Little Young Thing




Soft to a touch.





A gift.

Can’t help but keep on touching her.


I hold her close to my ears.

And whisper little nothings.

And she speaks my truths.

She calls out my name softly in the night and early in the morning.

She tells me soft tales.

And sweet white little lies.

And she knows how to kiss these silly lips.

I just mouth my desires.

And my command is her wish.

She has become my drug.

And I am a delirious addict.

I share my secrets with her.

She knows all about my little foibles.

So regal.

So legal.

Affectional soliloquy she bears.

I’m in love.

I’m in love with a young little thing.

She has become the other woman.

My smartphone.


Running on android system.

5 megapixel camera.

An incredible music player to sooth I.

High resolution display.



Loads of great applications.

Sadly I might have to stop this relationship.

My better half is not greatly amused by this little young thing.

I can easily tell from the evil eye she casts upon my little nymph.

A fine mistress without stress.

There she goes.

A young little thing.

Sexy as ever.

My smartphone.

This Nokia dreary thing won’t bewitch me.

It won’t be able to steal my imagination like the way that young little thing did.

My smartphone.

My young little thing.


©2012 Ayoub Mzee



The Brown Envelope

Clutched tightly,
Held closer to a heart
Like an eternal embrace
And never letting go for a moment
Is the brown envelope.

What mysterious contents does it hold?
I ask quietly.
It is a matter of life of death,
The answer is whispered silently.
This brown envelope you see here,
May hold results of a medical test, HIV or cancer or flu maybe.
This brown envelope may hold
In it’s belly share certificates.
The brown envelope contains  land title deeds.
This brown envelope indeed does house the college transcripts.

Such a cheap paper should house so grand secrets is a wonder. Tattered and worn out but the brown envelope is the custodian of mighty truths and treasures. The brown envelope.

© 2012 Ayoub Mzee

Wake Up

You must wake up.
Time has given birth and has breathed your need. This is the time for you to open your eyes and experience the seasons’ passage. This land is not foreign to you and instead has known you intimately. These people have sheltered your want. But the time has come for you to wake up and experience the urgent calling that the dark African night can never hide. Wake up.

Your eyes might be wide open
But you are dead asleep.
Dead asleep to the aspirations of your land and it’s people. This sun- kissed and wind swept land longs for your adept hands, to till and nurture and give forth unlimited harvests. Your people needs you back home. To guide, lead and usher a new era. You went and slept in a foreign land son.
A land that doesn’t and will never know you like the way this brown earth knows you back here.
You left wide open skies back at home. Skies that housed your stars and dreams. But those skies in a foreign land only house beastly skycrappers devoid of a soul. Wake up my daughter.

©2012 Ayoub Mzee


Hoovering mid air and unspoken.
Cloaked in transient thoughts.
Sailing in mysterious seas.
Flying in uncaring skyscape.
Unseen and unheard.
They are your words.

To comfort and sooth.
To hold closer and inspire.
To cherish and nurture.
To banish fears in comely way.
To be a witness in eternity.
These are my words.

© 2012 Ayoub Mzee

A Subterfuge.

Stumbling in a certain labyrinth of muttered thoughts,
A belle quips some love chimes.
Tapered feelings bluster cajoled agendas.
Wisps of spent verve surreptitiously eye a need.
Nymph’s lucid eyes invite a lost and loaned desire.
To mount this pedestal she promises.
A valley wet with good seed to harvest for future generations is the idyllic
conversation she whispers in an eager ear.
Flaring ambition to conquer a relentless soul is a just stipend paid.
A veil hinders beguiled touch of purchased intimacy.
She refuses.
Simmering hunger sears sturdy loins.
A need is susceptible to wicked flirts.
Longing is ubiquitous and love is scarce and scared.
An acquitance salvages a dilapidated heart.
She steals the pain in debauchery.
It is her prerogative.
Inchoate ire humbles an irate id.
See the vaunted feminine wiles?
How do a soul extricate itself from a subterfuge likes this?

© copyright 2012 Ayoub Mzee