The document presents a collection of three flash fiction stories, each exploring complex themes of childhood, relationships, and trauma. The first story revolves around a young boy's innocent yet painful realization of betrayal that leads him to believe he has saved his marriage. The second narrative portrays a peculiar child grappling with her mother's abandonment, while the third features a girl's disturbing relationship with an elderly neighbor that culminates in self-harm, exposing deep psychological struggles.

1. Flash FictionShortlist2014
Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto/ Nigeria
Title:I SavedMy Marriage
That was mywife,Chiamaka,approaching.People thoughtherpuerileandnaïve butI deemedher
exquisite.She wasblitheandpermissive,carefree andlax.
We’dbeenmarriedforfive monthsthroughthe declarationsof ourparentsandotheradults.Iwas
sevenyearsoldandshe,justsix.Hermotherdeclaredhermywife because she’dbeenmyfavourite
playmate.Ineverknewherfather’sopinion.
We cherishedourunionandunderstoodthe unspokenwords,we alwayschose aspotaway fromother
playmatesonthose daysparentsallowedtheirchildrenplayoutside.Ididn’twantotherchildrenplaying
withmywife;she didn’twantthemeatinghersoup.
Duringone of those wonderfuldays,Icouldn’tfindher.She wasobviouslymissing.Iwasworried.
Jennifer,anotherplaymate hadstoppedlookingatme fromafar. She was standingclose now.
‘Come andhelpme grindthese leaves,’she pleaded.Asthey’dbe usedinhermocksoupcookedina tin
and eatenwithmouldedmud.
I had groundthe leaveshalf waywhenIsaw Chiamaka.I stopped.Myguiltstrickenface refusedmeeting
herquestioningeyes.She left.Ijustbroke ourmarital vows.
Later, I sawher withEbukawhodidn’t like sharinghistoys.Iwasdevastatedandjealous.Myheart
raced fasterthanmy toy-car.I feltdivorced.
I glancedat herperiodicallyall the whilebutshe neverlookedmyway.Iwaiteduntil playtime wasover.
Instantly,Ipickedupthe tinfor cookingandwentto her.
‘Take,I cookedthisforyou,’I mutteredwithstretchedarms.
She staredat me and collectedit.
‘Thankyou,’she replied,smiling.‘Seeyoutomorrow.’She enteredherhouse.Ismiled.Ijustsavedmy
marriage.
2
Flash Fiction Shortlist 2014
Irabor, Justin Ikhide / Nigeria
Title: These Words I Do Not Speak
The air shuddered in the overbearing silence.
“I know you’re probably thinking it’s your fault, Gare, but
mommy left because she wanted to, okay?”
Gare sat quietly on the edge of her bed. She was a most
peculiar child. Her class teacher had remarked on her last report card: She does not mingle with
other students, and
when her parents had read it, they had shared a hearty laugh.

2. “Of course, she didn’t mingle. She’s Gare!” her father had
laughed.
And he had laughed a little at first when he broke the news
to her. When he sat by her bedside and said, “Your mommy’s run away, Gare. She
didn’t even leave a note.”
It had been a most peculiar laugh, too. Gare hadn’t thought
it an appropriate thing to do, laugh while telling her that, but she was not
given to words.
In fact, she hadn’t said a word since she had been born
seven years ago.
“Drink your juice, Gare,” her father cooed and he rubbed her
hair affectionately. She took a sip, then a gulp.
Soon the cup was empty, and sleep wrapped pervasively around her like a bristly shawl.
“Go to bed,” he said, and he turned off the bedroom light.
What Gare didn’t know was that daddy had been under a
lot of stress lately, and that a long time ago, since before she was born, daddy had burned down
his foster home.
What she knew, however, was that her mother hadn’t run away.
She knew her mother was under a pile of earth in the backyard.
But she was not given to words.
3
Flash Fiction Winner 2014
Neema Komba / Tanzania
Title: Setting Babu on Fire
Why did you burn yourself, Ana? Sister Clara, the nurse at St.
Mary’s girls’ secondary school asked me, as two matrons tightly restrained me
to a bed in the school infirmary.
Babu told me to
set him on fire, I whispered with a shaking voice.
He said he wanted to feel the flames lick the folds of his wrinkled
skin like orange tongues. This morning, when I looked at myself in the mirror I
saw him again, the elderly neighbor with
wrinkled skin and no front teeth, wrapped in a blue quilt.
Sister Clara, with a big cross hanging on her chest, peered
at me from above her wire rimmed glasses as if her gaze would burn Babu’s soul
inside me.
I told her that Babu hated the cold, but I could tell that
she didn’t believe me. She thinks I am
crazy.
My mind drifted to a time when Babu found me in the outside

3. kitchen house stoking the fire. I was ten years old. The house was a round
brick hut with a single window, a door and a thatched grass roof. The inside
was mostly empty, with a single wooden hearth made of three bricks and firewood
that was sloppily arranged between the bricks. The walls were covered with black
soot, and the smell of smoke stung my eyes. Babu said he was cold, and forced
me to lick the folds of his wrinkled skin until he was warm. He said to touch
him until his skin was on fire. When he touched me, I burned.
A sharp needle startled me as it pierced through my scorched
skin. Noooo! I cried frantically as Sister Clara injected more liquid inside my
veins. Relaaax! She cooed, and my eyes slowly
dropped as I drifted off to a blazing oblivion.