I am not a fan of endings. But beginnings…beginnings carry their own weight. They demand faith and a quiet, stubborn belief in what you are building. They also require a strong ingredient of hope. Hope that what you are beginning will matter to someone, somewhere. A hope that you would be able to build it from the inception to its beginning.
When this idea for this journal came to me, I questioned everything. Does the world need another literary journal? The answer came in the quiet of the night while I was knee-deep in writing. Yes, we do. Especially here, in Ghana. And that was all I needed: this mandate to give Ghanaian writers a home. Because our stories are still often misunderstood, flattened to fit a certain narrative, or ignored. Because we deserve to read ourselves in our fullness—messy, complex, luminous, whole. Because the current and next generation of Ghanaian storytellers deserve a birthplace for their words. And that, that is what The Hummingbird Journal is about.
So, why Overture?
Because every movement needs a beginning, that first swell of sound that hints at what’s to come. In an orchestra, the overture is the piece at the beginning of an opera, play, etc, that gathers everything: tension, melody, anticipation. It opens the curtain. That’s what this issue feels like—a collective first note. Each poem, essay, and story carries something new. A search, a rediscovery, a refusal to be reduced to a single story.
In editing these pieces, my team of Editors and I were reminded that beginnings are not always easy, but despite all the challenges we faced, together we have achieved something remarkable that we can be proud of. And it only gets better from here.
This journal would not exist without a team that believes as deeply as I do. To the editors who read with heart, to the contributors who trusted us with their work, to those who whispered, ‘You can do this, ' thank you.
Overture is our beginning. Our first flight. We intend to fly as high as we can. If you’re reading this, thank you for being part of this. Stay with us. The music has only just begun.
This is what the editors have to say about the pieces in this issue.
Curating this selection of poetry was a real joy. While there were some excellent pieces we had to turn down, we are so proud to publish this rich mix of bold, brilliant work: ‘Nightbloom Is A Kind Of Recipe’, which is an exceptionally toothsome use of structure and metaphor to unpack identity; ‘My Father Has Gone Mad’, brave and brutal in its use of imagery to denounce domestic abuse; and ‘Why We Dream In Black and White’, a day-in-the-life poem that is exquisite in its simplicity wit. All of them, uniquely narrative-shifting.
— Nana T. Baffour-Awuah, Poetry Editor.
‘We Hunger' is an invitation to think beyond harsh conditions and to celebrate the resilience and joy that persist even in the face of adversity. This poem reflects on how, despite life’s chaos and uncertainty, Ghanaians continue to find strength, laughter, and meaning in their daily lives.
‘From Tamale to Tema Station’ celebrates the everyday rhythm of taking life one day at a time as we strive for the best. Even in moments of uncertainty, we hold on to possibilities. It explores finding friendship, building solidarity, and creating community, even amidst differences.
I think we can highlight the Ghanaian (African, if you ask me) spirit of finding joy in the midst of chaos and living in the moment as we hold onto hope for the future. The way I see these two poems shifting narratives is how the Western view of Africa is solely based on sad stories about hardship and poverty. These poems force us to take a break and see the little roses on thorny paths and the silver lining in the gloomy clouds as we wait for rain (Wait, I'm beginning to sound poetic!! haha)
Well, that's it. Excited about this collection.
— Mariam Mohammad, Poetry Editor
We were enthusiastic about the tone and message of 'We Are Not Immune', with how it wasn't afraid to bare open taboos and painful truths but did so in the name of hope and change, and we found it cogently structured and interesting. Moreover, the movement between commentary on wider Ghanaian culture and specific or personal examples was well executed and emotionally compelling.
— Emma McDonald, Creative Non-Fiction Editor.
Brave. Daring. There’s movement in this essay—hands raised, voices shaking the silence. It dares to confront what many avoid, naming a struggle Ghanaians often bury beneath prayer and composure. As though the silence has grown too heavy to carry, this writer sets hers down—to show us why we must set down ours too.
— Richard De-Graft Tawiah, Creative Non-Fiction Editor.
I chose this piece because I loved the voice; it feels fresh, daring, and unapologetic. It challenges the status quo and highlights themes that invite us to have very important conversations. All my senses were engaged while reading; the writer’s use of sensory detail makes the piece vivid and endearing. It’s bold, audacious and thought-provoking. I read it through a lens that seeks to challenge the status quo and stir still waters, and this story does exactly that. It’s the kind of proactive conversation-starting work that feels perfectly suited for this issue.
— Nasiba Mbabe Bawa, Prose Editor