Many voices sing a song (in answer to HA Fagan)
Many voices sing a song
that asks the blessing of God
over the whole territory,
the continent of Africa
and there are millions standing there
everyone settled in one continent
Zulu, Xhosa and every Shangane
as if planted by Your own hand,
but where is the place of the Afrikaner,
where the Afrikaner can also flower?
Of the white woman and man
that comes from this earth?
We are down trodden, everyone expelled,
Boers, that You Yourself cause to sprout here.
[Reference: ‘Nkosi Sikelel’ i-Afrika by HA Fagan.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Victory Express
Victory Express
Some may spend a lifetime
Trying to destroy the
Harmony between people
Distinguished lawyer
Strong and tall he emerged from prison
Mr. Nelson Mandela, you endured through the years
Nkosi, sikelel i'Afrika, Lord bless Africa
in Xhosa proclaim
May a bright copper orange sunset
exclaim
Oh Spirit
Let a Victory Express
' South Africa belongs to all of the People'
poem by Victoria Heim
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In the early morning
When a god in the early morning
descended from the east
he wanted to find
a farm girl
and to get a Afrikaner girl
as a mate,
but no Afrikaner farm girl
liked him.
He got really angry
and went to the old Orange Free State
and there he scorched the earth open
with lightning bolts
and blasted every thing flat
to be able to see miles far
when an Afrikaner farm girl passes.
He farmed as well as he could
and fetched his sheep
from the fields
and one day
when he was standing in the field
between the blue bushes,
he saw an Afrikaner farm girl going past
and on his horse
he rode as fast as the wind
with dust hanging
twisting behind him
to get his girl.
l’Envoi
With time a nation
emerged like giants
out of that dry earth
and they work
before the sun rises
farming in that arid region
and here and there
a boy
watches a girl...
[Reference: The Orange Free State is province in South Africa, which is very arid with a flat landscape.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Black Continent
Africa, Africa, Africa!
The Black Continent full of raw materials and talented people;
For the Blackman is capable of managing his own affairs.
Beautiful South Africa,
Beautiful North Africa,
Beautiful East Africa,
Beautiful West Africa,
And beautiful Central Africa! !
This Black Continent is full of natural resources.
Visit Africa to understand our ways,
For we have more to the world!
And like the muse of the animals in the forest,
But The Black Continent means a lot to all of us on this earth:
Africa, Africa, Africa! !
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Africa, Africa ooh Africa
Africa
continent of love
continent of caring
continent of women
Africa
you held me
you loved me
you saved me
Ooh Africa
where are you now
where is your support
please tell me it's not gone
Come back
Africa
Come back
we need you
poem by Sally Traore
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Painful thoughts
Like a lightning
striking from a azure blue sky
and hitting where nobody expects it,
is the pain
when a Afrikaner hand
hits another Afrikaner down.
The bullet that bursts through Jopie Fourie
nobody can stop
and still that shot rings out
and are deafening.
How is a great Commandant General honoured
who for a day was President
of the Orange Free State
and taught the British a thing or two
about warfare?
How many women had to suffer anguish
and chained themselves
to free Christiaan De Wet
out of a nation’s
own prison
and his people
that buys his freedom
will forever stay with me.
By himself Jan Smuts changed
from a Boer hero,
to somebody
that lifts his hand against his own
to get worldly fame
and for his own benefit.
Today I wonder
where you and I
stand in these things?
How easy it has become with affirmative action
and BEE
to destroy the careers
of innocent Afrikaner men
and to push their life’s
on the rubbish dump
and I wonder how many Afrikaner women,
sit in the front chairs
while Afrikaner men
are praying to find a job?
It cuts like an unknown pain through me
and I wonder when merit
will again find a place
as a measure of fairness
and I see that my people are torn apart
and own benefit
is leading before integrity
and I wonder what are my people becoming?
[Reference: Jopie by: Jan F.E. Celliers. BEE=> Black Economic Empowerment.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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I am Africa~ Mimi ni Afrika
Is not like a dream
The place of streams
I hear you scream
Ooo Yee my ancestors
Black like the soil
The soil of fertility
Can find all types of oil
Because I am Africa
Natural resources; my park attractions
Tourists fill Africa; they want citizenship
Once, called the Dark Continent, colonial era.
Now is stunning than our freedom torch.
Swahili, Wolof, Xhosan, Zulu
Yoruba, Akan, Hausa, Afrikaanas
Lingala, French, Arabic, Portuguese
And all my languages, shout in unity
Branches every where i stand
We call each other...
Baba, mama, dada, kaka
papa, ma mere, ma soeur, mon frère
My Roots run deeper
My bond is stronger
I am the continent
The Land of Africa
You can hear me sing
Playing my drum, kora, tama
Dancing Zouk, Afrobeat, Apala
Move you hip, your legs, all body
We all celebrate, cos I am Africa
to the Diaspora
you did not know you were Afrika
When you set out for Afrika
you did not know you were going.
Because
you did not know you were Afrika.
You did not know the Black continent
that had to be reached
was you.
I could not have told you then that some sun
would come,
somewhere over the road,
would come evoking the diamonds
of you, the Black continent--
somewhere over the road.
You would not have believed my mouth.
When I told you, meeting you somewhere close
to the heat and youth of the road,
liking my loyalty, liking belief,
you smiled and you thanked me but very little believed me.
Here is some sun. Some.
Now off into the places rough to reach.
Though dry, though drowsy, all unwillingly a-wobble,
into the dissonant and dangerous crescendo.
Your work, that was done, to be done to be done to be done.
poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
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I'm An African
i am a full breed african stuff
a continent never lacking
the holy place for natural resources
the home of the blacks
never bringing solitude
a righteous continent
the definition of home
filled with many earth children
a place where love is bountifull
my home sweet home
africa!
poem by Umoh Cyril
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Now that time flies past
Now that time flies past
this will be seen
as Afrikaner history
and people will say
that it is past
but we know
he was jailed
like a criminal,
was later Prime Minister
and then President
(and it’s not Nelson Mandela
that I am talking about)
this man was a true Afrikaner
and seen by some
as a patriot
Maybe planted bombs
to blow up railway lines
and held a gun in his hand,
seen at a time
by white people
as a terrorist
and was jailed for it
but wasn’t a killer
like the terrorists of today
and later
he could take
the Big Black Book
in his hand
and on it make a solemn oath
before the Lord
and try to keep his promise,
until the big crocodile
snapped him in two
and walked into his shoes
and the total onslaught came
and eland armoured cars, later ratels,
artillery and rocket launching lorries
stood in Angola
to hit the communists
into pieces.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Dark Continent
Africa is indeed a dark continent
We have talents but we don't see them
We have a fertile land but we don't see it
We have oil but we don't see it
We have gold but we don't see it
We have diamonds but we don't see them
We have rich rivers but we don't see them
We have wonderful wildlife but we don't see it
Africa is indeed a dark continent
May God open our eyes
that we may see our blessings
poem by Chanda Nsofu
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The Patriot
I am standing for a return
to the mighty Bible
which our forefathers tried to obey,
for every Afrikaner to pray
to the almighty God
who had protected us before,
but the modern generation
is without discipline falling apart,
following the foreign American culture,
believe that only the fittest will survive
and living as if they have no conscience
are responsible to no one but themselves
and violence, robbery, murder and rape
is at the order of the day
with foreigners streaming in
from all over Africa
and day by day
we play a deadly game
with criminals and crooked politicians
and my patience is running thin
and the situation I am in
cries out for war and much more,
but still the words of Nicolaas van Rensburg
has power to them
while the Afrikaner remains
subjected to unfair laws,
leaderless and weak,
our power still comes
from the almighty Lord
who sets kings to rule, rulers in their place,
who destroys nations and whole armies
at the time that suits Him
and at a time freedom will again come.
poem by Gert Strydom
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South Africa Is Also My Country
From my birth South Africa is my own country
and my people can flee to an island
but my own culture and language stays holy
although this place is not safe,
I still trust on a much higher hand,
from my birth South Africa is my own country.
From my birth South Africa is my own country
even if the struggling government gives me resistance,
do oppress me with unfair laws,
even if nothing can stop the disintegration,
even if I am not safe against the onslaught,
from my birth South Africa is my own country.
From my birth South Africa is my own country,
even if some act with effrontery against my people
I come from a noble heritage,
I am proud on my Afrikaner lineage,
even if people and buildings are set alight,
from my birth South Africa is my own country.
From my birth South Africa is my own country
with no other place I have such a deep bond
and even if here I will never have any job,
I believe in God and a Christian church,
God himself still keeps my ways intact,
from my birth South Africa is my own country.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I see them dancing around fires
I see them dancing around fires
with panga-blades in place of spears
while they are holding a séance.
More wood is thrown on the fire
while a wizard throws out his knuckle-bones
and the fire flares up with a bright ardour.
More brewed beer is poured and downed
and some more are being brewed
and the old spirits are called to appear.
Under the glowing of the golden moon
they later stand in rank and file
and pangas are put into the fire
to get magical power
as the white man has to bleed
and must be exterminated.
Who can still stand on his knees,
with eyes lifted to the Creator
while they sing Nkosi Sikelel iAfrika
asking for His blessing?
poem by Gert Strydom
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Acacia of my blood
When I let my eyes go over the earth
in the distance there’s a pretty green tree,
that stands out.
On the edge of Africa
her branches reach to the sky
and she almost touches the clouds.
I see that God could make no other
so wonderful and exceptional
and that as a sprout,
He protected her against overwhelming darkness.
Later a super power’s dread knights had drawn
their strongest weapons against her
and fire touched her bark,
but her thorns made them wrench
and drew painful blood.
She was trodden down and axed to pieces,
but with time her stem sprouted out again
and new shoots shot out
and grew stronger than before.
Out of the North
the enemy tried to put their hand to her again,
but where they stroke
her own gum brought healing
and they were torn apart
by huge branches with thousands of white thorns.
From near there’s great white thorns
that almost throngs each other out
and branches that braid against each other,
as if no one can grow together
and each has a live of its own.
Still they stream from all over the continent
to eat her berries and catch shade in her shadow
and her seedlings are sprouting out all over the world.
Acacia of my blood,
I will always be proud of you
and are called by God to be one of your offspring.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dad, you were a true Afrikaner in your heart
Dad, you were a true Afrikaner in your heart
and when your church trampled on the Afrikaner
you would probably have walked out
with those that they were sending to hell
not because you did not care for God
as before everything you served God,
but you knew that not only religion
or a church
takes a person to heaven,
but the relationship
that you cultivate,
that a person has with God
is the actual thing
that really matters.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A host of people came south
According to tradition
at the beginning
of the seventeenth century
the tribes of Zulu, Xhosa,
Swazi and Pondo people
who have a related language
and similar culture
and now live in Southern Africa,
migrated from the north
from a legendary place
they call eMbo
somewhere at the great lakes
in central Africa.
As part of a large group
under command of chief Dlamini
the vanguard under chief Nguni
went ahead and discovered
the rivers and hills of Zululand
splitting away from the host
where they killed the local Bushmen hunters
and a metal working offshoot
of the Karimba tribe
and to them these other people
is nothing more than phantoms
spooking in the cliffs,
the caves and in the reeds
near to the river.
Then the followers of Nguni
divided up into different clans
search for the best valley to settle.
One of these people
was a man named Malandela
and they settled near to a river
that they called the forceful one,
building beehive huts
and on Malandela’s death
his two sons divided
the followers and possessions
between the two of them.
The younger son was named Zulu
which means heaven
and he went with his mother
and followers
to find a place of his own
near a basin in hills
at the Mkhumbane river
and his people planted
a euphorbia tree over his grave
and from then on referred to it
as the place of the great chief
and all the earlier chiefs
except Shaka are buried
in that valley.
Believing that their spirits
and that of Shaka haunts this place
the Zulu army before battle
went to this valley
to pray at ancestral graves
and thundering out the salute:
“Because of us, war.”
poem by Gert Strydom
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The fallen Cuban soldier
Your hand lies stretched out
and still holds on to your Ak
where you lie in Angola,
in the African bush in the last sleep
and in Luanda
and later in Havana
they know that you are missing
and are probably dead.
Nobody of your unit
will ever again,
drive tanks and armoured cars
and their general
does not wait on their return.
Somewhere in Cuba a woman mourns
and waits in vain,
to ever again
hear something from you.
You lifted your weapon
against boys from South Africa
and the bullets of an Afrikaner boy
pierced you.
Your camouflage uniform
is stained with blood
and you are placed in a hole
in the red-brown sand
and white powder,
is dropped on top of you
before you become a part
of the cold earth.
Later a Ovambo’s farm goats
will graze above you and eat
from the thorn bushes,
that grows over you
and you will be forgotten by everyone.
[Ak=Ak47 submachine gun.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lord, I know that even in impossibilities You are able to act
Lord, you rescued my nation
when a onslaught of thousands of Zulu’s
came at Blood River
against less than five hundred
with flintlock rifles
and when Cubans with armour under Soviet control
drew up in divisions
and a war about Africa was loosened,
we trusted You
but now the Afrikaner nation has been brought
under rule by another culture,
that does not regard You
and murder and take whatever they want
and see the lives of others and possessions
as their own.
l’Envoi
Lord God, I know that even in impossibilities
You are able to act
and ask that You remember
the covenant of our ancestors
and take note of this injustice
and that You in Your righteousness
cause this oppression to end
that the sun may shine as well
over my people.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mama Africa Will... II.
We are obligated to thank you for your visit,
And Mama Africa will always be there for you;
Because the light of this continent shines all year round,
And like the muse of your love that attracted us to you.
Love to everyone on this earth,
For the Africans have a story to tell;
And Mama Africa will guide you on with her muse of peace.
Come! And let Mama Africa admire you! !
For Mama Africa will be the centre of your mission;
Because we have hope in whatever we do in Africa.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Fusillade
The heaven is bright blue
where Afrikaner guards look at the victim
while they lead him to the abattoir
an Afrikaner man that fiercely keeps direction.
The look in his eye is sturdy while he accepts his lot,
his eyes penetrates them that stare at him,
as if he knows that he has to pay a price
proclaimed by a British official
that has betrayed his Afrikaner soul,
who is turning his own sails to the best wind
and the eyes of Jopie Fourie close for himself,
his country and his brothers who are slaughtering him.
Blindfolded he sees darkness
but knows that his life is set right
before the creator God
and that moment gets new meaning
draws out for a eternity,
somewhere a shrill whistle blows,
rifles are lifted surely
and when the shots rang out
a Boer boy falls
and the smoke of gunpowder hangs heavy in the air.
[References: The firing squad of Jopie Fourie on command of Jan Smuts. Fusillade by Ernst van Heerden.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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