Solitude

<p>How do we contemplate solitude?</p> <p>With silence, hands cradling chin, eyes staring into space in an empty room without articles of interest, an atmosphere of quotidian existence of devotion to matters of the heart?</p> <p>The matters of the mind, perhaps, might be a more fitting description. The heart is often misconstrued as software; it is rather a fist-size muscle lodged in a rib-cage compelled to whip the body into inevitable exhaustion. The mind is the place of memories, the parlour of thoughts, the hacienda of imaginations, the bedroom of introspection, the bar room of puzzlement. The go-to place when confusion dares one’s sanity, when insecurities threaten, when decisions are to be made, when expositions are to be grieved.</p> <p>Here at <em>Saraba</em>, it might have sufficed to approach the “Solitude” issue as a blank document made available for download. We could have made our readers write their remarks on solitude. Self-help. Solitude is best experienced not read about—silence makes home in the crevices of the mind, not outside it.</p> <p>Find here a cache of short poems and short stories from promising writers from Africa, writing in Africa. Follow them as they grapple with different phases of solitude: from avulsion of romantic partners to a search for solitude that leads to a brief stint in a mental institution. And in your solitary experience, while you grasp at the realities of others, ask yourself what it means to be alone.</p>