Hold it! Youngsters, something stinks

like the river snake, fouling the air.

Children! We must be sown

so a nation's reaped when we sprout.

Girls and boys, lend me your ears!

The parents complain of neglect,

forever despised though there's food on the table.

You cannot know how much this upsets me.

Parents, you're gnawed to the bone! How sad to see you

drenched like a wall just after the rain.

I won't even mention the fat and the ochre:

pity and eloquence crush me.

Girls and boys, lend me your ears!

The parents complain of neglect.

Even a dog without brains

shows kindness to its owner.

Where are your parents now?

Today you're all spick and span,

while your parents lie covered with dust in a corncrib.

Shame on you, wanting in gratitude.

Our parents are troubled and twisted

watching their children go off and leave them.

They warned and they wept but nobody heard them,

sons and daughters who'd all been to school.

Ha-la-la!

Today we're all spick and span

but those who raised us stand in tatters.

Even the lion, a beast of the field,

repays the one who once showed it kindness.

Please take a look behind you:

have you buried your parents alive?

Without your parents there is no God;

throw down and burn those bibles.

Just look at them now that they've lost their strength,

just look at them sitting without any water,

just look at them sitting without any firewood,

just look at them hungry with nothing to eat.

Peace! Oh!!

Throw down and burn those bibles.

You don't play around with your parents:

through them we marry and separate,

through them we choose and pay dowry.

A parent is ochre in heaven,

she scolds the thundering skies;

her happiness ushers you in

to a land of olives and figs,

Peace!

to a land with unfathomed waters,

to a land of wheat and grapes.

This is the word of Vaaiboom's Flamingo!

Penned in a cage it goes out just to drink.

You'll hear in the end!!

Oh the homestead standing alone

with easy access through its gates,

whose people once had plenty,

now a sign of oppression.

Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air.

I don't tell the scriptures “Try writing again”:

all other books bow before it.

Ethiopia should get involved,

find support in the Scriptures.

For a long time we've said so criss-crossing the land

in times of famine and times of war.

Go back to where you came from,

to Ntsikana's final words.

Aren't you afraid that you stripped the nation,

left it naked with only its hands for cover?

Africa, have you been trashed

like a plate of little worth?

Truly the word is departing from Africa:

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth.

Long ago the whites brought the word

but recent events confuse us:

over there it's with God, over here it flogs us.

I'm quite confused: I'd better scram.

They danced with their faith in the scriptures:

“Discard your striped woollen blankets.”

Today they're like our abandoned clay pits:

all nations gave way to their onslaught.

Let's remember the days of our fathers,

seal Tshiwo's deserted villages.

When you lived with Ngubengcuka

your mind was never black.

Ethiopia should get involved,

find support in the Scriptures.

As for me, I don't wish to mislead you

(In truth you said the Xhosa mislead).

This bible's a shade-screened leopard

in all the Creator's sorrows as well,

it helped Moses up the mountain,

dropped a grindstone and set him spinning.

Ethiopia should get involved,

find support in the Scriptures.

So wake up and talk the same language,

I don't preach a rebirth of cattle.

If only you people shared the news

of what you see of life in this land.

The Word created all these things,

when all is gone, the Word will remain.

Oh, the whole country would collapse if we sat still!

What did we do

to suffer the yoke

of hordes of prophets,

limitless throngs on Africa's plains?

Focus on Revelations,

the sixteenth chapter,

the thirteenth verse:

false prophets are gaunt.

And focus on Deuteronomy,

the eighteenth chapter,

the twentieth verse

as well as the twenty-second.

I'm not one to mock,

but I'll never forget

their revelations

lined their pockets.

But what exactly is a prophet?

Let's hear a plan from those in the Cape.

A prophet's mark is made in heaven,

he scolds the thundering skies.

A prophet's a shade-screened leopard,

representing a jealous God.

You don't take prophets lightly:

they're lone hartebeest at ease on a plain.

There are prophets both false and true

and—Reader, take note—you can tell them apart.

May the false drop dead on the spot:

let the witches’ huts be clustered.

A prophet's a shade-screened leopard,

a sunbaked river with rocky pools.

Let's hear a plan from anyone, anywhere,

to rid us of this plague of rogues.

Tyo, what wonders Africa holds!

Prophets in all nooks and crannies,

each so fine and silver-tongued

that common folk turn on each other.

We're crushed because we're apart:

we lack discerning diviners

to proclaim a prophet true.

Peace indeed! Who can we trust?

Priests outnumber parishioners,

prophets provoke Matiwane;

though Africa's crammed with diviners

nothing worth mention's appeared.

How did we land in this mess?

Don't we fear the King of Glory?

The bible was written by prophets:

modern prophets, produce a new bible.

The voice of God said to Jonah,

“Make your way to Nineveh.

Announce to that great city

the message I give to you.

“When forty days are past

I'll raze Nineveh to the ground:

its corruption defies description,

its stench assails me on high.”

Jonah was a true prophet,

Nineveh trembled before him.

Covered in sackcloth and ashes,

they neither ate nor drank.

Up spoke Jonah the prophet:

“Let each one mend his ways.”

And so they did, and no one died,

the Compassionate showed them mercy.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

Did you forsake us forever,

Elephant grazing the plains of Canaan?

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers,

Beater of Sandile's drum,

Langalibalele's black cow.

Africa's paths are quick to give way,

the next generation will gaze slack-jawed,

passers-by will shake their heads

at this home without hospitality.

Its enemies plundered the pots,

the knives and sacred vessels,

all the gourds and little trowels

passed down through generations.

They clapped shackles on you, Africa,

hurled you down with cannon and musket:

today, we've lost ourselves,

our leaders all sit mum.

You've also been patched, who always saw it.

Did Ntsikana not tell you as well?

You've been robbed of your drink along with your kingship,

both red and convert must carry a pass.

Ethiopia should get involved,

find support in the Scriptures,

seek the truth from those above,

who died here and in the water.

You've been patched, Garden of Africa.

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth.

Today you're ploughed up by steam locomotives:

we don't plough while we bellow “Wailings.”

Mercy, plains of our country,

induce birth pangs in our people.

While our people die, strangers cart off our country.

Wake up! Death was put to sleep, you said!

Mercy, hills of our country,

mercy, streams of our country,

carry us up the mountain slope

like flocks driven out in the frost.

Mercy!!

The sun is rising! We seek a ford,

not only for those in the Cape,

but for every black nation on earth:

men, we're ground underfoot.

I blundered in going to whites!

I felt the cops’ cuffs on me,

they slammed me inside

for a month on salt water.

The Tyelerha Iguana was in with me,

a true giant, the son of Waziya,

and a pot-belly, son of Rhalushe:

damn him, he won't share his prickly pear. Mercy!

May unity shape our path.

We seek a ford for our chiefs to cross,

also appealing to Tshiwo's cohorts

who chant the warcry but keep under cover.

We don't seek a ford that will shatter our wagons:

the pillars of heaven may tumble

after blacks raise their voices

in dance at the gates of Zion.

A ford to ferry us to the far bank,

not for a quick drink and back again:

if that's what we want we're no better than those

who try to prop up a crumbling cliff.

Our present ford is heavy going:

the whites ride us piggyback!

Knowledge, they say, is on their side:

their women excel in cooking.

We seek a ford to bring back in line

our daughters who've left their husbands.

Make it happen, son of Maxeke,

we're watching, Old Teller of Tales.

We don't seek a ford that will shatter our wagons

as we cross the river blindfold.

Let fresh initiates join us

and stop behaving like children.

A ford to lead us back into battle,

not only for those in the Cape;

when we pick and choose amongst ourselves

we muddle things up in confusion.

Let our leaders work till they drop,

the nation's bent for the ford;

let the lead oxen strain at their traces

till they sink to their knees and the disselboom cracks.

Come back this year, Greybeard of ours,

your heart's desires have been met,

course down the valleys, thrust with your spear

till you reach the Boer lands in the west.

Nongqawuse, Mhlakaza's daughter,

your speech caused the men to confer,

for those who've died may rise again

but there's no resurrection for cattle.

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column,

I'm here, still alive and no poet,

I just like to be on top, Editor:

clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

The year has passed, it's barely gone,

fireworks marked its passage,

raised voices welcomed the new,

coming in its fashion.

Now the old year's ended

we thank you, Well of maternal love,

for holding us all in times of peril

throughout the year,

in the world's hardships,

the people's want,

calamities that disrupt

our worship of God.

The year has passed bearing news

of nothing but persecution,

of everyone's behaviour:

all has been recorded.

On the plains they're stealing our cattle! Open and let me in!!

I'll sneak to my hole like a swallow

and all the sins of the old year

will be forgotten.

This year says, “These are my words;

tell your people I'm the one talking.

Now I'll restrain all teachings

leading you astray.”

Lord of all creatures, we implore you today,

we Africans look up to you,

please don't take our land from us

because of our wrongs.

In our distress and hunger,

in affliction, dressed in thongs,

in animosity and blood feuding,

arrive with a vision.

On the plains they're stealing our cattle,

which bear news of persecution.

To the judge's eyes upon us

how will it appear?

Will all these years pass by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

Even this burden you bear

is in the nature of things.

Come back this year, Greybeard of ours,

to turn all griefs away from us.

Look past the present, watch for the future

in the coming year.

For the Union a jubilant chorus of girls!

Awu, we die for want of a doctor!

How long is it now we've been talking our hearts out,

using reasoned debate to bring down cliffs?

Let the waters of Africa roar!

The nation speaks with the tongue of God.

Let every path sow Union

from here to far-off Tugela.

Prayer Union and Die-As-One!

Why look askance at each other?

You're both like the dews of Hermon

watering Zion's hills.

Prayer Union and Die-As-One!

Why look askance at each other?

You each command a flank in battle,

break rank only when victory's certain.

Mercy!

I'll roar my basic position

like thunder over Umtata.

I'll even take a Khoi to wife,

useless as long-left ruins.

Perhaps your prayers move mountains,

perhaps you're familiar with knowledge

deep as the fathomless sea—

without the Union you're simply nothing!

Union for you's a mighty stem,

roots in the earth, touching the sky;

right from the start, Union's the shield

to ward off the white man's arrows.

Heaven's the Home of Peace, do you hear?

Hayi bo! It stands firm on the rock of Union.

Evil snakes lie in wait at the gates,

but golden-winged angels roar.

Listen, my people, the Almighty's stunned:

power was granted to us,

but our Union is words in the wind:

“Baboons!” whites jeer, though we're not shaggy-haired.

Die-As-One, join the chorus:

fall where your sister falls,

stand proudly with her in your blankets

till the hills of the Orange swivel.

What misfortune's befallen the Union?

We no longer sing its praises:

it's like plains lost in the mist,

though it's clearly there congregations crack.

What misfortune's befallen the Union?

The houses of God stand desolate,

pastors depart, owls hoot from the rafters.

My baboon companion took to its heels.

What has more strength than Union?

Must I continue proclaiming this truth?

If someone rose from the grave to tell you

you might hear, but now you're deaf.

There's Nehemiah telling you:

with your eyes you'll stand on guard,

with your feet you'll run to him,

and with your hands you'll gather all.

Are you trampling your nation's girls

to enslave them in your land?

Open your eyes. I've long seen it coming:

here, today, we're facing ruin.

Why are African homes aflame?

The bible slips from our hands and slams shut,

every day a source of dissension.

Why are you treating God like this?

Your nation's girls are treasures,

their beauty a source of pride,

their sweet voices ring from the mountaintops.

The thought leaves me short of breath.

Speak out, Africa, while you have life:

if whites have a fit, well then let them die.

Those bibles they used to rein us in

stand as tall as I do down on my knees.

Today we don't even know what we scrap over,

lost as if at Vanity Fair.

As long as I live, I'll never forget it.

What have the Wesleyans got to say?

So do you see the god of the whites?

What did you want from the god of the whites?

He helped tie you down with the stone of ochre.

Never again mix soiled clothes with clean.

Are you trampling your nation's girls

to enslave them in your own land?

Spread that news to the ends of the earth;

though you look like you're drowsy, get going.

Ethiopia should get involved,

find support in the Scriptures

and stop running off to confession.

What remains after thorough chewing?

Now what can you say? The country's at war.

Oppression is rampant. Africa's fallen.

Bear the report to the One on High,

burn your first son as sacrifice.

Inspire the country with your words.

Was the country ever in such a state?

Are you trampling your nation's girls?

We're waiting for your reply.

What do the whites have to say of their daughters?

We've taken nothing from the whites:

this is the land of our fathers and forefathers,

given to us by God and our forefathers.

Note the movement of earth and sun

and that of the stars and the moon;

Remember Nebuchadnezer

with his idols of gold and silver,

and come back!!

They say they're here for a meeting,

Rubusana and Jabavu—

use peace to smoke out the bees for their honey—

we'd be happy to die while they're here.

“Are you well?” “Today we're the topic of talk.”

The bible is with us there in the crowds.

You see, my people, we're old:

the whites wolfed us down long ago.

Raise dust till you're dirty, dark African,

like Moses quitting Egypt,

remember the one who sits on high

whatever pain it might cause.

We're the topic of talk in every nation,

they preach to each other across the land.

The whites laid us flat on our backs,

whipped out the knife to flay us.

This land of Africa's ours,

but we sank in pools through our folly:

spread the news to Cloud Cuckooland.

I'll stop praising when Ba arrives.

We really are the topic of talk:

the Mutton Gluttons burn midnight oil.

They open mines that belch up lumps.

What beasts are these abusing the Xhosa?

This land of Africa's ours,

we frolicked and danced with our fathers.

Those who came by ship shouldn't fool themselves:

the Prince of Heaven's wide awake.

If whites have a fit they can drop down and die

wherever they are in this world: Ncincilili!

Our oppression's your product. “Agreed!”

You saw and you conquered. “Agreed!”

The simple truth is they came to oppress,

they came to blaspheme with their bibles,

and all of us in Ngqika's House

failed to suspect their armbands of iron.

This is no hearsay, we actually saw it.

What do the far-sighted make of all this?

Our country's benighted, our heroes fall,

in the land of our fathers lie rough mounds today.

They danced with their faith in the scriptures:

“Discard your striped woollen blankets.”

Today we resemble mutes.

In the land of our fathers the canons roar.

The day they arrived there was joy without measure.

We freely abandoned our majesty

on seeing the learning they brought,

I swear by Ndlambe and my father who sired me.

Mercy!!

Induce birth pangs in your people,

as in Ngubengcuka's time;

speak as of old in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

Halahoyi! Africans, something stinks

like the river snake, fouling the air.

Compatriots, we must be sown

so a nation's reaped when we sprout.

You see, my people, we're old,

truth threw us long ago;

our land has clods that gash our soles,

I swear by my shades, and my father who sired me.

Let's build for each other! Nitpicking poets

ignore the grain that pecks the chicken.

What's this nation we lose our sleep over?

The whole nation rots in hovels.

Let's build for each other! We've been barking for ages,

confronting those who pick us clean.

What nation is this whose milk

lacks strength to reach the milksack?

Peace, Africa, strife-torn land!

There's little indeed we can take for the truth.

This “Let's build for each other” on earth

is a clarion call to the people.

Africa, you even judge your friends,

Nursemaid slain by your sucklings.

And so, nitpicking poets

ignore the grain that pecks the chicken.

Peace, Africa, Army whose warriors stab one another!

They rip each other but reassemble.

How much longer? Countrymen, build for each other!!

Do the whites on the mountaintops bother you?

Peace, Africa, Army whose warriors stab one another!

They rip each other but reassemble.

Pulling in different directions,

these spans will smash their legs. Mercy!

It's “Here, hold this! Go there!” What's this?

You herders of Sandile's cattle,

mimosa trees which twisted in falling.

That rising sun made me think of Shaka.

Let's build for each other so strangers don't strip us:

it won't go well if it's each for himself.

The fulfilment of what was written approaches,

I swear by my shades, and my father who sired me.

When that time comes, we'll rise to our feet,

misunderstanding will have no place.

I say you'll be one, however reluctant,

despite your screaming and kicking.

Peace!!

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column,

I'm still here, a young man and no poet.

I just like to be on top, Editor:

clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

Go forth and teach all nations!

What have we learnt beneath the sun?

While our people die, strangers cart off our country.

Wake up! Death was put to sleep, you said!

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

Are you trampling your nation's girls,

enslaving them in your land?

What have we learnt beneath the sun

from their bibles, please tell me, my friend?

They clapped shackles on Africa,

hurled her down with cannon and musket.

“We're British: the Kaffirs can die!

We'll rip the candy from your mouths.”

Speak as of old in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

What have we learnt beneath the sun

from their bibles, please tell me, my friend?

“We're British: the Kaffirs can die!

A baby baboon's no stranger to misery.

God is the toy of black behaviour,

paganism's rampant.

Yeha, black home, the lid's on your pot,

the land of your fathers rumbles and trembles.

For a long time, men, they've claimed to know all,

for a long time, men, we hear news of death,

all we see is blood on the people.

Even the word of God is in peril.

What's this?

Now what have we learnt from the whites?

Our joints crack under their bibles,

our country's in shadow, our heroes fall:

in the land of our fathers lie rough mounds today.

Our enemies plundered our pots,

our knives and sacred vessels,

all the gourds and little trowels

passed down through generations.

Wailings indeed!

They danced with their faith in the scriptures:

“Discard your striped woollen blankets”

but today we're nothing but insects.

Cannon roars in the land of our fathers.

Wailings indeed!

Mercy, Africa, strife-torn land!

There's little indeed we can take for the truth.

Let's remember the days of our fathers,

seal Tshiwo's deserted villages.

Peace!

David in troubled times

spilt water from a well,

a libation to Jehovah:

Africa, weep till you shake.

Here we are, asleep with one eye.

We'll get the news: we'll watch with the other.

We never took part in those prayers of yours

so particularly pitted against the black,

which banished thought and cracked the cliffs

from Tugela up to Wukuwa.

We, the daughters of ochre smearers,

say this: we'd stake all against you.

Where's a water well in Africa?

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth.

The well of the Jews is there to this day.

In a word: our well is dry.

It's clear from the grazes on our face

as if we'd been hit with clods of mud.

You sit outside, reluctant to rise.

Fill Africa's wells with water.

Other nations are open to view,

our home is steeped in darkness.

Indeed, the African well's run dry.

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth!

The water well's a tearful hearth:

to speak is to burst into tears.

I roamed the land without a book.

What has David's book got to say?

Where's human kindness, softness and sweetness?

You'll come back, screaming and kicking.

The land is aflame and the Creator's not guilty.

Who doesn't weep in the face of oppression?

The world's nations tug at each other,

waste themselves for a bone of earth,

stockpiling weapons in their lust

for this long-renowned land of ours.

David in troubled times

spilt water from a well,

and did so time and again.

Sluggard, what do you say about time?

The well of the Jews is there to this day,

through hounding, sorrow and sword.

I say you'll come back, screaming and kicking,

whether you like it or not.

Let the waters of Africa bellow,

roar till they burst their banks,

raising even the sots in the Orange!

I charge you, with no holding back.

Peace!

Who would know that greatness in you,

Maker of heaven and earth,

in you who made the stars and moon,

in you who made the sun and day?

Come, you crushed by the weight of sin.

So say the sands of Tugela's source.

You who've been hounded, ask: you'll receive.

Patiently wait for the living God.

David in troubled times

spilt water from a well,

a libation to Jehovah:

Africa, weep till you shake.

For a long time it's clear you were also poured out:

didn't Ntsikana tell you?

You were robbed of drinking and kingship:

Reds and Christians need passes to travel.

Today our voice is drowned in a whirlwind.

We're left in the dust by learning.

The old voice said, “You're dying, Africa.”

The gainsayers countered: “How can she die?”

Now what can you say? “The country's at war.

Oppression's rampant. Africa's fallen.”

Face the mountains. If you disagreee with me,

bring me down from the mountain.

And so I'll recount some history for you

of the Israelite persecution,

hoping in that way to show you

that they got what they wanted with patient endurance.

Our only strength lies in patience,

you were washed in water and the word of might.

That way wonders are performed,

and the Israelites also wondered.

What has more power than patience?

It vanquished Mpande's armies,

defeated Pharoah and his chariots.

I've said it before, I won't say it again.

Wake, cascade of praise in Africa,

incite Tanganyika wastelands,

spread the news of the Templars,

call out lest we forget.

This hill we scale is steep,

ringed by lions and leopards.

Job didn't sleep the previous night.

You too, be patient; sink to your knees.

Lord, bless Africa.

From the start of time you fell to rise,

you created this earth on which we live,

parted its nations by sea.

We're still patient!!

This nation rests on the law of the bible,

traitors must forfeit their lives.

Turncoats wound it, rip out its lifeblood:

our power wanes, and we're ripe for invasion.

My people, we're stabbing Africa,

we kill our own through betrayal:

we court celebrity status,

honours for killing Africa.

When we trade our own people to whites for profit

we inflict a deep wound on Africa.

I'm not one to shy from saying so:

your public behaviour bears eloquent witness.

Oh dear! Dear, oh dear! The shame and disgrace of it!

We wither and perish for lack of a healer

and Africa's forelegs sink deep in the quagmire:

we repeatedly stab her year in and year out.

Congress and all the successes we strained over,

education and all that we strove to achieve—

as we idly bicker we're left in the dust

and Africa slips through our fingers forever.

We split into factions, betray our own people,

and Africa leaves as we claw at each other.

We'd be all at sea if we ruled ourselves:

our cry for self-rule is vapid!

Zulu and Xhosa! Sotho, Swazi, Mfengu!

You resemble each other in larking about,

but there once was a time when you were one people,

united when nations were called into being.

To help other nations you shun your own people

in your desperate quest for honour and status.

They gather from you all our closest secrets.

Let me ask you this question: when will it all end?

We're accustomed to service. Mercy, Africa,

Nursemaid slain by your sucklings,

you were like water tossed out on dry earth.

Please explain to me, fellow, just what you all do?

How many Judases toyed in secret

with black people's lives, then died in the dark?

And Africa constantly fades in the distance.

Of all people, why do you act in this way?

It's perfectly clear that we're lacking in leaders,

not those who grow roots from squatting down motionless,

but those in the mist whose roar makes the sun break through,

who bustle about quite as active as vultures.

God bless Africa!

Patch the network of cracks in the wall up with clay,

so the surface appears chameleon-coloured,

a sign to inspire our respect for each other.

Let the waters of Africa sound!

God and the nation speak in unison.

Let the footpaths sow unity's seed

from here to far-off Tugela.

Unity, black workers!

I lack clay and grease to shape it.

Hurry up: see eye to eye,

clear the scrub and we'll move on together.

The courts of law have torn to shreds

the colour bar for workers.

The stench is a spearthrust enticing

black nations to come together.

Parliament's on the hunt

for laws that will oppress us.

Wake up: we're nearing the ford

and you haven't put on your beads.

Black nations must come together.

Let the voice of the workers be heard

dancing before the gates of Zion:

we're not witches, so we won't burn.

Let the voice of the workers be heard,

let them reclaim their rights:

advance enlightened, offspring of Phalo,

heirs to the soil of far-flung Africa!

Parliament's on the hunt:

where are the black nations’ leaders,

broad shoulders bearing scorn

so we the people are crowned?

Unity's strength indeed,

a nation of nobles nurtured by nobles;

even sucklings respect their fathers.

Peace, diggers in Africa's ditches!

Welcome, Professor D.D. Jabavu,

B.A. with an antelope's guile,

you've earned a mark of distinction;

your speech in East London delighted me.

You criss-crossed the country delivering talks

on the way we Africans live;

you took long voyages over the oceans,

kite with a home on the moors.

We're oppressed! We develop! Mercy!

All the time our minds develop.

So says Professor D.D. Jabavu,

beckoning those who took to the hills.

Zulu and Xhosa, Sotho, Swazi and Coloured,

you're all invited without exception.

What kind of nation are you whose milk

lacks strength to reach the milksack?

Unity, black workers!

so you reclaim your rights,

bellow your lungs out

as if you were white;

your minds at least were never black:

barriers forced you off the path.

Huku! Now's the time, Phalo's cattle!

We'll seal Tshiwo's deserted villages!

Dr Rubusana, roadside diviner,

wails in a mountain cave,

he says our nation's progress

must be driven by our own leaders.

This gossip sets homes ablaze,

destroying peace in the villages.

It's always wiping dirt from its mouth

and leaving people amazed.

Listen, step back if you gossip,

because you've spurned the truth.

The gullible shouldn't be fooled:

it's a pack of scampering dogs.

This gossip sets people at odds,

it travels with strife, expels human kindness.

I won't pull punches: it diminishes dignity

like a river bulging with rain.

Nobody cares for a gossip,

whatever he may do,

as tall as I am down on my knees.

I won't repeat what I've often said.

A wagging tongue affords no rest.

However much it sounds its trumpet

it takes no part when people fight:

it's a pack of scampering dogs.

A wagging tongue's a murderer

lurking within the body.

A nation of gossips is a nation of liars

and Satan's the father of lies.

Never betray your own for gain.

May your joy in betrayal turn to despair

and roast in the fire on judgement day,

your power perish, leaving you nothing.

Don't bear false witness,

kill your own with a lie;

don't profit by him or ambush him:

if you do, you'll be destroyed.

The one who presents a false face

is a liar: abandon all trust in him.

He rolls the enemy's boulders down,

he lies till his navel collapses.

“Once upon a time,” say those who know.

We gossips will come to grief:

when we tell the truth no one listens

for we hardly know what's true.

A liar is nothing human.

He has no roots. Let the killer die.

He lies while praying to God,

since people are God in effect.

A wagging tongue's a raging fire,

there is no greater danger;

it consumes all in its path.

What do the learned have to say?

Awu! Oh yes indeed!!

Oh the homestead standing alone,

whose people once had plenty,

its gates now unattended,

its oppressors in control. Peace!

Halahoyi! Africans, something stinks

like the river snake, fouling the air:

where are our onetime blessings?

Now we're estranged from custom.

Scratch the earth like crows:

our blessings led to the scrapheap.

I tell you, nothing that once was ours

survives to sustain us today.

Our customs are dressed in tatters,

deceit and delusion are all we maintain:

Reds keep a number of wives,

but we keep our secret lovers.

They dance in courtship, and so do we,

Christians by day, hyenas by night,

we're caught between two worlds:

the next generation will gaze slack-jawed.

There's nothing of value under the sun,

all shadows yield to shadow.

The nation is gone! Its head in the dust,

like an ostrich confronted by force.

Once we had plenty to eat,

once we had plenty of stock;

this land in the days of our fathers

was a shade-screened leopard—dark beast eternal.

The falling rain watered those years,

the fields in those years flourished.

Ntsikana's words have now come to pass:

we've upended Phalo's land.

This home of our fathers throbbed with life

while still a domain of darkness;

but then we joined the Christian brigades—

crushed Satan to his astonishment.

Our gods also thought we'd converted,

a moral church congregation.

Inside we sing, “ Lord, we've gathered,”

outside we snarl “Slit his throat!”

Look in the books of the ancient sage,

the scribe who inscribed our customs;

please journey in quest of your customs

like a springbok in quest of a spring.

Where are our onetime blessings?

All our great men have gone to ground:

our chiefs have gone, replaced by trash;

our customs have gone, our princes sit mum.

Go and consult the ancient sage,

spread out a mat and thank him;

there's nothing of value under the sun:

we flit from shadow to shadow.

Hom! Raise your cry and lament.

Remember you are the children

your fathers left on the battlefield;

you've become the prey of nations.

There's nothing of value under the sun:

we flit from shadow to shadow.

My baboon companion took to its heels:

won't somebody bring it back?

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column!

I'm still here, a young man and no poet.

I just like to be on top, Editor.

Oi! clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

Mercy, Africa, actions speak,

Nursemaid slain by your sucklings.

Thus the faint voice of John

saying “Africa, do you hear?”

Induce birth pangs in your people,

as in Ngubengcuka's time;

speak with sympathy in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

This sympathy's a shade-screened leopard

in all the Creator's sorrows as well,

all enemies will be crushed by it,

the mercies of heaven yield to it.

And so be one and sing one song,

die side by side with your own.

For a long time we've said so criss-crossing the land

in times of famine and times of war.

Fall and rise with your people

on these ridges of your land.

Spurn advice and you'll come a cropper,

crawl on your knees like a slow-spreading town.

And the rich, and expert students,

as a favour try this key:

sympathy's our only strength,

it alone can nourish us.