Lessons From Bitcoin, Tulip Mania & The Nigerian Stock Market


Everyone wants more money: beggars, students, thieves, workers, billionaires—everyone. Money determines the choices available to you, the places you can live and the things you can or cannot do. So humans are always trying to get more money, more resources. Economists call it the law of unlimited wants. Humans always want more and our want is insatiable.

To get more money, we do a variety of things: we work, we steal, we beg. But more honourably, and sometimes more successfully, we invest. Investments have the ability to change people’s financial futures and lift them out of poverty. Businesses providing goods and services have done this for the longest time, but the paradigm has shifted to show that that the most important investments are those that require your time or supervision, the ones where your money works for you.

Enter real estate, commodities, the stock market, forex trading and most recently, cryptocurrencies. These investment avenues offer a return that does not depend on your time or effort, but invest in the right one at the right time and you will be rich—or at least richer—than you would have been without the investment. Great idea, except when such investments fail: when the real estate market crashes, when the forex trade does not yield, when the price of a commodity (e.g. crude oil) plummets, and when a cryptocurrency’s value crashes.

Read the full article on Global Voices, here



Top ten literary magazines to send very VERY short flashes



Some say the Internet shrank our attention spans. I say… What was I saying? Oh, sorry about that. I was putting the finishing touches on a very, very short piece of prose that I’m writing. It’s about two hundred words long. It’s so short that its language outshines its plot. That’s what makes very short prose similar to poetry. Similar, but not identical. Whatever you call them–flash fictions, sudden fictions, micro-stories, or prose poems–ultra short prose pieces are thrilling to read. It’s their ambition. They enfold the world with tiny hands.

I classify my own quickie thrill-rides as crosses between flash fiction and narrative poetry. I call them “flash” for short. To me, the term “fiction” doesn’t exactly fit and does more harm than good. It freights my little works with a cargo of expectations more appropriate to the short story. A layered stack of expectations, in fact, with…

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10 best lit mags to send your flash fiction (and get happily rejected from)



  1. SmokeLong—Number one not just because the journal is dedicated to flash but because of the consistent quality of the flash they publish. Also, the weekly guest editors guarantee regular bumps of the old reset button so that tastes don’t stagnate. And finally because in a crowded AWP room full of circus style barkers at every table and no limit to the ego, meeting Tara, their primary editor, was like a calm zephyr breeze on a balmy day.
  2. PANK—Hey 520 Duotropers can’t be wrong, can they? And despite the fact that just about every hip up-and-comer has the PANK patch on their writer’s summer camp sleeve, the place knows how to spot and publish memorable flash. It doesn’t hurt to be a repeat offender on the Wigleaf top 50 list year in and year out either.
  3. Word Riot—Perhaps my favorite place to get rejected from. I have no…

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Tuesday Shorts: The Pigeon’s Nest – Sibongile Fisher

This story was written by an emerging award winning African writer, it is funny, smart, dark and deep. Read and share please.

Naane le Moya

My grandmother could bargain with death. She knew who was to die and it was always up to her to let them die or to trade their life for that of someone else. My turn came twice and both times she traded my aunt Mophi and my sister Limpho. Mophi was her least favourite child. She was not quiet and not shy but somehow unmemorable. Limpho on the other hand was sickly, she seemed the better one to die. When my grandmother found a dead pigeon on our doorstep she called for a family meeting. No one came— not even my mother—who lives two streets away. I don’t remember my mother’s face. She only contributes to my existence by showing up once every three years.

We are sitting under the apricot tree when the news of My Uncle Boy’s death came. He died digging for gold in an old mine…

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The Nigerian god

The Nigerian god
Worshiped from east to west, revered from north to south, called upon by the believer and unbeliever,
as fickle as her followers, twisted and turned by their imagination, powerless to change hearts or create repentance,
Blind to the evils done in her name, quick to give vengeance,
without scruple, doctrine or creed,
Guardian of the thief,
Guide of the oppressor,
Giver of revenge,
Custodian of curses
Created in the image of her own, changing everyday, recreated in every breath,mirror of the masses,
sand, wind and ashes,
Thunder, fire, lightning upon our foes.

My Precious ❤️


I’m staring at my most recent picture of him. I took it months ago when we were to the bank to get some papers sorted out.
I remember being really mad at him that morning. My anger stemmed from impatience. I was in such a hurry to go out get the paperwork over and done with, he seemed to be taking his sweet, precious time talking to the guy next door. (If only I’d known in that moment how important that conversation was.)
But as we sat across from each other in the bank, I couldn’t help but think of how precious he was to me. How his very presence at that time assured me that all would be well, regardless of what the account officer had to say.
So while he typed away on his phone, I decided I wanted to capture that moment and save it forever. I…

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