Tag Archive: epidemiology


Africa Day.

The African Winds.

By Afzal Moolla.
25th May 2021.

I am the winds of Africa.

I am the winds whispered to by the ancients of the rock-hewn churches of Lalibela,

the winds that have heard the murmurs of the ancestors at Great Zimbabwe.

I am the winds resting at Mapungubwe,
I am the winds of the Upemba,
I am the winds above Giza,

I am the winds of the Djenné-Djenno,
I am the winds of the Songhai,

I am the winds of the Numidia,

I have breathed across these lands,
these lands have breathed into me.

I have witnessed colonialists carving up my continent,

I have heard screams of mothers and children,

I have seen the slave-ships set sail,

I carry the memories of my people manacled, and bound in chains.

I have heard the shrieks of my people,
I have seen my lands plundered,

I have borne witness to genocide,
to notions of racial superiority,
to oppression,
to tyranny,

I have caressed far too many bruised bodies,
I have dried far too many tears.

I am the winds of Africa.

I embrace the hope my people carry,
I feel it thud-thudding in their veins,

I encompass my lands bathed with renewed spirit each dawn,

I encompass my lands infused with hope each morn,

as my Africa,
our Africa,
wraps us in her dazzling multi-hued, comforting shawl.



copyleft afzal moolla 2021.

Are you fine, they well-meaningly ask.

Well here’s How I “really” feel at times …

“I am fine”.

no i am not fine,

i am as fine as a dung dusted shoe is from a shine,

i am not fine, i am lost, between alluring dreams, and silent screams,

sometimes a duet,

mostly a cacophony of noise,

white and bland and dull,

just enough to discern, that humanity is null,

with all humaneness void,

and of all conscience devoid.

Delhi. A Funeral Pyre.

Delhi. A Funeral Pyre.

by her child with no name.

And as I sit here today, these countless waves away,

my Delhi, into whose mad, warm, gritty, welcoming arms I fell on that early autumn day,

is welcoming no more.

And as I sit here today with relief, that from her I am so far torn apart,

my Delhi, whose diyas of light that once lit up my heart,

is a funeral pyre.

And as I sit here today, just another child of hers with no name,

I breathe,
I can breathe.

And even as my mother chokes, the stench of relief that I feel,

of being from her so very far,
this vagabond child of hers with no name,

breathes with relief,

to his eternal, asphyxiating shame.

life now …

clutching, grasping,
holding onto,
gulping down, hungrily,
each breath, every breath,
fearing the onset of the years,
the splinters of time,
embedding,
piercing,
this moment, the very now,
numbed by repetition,
embalmed by trepidation,
of tomorrows yet to dawn,
suspiciously sifting through the strands of greying hair,
seeking clues,
the because to the whys,
the slow mornings,
restless nights,
jabbing reminders,
as years, decades,
scurry, scamper,
flee,
feeling it all slipping away,
standing, immobile,
stilled by the implacable sentinels at the doorstep,
these immovable sentries,
concealing the door,
that leads to today …

Victor Jara 1932 – 1973.

Victor Jara
1932 – 1973.

Trampled flowers sighed,
while your songs filled the skies.

All of nature trembled,
from the pampas to the desert sands,

the day they tried to silence your song.

That day,

all of nature rebelled,
each filament, all infinite strands,

for though they tried to strangle your song,

all that they could take,
were your hands.

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