At night, you shone like stars that brightly glide,
Your love — my strength, my soul’s most precious right.
You taught me patience with each passing day,
And bore life’s burdens with unshaken grace.
Within your eyes, I found my secret place —
I’ll never forget your love’s endless ray.
When the world pressed hard upon my soul,
You opened your arms, absorbing my pain.
Though you were burning, you’d never let it show —
For me, you lived, enduring in silence again.
Oh Mother, no words could ever define,
Your love — a river that knows no end.
In my life and soul, you eternally shine,
The only true light my heart can send.
Without you, what’s left in this heart of mine?
Cold nights would burn it with silent cries.
In every storm, your prayer is enough —
Your every word, a star in my skies.
The older I grew, the more I could see:
Each breath you took was a silent sacrifice.
If now I shine like a star in the sky,
Know — my light is just your love in disguise.
Life’s trials were sharp as a sword’s cruel blade,
But you walked beside me like a gentle shade.
In heavy moments, you carried hope’s flame,
Never once saying, “Poor me,” — never in shame.
Now I stand as someone my homeland needs,
Your lessons — the foundation of my soul.
Each of my triumphs, each noble deed,
Is a gift to you, who made me whole.
You are my quiet muse in every day,
The light of truth shines deep in your gaze.
Even in dreams, may you still softly pray —
With you, life blossoms in beautiful ways.
Though fate may pave my path with stone,
The strength I bear is from your heart alone.
In my soul lives a word beyond compare —
Each work I begin starts with “Mother” there.
Turayeva Sadoqat Kahramonovna was born on March 26, 2005 in Gurlan district, Khorezm region. After graduating from school No. 23 in Gurlan district, she studied at the Academic Lyceum of Urgench State University between 2021 and 2023. Currently, she is a 2nd year student at the Faculty of Philology and Arts of Urgench State University named after Abu Rayhon Beruni.
(Young Central Asian woman in a black coat with buttons on the sleeves and a white frilly blouse, seated in a cafeteria with yellow chairs).
A NEW DAY
Dewdrops dance on leaves, in gardens nestled so deep, Softly drifting, clouds above sing lullabies in sleep. Like the scent of a tulip, sorrow lifts from the soul, While grandmas pray for peace and health, making the people whole.
Grass blades greet us warmly, heads risen in delight, Listening to the cranes returning, crying through their flight. In emerald green that charms the eyes, they reach toward the skies, Sunlight glimmers on each bud like gold in children’s eyes.
Some have lived to see these days, and some have not, it’s true, But spring still whispers words of joy that gently pass on through. From parents’ heartfelt blessings bloom joy and inner grace, And on the sky of fate we see youth’s star take its place.
With spring anew, a brand new day, forget the shadows past, Let pure intentions simmer like sumalak in the pot at last. Let kites that soar in skyward flight sweep grief from every heart, And let us share the blooms of love, together, never apart.
Welcome back, O Spring, to my land! You’ve brought such dazzling cheer, For the sixteenth time I face you, smiling with eyes so clear. How many times we’ll meet again, I do not truly know, But angels built a palace in my soul for you to glow.
Gulmira Ravshonbekova, daughter of Ruslonbek,was born on August 29, 2005, in Khiva city, Khorezm region.Currently, she is a second-year student at Urgench State University named after Abu Rayhan Beruni. She is a recipient of the “Ogahiy Scholarship” and the “Governor’s Scholarship”. Her first collection of poetry and prose, titled “Love for Enchanting Words”, has been published.She is a winner of several international, national, and regional Olympiads and competitions. Gulmira is also a member and certificate holder of the “Kyrgyz Poets and Writers Fund” of the Kyrgyz Republic. Additionally, she represents Uzbekistan in the international organization “National Human Rights and Humanitary Federation”.Her academic and literary works have been published in journals and anthologies in countries such as Germany, the USA, Turkey, Canada, India, Poland, and others.
First of all, we’re sharing the new project of young leader Muslima Olimova. The online platform Muslima Academy is a secular youth-led educational initiative empowering students with digital skills, international opportunities, and career readiness. More information here.
Disabled contributor, lyric essayist, and ALS activist Katrina Byrd suffered hurricane damage to her home and seeks support to rebuild and make ends meet while she’s getting ready to move. Whatever folks can contribute will make a real difference.
South African poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.
Also, the Educational Bookshop in Jerusalem, a store that has the mission of peaceful dialogue and education, invites readers to donate new or gently used books (all genres) that have been meaningful to them, with a note enclosed for future readers about why the books were meaningful. (The books don’t have to be about peace or social justice or the Mideast, although they can be). Please send books here. US-based Interlink Publishing has also started a GoFundMe for the store.
Next, we have a group of young early-career UC Davis academics who hope to attend an important conference in the field of climate science, but need to privately raise cash to replace grant funds that were removed due to changing conditions in the U.S. They’ve been hosting bake sales to make up the difference.
We’re spreading the word about Claire Jones and Amaranthia Sepia and their work through Sista Creatives Rising, creating accessible virtual shows, spotlighting and giving small grants to women of color to pursue their creative dreams. They’ll host a new show this fall, tickets will be available soon, and are inviting people to donate to celebrate Juneteenth! Any donations we receive will help us support our team, speakers and tech needs such as Adobe, Xfinity Emergency Storm Wi-Fi, editing & captioning apps, accessibility support, and more!
Also, we encourage people to consider supporting the Sun Gallery, which is one of the venues hosting the Hayward (California) Lit Hop festival, co-sponsored each year by Synchronized Chaos Magazine. They’re struggling due to the loss of some important grants and facing possible closure, and we would like to give back to the places that have supported us.
Finally, we’re helping out one of the founders of the Secret Spot,a grassroots performance and visual arts collective launched by low-income artists early in their careers. The Secret Spot is temporarily taking a break while she recovers from injuries sustained in a car accident.
Now, for July’s first issue: Hold This World Loosely. These words of St. Paul from two millennia ago remind us that while there is much to embrace in the world, all is impermanent and we can only protect ourselves from suffering by holding on with a loose grasp. However, this flexibility also frees us to appreciate and create positive change.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou describes the freedom found in holding onto life with a loose hand. Yucheng Tao crafts poetry of fleeting moments, consciousness, grief, and beauty. Dustin Pickering expresses his desire to float away with his love, even down to shadows and the abyss. Jason Ryberg’s poetry evokes dreams, memory, and timelessness. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa writes of gales of wind and emotion and the cultural wisdom embedded in a Native American dream catcher. Graciela Noemi Villaverde writes elegantly of a summer train adventure and the need to let go of some of the past to embrace the future.
Welcoming personal and societal change and growth can be a positive thing. Qobulova Gulzoda honors the forward-thinking Jadid leaders in Uzbekistan’s heritage who promoted education, science, and literacy. Gulshoda Jorabekovna Baxtiyorova offers up patriotic praise for Uzbekistan’s current presidential administration and its efforts to promote education, science, women’s rights, and athletics. Xoliqulova Husniabonu reflects on the bravery and dedication of her nation’s historical heroes. Priyanka Neogi urges people to achieve personal greatness by working hard to develop their talents and growing in their character and respect for others.
As an example of scientific research, Davlatyorova Iqbol outlines the medical causes of and treatments for hyperglycemia. Anorov Sirojiddin outlines approaches to treating urological diseases. Turning to the arts, Federico Wardal points out two films, flautist Andrea Ceccomori’s “Anita” and Joe Mantegna’s “Kamilah the Miracle Filly,” which have crossed national borders to be featured in San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Italy.
Oyatillo Jabboraliev highlights the value of student exchange programs for helping young people learn life skills as well as cultural literacy. Mamatova Diyora explores ways to help students stay motivated to learn foreign languages they don’t frequently hear. Munisa Asimova reflects on the work of a caring teacher who helped her achieve her writing dreams, and Sobirjonova Rayhona also offers up a poetic tribute to a dedicated teacher. Rakhmonova Diyorakhon discusses the importance of experiential and participatory education for young people. Muslima Olimova announces the launch of her online startup which aims to help young people around the world learn the skills that will prepare them for work and also outlines the advantages of different backend programming languages.
Ibodullayeva Dilnura analyzes the effects of combining online and in-person education. Surayo Nosirova relates her experience with an environmental education project involving young people in solving today’s challenges. Odina Bahodirova highlights the role of environmental education in promoting future sustainability.
Rushana Raupova celebrates the wonder and joy children can bring to the world and her dedication to benefiting them with her life. Aytuvova Khurshida outlines the importance of integrating the latest psychology findings into children’s education.
Mario Loprete renders urban style into the gallery with concrete tributes to rap and culture. Sabina G’iyosiddinova builds upon and expands traditional Uzbek art styles in her abstract work.
Dr. Jernail S. Anand suggests a positive role for artificial intelligence in enhancing human life and promoting pro-social behavior. Tursunova Ismigul suggests strategies, including technology-based platforms, to improve access to healthcare in rural communities.
Speaking of traditional rural villages, Manik Chakraborty revels in gentle, sunny village life. Holding onto the world with a light touch does not mean giving up one’s love for one’s world, heritage or past. Maftuna Rustamova honors the creative legacy of Uzbek poet Zulfiya Khanim. Dilnura Khahhorova affirms the importance of celebrating the traditional culture of Uzbekistan while Bektosh Kenjayev honors the self-sacrificing military heroism of historical tribal leader Shiroq. Iskandarova Dilnoza affirms her Uzbek history and culture in poetry. Mickey Corrigan reflects on the complex and intriguing life of James Bond actor Ian Fleming. John Dorsey speaks in his poetry to American culture, memory, and reflection.
David Sapp expresses thoughtful wonderment and fascination for art and the natural world. Irma Kurti speaks to excitement, love, grief, the sky’s various moods, and summer breezes. John Thomas Allen offers a mystical ode to the esoteric arts. Alan Catlin probes the uncanny side of nature in his surreal poems. Joseph Ogbonna describes a road trip where tension among fellow travelers arose, then dissipated as everyone explored the calm and quiet Nigerian countryside. Saiprakash Kuntamukkala listens to an elegant rainfall. Mahbub Alam reflects on patience and how nature blooms on its own timescale. Christina Chin and Jerome Berglund exchange tan-renga lines about mowing the lawn, ants crawling, film noir, and many other topics.
Mary Bone remembers outdoor winter celebrations with friends and family. Brian Barbeito reflects on escaping a garish urban landscape by taking refuge by the sea. Don Bormon speaks to the vast natural renewal each year after the monsoon rains.
Sometimes remembrance is tinged with sorrow. Poet Hassane Ajbouh carries forth an ecstatic spiritual love through writing of his departed beloved. Mesfakus Salahin’s poetry evokes the pain of separation from a loved one amid the hot monsoon rains. Duane Vorhees writes figuratively, yet sensually, of romantic pairings of opposites and of people left longing or bereft after someone leaves. Greg Hill sends up images of fall, loss, and departure, contrasted with a lively preteen sleepover.
Paul Murgatroyd evokes death, decay, and the persistent memory of youth. J.J. Campbell speaks to aging, disillusionment, loneliness, frustration, and despair. Taylor Dibbert’s narrator reflects on the long shadow of his beloved dog’s memory. Leslie Lisbona mourns a friendship of many years that went awry after her friend’s move and some off-base comments. Mirta Liliana Ramirez remembers a person she lost by the sea they both loved. Stephanie Elendu’s short story presents three different characters grieving the deaths of school children in a Nigerian truck accident from three different perspectives.
Mykyta Ryzhykh speaks to love, physical passion, death, the extreme trauma of wartime, and the psychological violence of having to hide a big part of himself. Palestinian poet Ahmed Miqdad looks to death as a release from the extreme suffering he sees in Gaza and Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews himabout his writing and his hopes for peace and human rights in the region. Abdulrasheed Yakubu Ladan also speaks to the human suffering in Gaza and the people’s determination to survive. Patricia Doyne lampoons Donald Trump and the state of American politics and the possibility of war. Noah Berlatsky grieves the loss of a loved one to social violence at the hands of laws and lawmakers who said they didn’t belong, reminding us of the human cost of policies.
Yuldasheva Oyshakhon reminds us to cherish our parents while we have them. Bill Tope remembers the unspoken rejection he felt after losing his father. Maja Milojkovic recollects the ways her deceased father made an impact on her life. Dan Flore writes of the lingering effects of divorce on now-adult children. Abigail George reflects on her loneliness and depression when her own mother forgot her birthday, and how she found comfort from looking to writers and the human experience.
Sayani Mukherjee speaks to feeling part of nature’s family, one of the plethora of creatures in a continually changing universe. Mohidil Sultanova evokes the joy, wonder, and community of a vibrant Uzbek street market, where she can feel the pulse of humanity interacting. Mahmudova Sevara uses cuisine as a lens to explore points of intersection between Uzbek and Korean culture. Bazarbaeva Inabat analyzes business connections between Thailand’s media and tourism industries.
Images c/o Mohidil Sultanova
Several students cover themes of cultural exchange within the field of linguistics. Hafizullayeva Kamolaxon outlines the influence of Turkish on the Uzbek language. Nigora Abdurazzakova explores cognitive development in children bilingual in Russian and Uzbek. Tojimurodova Latofat discusses ways to help speakers of Russian, Uzbek, and English remember words. Aliasqarova Muslima discusses attitudes towards regional and country dialects in the Uzbek language. Baxtiyorova Feruza’s essay deals with the role of common nouns and verbs in Uzbek and English speech. Berdiyorova Nargiza compares idiomatic expressions in English and Uzbek. Jo’rayeva Aziza explores multimodal teaching methodologies for Uzbek as a foreign language. Odilova Diyora looks into how translation strategies impact the interpretation of culturally specific terms in Uzbek. Sa’dullayeva Dilshoda highlights the role of language preservation in claiming and reclaiming culture and identity. Nasirova Xurshedabonu looks into ways to help students gain confidence in speaking foreign languages.
Sometimes we experience life as if it’s been mistranslated, as if we aren’t sure exactly what’s happening and what to make of our circumstances and senses. Mark Young writes of off-kilter scenes from daily life, observed from a distance. Iduoze Abdulhafiz escorts us through a holographic world of surreal prose. Yongbo Ma recollects a hazy dream about attempting to repair a muddy road, then adding to the confusion.
Christopher Bernard reflects on what it means to age when one never quite fit with one’s own generation.
Ben Nardolilli explores possibility and reality, human minds and our role in the universe, and suggests that we belong here. Wansoo Kim urges us to pull out of selfishness and despair and follow our consciences as guides. Nasir Aijaz perseveres in his life despite society’s many ills. Jasmina Ergasheva expresses resilience and hope for her future. Murodillayeva Mohinur reflects on her determination to rise towards her dreams even amidst obstacles.
Vo Thi Nhu Mai contributes a gentle, tender love story where a young man finally gets up the courage to embrace his first beloved. Isaac Aju crafts a hopeful, second-chance romance. Sushant Thapa’s piece celebrates friendship and art’s power to encourage the soul.
Peter Cherches contributes a humorous poem making a bold claim to its own existence. Svetlana Rostova highlights the power of words and ventures to rewrite her own story. We hope that this issue inspires and frees you to do the same in your own words and media.
You see, I told her, ‘There are small sand paths framed by green grasses, thick and beautiful in themselves…resilient grasses, and the ways lead to the places by the sea.’
‘Oh it does.’
‘Oh it does. Or, they do,’ I said, ‘and all the cliche things are there, the tropes as it were, but such things though the literati speak against them, are wonderful. Who will need anyone really? The warm breeze. The sun kisses the coastline and all around.’
‘Nice.’
‘It’s better than nice. There is a pier. Two actually. One to the north and one to the south. There are loquacious birds, and they are against reason and logic, wise. They know things. We can be mystics also, like the birds are. Scry the sky. Watch the water. Intuit the wind. Make poems and pictures…’
I looked outside. The cold wind threw some garbage around and nothing even got anywhere. A stand of boulevard trees were the wrong colour on trunks and old leaves for traffic pollution. Not even a painter with several choices of grey could find a more rueful and uninspiring hue to declare the firmament with. And this grey was everywhere, for it must have melted into the earth and saturated it when a heartless joker was making the too long season. Loud modified cars, read noise pollution, yelled their egos, their small-mindedness and gauche vulgarity to anyone that could hear. And miles of uniform urban sprawl. No bird in sight.
‘Hey,’ I asked her, ‘what was that term you used to use to denote people whose personalities became otherwise awkward, strange, cold, odd, for their value system and circumstance? Ungrounded people. Did you say “stunted”?’
‘Affected.’
‘Affected. That’s it.’
‘Ya. Affected.’
‘Let the affected have the affected. That’s great. They love one another. Let the affected live happily ever after. I wish them the best, that all their status quo dreams of shining mediocrity come true, and a thousandfold a that. But far away from me. I will be, beside the sea. See, that rhymes.’
‘Very funny.’
I glanced out and some poor soul, an elderly lady in a big coat, almost got hit by a car that rolled through a light turning. She stopped just in time. Then, what could she really do? The wind soon practically threw her over also. Many forces she had to battle, I thought.
‘Anyways,’ I continued, trying to draw my conclusion, ‘I know a place. There is all that, and inland just a bit, is a marketplace with friendly souls, to get things. There used to be a small bookstore there also. Come to think of it, imagine if it is still there. I wonder. Probably not. But you know…it could be. It just might be there still.’
‘Are we gonna tend to the rabbits, George? Tell me about the rabbits George.’
‘Funny. I don’t mean it like that. Well maybe a bit. But you aren’t Lennie, and this is no book. There is nothing here, or not much…’
‘It’s a tale as old as the coast you describe.’
‘So what? Ya so what if it is? It’s new for every person journeying it in reality or imagination or both.’
And I could hear the sound of southern water somehow, for a second, like a sanguine auditory vision, a psychic impression. I realized it was a fountain and it took a minute to think away from it and go back, but I realized it was because there was a fountain right outside that market I had spoken of, had lauded. All this was then interrupted by the cacophony of a groups’ haughty course laughter under the blinking lights, lights intent on causing a headache where possible. Lights not like the light of the moon or the sun, lights not like the pink blue purple green, even orange electric and eclectic lights of those southern grounds, poetically and somehow musically accenting the earth (lights dreamt of and wished for). No, the current lights were too strong. They were blinding fluorescent lights.
It’s been 365 days since my best friend died. This fact hits me hard when I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is my dusty ceiling board staring back at me.
The sound that woke me up from slumber comes again: my mother’s shouting. My lateness to school would be the only reason she has to be this loud this early.
I wonder why she let me sleep longer.A mother would have several reasons to shout at the crack of dawn, but mine wasn’t like that. She hated noise and didn’t like to strain her voice – her words, not mine- so she hardly raised her voice at me and my brother, unless we were doing something foolish.
But let’s go back to the highlight of my morning- my best friend’s death anniversary.I sigh. I knew this day was going to be hard, but the feeling of loneliness that hit me shocked me to the core.I miss her.
In my mind’s eye, I could still see her face. Her goofy, loud laugh that commanded attention, her wide smile which always managed to turn heads, and that teasing voice that always made me feel like I was home.
Fola was the best. Knowing each other since we could crawl, as our mothers were also best friends, we grew up in the same space. We spent almost every day together for the past ten years…How this person, who was one of the most important people in my life, was gone, was beyond me. One minute, she was with me, breathing and alive; the next, she was gone. Just like that.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to fall asleep once again, I longed for a deep sleep that would shut out all the memories, at least till a whole day had passed.What was I supposed to do without her? How was I supposed to move on from someone who was like my twin? It was hard, and I didn’t like it one bit. It hurt way too much.
A sob escaped me and before I knew it, I was bawling my eyes out, my whole body shaking with grief. I stuffed my moth-smelling pillow into my mouth to muffle my cries. The last thing I wanted was attention and looks of pity. I was kidding myself, of course, I knew that was inevitable, but I’d just appreciate a few minutes to myself where I didn’t have to lock eyes with people who looked at me like a miserable puppy.
The sobs refused to stop, no matter how much I wanted them to. So I went on, my body curling up in half as I cuddled myself and bit down on the soft pillow. After what felt like an eternity, I finally calmed down and dragged myself from my bed. I had to face everyone sooner or later; better to just get it over with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~“Mummy, let’s have fried egg, please” my little brother, Ade, was whining in the living room.He was perched on the floor, mere inches away from the rug, so Mom didn’t have to kill him for spilling food on it.
Before him was a bowl of soaked garri. The sight of the food told me that it was that time of the month when we went flat broke. We were poor, but whenever mom got her salary at the end of the month, it usually took a week to spend it all. Like clockwork, my father would stagger into the house on the 3rd day of each month and demand that my mother give him half her salary. If my mother refused or even hesitated, she received a hot slap on the face or worse, it didn’t matter if we watched. By now, she knew not to argue, which made me despise her a bit.
In case it isn’t clear yet, I hate my father. When I was nine and Ade was just a year old, he decided he didn’t want to live with us anymore. He left my mother without so much as a reason. It broke my mother, who was left with two kids to care for. But she picked herself up, got a job as a cleaner, and worked to the bone to keep us alive.
For two years, I didn’t see my father, but one day, he appeared again. He was drunk the night he pounded on the worn-out wooden door. How he found us remains a mystery to me. Mom had moved us out of our two-bedroom apartment to a face-me-i-face-you flat with just one room on a dead-end street. He’d barged into the house and in a slurry voice, demanded that my mother give him money. She tried to get him to quiet down, but what followed was a resounding slap that would have woken me up if I wasn’t already watching them from the peephole on the bedroom door. That was the first time I saw him hit her.
She was frozen for a while before she finally dug into her purse and shoved some naira notes into his hands, silent tears streaming down her face. He spat some more insults at her before he finally left.
I’d thought that would be the last time, but it became a monthly routine for the next couple of years. Some months, he didn’t show up, and those were the best months for us. I never asked her why she put up with it, I just watched him come and go month after month. All that time, he never acknowledged me or my brother, and we didn’t bother doing the same. I didn’t say anything because I loathed him, Ade was just frightened. I had to explain to my brother that that was just how our life was and he shouldn’t ask Mom.
Looks like he already came this month, and I missed him. Otherwise, my brother wouldn’t be drinking garri this early in the morning.Ade continued whining, but Mom didn’t respond. He should know her better by now; she never does. I grabbed a steel bowl and from the bag which held the abundant grains of survival, I poured a few scoops for myself. With my spoon, I took two spoons of sugar since Mom wasn’t around and tossed them into the bowl before removing one sachet of water from the bag perched by the creaking kitchen door.“
Do you miss her?” Ade asked. Without missing a beat, I said, “Miss who?”“Fola” he said, his voice timid. I knew he was talking about her, I just wanted him to say her name, and he did.“Of course, I do. I miss her every day’ I say without meeting his eyes. I fear I wouldn’t be strong enough if I met the look in his eyes.Ade is the only person who understands. He’s the only one who’s not afraid to say her name or even bring her up.
When we were alone, I’d repeat stories about the good times Fola and I had when she was still alive, and no matter how many times I told the stories, Ade always listened. I appreciated him for that.“She’s probably watching you right now with her mouth like this’I turned to look at him and saw that his mouth was pouted just the way Fola used to when she was alive.
That earned a soft giggle from me. I appreciated my little brother for trying to cheer me up, I decided I would try to look happy, at least until we parted ways at school.
“Eat that food quickly so you’re not late for school,” Mom said as she entered the living room, her face expressionless.“Good morning, ma” I muttered, and she hummed in response. I gobbled up the garri and grabbed my bag to make sure all my notebooks were in it.The last thing I wanted to do was go to school, the same place where memories of my deceased best friend would be filled with.
Sadly, I had to go because it was exam season. “Did you pack all your writing materials?” Mom asked with an eerily calm voice. I wonder what’s going through her head right now. Ade didn’t know Fola as well as Mom and I did, so it was just us who felt the weight of her absence. Mom had grieved, but sometimes I got the feeling she’d moved on. I guess losing a lot of people in her life made her an expert in getting over pain with speed.
“Yes ma” I replied and nudged my brother to hurry up.He gobbled up the remaining food and ran into the bedroom to get his bag. I looked down at my uniform as I waited for him to come out. The lemon green shirt and olive green skirt was a combination I’ve hated ever since I had to wear it.Fola loved the colour green, and it suited her a lot. I, on the other hand, couldn’t bring myself to like the colour.
However, after she died, I felt more connected to her whenever I laid eyes on the colour green. She was in the trees, the grasses, and even the disgusting moss that spread all over our building.Ade came out with his bag slung over his shoulder, and after saying goodbye to Mom, we headed out.“
Sewa! Come here!” Mom called out to me. We hadn’t gone too far. I told Ade not to move and walked back to the entrance of the building, where she stood in her wrapper and worn-out blouse, her face visibly tired.“I know what today is, do you want to go visit her mother?” she asked, a nervous edge in her voice.
I stared at her and wondered how she could even ask me that. She couldn’t even say her name.“No. It’s better if we don’t.” I replied. Mom nodded and asked me to go ahead and have a nice day at school. I turned, caught up with my brother, and we began our journey to our place of education… also the place of death.
THE SURVIVOR
From the moment he stepped into school, Michael could sense eyes on him. The weight of the silent murmurs caused his head to bow low; he didn’t want to see their faces.It’s been a year, and no one has forgotten.
How could they? The stark reminder stared them in the face every time they came to school. Some had managed to escape the horror of returning to the scene every single day by transferring schools. Michael and the rest of the students weren’t so lucky. And so, here they were, a whole year had passed since that dreadful day.
With his tattered backpack slung over his shoulder, the heavy feeling of books making his back hurt, Michael made his way to class.Immediately he walked in, the noise that filled the room came to a halt. He was sure all eyes had turned to him. He ignored them and made his way to his seat at the back of the class.
Plopping onto the creaking wooden chair, he dropped his bag and placed his head on the table.“It’s just a few hours of school, then I can be free,” he told himself, an attempt at reassurance.A few seconds later, the low murmuring resumed.“Omo! Imagine say we dey there that day. We for don die!” a voice came from beside him, followed by loud laughter.
Michael froze in his seat.“Ah! If na me dey there that day, I for dodge the trailer o. E no fit hit me. I go just dodge am fast fast” came another voice, followed by more laughter.Michael felt something familiar bubble up in his chest. Rage.He knew the feeling so well, because, ever since that terrible incident, he’d felt often.
At himself, and at the world.What were those idiots saying? They shouldn’t joke about something like that!Blood pounded in his ears as he fought to keep calm. He’d fallen out with a student over something similar in the past and didn’t want the attention, but what these two boys were saying seemed to push past his fear of reprimanding or suspension.‘
One of my guys dey there that day. He talk say people body just scatter everywhere”“Remember that dark girl wey dey our class that time, the one wey dey do like say na only her know book, Fola abi Funmi – she dey there. I just dey think say that her brain wey know plenty book don scatter for road now”
Michael had heard enough.He rose from his chair, the sudden movement causing the wooden seat to scrape loudly on the cemented floor.The class went silent, and everyone turned to face him.With two strides, Michael walked up to the boy who’d made the last statement. His clenched fist rose and connected with his jaw, the unexpected impact sending the boy to the floor.
All hell broke loose.Blows were exchanged, bodies connected with the ground as the boys were entangled in a struggle, the rest of the students began to cheer, hyping the boys and already betting on who was going to win.
By the time a teacher ran in to pull the boys apart, Michael’s nose was broken, and the other boys had blood dripping from their faces from cuts and a purple bruise was already forming on one of the boy’s forehead. “What is going on here? Are you animals?” the teacher, whose name Michael couldn’t be bothered to remember, bellowed.
“Sir! This Michael na animal! Me and Jide dey on our own, he come dey fight us. He don crase true true!” one of the boys cried out with a wild expression, his eyes wide with anger.“Shut up! Why are you speaking like that in this school, you useless i?iot! And you, why did you do that? Is this what you learn from home and come to display here?”
The teacher turned to face Michael, whose chest heaved with heavy breaths as he struggled to regain rhythm. His eyes glued to the floor.He didn’t say a word, causing the teacher to yell at him more. Students stood by watching the scene unfold, some whispering that perhaps he had lost it.
Michael didn’t care, and he didn’t regret raising his fist to the jaw of that foolish boy. He deserved it for talking about her that way.After fruitless attempts to get him to speak, the teacher ordered the three boys to go to the principal’s office and remain there until they were called.“
All thangergero boys sef, I don’t even know how I ended up working in this school,” Michael heard the teacher murmur as they filed out of the class.Students from other classes, who had come to see what all the commotion was, scattered back to their respective classes once the boys and the teacher came out.
The teacher yelled at them to return to class and to stop turning the school into a war zone.Michael walked obediently towards the principal’s office, the two boys behind him whispering insults and threats. He didn’t notice the girl who stood, staring at him.
Michael knew he had made a mistake. He knew he had acted out and would most likely be suspended from school, but even as he made his way past the classes, he knew he would do it again…for her.As they entered the empty principal’s office, he allowed his mind to fill with memories of the girl whom he’d done this for, the unlucky one who should have been there with him today.
Fola.Even as her beautiful smiling face came to mind, he couldn’t help but crack a smile.She was the most cheerful person he had ever met. After coming from a broken home where everyone yelled and scowled at each other, it was like a breath of fresh air meeting Fola, who saw light in everything and everyone.
One thing that always amazed Michael about Fola’s personality was her ability to find joy in every situation. Before they became friends, Michael thought Fola’s parents had made a mistake by enrolling her in a public school, he thought she was too smart to attend a school filled with kids from the deepest parts of rural Lagos.
But to his surprise, befriending her made him realise she wasn’t that different from most of them. The one thing that made her stand out was her active positivity, and of course, her smile. Michael always thought God had blessed heespeciallyly with it, and it was a good thing she put it on display all the time. But now, Michael and the rest of the world wouldn’t see that smile ever again, and it was all because of that horrible day.
Michael didn’t want to think about the incident, but he couldn’t let good memories of Fola in without letting in the dark memories. He hadn’t learnt how to block that yet.Although Michael’s body was fixed on a seat in the principal’s office, his mind began to transition into that day, exactly a year ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~That morning, Michael had an exam. Exam season was like hell to him as he had to spend the duration studying subjects he found extremely boring – excluding English. He couldn’t wait for the exams to be over so he could finally have a break from school, even though he was going to miss Fola, the girl he’d managed to develop a hard crush on since the previous year.Ignoring the yells coming from his family members at all corners of their two-bedroom house (He’d come to understand that part of his family’s problem was their size. Five bickering children with their unhappily married parents living in a two-bedroom flat wasn’t something to be cheery about)
He dashed out of the house and headed to school, navigating pedestrians, tricycles and motorbikes along the busy road. He glanced at the watch his father had given him as a birthday gift and saw that it was 7:50.
He had to be in school in the next ten minutes in order to avoid any punishment, so he picked up the pace and eventually broke into a jog.He entered the school gates at exactly 7:59.
The day went by quickly. He and the other students sat down for their respective exams and before they knew it, the bell rang for closing of the day.Michael hadn’t seen Fola that day, so the first thing he did was look for her once school was out.
He immediately spotted her with her best friend, Sewa. Sewa was nice and a loyal friend to Fola, he and she got along fine.Fola spotted him as he approached them and flashed her million-dollar smile.
“Michael! How are you? How was your paper today?’ she asked with a genuinely curious expression.Michael gave Fola and Sewa a brief explanation of his experience with the examination, prompting them to burst into laughter when he joked that he’d been scared he forgot all that he read and almost peed himself.
Everyone piled out of the school gates, laughter and chatter filling the dusty air. Michael was glad to walk with Fola, even though he knew once they were outside, they’d have to go their separate ways home.
Micheal had a feeling Fola knew he liked her, and sometimes he suspected she had mutual feelings towards him, but he never made any move because he knew it wouldn’t go anywhere. He was satisfied with the privilege of just being friends with her.
They talked about the holiday which was approaching and Fola was talking about how she was happy she would be able to hold more tutorials for the children in her neighbourhood. Her selfless actions always managed to amaze Micheal and made him like her even more.“
Fola and Michael, please wait for me at the school gate, i just remembered i forgot my textbook in class” Sewa suddenly told them before turning back the way they came.Fola continued talking and greeted some students as she and Micheal walked towards the gate.
The school compound was huge, large enough to hold a standard football match, so it took a couple of minutes to walk from the school building to the gate.By the time Fola and Micheal got to the school gate, students had piled out in groups and were preparing to cross the busy road.
Micheal and Fola stood near a group of girls who were laughing and talking loudly.“I wonder how the next class is going to be. We’ll be in SS2, almost done with secondary school” Micheal said.
He preferred listening to her speak rather than say anything, but he knew it would be strange if all he did was stare at her and watch her speak.Fola smiled and nodded her head in agreement. The road was busy today but as they stood there, it began to clear up slowly and soon, it was free. Sewa was taking long getting whatever she left behind, but Micheal didn’t mind a few more minutes with Fola. She was an intelligent speaker and was passionate about History and Literature, so she always had a story to tell. She was speaking about the story of one George Washington of America when Michael heard someone call out to him.
He turned around to see his classmate standing on the other side of the gate. “I’m coming, let me see what he wants” he excused himself from Fola, a move he would come to regret in the days that followed.Micheal headed towards his classmate, but all it took was two seconds for his world to turn upside down.
Literally.
Before he could comprehend the events, Micheal felt his body launch off the ground, and with a hard impact he connected with the ground. His ears rang as pain shot through his body.
Then came the screams. Or the screams came before his entire body connected with the floor. He could hardly understand what was going on.
Michael forced his eyes open and turned his head slowly to meet the image that would haunt his dreams for the following months; it was a bloody arm, disconnected from its owner.He blinked to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.It was still there‘Fola! Was she alright? What was going on?’ his head spun as he tried to gather strength to stand, but it was like his whole body had shut down. He registered the sound of an engine behind him and managed to turn around in time to see a white truck roar off, leaving behind a cloud of toxic white smoke.
The screaming. Michael had never heard anything so banshee-like. It rang in his ears, but all he focused on was finding Fola.“Michael! Michael!” the shouting had gotten closer. He turned his head to see Sewa’s horrified face, before realising she was trying to pull him up to his feet.“Fo… Fola. Where is she?” he managed to let out.
Micheal had never felt pain like he did in those moments trying to stand. It felt like his whole body was on fire.“I thought she was with you? Micheal, wasn’t she with you?” Sewa was hollering and Michael couldn’t take it. If Fola wasn’t with Sewa, then where was she?
His vision began to clear up, and he began to see the ghastly sight before him.The crimson liquid spilled in different places all around him made his stomach churn.Not just the red stream that decorated the floor, bodies were everywhere.It was horrible. These students had just been standing with him, how was it that their bodies had become separated on the cemented floor?
Micheal’s head pounded, as well as his heart. He struggled to push past the pain raging throughout his body. He needed to find Fola.He glanced around, dread building up in his chest.‘No, Fola can’t possibly be among them’ he thought.“Micheal stop! She’s gone!”
Sewa’s agonized voice pierced through his racing thoughts.He turned to face her and for the first time, he noticed the pale expression on her face. But he didn’t care. And what was she saying about not finding Fola? She was her friend! Why wouldn’t she want to find her?
Micheal ripped his hand from Sewa’s hold, consciousness now returning in full and he now began to register the screams from other people – students and passerbys. Everyone had gone ballistic, frantic and yelling at each other.
Micheal plunged towards the spot he and Fola were standing just seconds ago. He ignored the puddles of the scarlet liquid pooling out of the bodies on the floor and looked around to see if he could identify Fola.And then, he saw it.Lying on the road, was a bracelet made of blue wool. He recognised it immediately – it was Fola’s. He could barely make out the letters of her name on the white beads used to design the bracelet. He recognised it because he was there when Sewa gave it to her for her birthday. Her happy face when she saw it flashed through his memory.‘
No!’Micheal tore his gaze from the blood-stained bracelet and looked around for more evidence of his friend’s existence.“
Michael, get out of there! She’s gone!” Sewa was screaming at him, tears streaking down her face.Micheal shook his head.He was about to take a step further into the horrific scene before he felt hands drag him away.He screamed and thrashed and begged them to let go, but they didn’t.They didn’t let him see her, even if it was one last time.
The door to the Principal’s office burst open, pulling Michael out of the nightmare he had just gone through for the umpteenth time.He sighed and raised his head.
THE MOTHER
When people tell me they’re sorry my daughter died, what passes through my heart is either appreciation or resentment.
Hate is for the ones who go ahead to tell me they understand. I want to ask them right away if they’ve ever lost a child, the only one that you carried in your womb, the only one who’s been with you ever since you gave her life. I want to snap at them and slap them and tell them they can never understand, but I don’t. I never do.
It would be ‘dramatic’ or even worse, they’d ask if I was the first to lose a child. So, I seal my lips and smile solemnly like I’m supposed to.The day I got the call, I was cooking Fola’s favorite soup – Egusi. My baby girl hadn’t been feeling too well that morning, but because she had a test, she insisted she went.
I knew there was no stopping her. I made that soup with all my love, waiting for her to return, but she never did.
From the year she learnt how to read, I knew I had a brilliant daughter. She always made me proud when it came to academics. As a single mother who was barely feeding herself and her child, it brought me immense joy each time she came home with her report card, beaming with joy. She knew it made me happy to see her be the top of her class.
Besides being a smart girl, Fola was selfless. Some of the kids in our neighbourhood came by the house every Saturday and Sunday to learn from her.
She taught them Mathematics, a subject I hated while I was a student myself, but here was my daughter, teaching other children.Everyone loved her, children and adults. So, don’t blame me if I sometimes sit down and question why she was taken away from me in such a cruel way.I couldn’t even bear to identify her body, so her biological father had to do it.
Kunle came from Ondo state where he lived with his wife and family to identify his daughter’s dead body. In a way, I was glad he got to do it, it was a way of punishing him for not being involved in her life. His expression when he came to our apartment told me it wasn’t a forgettable experience.
Since she died, I wasn’t the same. Other victims’ parents could say the same.
It wasn’t just my Fola who lost her life that day, but other students had been so unlucky to be hit by the idiotic truck driver who ran them over.The nerve of that man to run away after ripping children away from their families. Thankfully, he was caught before he managed to get away.
The public almost burnt him, or so I heard. Later on, I heard he was arrested, but the people set the truck on fire as a warning to other truck drivers.I wanted to laugh when I heard they burnt the truck. What good did that do? My Fola was gone.
Families had been destroyed. How did burning a non-living object justify their lives being snatched away from them at such an early age?
It’s been exactly a year since she died, and everyday, I miss her terribly.I realise I’ve been sour to people close to me, especially Mide and her daughter, Sewa. Yes, I felt angry that instead of Sewa, it was my girl who died in such a violent manner.
For weeks, I had nightmares of the accident; her fragile body being crushed by the impact of the moving truck.I was a terrible person for wishing that, and an even more terrible human being for saying it to Sewa’s face, but grief makes you do unimaginable things.
I pushed myself off my bed and went outside. I glanced around the vile compound where I’d lived for the past ten years with my daughter. It had been bearable because she’d been with me, but now, all I could see was its filth, and it repulsed me.
I raised my head to meet the gaze of someone I hadn’t expected to see. I blinked. It was Sewa.“
Good morning, ma” she greeted me with a hopeful look. She stood nervously, it looked as if she had been standing there for a while.Right then, I knew I had really messed up.Sewa never called me ‘M a’, she either called me ‘Mummy Fola’ or ‘Miss Adesola’.
I stared at Sewa, the girl who’d spent half her childhood with my daughter. Right up till Fola’s passing, they were inseparable, and so were myself and Sewa’s mother. We’d bonded being the only single mothers on the whole street, defending each other in the presence of condescending wives and looking out for each other in any way we could.
Mide was the first real friend I ever had. I respected the fact that she was educated and taught her kids English, which made them speak different from other children in the neighbourhood.
We were the type of friends to feed each other’s children and eat together, but death tore us apart in the blink of an eye.I remember the look on Mide’s face when I screamed in her face that it should have been Sewa who died that day. I regretted it immediately, but the hurt and grief seemed to boost my pride as I didn’t apologise and let her walk out without a word. We never spoke again after that.
Seven months ago.Looking at her daughter now, I realise I pushed away the only people who could have helped me out. I knew it was a long stretch at being forgiven, but I was going to take the first step, for her.“Good morning, Sewa.” I gulped. “How are your mother and brother?”
Nasir Aijaz, based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh province of Pakistan, is a senior award-winning and Gold Medalist journalist having served in the field of journalism for half a century in senior positions like editor and managing editor. He also worked as a TV Anchor for over a decade and conducted some 400 programs besides appearing as analyst in several current affairs programs on TV and Radio channels. He is the award-winning author of ten books on history, language, literature, travelogue, translations from English literature, and biography. One of his books, a translation of poetry of an Egyptian poet, has been published in Cairo. About a dozen other books are unpublished.
Besides, he has written over 500 articles in English, Urdu and Sindhi, the native language of Sindh. He is editor of Sindh Courier, an online magazine and represents The AsiaN, an online news service of South Korea with regular contribution for eleven years. Dozens of his articles have been published in South Korea while many of his articles have also been translated in Arabic and Korean languages. Some of his English articles were published in Singapore and India and Nigeria. He writes poetry in his native language Sindhi as well as in English. Some of his poems have been translated in Hindi, Bengali, Tamil, and Malayalam, Albanian, Italian, Greek, Arabic and some other languages published in Egypt, Abu Dhabi, Iraq, Bangladesh, India, Kosovo, USA, Tajikistan, Greece, Italy, Germany, and some other countries. He has visited some ten Asian countries and attended international seminars. He was adjudged one of the Top 20 journalists of Asia by a Philippines-based magazine. He has received several appreciation certificates from international organizations for his literary services.
