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 2021

afzal moolla

This piece was first published on Afzal Moolla's personal blog.