Tuesday, October 14, 2014



Are you the long waited for anti-Christ
Freak and fraud, arch-foe of your motherland?
Are the horns and hooves of your true identity
and the redness of your eyes
Flowing in one part of your blood
While the other courses through to the other tributary?
They say you hobnob with the adversaries of your kind
They say you be the willing pawn pushed about by the Putiner
They say you really do not care
About the hoot of your hue;
Because you’re a hybrid of the circumstance
Of the assets of a foreign land –

Is this really you spawn of svelte Massai
Whose thirst for warm cow blood
Fertilises the seeds of the crops of the field
Where in you is the long-necked ness of your tribe?
Where is your bounce, the spring in your springbok
Known to gallop over the twelve tribes of Israel
Where is your assegai, where is the loin to be draped over your shoulder?
Loins your grandfather draped on, on their shoulders on cold nights
Over the veldts where they lead cattle through the thoroughfare of the tribe?
Is your nakedness a hybrid of the power
Of the assets of a foreign land –

Are you indeed a champion of the ass-ets of the white man?
Do you tell them to enter from the rear, to flock man to a man?
And spit on our sepulchres, to hold our shrines in utter scorn
Yes they say you do; they say you lampoon the age and discretion of our tribe
And even though begotten from the fraternity of our centre
You lean to and worship only at the altars and shrines of your maternity. 
Your worship only at the synagogue of the one
While you shit on the sepulchres of your ancestors.

They say you’re scion of the imagination of our uncles and aunts
Strung and lynched upon the silent oaks of Alabama
Quiet witnesses of hopes locked in black boxes for daring to dream
And yet even without the brawn, they say you do the hope-a-dope
That you smile like butterflies and sting like bees -
They say you resonate the Montgomery cry – free at last, free at last –
But wield the chains that hold the scions of your ancestors in servitude.
That you snatched the cup from the one calling for freedom to roll like falling waters for the Kukuruku mountains –
But poured the waters for a plain into the waters of plenty-