A Hundred Year Overdue War

The history of our paralysed country is written in blood, though history’s manicured words are censored to down-play the role of whites in the continued deterioration of the fabric of our unity as black people.

Our most fervent proclamations should be about the race as an itinerant component of politics in contemporary SA, which sadly remains the bedrock of elitist expansion through the African continent, and still relegates blacks to the lower echelon of social participation.

We must realise that the present democratic dispensation as a sell-out tactic devised by the white minority to wean out power under guises of liberal sentiment.

They will never give up the wealth usurped through mischief and murder of the natives, not even today.

So, our land and wealth must be taken back through brute force and not some legislative adage concocted by their puppets in government.

A people’s manifesto is necessary for this perilous venture, because the elite have inaugurated a police state that will only serve to safe guard the pearly gates of suburbanite affluence.

The deviltry of white supremacy should be countered by the impunity of an enraged black population, which if at all cruel, should be thrice as cruel as the conditions under which they trotted down our hapless ashy people.

We must exhibit that ‘recuperative power of our race’, as Pixley ka IsakaSeme proclaimed, and if may put it bluntly, undertake yet a new Bhambatha uprising with renewed vigour and less self-preservation.

The august temples of law, as founded on the conniving morals of whites, should be toppled, not by only violence, but an irrepressible demand for reparation for the theft they ploughed through our fields.

Their prisons should be shackled shut, if not populated by the plunderers of the wealth of this land.

Our economic servitude, dispensed by their mediocre education system should be dismantled by us who are now helots in the land of our ancestry.

I don’t see why ‘having white friends’ is good, when they are fed slavishly by our hungry mothers seated on verandas mowed by our sweat ridden fathers who today cannot even recognise their own families due to emasculation for a mere pittance.

Farm workers have picks and spades in their hands, and they should use those to replay Terreblanche’s death on all farms, Nat Turner style, marauding through our crops and watering them with ill blood of the oppressors.

And if you possess a nose worth its salt, you will understand why a war has been postponed for over a hundred years while they continue their pillage of our country.

The secret intentions of white colonists still play out a tragedy on black flesh, and our continued deputation which beggarly trivialise our dead who are turning in their graves.

And yes, my ravings could be construed as a lapse into African racial fundamentalism, but hell, why not.

I am of a race downtrodden by another calling itself God chosen.

This immense hatred of whiteness is not incidental nor gradual, but concrete and ordained by my bloodline. I am not oblivious to the fact that black problems are white and that every black person must dissociate themselves from everything white, privileges included, to attain true freedom.

Not this landless liberation myth devoid of historical recall.

If white thievery resulted in the land being in their hands through innumerable wars waged against blacks, then it is logical to adduce that through war we will reclaim our lost possessions.

Yes, their agents in the new SA managed to legislate the disarmament of blacks, but with or without gun, this land will be drenched in blood.

One might say, they have cars in which to flee this battlefield, but come on, petrol station attendants are us, we serve them food in restaurants and we know all sorts of poisons, we are tellers in their banks and stores.

Let Wouter Basson school kith and kin on what he did to our elders and tell them to expect worse.

Or do we think the move to be suicidal as racist pen paddlers fabricated Bhambata’s defeat and lynching as indignant?

He and his warriors laid the foundation for truth, even though that truth was vanquished by sword of perverts. He was not suicidal, but a martyr.

The war I am proposing is the finalization of the Bhambatha Uprising to resolve the debacle, with Moshoeshoe’s tactics, coupled with new technologies which by the way the white are fine tuning for the depopulation of Africa and all lands un-white.

Our accursed constitution is a sanguine document plagued with irrational policies about land issues, a triumph for the temper of our lounging oppressors and that has to be mentioned unequivocally.

The continued race humiliation endured by blacks in SA is a mockery of the ideals many of our stalwarts died for, and a blemish to any effort towards a regeneration of Africans in general.

It is obviously by concerted effort that our history has been lobotomised by white historians and their black intellectual cohorts.

A friend once asked why is that their archaeologists can find fossils from millennia ago, but cannot exhume the remains of ‘the millions massacred by Shaka Zulu’.

The only answer I could muster was that history is mostly a fabrication by a few who are charged with records, factual or not.

One has to look no further that their sacred texts which a cauldron of misinformation and prosaic heresy churned out of yellowed manuscripts.

The self-same sacred texts are the foundation of a religious fervour which has incapacitated our people, literally palsying them into submission; a deterrent from murdering the oppressors.

Let us henceforth abandon their religions which were instrumental in rendering us barbaric in the eyes of the world, and turn those churches into monasteries of revolt.

And I find it amnesiac and saddening that a plethora of educated blacks of proven intellect are now flocking to join ‘the Nationalist Party incarnate’, the DA, which is the white vote clinging to a long standing knuckle clutch on the land they stole.

I am not saying one has to endear themselves to the debauched ANC of latter days which has desecrated Bhambatha’s place of death with mansion for a scrupulous president. Well, unless the mansion is a kind of memorium for the Chief’s lynching.

But the political schizophrenia of the act leaves much to be desired, considering that whites are still landowners and us, their food slaves.

Our ‘new black government’ has become the watchdogs that shelter white privilege from black desperation and hunger, look at what happened in Marikana.

The same token blacks will slaughter their own people if land grabs had to erupt.

Now I ask, what is to be done, beside a complete overhaul of all structures of power that are lenient to white proprietorship of stolen property.

It still baffles me that even in this day of RDP houses, and willing buyer willing seller policies, our people consistently battle to receive title deeds for those measly pieces of stands now ridiculing their strife for land dispossessed by a racist nation of whites.

While our economic rape ensues, their children are flocking to rifle ranges to learn how to kill blacks effectively, and their wives drive SUV’s into shopping complexes to buy whatever they like with their ‘good looks’.

I ask again, why are there farm brutalities when the black government promised protection for all citizens?

Not the protection provided by the police, who are just an arm of subservient power mongers versed in ways of pleasing their pale master.

I ask, how does a black man in this day and age want to be a cop under a white superintendent, or a black parody of white superintends who brutalises fellow Africans with impunity?

That’s the only employment they can find others claim, but ask why is that the only job is to be a gate keeper to your oppressors mansions?

I recently attended a memorial lecture in Mkhondo (formerly known as Piet Retief), and all un-salved wounds of our people peeled wide my heart’s infernal blisters.

Perhaps that excursion was the well-spring of my rage as exposed in this cogitative article.

The giant that was Saul Mkhize (May his soul rest in peace) finally received his well-deserved recognition and his name embalmed into souls of our nervously living confusion called democracy.

Any ardent researcher acquainted with the annals of our unwritten history should know about this brave man, who in spite of a demonically christened white population’s repressive land grabs, stood strong with unparalleled bravery against an assault on his people’s dignity.

A vociferous leader and a former evictee of Sophiatown, his assassination by a white constable named Nienaber left indelible a mark on souls of black folk who faced and refused forced removals from their black owned farms of the Daggakraal communities.

That was the impunity with which our revolutionaries were dealt, yet none of us today can exhibit such resolve when fighting for the land that our forbearers tilled as inheritance for their future generations.

So why my ecclesiastical rage at all things white, even when raised by a white foster father, you might ask?

Read a bit between the syllables of a fabricated history wedged between pages of canonised books throttled down our throats at schools of their design, and you will comprehend my disarray.

I mean since time immemorial, whites have engineered poverty among black people, and that poverty is and remains the source of their wealth.

So, I will dare those shack dwellers crowded in squalor of Alexandra to go invade Sandton estates.