The House

Once in a while
I pass by the house
A sad and dilapidated affair
That used to be my house
A rented house
In the fringes of humanity
But a house all the same
Just to remind myself
Of how things used to be
Back then…

The house stands behind a tattered and sorry looking metal gate
It’s green paint peeling off
It’s noisy hinges grumbling with rue
Of better times
The house is a desolate thing
The cracked walls tries to hold it together
Trying to gather around it’s self the long and lost past
But with little success…

The roof is rusty and tired
The doors and windows are haggard
And devoid of life
They just hang in on there
Swinging with a stifled anger
And without any hope for better days ahead…

I shudder with a curious uneasiness
As I walk past the house
And I instantly recall
That this used to be
My abode
My home
My crib
My sanctuary
My state house
My white house
My dark house
The place where I used to rest my tired bones and soul
A one roomed shack sans piped water affair…

And oh boy
This shack is full of memories
Most bitter
Some grand
Others crazy
And few positive…

I still remember vividly
How I would lie awake
On my rickety bed
In some dark night
And listen silently
While the rain pelted down the poor tin roof
With a certain vengeance
And the harsh sound
Would lull me into uneasy sleep
And I would dream
Of grandeur
Of fame
Of wealth…

But the harsh sun
In the following morning
Would briskly rouse me
From my sweet dream world
With it’s burning heat rays
That would penetrate the weak and ancient tin roof
With a mighty determination
And bake my hapless spirit
To the ugly reality…

The plonk
That I used to slosh
Every other night
In the many dimly lit off license Shebeens
Never helped matters
I had thought I was drowning my sorrows
But the wily sorrows had learned how to swim to safety
And haunt and hunt me
The following day
And I was beleaguered with an ugly dread
When the cocks would announce
And with a certain vanity
The arrival of another morning
Unwanted morning
While I trudged warily
To the house
In the wee hours of the morning
Lonely and alone while lost in deep thoughts…

Ah.

The House….

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+,
Google Mail,
Google Search,
Skype,
YouTube,
Twitter,
LinkedIn,
Wordpress,
Blogspot,
Facebook,
Yahoo,
My Space,
Flickr,
Aha mama,
they are too many…
These are tools that keep the eight to five slavery at bay.

Mama,
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

The Tenant

That lady,
Who lives in the furthest single-room,
That lady,
Who comes and goes at all times,
Has made the children,
Has made other tenants,
Has made the landlord,
Heck, has even made the stray dogs,
Grow weary with her endless antics…

You see,
She comes home when the children are going to school,
When the folks are going to work.
You see,
She leaves home when the children are coming home from school,
When folks are coming home from work…

Not only that,
This tenant has got strange visitors,
Coming and going,
And at all times.
To her room.
Drunk males,
High like kite females,
Keep on going in and out of her room.
What business transacts in there,
We don’t know…

The other day,
The police landed in our plot,
Early in the morning,
And arrested everyone,
In that tenant’s single room.
We couldn’t believe,
That such a tiny house,
Could house,
Six girls, four men and two dogs…

Why, the police even carted away,
A full crate of bootleg beer and a box of illicit spirits.
It was whispered in the plot,
That the police siezed too,
The venerable weed from Jamaica,
For their own use.
But we never speak of these things…

All that we want,
As the tenants of this plot,
Is to have this tenant,
The lady with endless and uncouth friends,
To move out…

She has to move out.
Ah. The tenant…

© Ayoub Mzee Mzima 2013

The Expatriate

He flew in
From India,
With only a a suitcase,
And the clothes on his back.
He didn’t speak any English.
He spoke only Gujarat.
The Expatriate…

We proceeded to show him around.
And he took the biggest office.
He was supposed to be a marketing guru.
He was brought in to turn around the big company.
He spent the days turning around in his expensive and expansive leather seat instead.
The Expatriate…

We ran around,
Doing work for him.
His work,
With our peanut pay.
He fumbled around
While earning his six figure pay.

Finally, The Expatriate left.

He left in a charter plane,
While a moving company shipped his stuff back home.
He left a wealthy man.
The Expatriate who came with only a briefcase.
He who could not speak English
The Expatriate.

I understand that they will be sending in another Expatriate…

Ayoub Mzee Mzima © 2013

I Am From The Management

Humongous
air conditioned office,
Huge mahogany desk,
Expensive leather seats,
To massage, suage and sooth my huge ego,
Secretaries at my beck and call,
To order coffee and other refreshments for my business associates as we cook crooked deals…
A bank of phones on one side,
To call cronies and girlfriends.
Gigantic LCD TV screens,
To follow on the latest Barclays Premier League scores.
Swanky.
Luxurious.
Proper.
Perfect.

I am from the management.

My day starts with reading the gossip columns in The Star and The Citizen. Not satied, I scour for cheap political gossips in Kenyan Daily Post and Jackal News sites. Next, I check mails from pals. Next, I summon my juniors for a dress down over imagined misconduct then I’m off for an early lunch at the the exclusive sports club in a leafy suburban area in the company’s Benz, all paid for and maintained by the management. Won’t be coming back to the office. I have a round of golf to catch in the afternoon with fellow executive cronies.
My day is done.
I have earned my pay.
Life is good.
After all, the chairman of this cash cow is my uncle….

I am from the management.

© 2012 Ayoub Mzee