Mrs. Emma Jane Mgqwetho,

daughter of Zingelwa of the Cwerha clan,

much loved by the people

and by her children.

We give thanks, All-Mighty,

Thunder-and-They-Shudder:

the Mgqwetho home shuddered when you thundered,

you seized its central pillar

and left them bereft.

Grief cleft the Ngojis

when you seized this old woman

and showed in so doing

our home is not here.

When you blot out life

and people pass on,

teach us to look

to the kingdom of heaven.

All of Hackney

knew her as Mama:

she bore limitless love,

the selfsame heart,

for every creed.

Her arms enfolded

not only her children,

enfolded the children

of every nation. Mercy!

On blistered feet she made her rounds

to pray at the side of the sick.

Blessed are those who die in the Lord,

whose sins are washed in the blood of the Lamb.

Mercy!

She expressed compassion,

incessantly praying

for Joburg's children

in the land of horrors.

Lord of all creatures,

you summoned your servant in peace,

as we suffer her death

may our lives be illumined!

The Chizama blanket's folded

with no one to wear it today.

Oh, Death, you're the foe,

with your bow and arrows.

In prayer for the world

this mother of ours

would sing a sweet song of praise;

inside the walls of our home resounded,

the people outside grew lean.

She swayed us with her prayers,

the wayward found new paths,

even those who shunned you, Father,

now perceived their splendour.

She grazed homewards to Jerusalem,

for her a haven of peace;

with callused feet this cow elephant

smoothed life's path for us.

Torrent whose kindness

flushed river courses,

gush today

in springs above Jordan.

God is love indeed,

but Mama's love of people

was Hermon's morning dews

bathing Zion's hills.

The light of her love

cascaded like willows,

edged with lilies,

sustained by water.

Death, you're heartless,

unperturbed;

a torrent of tears

leaves you unmoved.

The night is deep before the dawn,

the roosters’ racket heralds dawn.

Our rough treatment brings in the dawn.

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

Peace!

For a long time, men, we occasionally see,

for a long time, men, we hear of the slain.

Our people were seized and sent off to war,

with the word of God as a battle cry.

What's this?

“We're British: the Kaffirs can die!

We'll rip the candy from your mouths.

We didn't touch you: we're British!

A baby baboon's no stranger to misery.”

Do you hear?

God is the toy of black behaviour,

paganism's rampant.

We toyed with God while whites looked on:

today our country's affliction itself.

Mercy, Africa, strife-torn land!

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

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

We cast off God, went in search of a wife.

Think about it!!

The homestead of Africa raises a cry.

Christians, where are your bibles today?

Now their fiery breath

scorches those who received them.

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

Who doesn't weep in the face of oppression?

The nations on earth tug at each other,

waste themselves for a bone of earth.

This land of Africa's ours,

we frolicked and danced with our fathers.

But those who came by ship shouldn't fool themselves:

the Prince of Heaven's wide awake.

We're shackled today because of our country,

handed to you in the act of creation.

When the white appeared, all was normal:

abnormality came with his bible.

Look! Today I want you to understand

the essence of our distress.

Compatriot, wrestle with what I say,

meet me in sober debate.

The hill can't be scaled! It's slippery.

I won't mince words, I'll bare my heart:

up to this point in time,

just what have blacks achieved?

Take the African National Congress:

we once burst our ribs in its praise.

Now we go round in search of it:

“Has anyone seen where it's gone?”

None can deny, I'm sorry to say,

these questions have some point.

But as for me, I'm not at pains

to mock their efforts to date.

Vying for status is lethal poison

internally sapping Congress.

Undermined by the envious,

black people strive in vain.

This hill Difficulty's beaten us,

we've tried and tried to scale it:

it can't be scaled by blacks

strapped with the millstone of custom.

Envy's an obstacle up this hill,

money's another obstacle:

and so we battle to scale it.

Greybeard of ours, am I wrong?

Uniting's an obstacle up this hill,

so, burdened, we no longer praise it,

like plains cattle lost in the mist,

black as crows in our ways. That's us!

Why, my good man, are we slumped at the foot

of this hill Difficulty black people scale?

You've set your hand to many things

but which of them persist?

Your loathing and goading of Reds

are obstacles up this hill—

yet how you covet their cash!

Sweat all you like, you won't reach the top.

Unity's our only strength,

what has more power than unity?

How long must we hack away at this,

like novice diviners in groves of mimosa?

This hill frustrates attempts to scale it,

lions and leopards ring it;

the hill stands firm, our people slip

on slopes with carpets of cash.

You've set your hand to many things

which continue to list and sink.

You've all turned into Hottentots

snoring their heads off, arse in the air.

This hill the black man scales is steep,

it nearly daunted Christian;

his mouth frothed with a sloven's foam,

his ears stuck out as he scaled this hill.

Oh the homestead standing alone

with easy access through its gates,

whose people once had plenty,

now a sign of oppression.

The African continent's put to the test,

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.

Wailings, indeed!

They clapped shackles on you, Africa,

hurled you down with bible and musket;

the homestead of Africa raises a cry.

Christians, where are your bibles today?

Now their fiery breath

scorches those who received them.

What does the prophet Isaiah say?

When you've done trampling, you'll be trampled.

This land of Africa's ours,

here we leapt in dance with our fathers;

the stranger from overseas knew very well

that we also had our heroes.

We're still here, sleeping with one eye shut;

when news comes, we'll watch with the other.

We never took part in all those prayers,

so particularly pitted against the black,

snapping wires and shattering cliffs

from Tugela to the Winterberg.

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Keep our country in mind.

Our homes and our kingdoms all plundered,

Reds and Christians need passes to travel;

when we saw you Christians no better off

we in Ngqikaland wanted to quit.

Our fathers bore the yoke together,

together they snapped the traces,

in the forest they slew the lion,

dealt with the preying wolf.

Why can't you see what I've seen for so long?

Didn't Ntsikana tell you?

Bear our report to the One on High,

burn your firstborn son as sacrifice.

Even sucklings swore by our fathers,

in courtyards princes cavorted.

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Remember our countrry.

Wailings, indeed! Awu!!

Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air.

How do we live in constant strife,

in ignorance and conceit?

I'll roar returning to where I began,

I came when they said I'd come;

babes at the breast even swear by me,

kings prance and stamp in the yards.

For long we've been calling, our voices are hoarse

and the mercies of heaven have left us.

There are the signs crying out loud,

they whip those who know into terror.

My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?

It was heard in Golgotha, in our ruined homes,

calling out lest you forget

Africa's children arrayed in rank.

African leaders must rouse themselves,

Jehovah opens his arms to them;

they must stop scoring points off each other.

How then, Dr. Rubusana?

You're locked in shackles, Africa,

you've lost the path completely.

Your family's left you; your stock have left you,

your homes have left you: there's nothing left.

Bear the report to the One on High,

scratch the earth like crows,

say we offer excuses for everything,

nothing but jokes and excuses.

Mercy, Africa, Garden of Africa,

hyenas ravage our princes.

Even a jackal suckles its whelps.

Are yours scattered? Can you see them?

So when will you cry out loud

“My God, why have you forsaken me?”

Act like a man, bellow “Wailings!”

when you fall get back to your knees.

This hill the black man scales is steep,

it nearly daunted Christian;

his mouth frothed with a sloven's foam,

his ears flared like a cobra.

The days of darkness are done,

the times of ignorance over.

The brand of Cain enflames the land:

are you a killer like Cain?

From the stream came the song of the maidens,

from the outposts and empty villages

of the lands of the Sotho and Hlubi:

come out, leaders, explain it to us.

Halahoyi! Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air.

We were robbed of home and royalty.

Now our parents need a pass to travel.

Oh the homestead standing alone

with easy access through its gates,

whose people once had plenty,

now a sign of oppression.

Where are the leading women of Africa?

We've quit in despair in Ngqikaland.

Are you bound in shackles, Africa?

What do passers-by say?

Open your eyes; for a long time I've seen it.

Didn't Ntsikana tell you?

We toyed with God while whites looked on:

today our country's affliction itself.

The brand of Cain enflames the land:

are you a killer like Cain?

May the dumb arise in Africa!

The dumb arose in Decapolis.

Where are the leading women of Africa?

Will Africa slip off before your eyes?

Cain's mark's made our mother's peticoat

drop. Oh yes, it dropped!

The shooting star informed us:

spurn strange gods on pain of death.

Because of them we've lost ourselves

and our leaders all sit mum.

The shooting star informed us:

spurn strange gods on pain of death.

That was a leader, leading us,

that Leader, leading us.

Celebration began before fighting ceased,

but there sits the donkey driving the wagon.

We heard the roar of the word of God,

brought by mocking sorcerers.

Now what do you say? The country's at war:

behold the pass, the death of our families.

We perish for lack of diviners

as if every home housed a witch.

Come, woman leader, child of Maxeke,

there are the women faffing about.

Today there's dishonour in African homes,

we sink today in a stream of dishonour.

We make a big thing of this schooling,

and this culture we eagerly hound.

We pinned our hopes on a miracle:

some died with nothing to show for it.

Unity's our only strength,

it alone can nourish us,

all enemies will be crushed by it,

and the pillars of heaven shattered.

Peace!!

For a long time now we've been calling, Africa.

Hear our wailing, Garden of Africa!!

Your crop was consumed and scattered by birds,

but you stood firm and never left us.

Our voices are hoarse from imploring you;

we track through nations, appeal to phantoms,

nothing more than chickens’ scratchings,

eager at dawn, at dusk empty-handed.

We call to you from Table Bay,

we call to you from Algoa Bay,

we call to you from Grahamstown,

clutching satchels crammed with half-jacks;

drunk to death we call you home,

we cover your eyes and proclaim you blind,

you go right back to where you came from

as we call you home from the depths of depravity.

You say “Come back”? You must come back!!

You're profit to all the earth's nations,

they come from the north, they come from the south,

from the east and from the west.

Africa stayed! She's nowhere else:

look how the grass continues to sprout.

Look at the springs still bubbling with water.

Look all around, it's all in its place!

Will you go to the grave with nothing achieved,

raising your cry, calling “Come back”?

If you come back first the nation will rise

and news of its stirring will ring out to Jericho.

But tell us, Africa, where else in the world

can any old fool say “Come home”?

From my point of view, we bear all the signs

as we stumble along in stupidity.

From the Buffalo's banks we raise our cry,

from the Tyhume's banks we raise our cry

for all the black nations under the sun,

so Satan's ashamed until his guts bust.

You display no love, display no togetherness,

you sit on the fence, won't take a stand.

Nothing but sell-outs, you set fires and run,

betray your own people to bolster the whites.

Are you raising a cry, saying “Come back”?

You'll cry yourselves hoarse: you must come back!

Gone are our customs for setting up homesteads,

monarchy, values, nothing is left!

You live like locusts left by the swarm,

you've lost all pride, your sense of a nation,

lock, stock and barrel, everything's lost:

you seek balm in the bottle that blots out all pain.

Where's human kindness? The sense of a nation?

A land of crane-feathered warriors?

Where is royalty? There's nothing of value:

all that we once had is gone!!

Will the years all roll by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

Your family's left you; your stock have left you:

they're now the stock of the Mutton Gluttons.

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

In the light of day you sold your kingdom

and went in search of a wife.

Christians, where are your bibles today?

I'd better stop: I get too angry.

Truly, these people from overseas

used them to rob us of house and home.

What they gave us to drink was bitter.

Africa, how have you sinned?

Drought laid us low, rivers dried up.

What do they say in the far northeast?

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

Now there's no one to trust:

we even spurned God, our only hope.

Will you mark time through this year too?

Now this year says what I've long said:

“Whatever your doubts, please come back,

those glittering baubles aren't for you.”

What must we make of these marriages?

Wed and split in a day: where's this from?

We sit on the fence, won't take a stand,

the walking dead unfamiliar to God.

Will all the years roll by?

This year says: “Prepare yourself

to seek the source of your situation,

why you're so and why you starve.”

Go back to where you came from,

to Ntsikana's final words.

Don't bargain with the truth:

this cash led us astray.

Seek the seers to tell you straight

what the ancient of days divines

so you speak without fear in that knowledge:

a nation that fears is a nation of liars.

And so there's the pass in a nation of liars,

and so there's the raid in a nation of liars,

and scripture predicts even more,

by my shades and my father who sired me.

You're coming back!!

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.)

Tell me, where do we stand, my people?

On these ridges of our land?

Awu, nitpicking poets

ignore the grain that pecks the chicken.

Tell me, where do we stand, my people?

In these rivers of our land?

Spurn advice and you'll come a cropper,

crawl on your knees like a slow-spreading town.

The bible's been turned into gall:

does ancestral sacrifice follow that path?

We sturdy Reds will die;

your condition's declined till your guts bust.

Tell me, where do we stand, my people,

in this our country of plenty?

I stubbed my middle toe,

fell and rose with the councillors.

Where do we stand today, my people?

Even the stock in our country has gone.

Drought struck; the rivers dried up.

What do they say in the far northeast?

Along the ways, Africa's ravaged.

I tried to sleep but it left me alarmed.

Africa, have you been trashed

like a plate of little worth?

We've quit in despair in Ngqikaland.

The bible slips from our hands and slams shut.

It seemed it would ease our burdens,

instead it brought heavier burdens.

Where do we stand? There's no place to stand.

We're lost as if at Vanity Fair,

for we offer excuses for everything,

nothing but jokes and excuses.

“Timbilili!” says the sleeper

suddenly wakened.

“Timbilili!” says this marsh bird

of South Africa.

Our ignorance crushes us.

My people, we mustn't sell maize:

we'll just be forced to buy it back.

Still dressed in grass skirts we starve.

Where are the wealthy today?

Our maize makes its way to the shops.

Abundant harvest was shade for our fathers.

I'm afraid we're simply bont.

Is there no one left among the old

to talk to the youth of today?

Bright as pennies we all drink tea

and trade our maize for sugar.

Where are our country's customs,

transmitted to us through the ages?

Where are cattle and sour milk?

Where are grainpits and melons?

Everything's gone! We slip through the cracks.

We trade our maize for sugar:

we're in the clutches of fabulous seabirds.

I tell you truly, we grope in the dark!

When we sell our maize, we sell it cheap;

when we buy it, the white hikes the price.

What's going on? Where are we falling?

We'll die in our homes from famine.

For a long time tea has brought disaster:

it lugs our maize sacks off to the store:

we're in the clutches of fabulous seabirds.

Beware, my people, we'll end up as tripe.

Where are the grainpits our fathers had?

Those grainpits now are in Jewish hands.

We return to the store to buy our maize back:

you're profit to all the earth's nations.

To conclude, my people, I'll say this:

we just have to stop selling maize—

we return to the store to buy it back.

Spots feed the leopard!

I sent Christmas, the old year and the new year packing with praise poems. Now I'm going to sing my own praises, and then I'll pass on to start something fresh.

Peace to you all!

Mercy, Nontsizi, renowned for your chanting,

your poems are the nation's bounty.

No elephant finds its own trunk clumsy.

Awu! Mercy, old hen's wing in Africa!

Hen screening her chicks

from birds of prey,

the nation knows you, sky-python,

poets sneer but discuss you.

Turn Phalo's land on its head, Mgqwetho,

whack nations and sap their standing.

Wild beast too fierce to take from behind,

those who know tremble in tackling you.

Mercy, dusky pool-tinted woman,

your stench reeks like the river snake.

Peace! Elephant browsing the tops,

you've made a household name of Mgqwetho.

Mercy, Nontsizi, African moss

sipping moisture from under the ripples,

you stubbed your toe and felt the pain,

a slip of the tongue and they stomped on you.

Mercy, Nontsizi, African moss,

you strip poetry bare to the bone

and the nation's mountains swivel

as you sway from side to side.

Mercy, Dusky, Drakensberg snow

like morning dew on Mount Hermon.

I blundered in going to whites:

Oh I felt the cops’ cuffs on me!

Mercy, woman poet, Vaaibom's flamingo,

which thrusts its feet forward for take-off,

which thrusts its feet backward to land:

all creatures come out to bask in the sun.

Mercy, duck of the African thickets,

ungainly girl with ill-shaped frame.

Awu! Nontsizi, African moss,

with bow-legs like yours you'll never marry!

Mercy, woman poet, wing of Africa.

Make way! Ach, I was used.

Mercy, starling perched in a fig tree,

your poems dispense with feminine wiles.

Mercy, Nontsizi, African moss,

let old maids screen their bodies in bodices

for no-one knows your ancestors:

without skin skirts there'll be no weddings.

Where are your daughters? What do you say?

“We roamed the countryside searching for marriage,

we turned our backs on home and dowry,

today we're exploited in exile homes.”

What's education? Where are your sons?

They roamed the land in search of niks,

chickens scratching for scraps,

eager at dawn, at dusk empty-handed.

Halahoyi! Africans something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air.

Mercy! It's the words of poets.

I'm here, still alive and no poet.

I came when they said I'd come,

I'll roar returning to where I began,

babes at the breast even swear by me,

kings prance and stamp in the yards.

Sing a song to God Almighty,

glorify and praise him highly,

sing, all you old and young,

sing a new song now.

Come all of you, come today!

This child here opens his arms to all.

Come as well, you aimless tramps,

come let the child here care for you.

Swell your hymns of praise,

thud your sounding drums,

see him through the eyes of faith

and sink in awe to your knees.

There he is crushed on the cross

for Adam's sins and his family's,

this son of God who has appeared

and cleansed us through his humanity.

He came for love of his people,

washed in water and the word of might,

a king of peace who carried peace,

bringing bliss to the hard of heart.

Hosanna to the son of David

on the mountain slopes of Gilead.

Through his coming our foes were humbled

and the youth of our nation emboldened.

This child arrived with wonders,

he brought salvation and we all wondered.

There was nothing slack in his preaching style:

robbers took to their heels.

He came and startled the world

and shattered all the earth's pillars.

Mercy, Elephant browsing homewards,

who fell at Golgotha in lingering pain.

This child arrived with Mary:

in the far Kalahari I heard of them,

I called to those who took to the hills

to tell them the tale of these sources of mercy.

Hosanna to the son of David

on the mountain slopes of Gilead.

You Jews with hairy ears, rebound

to that mighty log in Judea's Bethlehem.

The lid was placed on your pot, black home,

that day your country rumbled and trembled.

Hosanna to him, heaven-mellowed.

Roar, angels with feathers of gold.

When he comes he will seem to be bearing a roof

but his load is merely his multitudes.

Roar, oceans! Frolic, continents!

We poets are wont to raise dust.

How sad a deserted home is!

Its people once were blessed,

its gates now stand unattended,

and its enemies reign supreme.

Mercy!

Mercy, Garden of Africa,

spiders who once clung to you

will spin your home to a cliff

and leave it for European orphans.

Bring to mind the days of Ntsikana,

who left wonders in this land;

his voice comes whirling back today.

Can a seasoned debater dispute this?

Bring to mind the days of our fathers.

Before the word came they wore grass skirts,

but you tended them on the slopes

like the flocks on Mount Gilead.

Where's your vale of tears,

where tears flow as you talk

of oppression that dragged us down,

casting spells right to the Mpondo?

The vale of tears! Hear the wailing!

We were beaten by lie after lie:

The nation gone! Head in the dust,

like an ostrich confronted by force.

Where is your vale of tears,

where tears flow as you talk?

Don't brag clasping cash that you'll never be penniless:

Nongqawuse caused the cattle to bleat.

We travel a bramble-strewn road.

God uses whites to oppress us:

we spurned tradition, were beaten by lies,

now we fight for our footing on slippery slopes.

Turn Phalo's land on its head, Mgqwetho,

whack nations and sap their standing.

Wild beast too fierce to take from behind,

let old maids screen their bodies in bodices.

In vain we abandoned allegiance,

let it slip as we took foreign service.

Our eyes and ears were witness

to the looting of home and kingship.

It's brandy that ruined the blacks:

how many died dirty deaths?

Our gifted, our learned

drowned in skokiaan.

God uses whites to oppress us!

Mercy, Greedy Elephant grazing the tops,

you were shaped by the word, we were shaped by fingers.

Yours is the day, yours the night.

Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the river snake, fouling the air.

How do we differ from Cain,

that incessant wanderer?

Mercy, Africa, strife-torn land!

We blacks lie sleepless in bed

while they hold meetings about us.

Agree with me, men! Mercy, girls!

Raise wailing and lamentation:

remember we are the children

our fathers left on the plains

to become the prey of hyenas.

Child of the soil of far-flung Africa,

what have you done to so offend God?

Here the Chink sells you malt for your home-brew,

there it's “Mama want banana?” in the Coolie store.

You're a wanderer just like Cain;

this isn't mere hearsay, it's plain to see.

There is advance in education,

but the lion of darkness still roars.

Shy from the mire like cattle:

Mutton Gluttons have stolen your pastures.

Are you the wild beasts of this land?

I guess this light came to lead us astray.

For you, black person, was Africa made,

it took six days to make,

so this is your land of Canaan:

heaven's not yours, it's for angels.

Don't sit on the truth,

biting your tongue.

Our rough treatment snaps fencing wire.

Enough! Any more makes my gorge rise.

Ubiquitous signs inquire your origins:

are you the Johnny-come-lately here?

I won't rehash what I've often maintained.

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

Today you're a stranger in Africa,

you go about clutching at straws:

groom your shield, this land of your fathers

is now the playground of strangers.

Raise dust till you're dirty, dusky African,

like Moses quitting Egypt.

Stop asking questions. Now it's clear

Africa's the playground of strangers.

It pains my heart to say these things,

we're a ladder others ascend.

Only now are we starting to stir

long after we've been consumed.

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 day and moon?

In long ages past the earth was fashioned,

in long ages past were people created,

today we should be terror-stricken

at all these horrors we encounter.

Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air;

it's quite at home in orchards,

lovely at rest on the plains.

David in troubled times

spilt water from a well,

a libation to Jehovah:

Africa, weep till you shake.

Whatever your doubts, please come back,

those glittering baubles aren't for you.

David says, “These are my words;

tell your people I'm the one talking.”

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

whether you like it or not.

If you don't come back you'll surely die:

there's a voice that's quite explicit.

Ethiopia should get involved,

find support in the Scriptures,

seek the truth from those above,

who died here and in the water.

Lord, for long you've been our home:

this land of Africa's our land.

Those who came by ship shouldn't fool themselves:

the Prince of Heaven's wide awake.

Come back today, Greybeard of ours,

and rip out the tree by its roots,

so we watch the dark ones dance,

and creatures come out to bask in the sun.

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.

Our fathers bore the yoke together,

together they snapped the traces,

in the forest they slew a lion,

dealt with the preying wolf.

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.

Who would know that greatness in you,

Maker of heaven and earth?

Agree! Yes, in truth, we agree with you,

who scold the thundering skies.

Peace! Awu!!

Mene! Mene! Tekel! Parsin!!

Awu! I blundered in going to whites!

I felt bound by the chains of the ways

of the world, of the Ancient Tempter.

Like that they lived their lives in pleasure,

like that the fingers wrote on walls;

like that the king sat thunderstruck,

naked old men screened themselves with their hands.

The nation blissfully paced in its cage,

everyone sinking up to the ears,

Satan busting a gut singing praises

to you Christians and to us Reds.

“We exalted ourselves above God.”

The walls spoke for even frogs to hear

in Belshazzar's ancient city

of brass and silver idols.

“You've been weighed and found to be wanting.”

The Ancient Creator's voice struck home.

The fingers’ inscription proclaims

your kingdom's been taken, handed to others.

Stop raising doubts: it's speaking to you,

who stab your king and stab your country,

so your customs joined the whites,

because we exalted foreign gods.

Who are you questioning at this stage?

There's the writing on the walls.

Don't we indulge in slander

while saying “Africans, come back”?

Mene! Mene! Tekel! Parsin!!

Where's the Xhosa authority,

for all the black nations under the sun,

for our sons and daughters assembled as one?

At the end of the old year we thank you,

Well of maternal love,

for holding us in times of peril

throughout the year.

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.

Part us from our foolishness,

and straighten out our paths,

ignore all our transgressions

of the past year.

Today won't you please bless Africa,

look on her paths with favour,

now restrain all teachings

leading us astray.

Oppression and injustices

as well as crimes committed

by cheating and killing each other:

please appear in a vision.

They're stealing our cattle on misty plains!

But you say the white man can see.

The Judge's eyes are watching us:

how will it appear?

The year has passed bearing news

of nothing but persecution,

confusion confounding our praise of God.

Peace!!

Every earthly burden,

everything you did,

everybody's habits

have been recorded.

The year has passed, it's barely gone,

fireworks marked its passage,

raised voices welcomed the new,

coming in its fashion.

There's the trumpet calling us,

heavens and earth, the sea and the waves;

take that sweet gum, 1925,

and drizzle it over us.

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!!

They're stealing our cattle on misty plains!

The white man's bounty lies in Africa,

the cause of our tribulation.

And so we die.

Mercy!!

The year has passed bearing news

of nothing but persecution,

confusion confounding

our praise of God.

Peace!!

Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air;

it's quite at home in orchards,

lovely at rest on the plains.

I want you to know so look, compatriot:

there you can see calamity.

Take this key and open this chapter:

in truth it will make your head spin.

You were locked in shackles, Africa,

because you had lost your way.

The late riser misses everything:

we weren't aware of our fathers groaning.

Our herds and our people engulfed in flame,

even God's word was up in arms.

“Our fathers no longer sleep at home:

the whites have erected forts of stone.”

Celebration began before fighting ceased

but there's bullying right in the churches.

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

The gainsayers countered: “How can she die?”

Deuteronomy's quite explicit:

It says, “Come back! You face destruction.”

Hey you! You're called for all eternity.

Whoa! Wait up! The warnings are manifold.

Today our voice is drowned in a whirlwind,

we're left in the dust by learning.

It seemed it would ease our burdens,

instead it brought heavier burdens.

Let's assume our fathers’ coats

in whatever land they were left:

we've crossed many lands in search of them

in times of famine and times of war.

Hear my words, Greybeard of ours,

those are the headings in our discussion.

And there's the key to the lock on our land, 35

we've searched many lands to get it.

And the rich, and expert students,

do me a favour and try this key.

There's no need to cross the oceans:

it's right here, not overseas.

It says you can't use it to get into heaven,

it's right here: you also have merit.

On that day the prophets will sift you,

for every nation has prophets.

We say “Please come back, though you lack faith,

those glittering baubles are not for you.”

Return to the days you yearn for,

recall what Ntsikana said of them.

Dawn's breaking!!