We Talked

We talked.
We walked.
We held a certain conversation.
In a certain dark night.
Darkness surrounded us.
Darkness swallowed us.
Darkness held us captive.
Our words floated in the dark night
Like jetsams of spent thoughts.
Yet we talked and walked together
In the dark night.

Your words sunk and settled deep in the heart.
I longed to steal a look on your face
But the dark night refused.
It was too dark to see anything.
Instead we talked and walked
Along the narrow path.
Talked about past things.
We talked of future things.
We shared our collective fears and hopes.
Maybe the distant stars heard our silent prayers.

Then finally we fell silent.
We stopped talking.
We almost stopped walking.
Suddenly there was nothing to speak of.
Instead the silent silence gave us a curious company, plodding us along the narrow path towards our undefined destiny while crickets and a million other insects murmured in a congenial agreement.

But I still remember that we talked.
But I still remember that we walked.
Many years ago..

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013


Movin’ Out

Movin’ Out

She sat in the front courtyard,
And watched silently,
As the neighbours moved house.
She saw a torn chaise lounge,
Aged with time,
And full of both warm and sad memories,
Being hurled into the waiting truck.
A tired bed was next,
Many a generous generations,
Had been sired,
Upon it’s wobbly legs.
An avalanche of various sad and worn out wordly possessions followed,
And were unceremoniously being heaped upon the old and wheezing truck.
Ah. Moving out…

Her neighbours were moving out of the run down neigbhourhood.
A place of shattered dreams.
A home of sordid existence.
A destiny of vicious circle of poverty.
A shanty townwship.
A place where no one lived.
A place where no one survived.
A place where people just existed instead of living,
Not unlike the forlon and unforgiving sordid structures,
That they called home,
That housed them grudgingly…
Movin’ Out.

She didn’t care,
To know where her neighbours,
Were moving to.
To her,
What mattered most was that,
Her neighbours had managed atleast,
To move out,
To escape,
From the tight grip,
Of this slum.
No one moved out.
The slum held you down,
Suffocating your dreams and will,
Killing your resolve and ambition,
With a determined efficiency…
The slum became you,
And you became the slum.
There was no moving out.
Movin’ Out it was then.

But her heart glowed with hope,
When she saw her neighbours,
Moving out.
She knew deep down,
That she too will move out one day.
she wanted to escape from this meaningless existence.
She dared dream of a better life,
Out there.
She deeply knew and believed that,
She too,
Would one day be a star,
And shine brilliantly,
In a dark night,
And upon the whole wide world…
Movin’ Out.
She will.

©Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013

Black Chroma

What ails you black hue?

For wherever a mortal sets foot forth,

You never cease to blight her path with a devastating precision.

You are an apparition, a mist in a gist of a single moment.

You’re an enigma who brutally refuses a description,

And your appellation is not easy to comprehend.

You are the dark angel,

Shimmering and simmering in your laconic chromatic black.


Colour black you are some mystery in which you cloak yourself in,

And peeling the layers of lies off you is a Herculean task.

You’re a silhouette of beings in darkness,

And whom you effortlessly sip life from mercilessly.

Yet in your mystery, you’re regal, and we bow in awe.

You inspire fear and intrigue.

Your wearer is a marked man. Your host is a marked woman.

For the black art and occult consult you.

You’re Gothic, chasing the shadows of life masked in a death promise.


You sing a dire dirge in a funeral,

And mourners must mourn in black.

Subdued in dark somber tones and moods,

The living are stifled of their right to leave or live.

The things you hide in your darkness are momentous.

In your unwarranted ornate fiesta of doom, we are but helpless jetsams

Of your unkind gesture in mocking dear life.

You beckon with a languid hand,

A flight to oblivion..


In the stillness of the night, you and the willing darkness

Engage in an obscene dance of intimate lovers,

Whose heart’s contents and dark desires they are familiar with.

In the night, they play lucid games of deceit and the owl is the umpire in this empire.

In the darkness, witches, thieves, murderers, villains and vampires find refuge,

She embraces them in an earnest hug of sure death.

The moon is a shy nymph, undecided lass bearing the gift of dark light

Who lie, conquered by the long shadows of tempests.

Oh Black hue, your symbolism is rich.

What hails you black hue?

© Ayoub Mzee 2012

Finding Home

As the sun raises and kisses a new life.
As the darkness wanes and welcomes a fresh life.
I move amongst my people, ardent at finding an abode.
Seasons defines time.
Their occurances a stamp of authority.
It is a transition of spent days onto new promises that heralds a heart in search of an atonement.
In firmed firmanent, the spirit soars in an ethnic cadency.
Home I have found.
To contain pain and breath joy is magic.
Pronounced and lingering wants promise I some home.
Honed hard feelings deny sweet langour.
I receed for I have found home.
Wildness couldn’t contain this sole soul.
Vast skyscapes feigned accomodation of a spirit.
The stars twinkled distant aspirations.
But it was never home. Home is this now moment.
The beating and breathing present time amongst my people,
welcoming and holding closer stolen victories.
I have found peace in counted pieces.
I have found home.

© 2012 Ayoub Mzee