The Village Photographer

He proudly struts around
While riding his multicoloured bicycle
A two legged metal thing
With a rickety seat
Around the the village foot paths
Scavenging for a quick business
Almost forgot
He is a true dandy
Always dressed to impress
And blessed with a gift of garb too
The village photographer

How he makes
The womenfolk go gaga
With his sweet talk
And cunning smiles
He tells every woman in this village
That she is beautiful
He callously claims
That he has never seen an ugly woman
In this village of ours
But we know he is lying
And the women giggle and jiggle
With unbridled joy
While their menfolk
Frown from a distance
The village photographer

He records history
With his ancient camera
He is a undue witness
To many a village romances
And a catalyst too
To their ultimate demises
He is an automatic visitor
Sometimes wanted
Some other times unwanted
To every Wedding ceremony
To every funeral ceremony
To every harambee function
To every dowry party
in this village
The village photographer

He is an expert in everything
This village photographer
From fashion, politics to relationship consultancy
A truly celebrated rumour monger
From village to village
From ridge to ridge
He is the village photographer

The lucky bugger
The village photographer
He who rubs shoulders
With the mighty and powerful
With the local primary school headmaster 
With the local church minister
With the local bar owner
And of course
With the local leading politician
The Ward Rep
But the number of children
Bearing uncanny resemblance to him
Are on increase
Around this village
But of course he is the village photographer
He who gets away with everything
His days are numbered…


The Morning After

Dawn breaks gently,
Softly kissing away the vestiges of last night,
With a calm gesture of a glad light.
Morning creeps slowly upon the two still body forms,
Still lying luxuriously on the bed,
And teases destiny with pregnant promises.
The sun claims her rightful place,
As the queen and centre of life,
And proceeds to drench longing souls,
With her warm and dear shine.
It is morning again,
The morning after…

The morning after,
Finds the two spirits still enveloped,
In an eternal embrace of a blissful existence.
Mystic smiles,
Etches peace and contentment,
Across their countenances.
What a beholding occurrence.
She pulls him closer to her naked and nubile breasts,
Snuggling closer to him with unabashed gay,
She deeply breathes in his raw masculine scents.
And lets his sinewy form enclose, claim and consume her inner most longings,
With such a ravenous intent…

He opens his eyes,
And his gaze gladly falls upon her face,
He relishes the sleeping beauty with a certain gusto,
Letting the breathtaking soft beauty,
Sweep him away into the ether world.
She flutters open her eyes and their gazes lock tight.
Last night’s events slowly play out before them…
As evidenced by the morning after…

They recall with certain tenderness,
The exploration of the vast valleys,
Gardens and mountains they had traveled together last night.
They had played hide and seek amongst the endless groves and leas,
They had lain down by the brook side,
As the brook quietly wormed her way downstream,
And he had dipped his finger deep into its welcoming waters,
And had drunk from it’s banks to his fill.
The water of life.
She had held on to the taught and strong trunk of his essence,
Willing it to claim her essential essence in a sweet savour,
While she had quivered with an urgent need.
She desperately wanted the void deep inside of her filled with life.
His life.
And no one else.

The moment was upon them.
The moment of sheer truth.
The moment of no return.
The moment of sweet surrender.
And each had willingly surrendered to each others throbbing will.
Waves upon waves of tumultuous ecstasy and intense feeling,
Had swept them to places they have never been there before.
They felt lighter and soared high upon the crest of the sweet wave,
They climbed higher and higher with each thrust of the moment and movement,
And when they finally reached the summit of the proud mountain,
They had  both crushed down together and collapsed in a heap of pure sweetness.
Every pore in her being opened up and received him in totality,
And felt him flow into the very inner sanctum of her soul, her spirit.
Thick, hot and vital.
What a virility he possessed.
They were one,
In being,
In mind,
In soul,
In spirit.
She knew very well,
No one would ever be able take  her to that place,
Apart from him,
And the morning after confirmed this salient truth,
For she could see the need in his eyes again,
And she could feel him stir into life again…
As she lay down in his wide chest,
In an easy languor,
Ready to welcome him again,
Deep into her very being,
In the morning after..

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013

Cry not

Smile for her.

Don’t die for her.

Live for her instead.

She won’t torch your heart,

But will touch your heart.

She will preserve the dreams blowing in midnight breezes for you.

Together you will fuse into familiar symphony.

Tenderness slips through her open arms.

Dedicated ardour finds you in sweet solitude.

Righteous intent ponders she with a wonder.

She is wisdom.

She is peace.

She is you.

Cry not….