that Len prayed into, which gave her a tiny burst of energy at dusk. He had stirred serene, eyes lost in the bitters swirling in a clay ikoko by her bedside.

And so, on seeing his god appear to him, the chief Len took Fren with him to find Gbew’s ibudo—his domain of spirit—leaving his wife to be cared for by their large housecat and her visiting friends.

After a full day of jungle-walking and seeing treemen and nlangba, centaurs, and wildcats, slip by behind the cover of leaf and trunk, they reached their destination. The ibudo was at the heart of an immense goyaro tree called Lew’omo, which was tall as the sky and wide as King Pogg’s aafin. Len, exhausted, placed his palm on a smooth circle that opened on the rough trunk like an exhalation. The trunk rose like a wall above them as Fren looked past his father into the darkening jungle, terror thickly filling his belly.

After the susurrus of leaves rustling, a mild thunder came from inside the tree, followed by the whispering of a cold, bitter wind that inhaled their bodies into the ibudo. When he opened his eyes, Fren found himself inside the tree, still holding his father’s hand.

Inside, was an immense plain, toasted by a deep-green sun. The air smelled pure and warm, scattered sparsely with falling leaves and smouldering petals.

Hedged gardens were scattered across the plain in which small huts of pure, polished wood were situated. A different crop grew in each garden—some had huge purple yams that looked like cocooned human beings, and others had flowers that gave off light, while in a corner grew bundles of writhing creepers holding tiny yellow fruits.

There were flower gardens, fruit gardens, food gardens, mushroom gardens, and even a garden that grew only wings.

A blue-white mist-river flowed down, across the leaf-strewn air, its breaths gently weaving into all the plain.

Len and Fren followed the path they found themselves on, and soon saw the ibudo itself, which was a large house—many times bigger than the average garden hut—where Gbew lived and tended to the health of Uju and the jungles that surrounded it. They also came to notice that the gardens were being tended to by men and women who stood head to toe, at the height of a grown man’s palm.

Fren realised something quietly—as he watched them direct the thick mist in the air to settle into the roots of a dense cabbage that was like a petaled green moon—the huts of wood were hosts of entire towns.

Fren also recognised many of the crops in the gardens. They were exactly like the ones that grew in his mother’s special garden—the one where his father harvested all the herbs and leaves for his preparation of healing brews and poultices.

They entered the wide gardens of the god’s dwelling, which had none of the tiny people working beneath its array of dripping herbs, or the sparkling bushes that grew around the feet of hundreds of young goyaro trees, all suffused in the mist falling out of the air. Instead, small creatures and wild animals of all kinds chittered and curled, wandering their way between the slender trunks of the trees, gossiping about things father and son would never believe.

They soon reached the doors of Gbew’s ibudo, a house grown from a seed and painted in lush, undulating creepers, dotted with bright eyes of bloom. Enormous leaves made up its roof, supported by strange bones, outgrowths of rough root to which soil still clung.

The door was a circle of water in suspension, without guards. Fren thought in that moment as he looked into the deep of the door that he would not like to drown like a thief.

His father lifted his hand again and whispered an incantation. Nothing seemed to happen, yet Len pulled Fren into the water and it felt like nothing at all.

<...>

Dare Segun Falowo is a writer in the Nigerian Weird. Their work draws on cinema, indigenous cosmologies, pulp fiction & a lived surreality. Their words have appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction, The Dark, Baffling, Omenana, and more. In 2018, they were longlisted for the Miles Morland Scholarship for African Writing. They have contributed to the essential anthologies of black speculative fiction: Dominion and Africa Risen. Their slipstream epic, ‘Convergence in Chorus Architecture’, was shortlisted for the Subjective Chaos Kind Of Awards and longlisted for the BSFA for Short Fiction. It was also translated into Italian by Zona42 (Convergenza nell’architettura del coro/Convergence in the Architecture of God), and Bengali by Joydhak Prakashan (Aagami Ratrir Upakhyant/Tales From The Other Night: Contemporary African Speculative Fiction). Their work appears in The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories, Vol. 2, and also in Horror Library 7 and the Were Tales Anthology, where they wrote as Baba Jide Low. Their debut collection of stories, Caged Ocean Dub released in 2023, and is published in the US, the UK, and Nigeria. They currently live in Lagos, Nigeria.

Released: 1^st October 2025.

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EXCERPT

THE SMELL OF RAIN

LIBBY YOUNG

The air smelt of rain. She had been fooled before and refused to get her hopes up. Still, she had to check the tanks. Just in case. If rain did fall and the tanks were blocked? That would be a tragedy, and just stupid. Besides she had nothing better to do.

Arching out of the old lazyboy chair, the brown leather worn to grey on the arms and seat, she clicked her tongue. Alfie raised his clouded eyes, before stoically heaving himself to his feet. His thick labrador coat was patchy with age, but she wouldn’t walk alone.

The wind tossed the dust and dead leaves into dancing spirals. The sky was grey. Hope filled her stomach. Anything was possible.

She started with the tank furthest from the house. It collected, or was designed to collect, rain from the roof of the old stable. Once, the stable had housed Max with his glossy bay coat and resentful eyes. Her heart still clenched when she saw the empty stall. Now the building was just used to store junk. Junk that was never used but just might be needed at some time in the future. She couldn’t let go of the concept of a future. Not yet.

Climbing the rusty stepladder required concentration these days. When had a simple task become so difficult? She pulled her thin cheeks into an angry, pointed face. Then she breathed. No point in getting mad with herself, or her body. There was no energy for that.

A small branch had been blown onto the top of the tank, not really obstructing the inflow pipe, but she removed it anyway, throwing it as far as she could, and watching as it dropped limply to the base of the tank. Alfie peered up at her, one wag of his tail, one glance at the branch that now lay next to him.

The view of the property from the top of the tanks was a bleak one. Not brown anymore, but grey. Even the soil looked grey. She tried to remember the colours it had once been. The greens and yellows. The orange of the Cape honeysuckle, the blue of the plumbago. There had been several tanks originally, to replace each downpipe from the gutters, but one had been damaged in a windstorm. It leaned haplessly, shrivelled and dented, against the north wall. Too heavy for her to move or repair. The others still stood, cylindrical polyethylene sentries, worn but hopeful.

After climbing down, slowly, she bent down to rub the top of Alfie’s head, the old dog had fallen asleep. Once, she had practised yoga, now her hands hung next to her knees. When had she given up? She had no memory of that, when or why? Had she known when she had last bent over in a downward dog that it would be the last time? That the last salutation to the sun was the last one?

The next tank salvaged rainwater from the old garage roof. The Land Rover stood ready inside, with three jerry cans of ethanol—purchased with water from some hippie farmer who had made it from sugar cane for years to run his tractors—and a spare, disconnected battery. Just in case. She exhaled air out of her nose in mirth. Where would she go? She had loved the freedom the vehicle had represented. Not having to ask anyone to take her anywhere, the possibility of leaving whenever she wanted. Now, she couldn’t even form the thought leaving. She was here. This was it. No going anywhere, ever.

Again, she climbed to the top of the tank. This time there was a blockage, an old plastic bag partially covered the hole and trapped a variety of rubbish beneath it. Pushing her hand into the dimness, she grabbed hold of anything within reach and pulled it up. Nothing recognisable. There was a measuring rod tucked into a groove on the roof, and she moved it clumsily into the tank. It clanked as it hit the bottom. She had wondered for a moment if the blockage had prevented total evaporation, but that was wishful thinking.

An eddy of wind rushed past her, pushing her hair into her eyes. It smelt wet. Looking up at the sky, she was sure the clouds looked darker than they had when she left the house. Hurrying down the ladder, she clicked to Alfie and moved towards the tank at the back of the house. This one was the largest as its contents had been used for cleaning in the kitchen, flushing, and drinking. It had been empty for over ten months. The one at the end of the verandah too was unblocked. This one had been the last to go dry, probably because it had stood in the shade of the large Acacia. The tree itself still stood a silent sentinel, its thorns angry and gnarled, its few, remaining leaves dusty and wrinkled. A kindred spirit.

The final and only metal tank, off the bedroom, was also unblocked, but it had a hole about a third of the way up. She had reversed into it, and the dent had rusted through. She had been in a rage that day. She smiled at the memory. Having the energy for that emotion seemed like a privilege now.

The clouds looked lighter now. She sighed. Probably wishful thinking. When had it last rained anyway? She held the screen door open for Alfie as he staggered to his feet. She suddenly needed to know exactly how much time had passed. In the kitchen, she had taken to scratching a line on the wall every day and a cartoon cloud when rain fell. She made a horizontal line through every ten marks, so it was easy to count. What was difficult was converting her number into months and years. She frowned as she did the mental arithmetic. Two years, three months, five days.

Slowly she climbed down into the basement. Of the five tanks, three were full of water and the fourth was nearly full. She lowered the bucket down into the well and pulled up a bucket of the brackish water, tipping it slowly, and carefully into the fourth tank. It had been a good idea to build the well under the house. If anyone knew she still had a water source she would… she shook her head, she refused to let her mind go into those dark places, afraid it would not make it out again.

Three, four, five, six buckets. That was enough. She was done pushing herself and anyway what was the point. There was water enough for herself and Alfie for some time to come. At one stage she had worried about the well drying up. That might still happen, but would days spent hauling buckets out of its holy reserve stop that?

Alfie never followed her down to the basement but lay across the top of the steep flight of stairs, waiting for her. It was awkward climbing over him—especially it he was asleep and deaf to her entreaties to move—but she appreciated his presence more than she allowed herself to acknowledge.

In the kitchen, she made a cup of tea. She had a good store of tea but still used a tea bag three times before adding it to the compost heap. This was the first cup of a new bag, and she savoured its strong flavour. No milk. No sugar. She still had a small store of honey from the days when hives surrounded the orange orchards and added only half a teaspoon.

Sitting down at the pine table, she pulled her phone out of her pocket. It was a ritual. Each morning, she charged the device using the solar power charger and then at teatime every afternoon she would look at it, checking the signal bars before playing a puzzle game or reading one of the ebooks she had stored. She preferred reading real paper books, but the pantomime that the phone still had meaning in her life was one she was not ready to abandon. Once, she had paced the house, looking for the best spot to get signal. More than once, she had walked to the road and held the phone high above her head, screwing her eyes up to see if there was any flicker of a signal. The dangers of the road were worth gambling with if there had been signal.

The game failed to keep her attention, she went to the window instead to study the clouds, and then outside to spend the allocated thirty minutes tending the vegetable patch that survived on diluted urine. It was small. She didn’t pee enough. But there were sweet potatoes, Swiss chard, and onions. She often thought they all tasted mildly of pee, but that could have been her imagination. At least there was a sufficient stockpile of dog biscuits to provide for Alfie’s needs. She had quite a large stockpile of dried foods for herself too, but sometimes she longed for something fresh, even if it did taste strange.

Looking up to check the clouds again—that looked exactly the same—was when she first saw him. It was just a movement at first. Any movement was of interest, and she was curious rather than alarmed, but then she saw his heel. He had ducked behind the water tank as she looked up and she would have missed him if he had just pulled his foot in a little more. At first, she had thought something had been blown down by the wind, but as it trembled slightly, she looked harder. It was a small brown foot. A bare foot. She stood up quickly, catching her breath, casting an eye in the direction of Alfie’s sleeping form. Did she need a guard dog? She smiled to herself. She hoped not, Alfie was unlikely to be much good.

<...>

Born in Zambia, Libby Young lived in various parts of southern Africa before settling in Cape Town. With a background in journalism that segued into web development, she now teaches English as a second language to adults from all over the world at the University of Cape Town, where she is also working towards a doctorate that combines environmental and cultural geography with literary studies.

Released 1^st September 2025.

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EXCERPT

THE CLARITY OF ICE

CARMELO RAFALÀ

I gripped the interface with heated disgust. Synapses were breaking down, some were shifting their pulse rhythms, others were stuck in flux; millions upon millions of nanos were running around, clueless, as if zapped by a heavy dose of the stupids.

I couldn’t understand it: the rooting into the surrounding ecosystem had been flawless, the bio-programmers for Beta habitat integrated into the surroundings and coaxed by their artificial programmers to grow perfect, natural habitats, enclosed and self-sufficient. It had been a textbook performance.

Then why are you collapsing? I chided the static-ridden threshold. Why?

I writhed in my seat in the control bubble of the landing bug and seethed at the decay of my systems control ganglia. My program buoy shuddered. Algorithms manifested themselves and scattered past me like so many dead leaves on a Veronian wind. The massive tangle of information before me struck a discordant note.

From the command shuttle in orbit, Cruz des-Manas, senior bio-farmer and planetfall coordinator on this seeding run, was overseeing cross-checks on the System Platform’s induction flow and stabilisation subroutines. I saw her in the digiscape distance. She appeared as an octopus whose many tentacles flickered about at what looked like a swarm of large black flies. Beta was collapsing in upon itself.

‘Systems are shutting down all over,’ I said.

‘Yeah, so tell me something new,’ she shot back.

‘Bitch!’ I muttered between my teeth; ears loaded with the system’s incoherent babbling.

‘Keep your eyes open, Karlyn. I suspect this may cause the nodules’ systems to panic and self-isolate.’

‘Shit, now my program buoy is sinking.’ I had sent out for a pattern trace to find the culprit but all I got was a whole lot of nothing.

‘Organiform supports are dying,’ Cruz announced, an edge in her voice. ‘Just as I suspected, the system’s grids for the nodules have locked themselves tight. The seeding protocol has shut down. At least the final coding sequence for the nodules hasn’t started.’

‘I’m cutting contact with Beta. The feedback is damaging our own systems.’

As I prepared to invoke the nanocrobe buffers to coat and isolate the undamaged programmers, a lightning crack ruptured the digisky. Beta Platform, whose garbled doublespeak dominated most of my channels, howled and discharged a static burst.

With quick efficiency, my biolastic suit’s response mode kicked in. A silver screen went up, caught the burst, amplified it, and sent it right back at the Platform. There was a shower of blue-white particles, a wrenching noise that threatened to shatter my ears, and I was thrown clear. The digivisor on my interface pulled back like melting plastic and withered.

I sat in my organiform chair, head aching, and cursed Beta’s bloody haemoglobular flow.

‘Total systems shutdown,’ said Cruz. ‘We’re dead here.’

I noticed my suit was peeling; the heat from the breakdown burning my skin. I managed to pull it off. It crinkled up on the floor and turned from metallic grey to deep black.

‘The overload burst got through to my buoy, Cruz, and disintegrated my interface suit. I got fucking fried.’

‘We need a full systems check,’ she said.

‘I’m fine, thanks for asking.’ I sat back down, careful of my burns. Not exactly the response I was looking for. But then, what did I expect? I grunted (intolerable little shit!) and wondered what the hell I ever saw in her.

‘Any damage to the bug?’ she said. ‘I can’t get a full connection to the lander. A few of my ancillary systems are down.’

I checked the lander’s readouts. ‘Affected systems have automatically rerouted themselves, except aspects of my life support. I got air and pressure, but the heating is minimal, so it’ll get cold in here tonight. At least this thing can still fly.’ I grabbed a tube of gel from the first aid kit under the seat and rubbed it on my burns. ‘But it’s not the bug I’m worried about.’

Were the colonists for the drop unharmed? It had taken over sixteen system fly-bys to find a suitable host-planet this time, one with enough of a vibrant eco-system from which our nanos could grow the living habitats, like the reconstruction couch reinforces my body’s bone structure for work, groundside. It was the longest gap between seeding runs we had experienced for years. Naturally, when the sample drone returned with a positive result, we were all eager to get to work.

How had I ended up with Cruz on this assignment? We didn’t get to choose who we worked with, of course. The rota was the rota.

‘The organiform nodules could be undamaged,’ she said. ‘No way of telling unless you can re-open their control grids. We won’t get authorisation to save the stock if we can’t verify its authenticity.’

Cruz had never lost human stock before. Not ever. Never lost a Platform, for that matter. She had an innate ability for biotech, a natural talent. She had even improved upon some of the coding for the Platforms. She was the best, a shining star among those like us, the few who made it Above.

As far as my situation was concerned, it was my final assignment before being promoted to senior farmer and planetfall coordinator. I would be Cruz’s equal. I had worked hard all my life, made sacrifices, done everything required of me. I had made it to where I needed to be, done what Mother Moira had failed to do.

Through the viewport the surroundings became hazy in the winter’s evening light; frost formed quickly over the viewport, a thin, crisp sheen of ice. The effect warped the view outside, and things appeared milky, distant and unclear.

‘Whatever happened,’ she added, ‘must be very specific if it can take down the entire Platform and make the control grids go into lockdown. We’ll need to be meticulous when going through the data. Luckily, all information up until the incident is secured.’

‘Technical errors don’t cause the type of problems we’ve just experienced,’ I said. ‘Not to this degree. Not like this.’

‘Well, it seems we’ve got a new kind of technical problem. Unless you got any other ideas?’

I looked at Cruz through the vid-cam. She looked at me and furrowed her brows.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Sabotage?’

‘It’s possible.’ I knew it was a long shot. The farming systems were under such tight surveillance, and the programmers kept changing and rotating and upgrading the fail-safes two, three times a day. It was harder to sneak around, hitching rides on the many undercurrents of the Ring Ship’s systems, than it used to be. But that was the only explanation I could come up with at the time.

‘A contaminant?’

I shrugged. ‘Someone must’ve dropped a bomb on us. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’

She scowled and shook her head. ‘If a person was good enough to get past all the security and plant their poison to spoil the coding, then they’d be good enough to cover their tracks.’

‘Possibly. Every system has a weakness, Cruz. Every movement leaves residue, somewhere.’

‘But would it be enough to lead the Ring’s security programmers to the source? Even if they managed to track someone down to a section within the Ring, well, it’s a mighty big ship to not have precise coordinates to zero in on a saboteur.’

Our ship was a massive, spinning ring, nine-hundred and forty kilometres in diameter, connected by spokes to a central hub and drive system. A lot of territory for the authorities to comb over. Not impossible, just difficult.

‘If you’re right,’ she said. ‘If it was a saboteur, our best bet from here is to focus on a contaminant, which will leave traces behind.’

‘What if the saboteur had insider assistance?’ I said, excited she would even entertain my idea. ‘A contact on the security team. That’s an area to pursue.’

An alarm howled and died.

‘Shit! Can’t pursue anything at the moment,’ Cruz said. ‘Long-range comms link just went down. We’re cut off from the Ring.’

‘Cut off?’

‘Yes, cut off,’ she barked. ‘That’s not so difficult to understand, is it?’

I could just make out a tinge of panic at the back of her throat. ‘How much do they know about what happened?’ I asked.

‘Enough to know we’re dead in the water.’

Another alarm. The image became grainy and then cleared.

‘A few more systems are gone,’ she said. ‘Just lost the long-range data beams and there’s a flutter in the main drive system.’

Shit was going from disaster to full-on nightmare.

<...>

“Carmelo is a real talent. Here, he brings us a bleeding-edge story of biotech in a gripping thriller of far-future planetary colonization. But, even more than that, he explores the nature of society and what drives us. An excellent story.” — Gustavo Bondoni.

“Intriguing and original, this tale features a surprising amount of detail and world-building. Despite being a short story, the window through which we glimpse the world of the story is well realised. The prose is excellent, the characters feel real and the challenges they face have modern day parallels that make the story relatable and compelling. This is science fiction that is heavy on the science but the details come across as informed and believable. Overall, a very enjoyable read.” — Tej Turner.

“The Clarity of Ice is a tense, character-driven sci-fi about ambition, survival, and the cost of failure. Rafalà blends vivid biotech detail with raw emotional conflict between two flawed ex-lovers caught in catastrophe. At times heavy on technical jargon, but the personal stakes and haunting ending make it a sharp, memorable read.” — Elizabeth Suggs.

Carmelo Rafalà, a child of Sicilian immigrants, travelled the world and somehow managed to finish his MA in Comparative English Literature at the University of South Africa. His stories have been published in various anthologies and cross genres, from science fiction to gothic horror. His fiction has been praised by such outlets as The LA Review of Books, SF Revu, and Black Nerd Problems. He is a 2024 SFFSA Nova Award winner for his story, ‘The Stars Must Wait’. A collection of his fiction will be released later in 2025. His novella, The Madness of Pursuit, was published by Guardbridge Books. He currently resides on the south coast of England.

Released: 1^st August 2025.

Available here:

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EXCERPT

THE LAST AND FINAL BATTLE

ZAINAB OMAKI

You can’t understand the end without understanding the beginning. For all of you who breezed past the former records, a refresher: on the Eighth of March, Two Thousand and Twenty-eight, the Great God Sango — the Orisha of Orishas; the God of Thunder, Fire, and Lightning; the God of Justice and Leadership — appeared in the sky over the forests of Ibadan. Once a man, a king, ascended to major deity, he descended from the heavenly plane in plumes of grey clouds crackling with lightning. The whole day had been inclement before his descent. From my university dormitory all the way in the Abuja, I watched the news anchors talk about airplanes being grounded, saw the images of stormy sky, grey tinged with an unnatural purple, that had everyone all over the world speculating about the nature of the calamity that was about to occur. Climate change had been wrecking the planet for years. Africa had been lucky to mostly escape the tsunamis, tornadoes, and other severe natural disasters so common in other parts of the world, but maybe the change in the environment had pushed it here, now.

I was on the phone with my mother, watching the grainy footage as she made me promise to remain indoors until we knew what was going on, when he first appeared. A scream fell out of my lips. There he was: a man from the sky. A burly, dark-skinned man in red trousers and a matching red vest, both covered in a pattern of small, square boxes. He wielded a bronze, double-edged axe that hung low in his hand.

My mother, who was watching too, screamed also and then shouted ‘Yesu Christi!’ What is that? What is that? Is that a man? Is that Jesus?’

Of course, it turned out not to be Jesus. Only Sango. He hovered over Ibadan where his kingdom was located during his days as a man. He looked out at the forest and the surrounding the city of modern high rises bordered by crowded slums below him with an expression undiscernible through the swirl of weather. And then he was gone, streaking through the sky at such a speed it had me and my mother screaming once more. The other boys in the surrounding rooms in the dorm yelled their heads off as well. Our voices were like a great ball of confusion, trying to make sense of what was happening before our very eyes.

I didn’t see this for myself, but it is said that he was seen in the airspace of Mokwa, Jebba, Illorin, and Ogbomoso, all the towns and cities between Ibadan and Abuja. Then, he was over the presidential villa in Aso Rock. I have heard from reliable sources that guns went off when security spotted him. They did their very best to bring him down with the bullets from their AK-47’s and other machine guns, but it had no real effect on him. He went into the villa, to the president’s office, and then the secure room beneath it. Several of President Olawole’s advisors and core staff were in there with him. He expelled them from the room, and when it was only two of them, a conversation ensued that no one will ever know. All we do know is that when they emerged, a frail man in a sky blue agbada and a stocky god with a bronze axe clutched in his hand, the president called a press conference.

On television, Sango stood at the podium with the frightened president at his side. For centuries, he declared looking out over the uncertain faces, he watched as the African continent fell to ruin. Once a proud place, a place of prosperity and progress, he watched as his children were taken overseas to work lands that were not theirs. He watched as foreigners invaded the land and plundered it for all it was worth. He watched as they continued to exert control over it even after they left, using trade and behind-the-scenes means to keep a grasp on their former colonised territories. He watched as his children fought each other because of the artificial borders that were imposed, and how they resorted to plundering themselves. How the rich and powerful ate up the limited resources left in their countries, leaving very little for the majority. Well, all that had come to an end now. It was done. Over. It was time for the continent to retake its rightful place in the world. Once, we were leaders. All you had to do was look at the pyramids and art and the Great Enclosure to see what we once were. And we would be again because he would not allow it to be otherwise. He stalked off the stage without answering the slew of questions that were thrown at him.

How do I describe what it was like to witness such a moment? I can only hope whenever you are reading this, there has been a sufficiently momentous occasion that allowed you to imagine what it was like. I watched the press conference with my hand over my mouth and my heart thudding in my chest, trying to foresee where things would go from here. How did the world carry on with a god walking among us? How did we return to the glorious era about which he spoke?

<...>

Zainab Omaki is a Nigerian writer currently completing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln. She holds a Master’s degree in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia, where she was awarded the Miles Morland African Writers Scholarship. Her essays, fiction, and literary criticism have appeared in Five Points, The Los Angeles Review, Passages North, Transition Magazine, The Rumpus, and other publications. Her novel-in-progress has received support from the University of Bayreuth in Germany, the Jan Michalski Foundation in Switzerland, and the Nebraska Arts Council. She currently serves as Assistant Nonfiction Editor at Prairie Schooner.

Released 1^st July 2025.

Available here:

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EXCERPT

SUMMER

NERINE DORMAN

Mika never told me there was to be a hanging today. By the time I reach the town square after my errands are run, the condemned are already lined up on the gallows – all eight of them like scruffy starlings in a row. My husband never misses a good hanging, and he’s there, right in front by Geron, the coffin-maker, who’s resting one booted foot on the last of eight roughly planed mudwood boxes. No white-spear or hamakin pine for these dead. Plain old mudwood – easy to work and soft as butter that unravels to splinters after the first wet winter. But for now, it will serve, to cart their corpses off to the Potters’ Field, which is better than merely loading them on a wagon like so much meat.

Half of Phantom Acres has turned up for the spectacle – after all, it’s not every day that there’s a public execution, let alone one with multiple condemned. Betrina Soonay and her sisters are lurking under the awning by the general store, in the only reliable shade from our binary suns, which are now blazing on high, and it’s a toss-up if I want to endure the women’s chitter-chatter or go stand by my husband beneath the patchy boughs of one of the square’s wirru trees. Mika will no doubt be dissecting the lurid crimes that have brought these folks to their current fate.

In the end, I opt for the latter, and make sure that I angle my parasol just so to offer me a measure of respite from where the sunlight dapples through the foliage. As it is, the air is baking and hazed with dust. I hope this is over quickly so we can go home. Who knows what mischief the children are up to with only Aia looking after them. They really have the nuhiyah wrapped around their fingers. Another reminder why I’d sooner listen to Mika drone on about justice. Betrina and her coven of harpies will be horrified to know I’ve entrusted my children to “one of those natives”. As if that’s the worst thing that can happen to them.

‘Ah, there you are, my dear.’ Mika presses a sweaty kiss to my forehead.

I bare my teeth in an approximate of a smile at Geron, who beams back at me through a mess of wrinkles.

‘How are you faring, missus?’

‘I am well, thank you. A sorry business here today?’ I incline my head at the coffins.

‘Only sorry for those bastards up there.’ He pats his overall breast pocket meaningfully so that I can hear the clink of currency.

Of course. The magistrate pays him well.

I look to my husband. ‘Is this going to take much longer? We have been away all morning and I’m worried that the children might be catching mischief.’

‘Hopefully not much longer now.’ Mika glances at his comm unit, which he then tucks back into his jacket. ‘Apparently, the bleeding-heart counsellor was able to negotiate a stay of execution.’

‘That outworlder doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.’ Geron spits a gobbet of saliva on the ground then catches himself. ‘Sorry, missus.’

It’s not as if I’ve never seen men spit before, so I merely raise a brow. I’m a farmer’s wife. I see far worse nearly every day, but I’m not about to point that out to Geron.

‘How much longer?’ I ask Mika, while trying to keep my annoyance from my words. I want to go home. Our truck should be done at the charging station by now, and we still need to collect our groceries from the depot. The last thing I want is to work on my basal cell carcinoma standing in the glare. Not to mention watching some dregs of humanity get their necks snapped as if this were the best entertainment since the last media dispatch from Earth.

My husband shrugs, and Geron starts droning on about one of the incidents that led to the arrest. The man has a particular monotone, the way he slurs his words together, making him at once incredibly annoying and challenging to listen to when he’s in full swing.

Oh, for the love of fuck. We’re going to be here till sunset, at this rate. I’m not worried about Aia and the kids, but I’ve got to get back so that I can get the afternoon’s harvest of ika fruit in before a flock of hekiyahs descend upon it.

I take out my comm unit so I can message Aia – perhaps they can get started if we’re running late. They see my message and return it with an affirmative. Betrina would have an absolute fit if she knew that I’d given one “of those filthy native creatures” their own comm unit. Fortunately, Mika also doesn’t put much stock in what the authorities say about sharing tech with the Hooghai. He agrees they would have stolen it already if it had any use for them. And, besides, Aia is clanless. We raised them from a foundling when the militia cleared out a nest but overlooked a pod at the boundary of our farm and Mansoor Kitha’s. Aia imprinted on me and Mika. We are their triad, and they have fallen into the traditional bond-role of their species.

But I don’t expect Betrina and anyone else to understand that; it’s none of their business, anyway.

With nothing better to do than wait and wilt in the sun-drenched square, I study the condemned. They are a ragged bunch, their skins blistered and burnished from standing out here for what must be a few hours already. Seven human and one juvenile Hooghai – a male, if the budding spurs on his arms are anything to go by. The fact that the condemned have a native among them won’t endear them to Phantom Acres, especially not with all the tit-for-tat raiding that’s been happening these past few months.

None of them can be older than thirty, if that, and the youngest is a mere kid of around fourteen. He should be helping his Da plough fields and not be waiting here to have his neck stretched. I’m brought up short when I see the woman. Unlike the others, who’re gazing off into nothingness, she’s watching me, her eyes bug bright. A cursory glance, and she might pass for a young male, but there’s a fineness about her features despite her rugged clothing that gives her away.

‘Hani, is that you?’ she rasps.

It’s like she’s shot a dart through my chest. No one has called me Hani in over a decade. Since boarding school. Not even Mika calls me by that name. To him, I’m Hannali, the name my parents gave me. The name on my identity profile.

I can’t draw breath because I see her – the girl.

<...>

“Nerine Dorman delivers a swift, scathing commentary on the restrictions of societal expectation, the allure of stepping away from it, and the inexorable consequences of doing so. The world is rich; it feels layered and well-conceptualised.”— Marius Du Plessis.

Nerine Dorman is a South African author and editor of science fiction and fantasy currently living in Cape Town, with short fiction published in numerous anthologies. Her novel Sing down the Stars won Gold for the Sanlam Prize for Youth Literature in 2019 and The Percy Fitzpatrick Award for Children's and Youth Literature in 2021. Her YA fantasy novella Dragon Forged was a finalist in the Sanlam Prize for Youth Literature in 2017. Her short story ‘On the Other Side of the Sea’ (Omenana, 2017) was shortlisted for a 2018 Nommo award. Her novella The Firebird won a Nommo for “Best Novella” in 2019. In addition, she is a founding member of the SFF authors’ co-operative Skolion, and the curator of the South African Horrorfest Bloody Parchment event and short story competition.

The ZamaShort imprint series is solely focused on the amazing powerhouse that is the short story. We give each short story its own publication so that it may be read and enjoyed fully as a stand-alone publication. As per the StoryTime Publishing mandate initialised in 2007, ZamaShort continues to champion and add to the ever-growing canon of African literature excellence and diversity.

Released 1^st June 2025.

Available here:

Direct from ZamaShort at our shop in our Bundles or by Subscription: https://www.zamashort.com/p/shop.html

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F9LCNRKV
(Also: UK, DE, FR, ES, IT, NL, JP, BR, CA, MX, AU, IN)

Libby: https://share.libbyapp.com/title/11958242

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/summer/id6746262119

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/summer-nerine-dorman/1147460895

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Thalia: https://www.thalia.de/shop/home/artikeldetails/A1075458736

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Angus and Robertson: https://www.angusrobertson.com.au/ebooks/summer-nerine-dorman/p/9789198291353

EXCERPT

PISS CORPSE

MUTHI NHLEMA

Charlotte was an expat volunteer first introduced to Mbumba a few days after her arrival in Malawi — on a US Peace Corps assignment helping primary school pupils improve their command of English. Mbumba was her work-appointed chaperone from the US Peace Corps office whose role, despite a litany of official-sounding words, could be summarised as “keep the mzungu out of trouble”. A simple task that had grown in importance following the recent high jinks of visiting volunteers from years past. The classic being the Lake of Stars weekend pictorial spread of a Peace Corps volunteer, piss-drunk in an unlined ditch, wearing a t-shirt with an unflattering caricature of the country’s President with a Hitler moustache, all in the sharpened undeniability of high-definition colour. American efficiency guaranteed the volunteer’s swift deportation that same afternoon, accompanied with a quiet apology that never made the front page. This was an incident the US Peace Corps wished not to repeat, with the help of chaperone’s like Mbumba.

‘Welcome to the piss corpse,’ Mbumba said with a heavy accent, on their first encounter in the busy office lobby. The lobby was a hive of clumsy conversation between other volunteers and their chaperones who politely smiled, pretending to find the butchered Chewa greetings endearing.

Piss corpse? ‘I’m sorry?’ replied Charlotte, straining not to come across as rude or, worse, condescending.

‘Welcome to the piss corpse,’ Mbumba repeated, unfazed.

Charlotte’s face became a nodding mask of comprehension. ‘Ahhh! You mean Peace Corps?’ she exclaimed, placing strong emphasis on Peace while giving Mbumba’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

‘Ah eh! Piss Corpse,’ Mbumba repeated, oblivious to the correction. Charlotte smirked, less at Mbumba’s innocent persistence, and more to a bizarre contemplation.

What the hell is a piss corpse?

They left the crowded lobby of first encounters and stepped onto the threshold of a country which to Charlotte, until a few weeks ago, was where the Material Girl kidnapped her children, and legend had it, had the best cannabis this side of the pond, allegedly. While she was mentally prepared for certain afrosyncrasies, African time prominent among them, nothing prepared her for the cultural whiplash that was to come, a constant reminder that she wasn’t in Iowa anymore.

Fahrenheit became Celsius.

Gas was fuel.

Directory was a phone book.

Fries were chips and chips were crisps.

Telephone poles were papered over with tattered posters promising the return of long-lost lovers in 24 hours.

Rush hour traffic was often worsened, if not by the hungry-looking (yet well-fed) traffic police, then usually by crowds of saggy-trousered vendors glistening from the midday swelter blocking the carriageway to mock two yelping dogs locked in a copulatory tie.

Malawian men often jay-walked with hands locked in pinkie-finger holds, in public.

Weekends were for weddings and, apparently, one’s knowledge of the occasion constituted an invitation.

Strangely, other azungu she did not even know, would give her nods of acknowledgement like a covert greeting of a secret society she was not aware she was a member of.

People used kilometres instead of miles, trousers instead of pants and, shrubbed their Rs into Ls and vice versa.

“Pubric toirets are for sorids not riquids”, was a particular tongue-twisting favourite for the expat volunteers and never failed to tickle Charlotte’s funny bone to no end, to the bewilderment of Mbumba who genuinely failed to see the humour.

‘C’mon! That was funny,’ a red-faced Charlotte assured Mbumba.

‘Learry?’ Mbumba replied before slightly sucking her teeth.

Disorienting as all this was initially, there was one particular Malawian quirk Charlotte instantly welcomed with open arms; she did not have to worry about the judging eyes of emaciated onlookers, with impossibly flat tummies and petite waists, as she packed on the calories. And pack them on, she did.

Fried chiwaya from the roadside. Oily mandasi in buckets, balanced on hawkers’ heads. Protruding bellies parading unashamedly down the litter-strewn jagged-edged city streets.

<...>

“‘Piss Corpse’ is a marvellous debut in the ZamaShort series. The very best elements of short stories – characters immediately brought to life, a setting both familiar and defamiliarized, a tight narrative arc with a perfectly paced ending, and, best of all, the type of satire that makes African humour so brilliant.”

— Tsitsi Ella Jaji.

“Nhlema's prose is electric and fizzy, accentuating the absurd in this delightful comedy of cross-cultural confusion. You will laugh your head off and be wowed by this tale.”

— Tendai Huchu.

“Nhlema writes with wit and irony. I enjoyed this humorous take on culture-clashes.”

— Brian Chikwava.

“‘Piss Corpse’ is a story with an attitude. It might even be the right attitude. In its ferocity, revulsion at male oppression and corporate cultural garbage, and its weird and coruscating wit, it reads like a mixture of Celine and early Ngugi. Paraffin for wine drinkers.”

— Imraan Coovadia.

“With biting satire and irreverent humour, “Piss Corpse” dives headfirst into the messiness of cultural collisions, linguistic blunders, the pitfalls of performative wokeness, and the unexpected grace of getting everything wrong.”

— Ekari Mbvundula Chirombo.

When Muthi Nhlema isn't managing a non-profit or trying to understand his 12-year-old son’s obsession with anime. He is a Malawian writer best known for his adventures (and misadventures) in African speculative fiction. This story was written during his stay in the International Writing Program at the Universty of Iowa.

‘Piss Corpse’ was selected to be the debut short story of the ZamaShort imprint series of single short stories. ZamaShort is solely focused on the amazing powerhouse that is the short story, giving each short story its own publication so that it may be read and enjoyed and savoured fully as a stand-alone publication. As per the StoryTime Publishing mandate initialised in 2007, with ZamaShort will continue to champion and add to the ever-growing canon of African literature excellence and diversity.

Released 1^st May 2025.

Available here:

Direct from ZamaShort at our shop here in our Bundles or by Subscription: https://www.zamashort.com/p/shop.html

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0F1VC85R6

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/piss-corpse/id6743448042

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