tribute to my mother

reunion after 27 years

for my mother, Zubeida Moolla 1934 – 2008.

(dedicated to exiles, refugees, and the brave South Africans who struggled against Apartheid tyranny within South Africa)

meeting after 27 years

My mother passed away after a lengthy battle with Motor-Neurone Disease, also called ALS.

This poem is also dedicated to all the brave souls who are courageously battling illnesses and terminal diseases, and to the families and those dearest to them who are taking care of their loved ones.

May we always salute them and their families’ courage in the face of indescribably hard circumstances

I remember the tears she shed,

as she longed for her distant abode,

she wept often then, as she pined for her children, Tasneem & Azad,

and felt the future looked bleak, on that dim, lonely road.

I remember the tears she shed,

when that telegram came one afternoon,

‘regret to inform you stop father passed away stop’,

She wept often after that, for their last goodbye had been said too soon.

I remember the tears she shed,

on that glorious day in a February not that long ago,

when the prisoner finally walked out, breathing the free air,

she wept less after that, for then she knew where they were to go.

I remember the tears she shed,

soaring high above the clouds heading back to her land,

those tears came out in soft sobs, but her eyes were smiling,

defiant and full of new hope, as she held tightly on to his wrinkled hand.

I remember the tears she shed,

some years later, on that peaceful late April morning,

when she stood and proudly bore the ink on her aging thumb,

she wept a lot that April evening, knowing that a new day was dawning.

I also remember that on a Thursday not long ago,

as she was slipping away slowly, she seemed not to weep,

after all the miles and places, and after all the tears that she had cried,

I remember that she wept little then, as she drifted off into an eternal sleep.

(for my mother, Zubeida Moolla 1934 – 2008)

my mother and father

meeting comrade Nelson Mandela Johannesburg 2008

my father and comrade Nelson Mandela Johannesburg 1950s

my father with his comrade and friend Nelson Mandela

https://afzalmoolla.wordpress.com/2018/02/11/my-family-a-journey-through-the-years/

with late comrade Winnie Mandela talking about my mum and their friendship

courtesy of the Nelson Mandela Foundation

our love

art from google

She smiled, looking at the sky,

her hair flowing like a meandering stream,

her face the soft petals of many a dream.

She smiled, looking at me,

“let’s walk this earth a bit, you and I“,

I was quiet,

nodding as we both looked up,

as candyfloss clouds whispered by.

“yes“, I said, “let us walk together“.

We walk hand in hand  still,

sharing a companionship that blossomed long ago,

by sharing the peace, the freedom, the bonds of love,

blanketing us like a shawl, from the heavens above.

passion

art from google

 … missing

      the taste,

               

          lips

     brushing

          lips,

scribbling odes,

       fingertips

        drizzling

        scribbles,

                

on bare skin:

my muse,

                you,

           eternally

               you,

         my muse,

             

         a constant,

       inescapably

            hewn,

             into

        the fabric

       of my soul,

        evergreen,

       entwined as one …

 

          
 

quote from google

Love, Mania, and Verse

Love, Mania, and Verse …

The pendulum swings,

while the mania in my head,

strips me bare and yanks me,

into the cauldron of love.

Once again,

never divining the tea leaves,

knowing, always knowing,

the gnawing knots of unease,

that curl into a fist.

My isolation is a shield,

a suit of armour,

tightly clad around my self,

once worn,

then discarded,

taking its place on my barren shelf.

Love, mania, and verse,

coalesce, beseeching me,

with timeous forewarning,

not to tread into the quicksand,

that slippery bog of promise.

Yet,

in times past,

in moments present,

tis’ that very promise,

that I cling to.

At times I lose myself in the crowd,

revelling in the solitude found there,

at times I claw my way back to the now,

aching for the pain that stings,

the buried voice that sings,

dirges to forgotten emotions,

scribbled verse that flings,

the toys out of my cot,

while I wait,

for the mania to stop,

knowing,

always knowing,

that it shall be,

merely a matter of time,

before the other shoe,

must, as always, 

drop.

the years and our love

the years and our love …

years disappear, wisps of time consume moments,

even as tears streak down in the rain,

yet these true emotions remain,

in tune,

our heartbeats in symphonic harmony,

rises forever more,

a crescendo impossible to contain,

for our love like interwoven melodies,

soars,

eternally sharing a common refrain …

an old favourite: the girl with the beret at the bus stop

photograph from google

the girl with the beret at the bus stop …

I saw her at the bus stop, on a bitterly cold winter morning, her beret tilted to the side.

We exchanged polite smiles and furtive glances, till along came our ride.

We sat across each other and soon we spoke, breaking the ice, with talk of the chills battering our bones, as we shared sandwiches, for each other just a slice.

We spoke of the coldness around us, the frigid souls we encountered, we spoke of life’s pathways and where we hoped we were headed, as we confessed, what we feared most, was the banality of a life we so fiercely dreaded.

Thus began our short morning ritual, a bus ride with a stranger, not knowing anything except our names, our conversations so true they scorched like roaring flames.

We often laughed about the funny stuff we experienced, about the weight we felt we had to carry, the seemingly heavy burdens wracking us, all these chats, drowned out at times, to the soundtrack of the squealing brakes of our bus.

Our talks were blisteringly true, as happens at times with strangers, yet we opened ourselves up to each other, trusting the depths in our eyes, feeling a kinship, that logic defies.

We spoke of earning a wage, paying the bills, discarding the frills, we spent what felt like hours in those short-haul trips, baring our truths honest and deep, feeling for once, the harsh shadows of daily life retreat.

She was to me the girl with the beret, fierce yet gentle, knowing so much and still wanting to know, as was I on those mornings so long ago.

We spoke of lovers lost, of lost loves, of our ache for something tangible, something less gaudy, something more true, a mirage always just out of view.

I showed her my scars, she showed me hers, a lifetime of half-promises built on mounds of dust, we spoke of escape, into each others dreamscapes, even as all around us our world was covered in rust.

There was nothing about us but truth, nothing but a truth distilled, an understanding that someone out there in this cold world understood, far from the slicing of all the threatening grudges, we knew, our sharing was beyond all that, as we often in complete silence sat.

Our conversations churned into the butter of each morning, easing the coming day, and we smiled knowing that one else knew us, no one could ever relate, even as we were innocently oblivious of the often cruel hands of fate.

Her eyes danced with a fire, when sharing her insanity, and she said my eyes raged as well, embracing the craziness of it all, the two of us ever mindful, of the ache that did in each other dwell.

Then came that fateful day when she was there no more, and I felt the icy chills deep in my bare bones, feeling a vacuum I did not know my life could ever fill, a random friendship so tightly bound, that decades would pass till a friendship as profound as that was found.

I often thought of her, at another bus-stop, her beret tilted just slight, waiting for her ride in the morning air, feeling that we somehow remained connected, heart to heart, in a way impossible to articulate, for it was us, just us, with whom we felt we could only ever relate.

I think of her often, my friend on the bus all those years ago, sharing parts of our life, profound and without judgemental fears, through moments of agony, and through the smiles and the tears.

I must confess that to this day, whenever I pass a bus stop, I glance at it even as I know,

I shall not see that girl in the beret,

from so many years and lives ago …

( inspired by “The Boss” Bruce Springsteen’s “Bobby Jean” from the album ‘Born in the USA)

(also inspired by “Raspberry Beret” by Prince)

photograph from google

l o v e

art from google

L   O   V   E  . . .

Your breath reaches me, banishing the gulf between you and I,

across the oceans, so near we could be together in the blink of an eye.

Your fragrance swirls its way to me, across the distance between you and I,

thousands of miles traversed, sharing our own carpetted sky.

Your gentle caresses stroke my emotions, sweeping away the minutes that separate you and I,

our hearts meeting, beating in rhythm, in tune with the solitary nightingale, who for its mate does solemnly cry.

My entire being reaches out to envelope you, in this wondrous cocoon of love, shared by you and I,

breaking the barriers that stone walls can never contain, however daunting, however high.  

art from google

The Light Shines: Mandela Centenary 1918 – 2018

The Light Shines …

A beacon for revolutionary and real change,

a torch dispelling the narrowness of prejudice.

The light shines.

A permanent flame in the quest for universal human dignity,

an eternal sentinel against the comforts of embraced apathy,

The light shines, brightly,

today.

The light shall shine,

in your heart and mine.

The light shall shine,

tomorrow, and for all time …

with President Nelson Mandela, Johannesburg 2008 – from right: my father, President Nelson Mandela, myself

my father with Nelson Mandela – Johannesburg 1950s

https://afzalmoolla.wordpress.com/2018/02/11/my-family-a-journey-through-the-years/

Apartheid South Africa

Apartheid South Africa

Nelson Mandela Centenary

(1918 – 2018)

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A man of action forged in the crucible of resistance.

Resistance against racial discrimination.

Resistance against injustice.

Resistance against oppression.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A man burnished in the furnace of struggle.

Struggle to defeat the crime against humanity that was Apartheid.

Struggle against the obscene notions of racial superiority.

Struggle against the scourge of hate.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A human being who personified kindness.

A human being who embodied humility.

A human being who exemplified the unity of our human race.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

A man of peace, and a man who fought the just fight.

A man of forgiveness, and a man who battled the Apartheid regime for the need of taking responsibility for the heinous crimes of the past.

A man of truth, and a man of humane love.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

He was of flesh and of blood, and he shed his blood as he endured the lashes of the whip on his flesh.

He was of flesh and of blood, and he fought ferociously against the suppression of his fellow human beings.

He was of flesh and of blood, and he emerged with dignity from the hell of twenty-seven years of imprisonment on an island of tyranny.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

He was a man of a steely will in the long cause to rid all oppressed people from the yoke of colonialism, he picked up arms and fought the honourable fight.

He was a man of fiery resolve against the scourge of divisiveness, he was at the forefront in the battles against human subjugation and indignity.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

Madiba was a revolutionary, in the trenches against the obscenity of poverty and deprivation.

Madiba was a soldier, on the ground in the service of the most vulnerable, the children of this world.

Madiba was unshakeable, and he lived the example of the committed revolutionary and the dignified statesman.

Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela walked amongst us not long ago.

Our beloved Madiba does not walk amongst us anymore.

And yet, Nelson Rolihlahla ‘Madiba’ Mandela lives within us.

Madiba lives in the streams that flow into the rivers that flow into the oceans.

Madiba lives in the winds that blow across the vast lands of Africa and beyond.

Madiba lives in the thud-thudding of heartbeats around our world.

Madiba lives in the veins where the blood flows through our common human form.

Madiba lives!

Madiba will always live!

The African Rains …

Soaking,

the rains settle,

meandering over jagged faultlines of our memory.

Drenching,

the rains settle,

streaming through veins,

the thud-thudding of the heartbeat of Africa.

Absorbing,

the rains that settle,

within each of us,

herald rebirth.

And,

if you listen,

if you strain to hear,

while shedding the raucous noise of your inner turmoil.

If you listen,

the whispers of the ancestors,

speak to us all,

lending us warmth,

urging us to stand,

even though we may stumble,

even though we may fall.

your love …

art from google

you swirled into my life like the scent of the parched earth after a few drops of rain …

you filled my heart with the nectar of your love and you drowned away all my pain …

you swirl and fill me each day with the caressing melodies of your love’s refrain …

you have made me yours with my heart in the palm of your hand …

to feel truly loved ..

again and again … and again

 

art from google