The Facebook Account

He’s poked,
He’s tagged in photos,
He’s tagged in status updates,
He’s inboxed,
He’s sent game invitations,
He’s sent friend requests,
And like everyone else,
His wall is littered with,
Questions like,
“Where you @?”

He can’t poke back,
He can’t like your posts or photos,
He can’t accept your friend request,
He can’t comment on your post,
He can’t reply your inbox messages,
He can’t do anything,
He simply can’t.

For where he is,
There is no Facebook,
He is in heaven,
He is in hell,
We don’t know.
We only know that he passed on,
And it is over a year since he left us,
But his Facebook account is still on,
Bearing those photos of him with friends.
Sometimes his old status posts appears on my wall and it is usually such a queer  feeling…


© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013


Eight To Five Slavery

Please explain to her,
That it is no longer important,
Nor necessary,
To be comfounded,
In a dreary eight to five imprisonment,
In order to make it in life…

Tell her please,
The office,
Is no longer like what she used to know it before.
The office is everywhere nowdays.
Let her know,
That I never put on any suits anymore,
Yet I can make a livin’
Without the damned eight to five slavery…

You see,
Mama is adamant for me,
To get a proper job.
She has sent endless emissaries,
To urgue her case before me.
I’ve explained in million times,
But she won’t understand,
She won’t understand,
How I make it in this big city,
Without an eight to five slavery…

Explain to her,
Explain to her please,
That with the following wizardly,
I can make it big in this big city,
Without an eight to five slavery…

Google Mail,
Google Search,
My Space,
Aha mama,
they are too many…
These are tools that keep the eight to five slavery at bay.

These are my tools.
These are my ruses to muse.
I am a merchandise of thoughts.
I am a trader of concepts.
I am a creator of content.
The whole universe is my office.
I work in slippers,
I work barechested sometimes,
Nodding my head to the NeoSoul or some other strange music,
As you call it.
Mama, an eight to five slavery will curtail my freedoms…

I am a free soul mama,
Willing to fly anywhere,
Willing to think anything,
Willing to feel everything,
Willing to hear everyone.
Therefore mama,
This eight to five slavery thing,
Will kill me completely.
My spirit will be dead…
My soul will be gone…

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013

Phone Numbers


Excellent dinners.
Exciting outings.
Quality time spent together.
A movie here.
A night out there.
Yet he won’t ask her for her phone number.
Yet she would never be the first to ask for his phone number.

She was a proud woman,
She who never stooped low,
She who always had her way.
But this man,
This one fine specimen of a vital masculinity was a something totally different…

She swore never to ask for his digits,
She swore never to ask for his facebook, linkedin, skype, google+, twitter and netlog contacts… Never.

Yet she longed to hear his tantalizing voice.
Yet she wished to read his mind through the social websites interactions with other humanities…

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013