Jehovah, remember what's happened to us.

Weep on your feet, apathetic Africa.

The yoke of oppression's on your neck.

You're shattered, wingless bakbakiri.

Oh the homestead standing alone

with easy access through its gates,

whose people once had plenty,

now a sign of oppression.

Snap these ways that snare you.

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

Passers-by will shake their heads

at this home without hospitality.

Celebration began before fighting ceased

but there's bullying right in the churches.

Africa's horn's been cut right back.

The next generation will gaze slack-jawed.

Turn your face to the mountains

and prophesy from them. You too, boy.

Say we offer excuses for everything,

nothing but jokes and excuses.

Foreign ways are a snare to you.

In truth I say so; look for yourself.

Everything's gone that once was of value.

We've sunk deep, I swear by my people.

These ways drove a wedge between us and God:

those are the headings in our discussion.

They scattered us and mowed us down.

They hurled clods at our sons and daughters.

They plundered our homes and our kingship,

Reds and Christians need passes to travel.

The system's still soft, not fully effective:

you can escape if you keep to the shadows.

Our customs wear their dresses,

their trousers conceal deception.

Our girls no longer dance with bare breasts,

they cut fancy capers till their ribs break.

Snap these ways that snare you.

You didn't act, you were forced to act.

Bring out your spear and consult a diviner.

The Lovedale leopard slaughters our young.

When the white appeared, all was normal:

abnormality came with his bible.

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

lost as if at Vanity Fair.

Peace to you all! Indeed!!

Let's give thanks to the battle hero:

he vanquished and humbled his enemies,

crushed death and the ancient serpent

to wipe us clean of sin.

We read of him in the great book today

as the saviour heading for heaven.

He called to those who took to the hills

to tell them the tale of these sources of mercy.

Let the learned of Africa rise

(Jehovah opens his arms to them)

and bear the report today

recalling their flocks arrayed in rank.

U Davedi wati kwakonakala

Waka amanzi equla apalala

Pambi ko Yehova ecamagushela

Nawe ke Afrika lila ungcangcazela.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

Did you forsake us forever,

Great Place for weaning children?

Now we're something the cook tosses out,

condemned for intermarriage;

to our sons and daughters we're all one nation

of black people under the sun.

Those are the wailings, my people!

Take heart! Consider our country,

speak as of old in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

Are you gathered in bundles for threshing?

Your recklessness is rampant.

Induce birth pangs in your people

as in Ngubengcuka's time.

You see, my people, we're old,

truth threw us long ago;

the truth is found in scriptures

and also within our blankets.

The days of darkness are done,

the age of ignorance over:

let's formulate plans for our future,

or we'll struggle along one by one.

Are you gathered in bundles for threshing?

Your recklessness is rampant.

How do you live in constant strife,

in ignorance and conceit?

Living like this, can you have a country?

Living like this, can you have a home?

As we idly bicker we're left in the dust

and Africa slips through our fingers forever.

The whites are united against the blacks,

the Coolies and Chinese against the blacks.

Are you gathered in bundles for threshing?

Your recklessness is rampant.

Unity's our only strength,

it alone can nourish us:

all enemies will be crushed by it,

and the pillars of heaven shattered.

We bark for you, my people,

confronting those who pick us clean.

What nation is this whose milk

lacks strength to reach the milksack?

Today Africa yields no milk.

Is there no one among the elders

to bear this report to the One on High,

to burn his first son as sacrifice?

Peace!

Hom! Wait a minute! In the Cape

we stumbled in starting:—

Halahoyi, you in the Cape!

Something stinks

like the river snake

fouling the air.

“We stumbled in starting!

Things fell apart,” says Maxeke,

hunting those who scattered

and took to the hills.

Halahoyi! In the Cape

they seek a ford,

for Government troops

met Phalo's,

and we slipped off

like swallows.

So says Maxeke,

white-flanked kite:

first we'll find

a ford for ourselves—

then King George

can set his seal.

Hom! Wait a minute!

Return to the battlefield:

our men are butchered

by bladeless spears.

Peace!

We seek a ford to ferry

first one dove then the rest;

we want them all, even those

who egg on the troops but stay home themselves.

We stumbled in starting!

We seek a ford,

a long rope for hauling

the lame as well.

The slope is benighted,

we seek a ford:

our fathers abandoned us,

a flock without kindling.

Halahoyi! Remove your shoes

and seek a ford,

so that your chiefs

can lick the cream.

We stumbled in starting!

So says Maxeke,

great greybeard

of Ngxokozelo.

We stumbled in starting,

weak at the knees,

stirred into gruel

by their rifles as spoons.

We seek a ford,

for what we have

is merely cosmetic,

no more than skin deep.

Hom! Wait a minute!

We stumbled in starting!

This year it seems

is a year of wonders.

Our fathers abandoned us

with no ford in sight,

our heads strewn with tatters

like those of diviners.

“Come! Here's the ford!”

cries the voice of a Nation

established by power

of heaven and earth.

We stumbled in starting,

white as snow.

Maxeke says

our women wither.

There's no real split:

we're rivers adrift

till the morning star

dawns on Africa.

Peace!

Maxeke's split?

Pastor, the weight of your loads!

Mercy, Mimosa,

twisting in falling,

branches yet reaching

out to its own.

Mercy!

In the Cape

we stumbled in starting!

We pick no bones,

but arms are to hand.

So says Find-at-the-Door-

What-you-Shot-from-Inside.

When we find the ford

we'll all kneel together,

pleading our souls

before God Almighty.

Mercy!

Come back, Africa!

We seek a ford,

lest our children

bloat from neglect.

Hom! Wait a minute!

Stop mucking about.

Shut the churches,

return to the battlefield.

Please speak, Ancient Greybeard of ours;

please speak, Doubter turned to faith,

please speak, tell us the story again,

please speak, of the days of our fathers and milksacks.

What were things like in those days, please speak,

when they cooked with pots of clay, let's hear?

What were things like in those days, please speak,

when women wore calfskin petticoats, let's hear?

When you kept to the path, please speak,

said, “Show us the witch,” let's hear;

when you first saw the whites, please speak,

cleaving sea after sea, let's hear.

Let poets speak of the day of tears

for Africa's petticoat—please, Sir—

which restored the soul of the land

of every black nation under the sun.

Other nations grew stronger,

this home of ours stayed in the dark.

Truly, Africa's petticoat's dropped:

in Ngqika's house we were ready to quit.

Truly, Africa's petticoat's dropped!

The bible slips from our hands and slams shut;

in that world of white lords and masters

the bible speaks with forked tongue.

Let poets speak of the day of tears

for Africa's petticoat, please, Sir,

You, who created the blind by design,

shouldn't first have created us by design.

Hunting party hunting souls,

You set whites on ours and leave us panting.

You form one flock from diverse sheep,

form one flock from our diversity.

The trumpet sounded, calling us.

There, Africa's petticoat's dropped,

which was the blanket swathing us:

“You Great Blanket swathing us.”

The shooting star informed us:

spurn strange gods on pain of death.

It was a guide to guide us.

You, Guide, who guides us!

You are the You who dwells on high,

cast out the heathen gods,

You're the Great God of heaven,

passing in front of the white man's cannon.

You are the You, the Shield of Truth,

with you, Shield of Truth, we'll guard ourselves.

You are the You, Fort of Truth,

Truth strengthens us in your fort.

Ink, leave me to sleep.

Last night I tossed and turned

and fell asleep at dawn.

Why was that? Au! The ford.

Au! Leave me to sleep.

Maxeke's idea of a ford's got us going,

we raised our heads from despair

as if we'd already crossed over.

Speak out, Cete! Someone called for the fords to be blocked

so those in the Cape couldn't cross:

they'll spoil it all, because everything's fine

as long as they're sleeping like springboks.

Speak out! I say Nomgcanabana's father's

a lightning bird taken to dance

at Lupindo's place, where it's fed,

and when it's full it goes off with Baldy.

Speak out, Nqhini, with all your might!

I say go and we'll follow you,

those in the Cape hear your voice

and ask “Where is the ford?”

Speak out, Cete! What more can I say?

It strikes me this thing will be seen

to come good, since it's gently fanned

by men who iron out problems. Au!

Speak out, Cete! I say live long

son of Piliso, death isn't pretty:

everything's ugly under the sods.

The ford's nothing like a lifeless lump.

Speak out! I say a man's tossed under

a mound, well fed,

without a good word

from the speakers over his grave.

shame!

Speak out! Because we are at the ford.

We know of no one concerned at that,

we don't know why they were suddenly restless,

we know of no one who'd treat us as brainless,

we know of no one who'd bar our Cape sympathies.

Speak out! I say to you in the Cape:

take after your grandmothers,

act fearing no one,

for you've stolen no one's property.

Die-as-one, indeed!

You'll be people too. Wake up!

Rise up to the ford! The ford.

From the stream came the song of the maidens

from the outposts and empty villages

of the land of the Sotho and Hlubi.

Come out, Amos, and explain it to us.

The sun of far-flung Africa rises,

rises to find you bereft of ornament.

The witches’ huts should be clustered

and move in a group to Baboon Sack Land.

Take a look, Africa, dawn's breaking today.

The apostles also proclaim the dawn.

Their country makes them froth at the mouth.

Oh, no! they ground me as fine as flour.

These are not Nongqawuse's times,

who brought Xhosa mountains crashing down.

Find support in the Scriptures.

Ethiopia should get involved.

God offers no hope at all

that he'll ever, ever speak to us.

He'll be heard through the mouths of the prophets.

Mercy, Wild Beast with scaly feet!

Elephant they stab while entreating it.

Armed with lightning, work magic.

When we offer advice knowing little

they say He'll descend knowing all.

So take a look, Africa, dawn's breaking

even though you scorn the messengers.

God offers no hope at all

that He'll ever, ever speak to you.

I've been talking all day giving witness.

There's Amos, now all could be right.

“Take a look, dawn's breaking.”

You inspired some things that I said.

Go back to the books of the people of old,

and stop being stripped by the whites every day.

Jehovah roared and will prophesy:

they must stop besmirching your dignity.

Though we are nothing, just things to toy with,

dawn's breaking now, so stay on your watch.

Don't listen to no-account nations,

raise the dust till your ladies grow lean.

God offers no hope at all

that He'll ever, ever speak to you.

He'll be heard through the mouths of the prophets.

Every language has its prophets.

Take a look, Africa, dawn's breaking today.

The apostles also proclaim the dawn.

These are not Nongqawuse's times,

who brought Xhosa mountains crashing down.

Peace indeed!

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column!

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

I carry the milkpail to arm-ringed celebrities

and I have not one bead of an arm-ring.

At the end of the old year we thank you,

Well of maternal love,

for holding us in times of peril

throughout the year.

The year has passed, it's barely gone,

fireworks marked its passage,

raised voices welcomed the new,

coming in its fashion.

Part us from our foolishness,

and straighten out our paths,

ignore all our transgressions

of the past year.

Please, today, bless Africa,

look on her paths with favour,

now restrain all teachings

leading us astray.

They're stealing our cattle on misty plains—

it pains my heart to say so—

I hope none of us is lost in the gloom

for all our sins.

The year has passed bearing news

of nothing but persecution,

confusion confounding

our praise of God.

Oppression and injustices

as well as crimes committed

by cheating and killing each other:

please appear in a vision.

Every earthly burden,

everything you did,

everybody's habits

have been recorded.

They're stealing our cattle on misty plains!

Where's the star the white man brought,

describing the bounty of heaven

to us on earth? Think about it!!

In the mist on the plains they're stealing our cattle!

The white man's bounty lies in Africa,

the cause of our tribulation.

And so we die.

The year has passed bearing news

of nothing but persecution

confusion confounding

our praise of God—Peace! Awu!!

Listen!

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself

for quarrelsome beer-hall regulars,

the haunt of the sons of Long-Dead,

who gaze through sightless eyes.

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself,

a cannibal, mbulu in human disguise.

I lost the thread: it's a paranoid killer,

this brandy they drink in denial.

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself!

Where are our country's maidens?

“In the city slums we roar in chorus:

‘In the storm we'll sink together’.”

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself,

a scoffer creating dummies:

find it in Solomon's Proverbs,

in Chapter 22.

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself,

Jongizulu's talking drum.

We've come to this pass through liquor,

as the Ngqika mountains testify.

What has more strength than liquor?

Powerful posts are lost through it.

Liquor sings praises till its guts bust,

calls us with clichés, wows us with wonders.

What has more strength than liquor,

an exploding cannon revealing shame?

It's fit to be drunk by our critics,

who splash in the Orange but don't cross.

What has more strength than liquor?

High rank is trampled by liquor,

whose path is splattered with blood

till his red shirt looks like a Methodist's.

The canteen's a cranny for witches and warlocks

denouncing the drink they drink:

they brew their potions by the dull of the moon,

shunning the broad light of day.

I don't insist that drinking's a sin,

then again, I'm not saying it's not;

There's a lesson for us

In all that occurs.

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column,

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

I carry the milkpail to arm-ringed celebrities

and I have not one bead of an arm-ring.

There's a voice that's quite explicit:

through envy you face destruction.

Envy appears when everything's normal:

abnormality comes with a fragmenting church.

Snap this envy that snares you.

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

Envy split us from God:

those are the headings in our discussion.

This envy appears when everything's normal:

abnormality comes with a fragmenting Word.

It scattered and mowed us down,

hurled clods at our sons and daughters.

God offers no hope at all,

he will never, never speak to us.

He says “Take up your fathers’ coats

in whatever land they were left.”

Africa, you were shackled

because you lost your way.

The late riser misses everything:

we weren't aware of our fathers groaning.

Our heroes fall, our country's dark,

just rough mounds because of envy,

and the torment we suffer—“Agreed!”

you can see derives from envy—“Agreed!”

You see, my people, we're old,

truth threw us long ago;

this land of Africa's ours,

but we sank in pools through our folly.

It's a shame, my people, a scandal,

a disgrace not to help your own,

and you still saying, “We're students:

who are others compared to us?”

Through envy we round on each other

while blacks are ringed by foes.

The shades depart no longer knowing us

and we sink in a stream of despair.

Envy's an obstacle up this hill,

money's another obstacle:

so we battle to scale it.

Can a seasoned debater dispute this?

The fulfilment of what was written approaches,

I swear by Ndlambe and my father who sired me.

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

and there'll be no place for this envy.

Mercy indeed!!

grandson of heroes who fell at Hoho.

Mercy! Go, Gatyeni,

we'll follow you.

Hom! Wait a minute!

Those heroes fell for their country,

died at the side of Sandile their king.

Hom bo!

We'll follow you:

we're loyal to the royal prince

“who rumbles down Xesi's banks,

flits over Vece, the rock-strewn Xesi,

shade for all, however many.”

I'm citing Sandile's praises.

Go and we'll follow you:

no traitor came

from your house.

Go and we'll follow you:

no female poet

came from our house:

the poet who rouses the court

and censures the king's always male.

Go and we'll follow you!

We first encountered these female poets

here in this land of thugs and booze.

Go and we'll follow you,

but how do we know

a traitor's crime can't be cloaked?

Go and we'll follow you:

even a fool's sure to know

a starveling can't guide

or ever lead a nation.

Go and we'll follow you!

We danced at your birth, lord of men!

Umteteli's bread for our table:

long may it last.

Good on you,

lord of men!

Go and we'll follow you.

You too, broad-breasted woman:

your robe rattled Buxton

and prison walls tumbled.

Go and we'll follow you,

woman who protested passes;

confronted by protests

the white man quailed,

and kept his pistol holstered.

Go and we'll follow you,

woman whose words at Nancefield

fired the Commission

to dream her dreams.

Go and we'll follow you,

woman who dogged the Commission

down to Elephant Bay,

I swear by Lady.

Go and we'll follow you.

You too, Cethe, Nkombisa's child.

Chizama, hold tight now,

your people are watching you.

Go and we'll follow you,

Rhadebe, Mbambisa's son,

master stick-fighter;

don't let yapping curs

distract you from the giant hound.

Go and we'll follow you,

son of Maxeke:

we've been bought off with low-grade chuck,

meat slopped up in the compounds.

Go and we'll follow you:

this lot would prefer to face

next year without competition.

Ho! Ho! Ho! Fat chance!

Hom! Wait a minute! The ford holds threats!

That's it, Editor. Mercy!

You'll hear from me again.

We'd do well to buy land:

I'm excited to tell you.

Government troops clashed with Phalo's,

we sneaked to our holes like swallows.

This government from overseas

forced thousands of people to move,

hounded them from their shanties:

my heart bleeds at the news.

We'd do well to buy land:

black nations must act together.

A kite with even a shack on a moor

can offer a white man shelter.

The topic's taboo in Natal,

the government raps for silence.

It's time for us to be alert:

opportunities beckon in Rustenburg.

Where are the black nations’ chiefs?

They once offered shade to all,

a kraal gate for the cattle of Phalo;

now you're kicked off your plots after ploughing! Buy land!

People die when shacks collapse:

we'd do well to buy land.

We'll seal Tshiwo's deserted villages,

begin by breaking our chains.

Something's coming!

A Rustenburg carnival,

acres of land up for sale:

let your wagons creak with the load!

Where are the black nations’ chiefs?

Tyo, they're kicked off their plots after ploughing.

First herd and lead us on,

before you wheel and drive us home.

A Rustenburg carnival:

shade from the sun.

Down there you'll see the chicken's tail

on a blustery day.

Ever stumbling on rutted roads,

our chiefs have slaughtered us.

Grab them, bottle-befuddled,

and toss them to the dogs.

There's the princeling, Zibi's son;

the war-cry summons nations.

The stench from Rustenburg casts its spear

and the rivers all run dry.

Something's coming!

We'd do well to buy land.

The government's made it crystal clear:

you'll do your cooking perched on branches.

Scratch the earth like crows:

Zibi's son's prepared the ground.

Do you want me to call him by name?

At Mdizeni I wouldn't mention it.

There's sweet celebration in Rustenburg.

I lay awake all last night:

the letter arrived as I readied for bed,

dropped a grindstone and set me spinning.

Opportunities beckon in Rustenburg,

hunting those who took to the hills.

The load will burst our wagon tents!

Just look, you don't have to buy.

Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air.

Zulu, Sotho, Thonga, Xhosa, Mfengu,

all are the same despite distinctions.

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,

so particular in their prejudice.

This “Union”'s a shade-screened leopard

in all the Creator's sorrows as well,

all enemies will be crushed by it,

and the pillars of heaven shattered.

Be as one and sing one song

with your compatriot “Die-As-One”.

We bark for you, my people,

confronting those who pick us clean.

You see, my people, we're old,

truth threw us long ago,

as we idly bicker we're left in the dust

and Africa slips through our fingers forever.

There's “Union” in heaven, Home of Peace;

on earth we bicker in strife,

and Satan sings praises till his guts bust

seeing the nation at sixes and sevens.

It's a shame, my people, a scandal,

a disgrace not to help your own,

and you still saying, “We're students:

who are others compared to us?”

How many Judases toyed in secret

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

I've travelled the land without a book:

what do scholars find in a book?

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.

This land of Africa's ours,

but we sank in pools through our folly.

Africa stayed; she's nowhere else.

Use a grass skirt when you can't go out.

You see, my people, we're old,

truth threw us long ago,

as we idly bicker we're left in the dust

and Africa slips through our fingers forever.

When we offer advice knowing little

you say He'll descend knowing all.

God offers no hope at all

that He'll ever, ever speak to you.

Will this Africa ever come back?

They say, “Jehovah, can you hear?”

Their country makes them froth at the mouth.

Ach, bo! they ground me fine as flour.

It will come back, I say, like it or not,

despite your screaming and kicking.

Isaiah says: “These are my words;

tell your people I'm the one talking.”

Unity's our only strength,

it alone can nourish us.

And Jesus descended from heaven with love

to unify heaven and earth.

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column!

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

I carry the milkpail across the Orange,

clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

The night is deep before the dawn,

the roosters’ racket heralds dawn.

I'll come to the point directly, my people,

speak like a man about our condition,

confirm the truth, concealing nothing,

so we wield the shield of truth. 10

To discover the way things work

start at the begininng.

The night is deep before the dawn,

we chafe at the yoke as dawn approaches.

I've lost my thread—forget it.

The Sage declares it. Who did you ask?

Those passes provide your evidence,

witnessed by women in early hours.

The system's still soft, not fully effective:

you can escape if you keep to the shadows.

If only you people shared with each other

what you see of life in this land:

we just shuffle about saying nothing.

I'll take a stand. Snap out of your trance.

I say to you, handsome African,

calf that declines leftovers:

the roosters’ racket heralds dawn.

The apostles also spoke of the dawn.

This isn't gossip: I saw it myself.

What do the witnesses have to say?

Today persecution's spread to women.

Knowing nothing I'll offer advice.

Those who came by ship shouldn't fool themselves:

the Prince of Heaven's wide awake.

Speak out, Africa, while you have life:

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

You're shackled today because of your country,

handed to you in the act of creation.

When the white appeared, all was normal:

abnormality came with his bible.

There was nothing slack in his preaching:

we saw we were totally routed.

But when he washed the clay from our bodies

our old men despaired, took their blankets and left.

We witnessed the fall of our kings, our foundations,

heard them groan as they shook their heads.

Ngqika himself broke away,

Christians, because of your bible.

So take a look, Africa, dawn's breaking.

The night is deep before the dawn.

The morning star has climbed the sky

with you bewildered by the future.

Agree!!

Look! Today I want you to understand

the essence of our distress:

we're a flock ready for scattering.

Agree with me, men! Mercy, ladies!

Where are leaders like Daniel—

tell us, you clutch of yes-men—

leaders who made no mistakes?

Seek them out in forest depths.

Leaders, shade for the nation,

with truth derived from God.

What's a bird with one black patch?

Hyenas ravage the royal offspring.

Leaders free of foul habits—

seek them: roll out a mat—

leaders free of rash decisions.

Awu! We're covered with chaff from the threshing-floor!

Leaders proven immune to flattery,

who unravel intricate knots;

when they perceive the mess we're in

they'll confer with the God of Custom.

We have no use for liars

who've lost the nation's trust.

I won't say it again, it's final:

hyenas ravage the royal offspring.

We have no use for drunks:

they spawn foreigners’ servants,

they fleece us when they need the bottle,

all our work's flushed down the drain.

Where are leaders like Daniel,

like Shadrack, Meshach and Abednego,

like Joshua, Aaron and Moses,

who scolded the thundering skies?

Those with love, God and unity,

so creatures came out to bask in the sun;

those whose prayers stopped the sun in its tracks,

with eyes raised to snowy heights;

those whose deeds created refuge,

not those whose smooth talk hides their hunger.

Go, handsome man of far-flung Africa,

beat the path to heaven.

A leader's a shade-screened leopard,

who appears in heaven's raiments,

quite clearly the Lord's companion.

I don't say this to put you down.

Men, we need leaders like Daniel,

because we're ground underfoot.

Let black people dance in our sight.

Without seeming to do so I've praised him. Peace!!

The year has passed and left us,

all signs point to its passage;

the trials of ushering the new year in

are with us.

The year has passed and with it

news of people on earth,

their conduct, their cruelties,

all recorded.

Hanewu, 1920,

year of frustration!

We sought our freedom:

you sent down gunfire,

Pow! and Pow! again.

Hanewu, 1920,

greedy sliver like dusk,

you clubbed to his knees

Doctor Rubusana,

bull with an antelope's guile.

Mercy, son of Rubusana,

who gulped rejection like water!

Be gone, 1920,

with all your events.

Awu! So mercy, then, 1921!

Beat to a pulp

the old year's

old deeds.

Come with your year

right to the end,

let what you've brought

well up in springs.

Mercy, Father!

The Vale of Tears:—

United in grief

the people assembled

in the square

at the Water Gate.

Nehemiah 8: 1

If you would return to Jehovah

with all your heart,

cast out from among you

all foreign gods.

I Samuel 7: 3

Halahoyi, Africans!

something stinks

like the river snake

fouling the air.

The vale of tears

is the vale of unity

in which all assemble,

even those from the heights.

Workers’ complaints

must be brought to the bosses:

there's nowhere else

to tend their wounds.

We must stand as one

to face the bosses,

lions that stalk us

with bloody eyes.

God won't deign

to grant us help

unless we strive

to help ourselves.

So dance, son of Thwebu,

we're waiting

to hear your words

in the clear light of day.

Speak out!

Set wastrels trembling

so our chiefs

lick the cream.

The vale of tears—

Agree with me, men!—

shields your heads

when skies are rumbling.

Yes, we agree!

It's the vale of unity.

Let's sway together

in rhythmic dance.

It's a travellers’ haven—

Agree with me, women!—

a shelter for girls

who've left their men.

Ho, Mrs M. Maxeke,

tall, bitter tree,

Deborah's sister,

give us advice

on harvesting crops.