The Writer Competition: Week 3 Entries

Three more writers – Sibbyl White, Ezinne Zara and Prince Jacon Osinachi – were evicted from the competition after the second week on our Eviction Show.

The entries for Week 3 of The Writer Competition are up. The theme is Speculative. Below are excerpts of all the 6 stories and you can read them all from HERE.


Uju’s mouth was drier than the cracked road to the dibia’s hut. The thump-thump-thump of her heart was louder than the radio combined with her husband’s singing. She ran one moist palm over her wrapper. Then another. Lather, rinse, repeat.

At the back of the car, the nylon bags of things that the dibia had asked them to bring were rustling.

“Darling can you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The bags. They are making noise, as if wind is blowing them.”

“Maybe the dibia is blowing them to make sure everything is intact.” He laughed.

Uju did not know how somebody could be laughing, when his life was about to change forever. Actually, she knew- it was because he was not aware, that his life was about to change.

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(No Room for the Dead)

Vinjeru began to shake. “Uncle-”

“Hush!” snarled Uncle Mike. He nodded towards the men in the driveway entering their black patrol hovercraft. When their Glider rose above the ground, Uncle Mike closed the door and locked it.

Uncle Mike glared. “Don’t give us away!” he growled. “Unless you want them to take your grandmother.”

Vinjeru looked down.

Uncle Mike marched through the circular dining room, up the spiral staircase to the bedrooms. Vinjeru’s heart drummed in his chest to the beat of his rising panic. The mourners were groaning next door, some calling out his grandfather’s title, Sekuru. So much had happened since his father’s father had breathed his last, and it wasn’t over…

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(How (Not) To Train Your Alien)

Agck. It makes an expression I cannot decode.

Describe it.

It crooks an appendage on its forelimb and wags it back and forth.

I scan the database and get a translation for the gesture.

It means “Come here”.

Oh. There is a long pause.


I’m approaching.

Wait! Does it have long strands on its head, or two particularly pronounced muscles on its torso?


Are its emotions mixed in a mush, or can you perceive them clearly?

They’re clear.

Okay, okay. I say. That’s not female. You may approach.

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(The Genesis Project)

A little girl opened the door slightly, mouthing a silent hello before a voice started to scold her. A lump formed his throat as his eyes met hers, so like his; or rather his were so like hers:  a beautiful blue she had inherited from her mother’s German roots.

He could not believe he was staring at her now. His heart beat faster, and he fingered the watch in his coat pocket.

“Angela, how many times have I told you not to open the door at night?”

The door opened wider to reveal the owner of the voice.

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(The Passenger)

The three astronauts were still buckled to their seats, broken and bleeding through their silver suits, faces twisted in terror. In the weeks after, Sandra would dream about those faces during the media frenzy that followed. And when she had discovered she was pregnant two months later, she was convinced the downed spacecraft and those frozen expressions had something to do with it.

What had the astronauts seen before they died? How did they die? Did the ship come down with something in it? Some alien intelligence? When she touched the crashed spaceship, had it somehow planted an inhuman seed in her?

Her boyfriend denied the pregnancy, of course. He couldn’t be the father.

Sandra was a virgin.

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(The Butterfly Effect)

“Kayode Akin, pack your things you are up for discharge today,” the nurse said. She looked at her chart and double checked to be sure she had said the right name. Kayode Akin the Paranoid Schizophrenia patient with the history of poor drug compliance shouldn’t be discharged after just two days on admission?

Double-checking it with the Matron would take an extra ten minutes, better to trust the Admin clearance list so she could get back to watching Telemundo at the Nurses’ station.

“Kayode,  grab your things,”.

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Vote for your favorite writer HERE

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