How I long,
To escape from this concrete jungle.
How I wish to be far away from all this madness.
One day I will leave this city for good.
This city is polluted.
The air that we breath is dirty.
The water that we drink is dirty.
The food that we eat is dirty.
The city’s morals are dirty.
The people are dirty.
The money is dirty.
One day I will escape to the mountains.
I will be at home.

Fresh and crisp mountain air will  assail my nostrils with a certain goodness.
Its freshness will clear out the polluted city air from my lungs and brain.
I will exhale in a permanent moment.
Cool breeze will massage my battered skin.
The city battered my skin with endless and merciless hustles and bustles.
Crystal clear and clean water will wash away the city’s stench off me.
I will drink from the spring while the sun will be tenderly watching over me.
Fat cows will be lolling on endless leas,
Mooing lazily with contentment while watching I,
The caricature from the city, with a curious curiosity.
I will tend to the goats, sheep, poultry and the cattle with abandon.
I will eat fresh meat and drink fresh milk bottled at the source.
I will till the land and plant seeds and nurture the seeds to
Maturity and with a satisfaction watch the fruits of my labour.
I will hold the soil with my bare hands and smell in its rich scents of life.
I will walk in the wide and expansive fields and plains barefooted and
let my heart sing a song of freedom.
I will be at home.

And when the night comes,
Long after the sun has parted ways with the hills,
Long after the land has quietened down,
The thousand stars will herald in the regal moon,
Hanging over the side of the mountain while shining down on my dreams.
In a stillness of a moment,
I will silently gaze at the dark sky and trace my life across the universe,
And make a wish on a star. In the silver light,
I will sip at the potent home brewed beer and hold
Closer the love of my life and kiss her and whisper in
Her ears the moon’s mysteries and secrets.
She will be a fine and a lovely lass who will keep me
Company and one day will sire me a son and a daughter.
I will say a prayer of thanks to the gods.
I will be at home.

© Copyright 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

Furious Mother Nature

As the earth gives up life,
It’s sun-scorched soil refuses life.
Bareness claims another causality of furious nature.
Need surrounds every hope.
Thirst sears patched throats.
Reprieve is nowhere.
Suffering and anguish fills the long days.
Scratching the dead land for a living is not unlike a slow death.
The sun burns life beneath to oblivion it with a certain fury.
Winds sweeps away the dreams.
Darkness is unable to conceal the suffering.
The lunar can only illuminate the naked pain.
Mother mature can never forgive transgressions.
She was raped and battered by man.
Now man must pay for his sins.
All the trees that were callously cut down shall haunt his soul.
For the rain shall not rain again.
Droughts and famines shall be the seasons to count the passage of time.
Mother nature is unforgiving….

© Copyright 2012 Ayoub Mzee