The Lollipop

Tell her.
Tell her to throw that thing away.
That sweet.
That sweet thing.
She calls it a lollipop.
At this rate,
It might pop out of her mouth.
Her lips,
Are sucking the life out of the poor thing.
Those lips are doing crazy things to that thing.
She puts it in.
She pulls it out.
This way and that way.
She is making funny sounds.
She is feeding on its soul,
Sucking at it’s life’s juices.
Tell her to throw it away…
It is unholy union,
Making imagination,
Run amok,
With implied notions,
Nocturnal notions.
She is mouthing empty promises,
To all and sundry.
It is a blantant display of indiscretion,
And the poor bystanders,
Have become too willing voyuers,
Excitedly gawking at the cocky lass’ ritualistic endevours.
Once more,
Tell her to throw that thing away.
Ah. The lollipop…..

© Ayoub Mzee 2012


The Spirit

This spirit soars.

It soars beyond the skies.

It exists in the universe,

Holding the life force together,

Nurturing peace and prosperity.

It is our spirit.

It flows and touches the mountains, the plains and  the oceans.

It moves the souls and kisses warm kisses to glad hearts.

And the love is so deep and so wide, that it can never be depleted.

The spirit silently watches,

Quietly filling up the firmament,

With messages of hope,

Gently feeding a beatific existence.

It has healed us.

It has sealed us in an eternity of fortitude.

In yore,

The spirit existed.

And now it must flow again.

Amongst the humanity,

To experience a rebirth and a reassurance.

In candour, I gaze at the spirit, seeing with a heart’s eyes, things that the naked eye can never see.

Memories can never be effaced,

But will dwell more in this spirit.

An affectional demise, of easy vexations shall pass.

And bliss shall claim us.

The spirit clears a mental mire,

Penitent, for not knowing you earlier.

In reticence, we acknowledge, the fact of dear life.

The spirit is ours,

To hold us closer,

And infuse fused truth.

My spirit….

Our spirit…

© Ayoub Mzee 2012











Meet the Khanga.

An essential garment,

For most women,

Especially those from the Coast of East Africa.

A Khanga knows a woman’s body intimately.

It holds her body in a sure tenderness,

Caressing her tender skin ever so softly,

And ever holding her secrets firmly.

This is an adept piece of clothing,

Revealing just enough and highlighting the essentials of a beautiful body.

It is discreet, just as it is sexy.

It can be a formal affair or just informal, casual and relaxed.

It is a sheer joy,

To see how a body moves below the Khanga,

Hugging the essence of a woman,

Telling her sensuous story and narrating her raw femininity.

A good husband will always make sure,

That his woman doesn’t go without enough Khangas.

He knows and appreciates the beauty of this inherently African garment.

One moment,

It is a garment to wear to the market,

In another moment,

It is transformed into some exciting lingerie,

To tease and entice in equal measure.

Khangas come in-scripted with certain messages.

The message can praise, delude, admonish or be sarcastic.

If a woman is in love,

She could buy a Khanga written “Nimeshapona Mwenzio”

Literary meaning “I finally got what I wanted”

And if a woman is not happy with a fellow woman,

She would buy a Khanga boldly declaring “Ya Kwako Yamekushinda.Ya Kwangu Utayaweza” Meaning that if the woman in question cannot manage her affairs, How can she manage other people’s affairs?

Ah Khanga.

There she goes,

Embraced by the Khanga,

The woman of the homestead,

As she gets the water from the well,

Some splashes on her,

Making her skin wet,

And the Khanga clings to her body,

For dear life.

She and the and the Khanda fuse into one smooth and flowing movement,

A movement that stirs up a searing desire, a certain hunger.

And she knows the man of the house is watching her keenly,

Following her every move with his lazy eyes….

He makes a mental note,

To buy her another Khanga,

From the market.

© Ayoub Mzee 2012


Dawn comes,
Bit by bit and methodically.
She gently blows the night’s vestigies away.
In their place, she places the early sun’s soft golden rays.
A new day has just been born.
An eager heart is gladdened.
Blooming daffodils, lilacs and geraniums unfurls and embraces the morning’s freshness.
The flowers dot a dotting garden.
A butterfly, flies our hopes higher.
A Sunbird waxes lyrics of blessings to its creator.
We are together in this happy union.
Deep inside, certain goodness overflows to the brim of a soul.
Its a new day.
It will be a good day.
Certainly, it has dawned on us,
That a miracle has been performed.
What a dawn.

© Ayoub Mzee 2012

City Lights

Neon lights.
For eons.
LED lights.
RED lights.
Screaming electric blue.
Illuminating the city’s intrigues.
Lighting up the city’s rues.
Strobe lights.
Pays undue dues.
Darkness is scantly dressed.
And softly pressed on a teasing breast.
Carousing on a late Friday night.
Disco lights.
Are the city’s lights.
Rushed lusts.
Claims to last.
But just rusts.
Ah. city lights.

City lights.
Lights up a maddening euphoria.
Lighted up taxis.
Rides up latent desires.
Rides down potent rogue longings.
It is another night.
Brightly lighted.
Purchased joy.
Is the city’s light.
Hedonistic tendencies.
Go lucky miasma.
Sums up this wild feeling.
City lights beckons.
To allude.
And allude.
To certain lies and truths.
Ah. City lights.

© Ayoub Mzee 2012



Innocence is fused.
Innocence is confused.
Believing too easily.
Relieving too soon.
Green is the hue,
Of blissful ignorance,
Some greenhorn,
To be taken care of,
To be taken advantage of,
Humming tunes of regret.
Tones of remorse prevails,
And in equal measure,
To claim some dream.
Lies are swiftly mistaken for the truth.
Too gullible.
Too cunning.
No second thought to portend.
Didn’t know truth comes dressed up,
In various shades and garments.
Too sweet.
Too complying.
With a cunning fox.
In a cunning box.
A sole soul is sold for a song.
How sad.
Naivete kills…..

© Ayoub Mzee 2012


Price Tag

Prominently displayed,
And in bold letters,
So that you may not miss it,
The price tag.
There it is.
Seated smugly.
Boldly proclaiming to all,
The price for the product or service.
It is a straight forward business,
You pick and go,
At the right price.
But pray I ask,
What about those things that don’t  come with price tags?
How is the value determined?
What is the price tag for;

© Ayoub Mzee 2012