And you were then one, and you may have felt alone and overwhelmed by the battles and with all that was wrong. But you saw that the people were with you. As they had been, all along. So you fiddled that old banjo, dragging it through Newport and Calcutta and Dar es Salaam. Through countless unknown halls in numberless unknown towns, across this Earth, turning, slowly, putting smiles of amity on faces that were once pockmarked with disillusioned frowns. So, today as I pen these poorly scribbled words for all of you, for Woody, Huddie, and Pete, I do so in gratitude, for after all the travails that you've been through, I know that you know that this world still has its fair share of hate, and of loss and of injustice and of gloom. But I also know that you know that though all the old flowers may have gone, there always will be, as there always must be, fresh flowers ablaze somewhere.
Afzal Moolla was born in Delhi, India, while his parents were in exile, fleeing Apartheid South Africa. He then traveled wherever his parents’ work took them and he still feels that he hasn't stopped traveling. Afzal works and lives in Johannesburg, South Africa, and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic — his 12-year-old cat.
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