Ni Yule Msee

Ni Yule Msee Socialist

Habari zenu
18/07/2025

Habari zenu

15/07/2025

Countdown of a Soul – Day 15: The Truth (A Dream)

The light of morning crept slowly across Mzee Juma’s face, warm and tender like a mother waking her child. Birds chirped in the mango tree outside. His breath was steady.

But something felt... strange.

He opened his eyes.

He was still in his room. The same old blanket. The familiar wooden window. The clock ticking softly.
He looked at his hands. Still shaking — but very much alive.

> “I'm... still here?” he whispered.

He sat up slowly, confused. The last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to Salma, feeling his chest grow light, and drifting into a silence that had no end.

He looked around.
On the table — no letters.
No mangoes.
No list.
No folded poem.
No bundle of final words.

The pages were blank.

The tree he planted?
Gone.
The boy with the radio?
Never met.

> “What is this?” he whispered again.

Then it came to him — like a wave crashing gently against an old shore:

> It was all a dream.

Every visit.
Every forgiveness.
Every goodbye.
A dream wrapped in fifteen days of imagined grace.

He sat still for a long while, heart torn between disappointment and a strange kind of peace.

Then he smiled — deeply, quietly — the kind of smile only someone who had seen what he had seen could wear.

> “Maybe it didn’t happen,” he said, “but now I know what I must do... while I still have time.”

He rose slowly, reached for his pen, and pulled out a fresh piece of paper.

This time, it wasn’t a dream.
This time, he would write the list for real.

*THE END*

Countdown of a Soul – Day 14: The DreamThat night, Mzee Juma couldn’t sleep.The kerosene lamp flickered beside him, cast...
14/07/2025

Countdown of a Soul – Day 14: The Dream

That night, Mzee Juma couldn’t sleep.

The kerosene lamp flickered beside him, casting dancing shadows on the cracked walls of his room. Outside, crickets sang and the wind whispered gently through the banana trees.

He lay on his bed, hands folded on his chest, eyes wide open — not from fear, but from a strange peace.

Then, somewhere between thought and silence, he began to dream.

He was standing on a quiet path, barefoot, dressed in white. Ahead, a wide field stretched to the horizon, glowing with golden light. And in the distance, people — faces familiar and gone — stood smiling: Amina, Kito, his mother, even Baraka, younger now, waving.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He walked toward them slowly, each step feeling like a release. The pain in his knees, the heaviness in his chest — all gone. He was light. Whole. Timeless.

As he reached them, little Kito ran forward, arms outstretched, laughing just like he had the last day they were together.

> “Baba, uko tayari?”
Are you ready?

Juma knelt and embraced his son.

> “Yes,” he whispered. “I’m ready.”

And just then — he woke up.

Back in his room.

The lamp was still on. The breeze still blowing. But something inside him had changed.

He sat up slowly and smiled.

> “One more day,” he said softly. “Then… we’ll see.”

He looked out the window at the moon — full, bright, watching him like an old friend.

Blue for life💙
14/07/2025

Blue for life💙

Countdown of a Soul – Day 13: The VisitThe afternoon sun burned gently above Kitune, casting long shadows across the qui...
13/07/2025

Countdown of a Soul – Day 13: The Visit

The afternoon sun burned gently above Kitune, casting long shadows across the quiet paths. Inside Mzee Juma’s home, the air was still — until a sudden knock echoed on his wooden door.

Knock knock.

He stood up slowly, heart thudding with something more than age. Something he hadn’t felt in years — hope mixed with fear.

When he opened the door, he froze.

There she was.

Salma.
His daughter.

Grown. Graceful. Her headscarf a soft blue, like the skies he used to pray under. In her arms — a small boy clutching a juice bottle, peeking curiously from behind her dress.

Neither spoke.

Then, gently, she said:

> “I got your letter.”

His lips parted, but no words came. Just tears.

> “I didn’t know how much I missed you,” she whispered.

They embraced — father and daughter — years of silence falling like dust from old rafters. Her tears soaked into his shoulder. His beard scratched her cheek just like when she was a little girl.

Then the boy stepped forward.

> “Shikamoo, Babu.”

Juma knelt. His knees protested, but his spirit stood taller than ever.

> “Marahaba, mjukuu wangu,” he said, smiling through tears.

He invited them in.

Inside, laughter returned to rooms that had known only silence. They shared tea. Stories. Regret. Healing. Forgiveness baked into every sentence.

That evening, Juma lit a small lamp and watched Salma as she braided her son’s hair by the fire.

He had thirteen days behind him. But this one?
This was a lifetime.

Countdown of a Soul – Day 12: The StrangerThe day began like any other in Kitune — quiet, warm, dust in the air. But for...
12/07/2025

Countdown of a Soul – Day 12: The Stranger

The day began like any other in Kitune — quiet, warm, dust in the air. But for Mzee Juma, today felt different.

He was heading to the local shop for a piece of soap when he saw him — a stranger sitting beneath the bodhi tree. A young man, tall, lean, with a tattered backpack and tired eyes.

Something in the way the man sat — alone, slouched, head in hands — made Juma pause.

He walked over slowly and asked, “Uko sawa kijana?”

The young man looked up, startled. His eyes were red. Not from sleep — from struggle.

> “Sijui k**a niko sawa,” the stranger replied. “I’ve come from far. Lost my job in Nairobi. No one wants to help. I haven’t eaten in two days.”

Juma sat beside him without hesitation.

> “You don’t look like trouble. You look like someone who just needs to be reminded that life… is not done with him yet.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small coin — all he had left from his pension for the day — and placed it in the man’s hand.

> “It’s not much. But I’m giving you more than money. I’m giving you the belief that tomorrow is possible.”

The man looked at him, stunned. “Why would you help me? You don’t even know me.”

Juma smiled. “Maybe because… I see who I used to be.”

They sat together for a while. No words. Just two souls — one leaving the world, one trying to re-enter it — crossing at the perfect moment.

When the stranger finally stood to leave, he said, “Asante, Mzee. One day I will repay this.”

Juma shook his head.

> “Don’t repay me. Pass it on.”

Countdown of a Soul – Day 11: The SchoolThe school bell rang, its clanging echoing through the dusty courtyard like it h...
11/07/2025

Countdown of a Soul – Day 11: The School

The school bell rang, its clanging echoing through the dusty courtyard like it had for generations. Children spilled out of classrooms, chattering and laughing, their feet kicking up little clouds of earth.

And then — silence.

Mzee Juma entered the compound.

Though he had retired over fifteen years ago, his presence still carried the weight of a man who once shaped minds like clay. Whispers ran through the crowd. Some students only knew him by stories — others by the benches he carved with his hands.

He stood under the big neem tree, where he once taught literature and discipline, pride and possibility.

The headteacher approached, unsure. “Mzee… do you want to speak to them?”

Juma nodded.

The children gathered in a circle — some sitting cross-legged, others standing wide-eyed.

He looked at them, eyes slow but burning bright.

> “One day, I stood where you are. I dreamed of being a man. Now, I am a man dreaming of the boy I used to be.”

Laughter rippled softly through the crowd.

> “I won’t be here much longer,” he said, voice steady, “but before I go, I want to leave you this: do not waste your fire.”

He pointed to his chest.

> “You all have something inside you. Some of you will become doctors. Others, farmers. Others, maybe even presidents. But no matter what you become — be good people first.”

He paused.

> “And read books,” he added with a grin. “Books saved me from ignorance.”

The children clapped — some unsure why, others moved in a way they didn’t yet have words for.

As he walked away, one small girl ran up and asked, “Will you come again, Babu?”

Juma smiled, tears in his eyes.

> “No. But I’ll be watching in the stories you write, the lives you build, and the dreams you protect.”

And with that, he left the school behind — but left his spirit rooted in the soil of young minds.

🌧️ Countdown of a Soul – Day 10: The RainThe skies above Kitune had been threatening all morning — dark, swollen clouds ...
10/07/2025

🌧️ Countdown of a Soul – Day 10: The Rain

The skies above Kitune had been threatening all morning — dark, swollen clouds rolling slowly, groaning with the promise of rain.

Most villagers rushed to finish their errands. Children were called indoors. Goats herded into shelter.

But Mzee Juma, cane in hand, walked slowly into the open field behind his home.
He looked up and waited.

The first drop landed gently on his cheek. Then another. Then the sky opened — not in violence, but with release.

He didn’t run.
He didn’t hide.
Instead, he removed his shawl, lifted his face to the heavens, and let the rain pour over him.

It soaked his shirt. Traced the lines on his face. Sank into his bones like memory.

> “Karibu, mvua,” he whispered. “Nimekukosa.”

As a boy, he had danced in the rain with no shirt and no shame. As a father, he had once lifted Kito on his shoulders during a storm just like this, both of them shouting into the sky.

Today, as an old man, he danced again.

His feet moved awkwardly at first — cautious, stiff — but soon he was twirling, laughing, slipping in the mud, arms open to nothing and everything.

From a distance, a child watching from a window asked his mother,

> “Why is Mzee Juma dancing in the rain alone?”

She smiled. “Maybe because… some things the soul must wash away before it can go.”

And as the rain softened to a drizzle, Mzee Juma stood still — drenched, smiling, heart wide open.

He didn’t need a reason.
He just needed the rain.

Countdown of a Soul – Day 9: The SongThat evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and shadows stretched across the d...
09/07/2025

Countdown of a Soul – Day 9: The Song

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and shadows stretched across the dusty paths of Kitune, the village elders gathered around a slow-burning fire outside Mzee Juma’s homestead.

They had been invited — not for a meeting, but for a song.

A tradition long forgotten was being reborn.

Mzee Juma sat in the center, wrapped in his old brown shawl, a carved wooden drum between his knees. Around him, men of many seasons — some older, some younger — sat waiting, their faces lit by orange flame and memory.

He began with a soft beat.
Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Then, in a voice weathered by age but carried by spirit, he sang:

> “Mwana wa ardhi, uko wapi sasa?
Nilikutafuta upeponi, mvua na jua.
Lakini kicheko chako kimesalia, k**a ngoma moyoni mwangu...”

The others joined in, slowly. Harmonies rose. Eyes closed. Heads swayed. It wasn’t about pitch or words — it was about connection.

This was the song of ancestors, of love lost, of youth remembered, of things unsaid.

Mzee Juma’s voice cracked in the second verse — not from age, but from emotion.

> “Wimbo huu,” he whispered after the last note faded, “ulikuwa wa baba yangu. Aliuimba kabla hajafa. Nilidhani nimeusahau. Lakini leo usiku... wimbo umejikumbusha.”

The fire crackled. No one spoke for a while.

Then one elder leaned forward and said, “Tulipaswa kuimba hivi miaka mingi iliyopita.”

Mzee smiled. “Haijachelewa. Sauti ya roho haina kalenda.”

And under the starlit sky of Kitune, old men sang like boys again.

AND Don't buy the state sponsored narrative of tribalism.Adui ni mmoja
08/07/2025















AND


Don't buy the state sponsored narrative of tribalism.
Adui ni mmoja

Fifa club world cup finalist 💙Sina mengi ya kusema thankyou very important.
08/07/2025

Fifa club world cup finalist 💙
Sina mengi ya kusema thankyou very important.

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