The 2025 Abebi Award in AfroNonfiction Shortlist
(in alphabetical order of title)
1.A Lineage of Mantles by Chisom Benedicta Nsiegbunam (24, Abuja)
2. Hold Me in Love, Hide Me in God by Chinwendu Queenette Nwangwa. (29, Abuja)
3. In The Name of God by Amira Abdul-Azeez (33, Kaduna)
4. Ka Rira Lorun by Sapphire Mclaniyi-Agbley (22, Ibadan)
5. ripe fruit by Ebibode Jojo (22, Port Harcourt)
6.The Miseducation of Good Girls by Chidera Udochukwu-Nduka (28, Anambra)
7.The Things I Inherited That Were Not Mine by Olabisi Bello (24, Lagos)
8. The Weight of Little Things by Tehila Okagbue (26, Lagos)
9.The Weight of Our Bodies by Nneoma Kenure (40, Diaspora)
10.There is a Bullet With Your Name On It by Erere Onyuegbo (24, Asaba)
11.Watching My Mother’s Hands by Oluwatobi Afolabi (31, Lagos)
A Lineage of Mantles
By Chisom Benedicta Nsiegbunam (24, Abuja)
You are your mother’s eleventh pregnancy, her eighth living child. The one she makes to lead the Rosary prayers every night, the one she loves to listen to, read out Bible passages and summarise Google research on her drugs. The one it pleases her to find whispering through Rosary beads before the altar at midnight.
Hold me in love, Hide me in God
by Chinwendu Queenette Nwangwa (29, Abuja)
What could possibly go wrong? At best, I would heal. At worst, things would remain the same till I found another skin I liked enough to slip into. I was not prepared for all the ways my life would change; all the ways learning to love myself and unlearning self- abandonment would shatter me; all the places I would have to go to on bended knees, humility forced into my bones.
In The Name of God
By Amira Abdul-Azeez (33, Kaduna)
It was then that I realized what it meant to be a witness. It was not just to see—it was to remember when everyone else wished to forget. It was to carry the echoes of those screams, the faces of those lost, the weight of truths that had no one left to speak them.
Ka Rira Lorun
By Sapphire Mclaniyi-Agbley (22, Ibadan)
The breeze from the window slipped in, cool against our hot faces, and for moment I worried about it carrying our laughter into the night and what neighbors would think about the mourning children. But for the first time, we were loud without fear. For the first time, we could fill the house with our joy. Zion had been set free.
Ripe fruit
by Ebibode Jojo (22, Port Harcourt)
I ache for that terribly. A self that is stretched into the large expanse of my body. To be led by an internal instinct to move. To not be paralyzed by the hyper-awareness of being seen. But what is my body if not uncharted territory? What is my body but a house with rooms I have never walked into?
The Miseducation of Good Girls
by Chidera Udochukwu-Nduka (28, Anambra)
I am thirty now. I speak about my body without metaphors, I ask questions without shame and I set boundaries without apology. Last month, my niece asked me why her body was changing, I didn’t reach for metaphors like lock and keys. I sat her down, looked her in the eyes and used the real words.
The Things I Inherited That Were Not Mine
By Olabisi Bello (24, Lagos)
When I think of inheritance now, I think of small freedoms; the freedom to laugh without permission, to rest without guilt, to cry without apology. I think of my mother, standing at the window again, this time not weeping but watching the rain fall as if it belongs to her.
The Weight of Little Things
by Tehila Okagbue (26, Lagos)
I feel goosebumps rise like small hills beneath my sleeve. The mention of your name and your mother’s makes me still for a moment, but I tilt my head in enthusiasm, listening as my mother continues to speak. She describes you: caramel skin tone, glass-like skin free of pubertal acne, glasses resting lightly on your nose—(I do not remember you needing a pair), and your eyes, the same soft brown.
The Weight of Our Bodies
By Nneoma Kenure (40, Diaspora)
The first time I was reduced to a spectacle, I was about twelve years old. My friend had decided she would have a party to celebrate turning thirteen. It had not occurred to me to embellish myself for the day…….
There is a Bullet With Your Name On It
by Erere Onyuegbo (24, Asaba)
We find out that we cannot lie to ourselves for too long. Something about the way we see the world is beginning to get calcified, hijacked, so, we try to fight back. We make resolutions every year to stay off the apps, to read so and so number of books. To write more, journal on physical paper, truly witness those in our lives. But we find out quickly that the screens are an appendage we cannot cleave ourselves from without pain.
Watching My Mother’s Hands
by Oluwatobi Afolabi (31, Lagos)
I Look at my hands, taking in the shape, colour and motion of them. They are hers, and they are mine. The memory she passed down has become a language, one I now speak fluently without her instruction. I learnt how to cook by watching my mother’s hands. When I cook, I am still watching my mother’s hands. It is how I remember, how I grieve, and how I love her still.