Desolate and tired.
Lifeless and beaten out.
Forgotten and forlorn.
Huggard and torn.
They lie down,
Not unlike in a defeated supplication position.
One sorry sandal lies upon the other sad sandal,
As if seeking for sad companionship.
Suddenly the door of the mud-walled hut opens, And it’s equally huggard occupant emerges out.
He wears a sour scrowl.
He harshly steps on the unfortunate sandals.
He curses under his breath,
As he roughly plants the sandals into his feet.
He proceeds to the latrine,
On an urgent mission.
These sandals are cursed,
He speaks to himself.
He always leaves them outside.
He is sure some witch uses them at night on some nefarious missions.
He has been having strange dreams.
He has been having strange ailments.
He must throw away these sandals before he dies or goes down with something nasty.
But he can’t.
‘Cause he does’t have any other pair of sandals.
‘Cause he’s got no money to buy any other pair of sandals.
And that is the sad story of the sandals…
© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013