AFRICAN SEASONS

Deep in tone.
Deep in voice.
He spoke in tongue
telling a quiet world to wake up.
African in nature,
he stepped up to me
and stared into my eyes.
Locked tight,
he focused.
He looked into my soul
and toyed with the idea of remaking me
into the image
of a Man.
A Man of African Seasons.

From out of the tall grass
urged by the wind,
African chants,
rhythm and drums
pushed our bodies into full expression
orally conveying our tales of greatness.
With the blood of the spirit,
the sweat of the land,
and the richness in being,
our story was told for generations to see.
To dance.
To sing.
To know.

We held each others hands.
Held them high and gathered others
in our warm embrace.
The numbers grew,
from youngling to elder
it swelled in quixotic proportions.
We collected the words and wisdom of the ages.
It condensed
and rubbed together
creating heat.
It burned within me.
It burned within us all.
It was hot where we were,
At the center of the room.
The center of the World.
Much like the center of all creation,
where he made me into a man.
A Man of African Seasons.

African Seasons by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

THE TREE STORY

I am your father
and I do love you.
Not from my heart
but from beyond my soul
where you came from,
the light of an evening of hard sighs
and heavy love.
I watched as you grew
from my seed into a tree within a forest of giants,
you casting shadows long
but branches only coming near
the age of my existence.
Not here to compare
not here to condemn or compromise
the state of your being,
for branches stretched can never resume their original shape.
This much I know.
I do know.
I do know
I need you now for your love,
can you give it like an intense rain
a hard rain to wash over me
because my roots have been cut away?

Cut, dried, and poisoned by the very soil that gave birth to you,
leaves turned
and my bark rotted and chipped.
Can you give it?
Can you give it?

No longer can I protect you from a cold wind
so I ask,
can you lean against me my son?
Can you lend me some of your warmth
in exchange for a story of 'Old Eden'?

Can you close your eyes
and let the shape of my words fan the passion
of your heart,
into my spirit?

Can you grow beyond the dream my son?
Can you grow?
Can you grow?
Can you grow my son?


The Tree Story by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

HOW SEVEN YEAR OLD BOYS SING

Stick for stab
Jumpin grab
Getting the fuk out
Bitch muthafuk forget the shout
Got my piece
Bought not lease
Taggin
Mackin
It’s da real for real
Black all you know da deal

Flip bip an' pow
I got da raw shyt now
Cumin hard
I got yo sweet card
Slow whine down on me
I got da bling for you baby
Turn da ass around
And da around
Breakin yo back
Big Black yo Mac attack

Get wit my program
Oh damn
Like a rubba check
My Ho on deck
You betta be ready
Point yo shyt steady
My Glock on automatic
Fanatic
Nomadic
Top of da 9th Homerun Addict
I’m gonna bat it
Mad Hat it

I crush it like Hannibal
Man handled
Burnin you flammable
I got that work fo you
Unmoveable
Own da room on you
Titan true-able
Beyond liable
The Black Buck
Mack truck
Heavy Load drive
The Lord of light alive
Prison proof
Raisin da roof

I don’t play
I don’t play
Nigga I don’t play
Fuck yall Niggas
Get off my tip
an' go away
I da true Nigga
Multi-Million Figga
Breakin yo back
Big Black yo Mac attack

How Seven Year Olds Sing by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

GRANDMA'S SHINE

Grandma shined in my eyes.
An absolute shine that was in my heart,
in my soul.
She being in my head.
Grandma had a way of getting into my head.
A perception, I thought, beyond her age.
She knew when my actions were benevolent
and called to me with a smile.
I remember doing wrong
and she forgave me,
way before Ma and Pa ever knew.
She always did things like that.
She had a special gift.

Grandma would always buy me things.
Things that I didn't like
Things I didn't want.
Days, even months,
then years
later I would use them.
Grandma would know.
Grandma always knew.

I would send salutation
without words,
much the way I did when eating slices of Shoofly Pie
and glasses of milk delivered daily
--in the kitchen.
Her kitchen,
with patterned window curtains
and animal shaped pot holders,
checkered tiles and the aroma of cinnamon and chives.
Clean as creation, it was brilliant,
much like the sun.
Looking back,
the sun always seemed to shine
more brightly then.
Even when it rained.
I would sit there
quietly,
in the kitchen,
Grandma in the den.
Knitting.
We would talk for hours.
In silence.
Much the way we do now.
She in Heaven
-- and me,
basking in the light
of her beauty.
Her shine.
Talking up a storm
which would always turn
into rainbows.


Grandma's Shine by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

DIRTY LAUNDRY

I wiped a dark stain from off his shirt
and what was left
I wiped on my white shirt breast.
Smeared with Blackness,
I washed that stained piece of clothing,
and the color ran
on everything it touched
in the wash.
Blackening everything.
My clothes,
died in shades of Blackness,
I was forced to wear it all
from head to toe,
where it saturated and seeped into my pours.
Covered in Blackness,
my skin was wiped
to soon leave Blackness upon the breasts of another.

Dirty Laundry by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim

BAD ASS KIDS

I love kids. I do. Really I do so I get offended when people assume that I have it in for little children. Hell, I am a kid at heart. It takes very little effort for me to spoil a child and get down on the floor and play with the same toys, games and color in the books. I like to engage children to see where their minds go, how they work and determine if they have the insight for great things or do I label them "special" and give them the "tard" card. Its that teacher aspect in me to challenge the mind and spirit of all the people I become engaged with. Often adults (mostly parents) complain that I am a spoiler of children. Spoiling in a sense that I would take whatever troubles or stress a child have and let them forget them for a moment. Tell a child they can't have candy and guess what, there is candy in the kids pocket. Can't have the Playstation? Guess who has Playstation for their birthday? I can honestly say that in my youth, I have had some very happy moments and I hold on to them like Angles hold the word of God. With uncles and older cousins, neighbors and grandparents that saw that as a child, I listened to my family, did my house work, did well in school and overall respected my place as a child, my reward to outsiders may have been seen as spoils, but I saw them as rewards for being a decent child.

My child raising philosophy is pretty basic, "Protection and Honesty" with children is what holds children in the esteem of adults and in return we hold "Structure and Discipline" for them as a foundation for proper living. It’s in degrees that we exercise structure and discipline that we struggle with as a society. Its in that old adage of "Spare the rod spoil the child" debate is where we divide as a nation culturally. I am a "rod" person believe it or not. So where am I going with this you ask? The following events all happened within a three-day period so bare with me as I vent a little.

Day 1

Long day and my energy level wasn’t at the highest and I know I needed to be indoors as soon as possible. I watched the kids running up and down the street with their costumes on going door-to-door looking for candy and treats. Trick or Treat ringing in the air all in unison. All this activity reminding me of my youth when I knew my bag of treats will be the death of the thousands of dollars in dental work my parents put into my month but it was the one day I knew I could get high on sugar and have my parents wish they could commit me to a psyche ward for overt hyper-activity.

So I’m walking home knowing my day will soon be done so I can lock myself behind the door of my personal sanctuary when all of a sudden, POW. Right in the jaw I get hit with something hard. So hard, I grab my mouth to see if blood was drawn. As the shock of the impact begins to wear off and the pain begins, I turn to see a kid try and hide behind a tree. The kid must have been about 11 or 12. I didn’t care if he was 1 or 91 because I immediately went into a red zone. As I begin to commit a major crime, a group of kids cut me off and begged me to listen to them telling me, “It wasn’t him, it wasn’t him!”

Clearly the hiding kid, who I KNEW, hit me with a rock was the person. I still marched toward the kid knowing that I was going to beat them like Sofia beat up on Harpo in The Color Purple. When I get half way to the kid who now sees that I was an adult (better yet one of those crazy adults that have no problem going to jail for murder) he begins pleading to me that it was someone from some phantom building behind him that was throwing rocks – mind you I’m getting more piss’ed because he thinks I’m stupid now. Just as I begin the action to choking the boy my Guardian Angle snapped me out of my rage and tells me, “BABY, TODAY IS HALLOWEEN, A DAY WHICH CELEBRATES DEMONS AND DEMON LIKE BEHAVIOR. GO HOME AND GET YOUR MIND RIGHT."

So I paused, took a deep breath, looked at the boy (who was clearly in a panic) and his future Junior Mafia rug rats, and I let it go and left for home. I took a long hot shower as soon as I got in, ate a light meal and chilled in peace watching a slasher movie to release from that moment.

Day 2


There is this family that live above me. Mind you, I don’t like stereotyping people but they are from somewhere south of the boarder. Now the wife just had a baby, which by no account is a crime. The thing is, she has four kids all of which are a year apart. There is the husband who I know for fact is working two jobs, and the grandfather, old as dust. So the total number of people in their apartment is seven. Mind your, it a studio apartment that would be crowded if you only had two people living there. Since they moved in, I have had many discussions about noise and each time they shake their heads and agree to work on the problem until they close the door.

Now you recall me saying how much I like kids? Well these kids I don’t like. Not because they are kids but because their parents allows them to do whatever they want and do not listen. For a group of children less than 90 pounds combined, they move like 300-pound linebackers. These kids run, jump, drop spin, roll furniture, march, stomp, skip flip from 8 AM until 11 PM just before the father comes home.

So on this particular day these kid, possibly after O.D.’ing on candy, were Off-the-Chain. I must have knocked on the door at least 5 times asking the mother if you could control her kids. Her responses in broken English, “I try but they are hard to listen.” By my third visit I asked, “Do you want me to help you? Because I have a very good method that you can apply.” She said No.
By 8 PM, I was kicking her door. When she opened it I wanted to talk to her husband. YES I demanded to man of the house. Then Girl tried to jump bad at me saying she is sick and tired of me knocking on her door about her kids. Mind you, her kids are running around in the background writing on the walls, butt naked with food all over their face and dirty hands and feet. So then I told her she need to reign in them BAD ASS KIDS or begin looking for a new place to live because as of today, I am involving management. Then she played the, “I don’t speak English card”. And to her my response was, “But you do speak Immigration? Have your husband come see me if you have an issue with my knocking on your door.”

Now I know that was bad. I know I need to ask for forgiveness. BUT since then, it’s been quite and now I can sleep and enjoy my peace of mind.

Day 3

Had to go to the doctor. My annual check up. Again, not in the best of moods but it was going better than I had expected. So I’m in the waiting and looking to have a seat when the nurse tells me to have a seat near the door. As I get the seat, this little African kid about 4 years old decides to jump up on the chair. Not sitting but literally standing in the chair. So in my sweet voice I ask the kid, “Can I sit there please?” the kid looks at me and says, “No”.

OK. I look at the kid and then I look at the person next to the kid thinking that maybe she was his mother. Since she didn’t react I really didn’t know what to think, so I asked the kid a second time with a more firm tone of voice, “Can you get down so I can sit young man?” to which he said, “No”. And he stood there in the chair will an attitude as if he had marked the territory for ownership by peeing on the property.

“Boy if you don’t get off that damn chair I will beat your ass until you pass out! Now move before I snatch you up out the way!” I yelled at him. The kid didn’t expect that and in a moment of shock, he got down and stood across from me as I sat down in the chair. Now I can tell this was something new and unexpected but personally, I didn't care. The waiting room was quite as they all looked at me. I looked around at the others in the room and noticed that as the faces looked back toward mine, they all had a look of simple satisfaction. It then occurred to me that this kid had terrorizing everyone in the waiting room prior to my arrival but there was a fear to actively do something. I also noticed I was the only adult male in the room as well.

So I sit in the seat and begin to read a magazine when I feel this wind rush pass my face. I look up from my reading material and see this little kid swinging his fist inches in front of my face. At this moment I channeled my mother.

Now let me break from script down a little. When I was younger, my mother had a low tolerance with BAD ASS KIDS and did not have an issue with beating other peoples’ children. If the child crossed the line with profanity, vandalism, disrespect to elders, or just stepping outside a child’s place, you got beat. And if the mother had and issue, too often my mother and the other parent had at it as well. Momma didn't play. In this case, this Little Ashy Bea Bea Bush Baby from Darfur allowed my mother’s spirit to flow freely into my veins.

“Who’s kid this belongs to?” I bellowed, as I grabbed the kid by the collar. The boy’s eyes were as wide as saucers. The woman sitting next to me then grabs me and tells me that the mother is outside in the hall; and she’d go get her. She takes the little boy and sits him in a chair across from me and proceeds to get the mother. While gone, the child then begins a staring match. I was giving this kid that silent look that spoke volumes and all I thought about was seriously knowing who his father was so I could whop on his ass for busting his nut to bring this creature into existence.

The mother arrives with a dismissive attitude asking what was the problem and what did my child do to you? For which I replied back that her child had crossed a serious line with adults and you really need to address this before something happens beyond your control.

“Well did my child hit you?” she said.

“It don’t mater if he did or not, your child should know better than to raise his hand at an adult and how to behave in pubic with you here or not, especially when he thinks he can swing his fist at an adult and think there would be no consequences.” I said.

Not only was I surprised but also every adult in the waiting room when the mother’s response was, “I don’t see what the drama is all about, he’s just a baby.” She then proceeded to pack her things and left with her child.

Once she left the waiting room, the woman then got the mother from the next room (the same woman that I had initially asked if she was the kid's mother and ignored me) tells me she is a Corrections Officer for Rykers Prison and got involved because she know that if I had hit that child, she would have been forces to arrest me and she didn’t want to see that happen. (I laughed at her logic). She then continued, “Don’t worry, I’ll see him behind bars in about 8 years. Its his destiny with a mother like that.”

Black Wealth

It's waking up in the morning.
Again.
Having heat unexpectedly
on the coldest day in winter.
Washing in the sink
and not seeing roaches
falling from the ceiling
or from the walls.
Having more than just one bowl of cereal,
with fresh, unshared milk,
and then going to school
with a piece of new clothing
harvested just at the peak of Lay-A-Way season
and not belong to someone else.

It's to be able to know your father's name
or even a face,
To receive a government check
barely enough to cover the rent
in a multi-leveled
multi-family
tenement.
It's to live somewhat safe
with four or more locks on a door
made of metal and hollowed steel.

It's sharing a single bed
with only one cousin, one brother, and a sister,
and having drive by bullets miss you.
While you sleep.
Again.
It's being home alone,
unlike a movie,
when your mother works the triple shift
at the factory, and the bar, and the hospital
cleaning toilets and bed pans.
Scrubbing like her mother, and her mother before her.

It's having the telephone work
just enough to pretend no one is home.
Or it's to eat all of your meals in the kitchen
which is the living room
and the guest room,
and the bed room,
and the recreation center
for everyone's child that stops by
for a piece of family.

It's having Christmas
where Santa is charity
and birthday gifts, sacrifices.
Road trips to the corner store
for penny candy and frozen koolaide
while watching live entertainment
where bad guys are Black
and the good guys are in uniform
-- according to TV.

It's strolling with strollers
and hearing a choir of crying babies
sucking on bottles of Simulac
and wearing half taped Pampers
sagging from neglect.
Being able to say No
when rocks are thrown your way
or being able to walk away from a fight
and not lose your breath
and your heart.
It's rapping your way to popularity
snappin' your friends' mothers
and being good
started all because
you're bored.
It's helping an old lady up from her knees,
knocked over
for her purse,
with nothing in it.
The same old lady who knows and loves us all
because that is all she now has.
Only the love.

It's watching suited men
on corners
bald and loud
singing praises to Allah
or selling newspapers of unity speaks,
bean pies and carrot cake, and bow ties
preparing me for the war.
Those same corners where the night time car riders go.
It's having a friend stop by
to visit.
Again.
Staying all because no one is at his home
and he has no other place to go,
to eat,
to sleep,
to dream.

It's having a mother come home
too tired to ask
"how you survived?"
Again.
It's the cashing in the day's worth,
the both of you,
and having enough spare change for
another day.
It's the love that is the worth.
A wealth that comes from
love.


Black Wealth by Shazza Nakim
Copyright © by Peace of Mind Publishings and with permission by Shazza Nakim