Africa, As We Know It - Hummingbird Journal
This issue engages with stories reanimated from memory, recaptured in the present and relived for the future. They propel explorations winding through busy streets, briefly stalling at intersections; before finally burrowing deep in our homes, perhaps to visit or dwell indefinitely. Or, peradventure, the scenic route is taken as they meander through markets, run in rivers, totter in trotros, never finding a resting place, continuously building momentum.
IN THIS ISSUE:
- In Conversation:
Ucheoma Onwutuebe
Winner of the O Henry Prize for Short Fiction and the Waasnode Fiction Prize. Her story ‘Man’ was shortlisted for the 2026 ALCS Tom-Gallon Trust Award.
- Fiction:
Fishing for Cats — Kehinde Winful (Nigeria)
Tate — Judith & Margaret Lombe (Zambia)
A Lie Is A Lie Is A Lie — Yeayi Kobina (Ghana)
Waiting On Agadez — Molara Wood (Nigeria)
- Poetry:
Groundnut shells — Ometere Ikpegor (Nigeria)
Imo River — Victor Ihechiluru Unachukwu (Nigeria)
Homeland Drumskin — Daniel Naawenkangua Abukuri (Ghana)
Tro-trouble — Caleb Morton (Ghana)
Saturday Shopping — Olivia Kayang (Ghana)
Ampe — Andrews Owusu Appiah-Kubi (Ghana)
Kejetia — Bohemianthoughts (Ghana)
- Creative Non-Fiction:
Wait For Me, Nwannem — Mercy Aseka (Kenya)
What Happened in Ghana — Sapphire Mclaniyi-Agbley (Nigeria)
- Hybrid:
How to Make Tatale (for City Girls) — Olivia Kayang (Ghana)
- Art/ Photography:
Homes We Carry — Reath Bol ( South Sudan)
I Know My Grandmother Through the Shape of My Head — Simon Bokor (Ghana)
The Great Sunset — Faisal Forever (Ghana)
Sunset on the beach — Bridget E. Agboyie (Ghana)
The Spirit of Kente — Jonathan Tetteh Nartey (Ghana)
Editorial
Fiction or storytelling is so powerful; that's why dictators gag free speech and throw writers in prison.
But what tethers us today? Willingly and unwillingly? Here, at Hummingbird, we turn to imagination as the answer and cradle it as mightily transformative.
Art
Creative Non-Fiction
What happened in Ghana didn’t stay in Ghana. In the late 90s, the woman packed her bag for the Christmas trip.
It is taboo to talk about death. It is believed that talking about death is like giving it your address, and death always finds its way. But in your final days with me, you spoke so much about death.
Fiction
Time, as his father had drilled into him, was a luxury one should not and could not waste because, unlike money, time lost could never be recovered.
Eid is almost here, and all we hear is subsidy and devaluation.
Life had been generous only in its cruelty to Ayo.
The two women watched each other—Abena, with furrowed eyebrows and Larinbanga, with chilling, wide, panicked eyes. What Abena saw, she had only watched a mother hen react that way when a hawk circled above her chicks.
Photography
What could’ve become a memory turned out to be a beautiful, unforgettable photograph.
The red sunset was the rarest I'd ever seen in my entire life.
Then, in April 2023, war broke out again. Once more, my family was forced to leave everything behind.
Poetry
A woman goes fetching fire wood: sees exit holes with woodworms’ rusty-brown eyes staring back.
Kejetia is a bazaar where cedis are swallowed. Be careful
The frail man from down the street asked for a wife and I saw my sister cry
For the Trotro, every surface is a road, every junction, a bus stop.
indeed every square metre between buildings, along streets, is a possible trading zone.
‘No sitting allowed!’ Says the MC at the community centre. Threat or invitation? Depends how long the drums have been waiting.
you bring nothing, only your empty bellies that demand filling