Trenches of Flame by Shalom Mawonou The night was bitter with smoke. The air, thick with the metallic stench of blood and scorched metal, making it hard to breathe. Private Malakai Yared crouched low in the trench, rifle slung over one shoulder, Bible tucked inside his fatigues. The enemy had shelled their unit relentlessly for three days. Supplies were low. Morale was lower. Men muttered about desertion, others about madness. But Malakai—he burned with something else. “Still reading that old book, preacher boy?” Corporal Janik scoffed as he passed. Malakai didn't answer. He had been called "preacher boy" since boot camp, but not because he preached—he didn’t. Not yet. He was silent, watchful, strange to many. But inside, something had begun to stir since that night under the broken church roof two weeks ago, when a presence more real than the war wrapped him in fire and whispered, “You are light. Shine where it’s darkest.” He had s...
Ashes of the Burning Girl by Umoru Mustapha Sunday mornings in Lagos were always loud. Car horns screamed over gospel music. Women in gele argued with bus conductors. Street preachers clashed with roadside vendors over who had the right to be louder. But inside me, it was quiet. It always was. I walked behind Daddy, three steps, like always. Bible in my hands, too tight shoes biting my toes, the hem of my dress brushing the dust from the pavement as we entered Victory Tabernacle. I didn’t speak. I never did. Not unless I was praying, or alone. Mummy’s voice rang out ahead of us. “Chioma, the soprano is flat again! Tighten the mic. And where’s the incense oil? Not the olive one—yes, that bottle.” Daddy raised his hand in greeting as members called out “Daddy G.O!” and “Man of God!” like he was a celebrity. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Either way, I stayed in his shadow, just the pastor’s daughter. Quiet, present, and invisible. The church was packed—overfull, as always. Bo...