Itanile is a literary brand that provides a platform for African writers to publish stories they want to tell about the African experience. We are committed to developing new audiences for African literature. We provide a storytelling platform that connects African writers with their readers
We’ve hosted and led impact-driven creative and literary projects through collaborative effort. Our global community is always growing to reach more and do more.
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Writing undoubtedly has become an essential part of storytelling. What we learn by observing the digital space in the twenty-first century is this: you need to know how to write. Politicians, event managers, athletes, grocery store owners, all of these people need content.
Here’s a compilation of training resources from our second installation of the Itanile writing workshop with Resoketswe Manenzhe @avatar_reso, and Kolawale Samuel Adebayo @officialpstkay (IG) & @samofthevoice (Twitter).
The poems traverse through dirges and nostalgia to arrive at a convention where love is a fleeting thing. The prose – the entire issue, even – beckon the reader to partake of whims, dreams, and dares.
This collection is free to download and run by a volunteer team, we would appreciate donations from you to keep our doors open throughout the year. Please donate here or message us: [email protected]
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The writers in this issue have taken the decision to shape the dialogue of the day by continuing to write. In doing so, these writers have opened new doors to all sorts of conversations about everyday living. They have also given us stories that make us gasp delightedly, cry and laugh. Such was my experience reading them. Through the stories, I was reminded of our shared humanity. I was also prompted to remember our complexities as humans. In the end, I found myself gaining fresh perspectives.
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Green has always been my colour for pain. My class teacher always grades our papers with a green pen, and each time I see my scores, the green stares at me, mocking, with the wicked curve of a D, or the sharp edges of an F. Nna Anyi was driving a green car when he...
Isn’t it funny how everything becomes urgent only when you have little time to do them? Think about it. That last project you stayed up all night to complete, only because you had a deadline to beat the next day. Having just two years to live feels the exact same...
The prophet has just finished tapping their foreheads. They have been slain in the spirit. The one girl confesses to being a lesbian and that the other girl also receiving a similar treatment is her partner. We watch on; nothing runs out of them, no sprites or demons...
Even though it was raining cats and dogs outside, he still heard the knocking on his door. That's how loud and insistent the person was. He tried to take a look at who it was through the peephole but it was too dark to make anything or anyone out. Nobody visited him...
They tossed them out of moving cars And quenched them with ease like cigars, Like water sachets with reckless abandon They cared not to notice or mention Our ideas, our passion and dreams And would not listen to the voice of reason. They did not consider the future...
He gave me an evil look. It was down the road to Suleja; through green and yellow corn fields. The shimmering sun cast her smile upon Zuma rock lighting up those two deep holes. Her shadow looked more beautiful than ever. I was lost in wonder. How blessed it would be...
The Irony of Hope There are many stories untold. Because of the power they hold. These tales are truths suppressed. That it may never free the oppressed. Lies painted beautiful, appeasing like libation. Citizens filled with pain and dereliction. They're left with...
Tell Nonso That We Are Looking For Him Her lips are moving; Her face is wet. The oil lamp is on the table. She can smell smoke in the air. Her hand quakes over the paper, spilling words. Some live, others are impaled by straight lines. There are many lines,...
Love Is The Religion They know love is the Religion. They know love is the ammunition for false affiliation. They despised its acclamation and joyfully embraced abomination. They understood love is an acceleration but they chose to align with affliction. They know...
Nomadic eyes Our skins seemed like sincere apologies of burnt victims A lifetime of not crying Tainted wombs that birthed fatherless royalties Kids who spend their lives searching for homes in isolated streets Deaf to her voice calling them back They are foreign to...
