Maybe I Know My History A Little Bit Better Than You Do (In Answer To Sipho Sepamla)
Maybe I know my history
a little bit better than you do.
My friend, you are talking
about stories being heard
around coal-stoves
concerning animals
and no real facts
are expressed in your poem.
I know when my ancestor Joost Strijdom
arrived in the Cape of Good Hope in May 1678,
that I descend from the lovely brave Maryna Ras,
when your ancestors
were migrating from a place called eMbo
at the big African lakes under
leadership of chief Dlamini
and later under chief Nguni.
I know how my ancestors battled
against wild beasts, fought the zulu-impi
at Blood River
and overcame by the help of
the almighty God
and that I would not have existed
if they died at the hands of the Zulus.
I know how my ancestors build
farms, churches and houses
while yours were living
in thatched grass huts.
I know how my great grandfathers
and one of my grandfathers
was enveloped in a war against the British,
how they survived
and how my great grandmother
died in a British concentration camp.
I have even faced Cubans
under Soviet command
in the largest mechanised battle in Africa,
apart from those in the Second World War
and we had a decisive victory
that is now being denied
while history books are being rewritten
and fiction is creeping in
and maybe the new propaganda, the lies
of the new history suits you far better.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
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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When times are bad
When times are bad
and I am with my hands in my hair
and black foreigners from all over Africa
overnight becomes citizens
and have more rights as a citizen than me
and affirmative action
puts her claws into my life
then I wonder about justice
and when merit and experience
will ever again apply
where my ancestors Joost Strydom
from Liefenshoek in the Netherlands
as a merchant seaman of the VOC
in 1678 came to Cape Town,
married his pretty well know wife
Maryna Ras who with a horse
could alone ride days long to Cape Town
with whom noblemen tried to have relationships,
where the indigenous zulu-xhosa-pondo-swazi people
are originating from a group
that during the same time
immigrated far away out of the north
from eMbo at the big lakes in central Africa
under the leadership of Nguni and later Dlamini
and then I wonder how
this country rather belongs to them
and they have to have work opportunities before me
and if you now say anything
about the new migration out of the whole of Africa
for which the country’s borders are now wide open
(in such a way that South Africans
must now get visas for Great Britain)
you are seen as xenophobic
and then there are citizens from right over Africa
who become South Africans overnight
attaining more rights than you
who forced by law
get secure job opportunities
and do people from Mozambique murder
Eugene Terreblance,
drug dealers from Nigeria
are caught by the local police
while against your will
you were forced into an army, into a war
still faithfully pay your taxes
when and where you have a job
and the current government
tries to stay in power
while Aids devours its voter numbers
and you as a white man
are despised by the current regime,
are treaded into the ground
while the country are falling to pieces
and then you pray
to Him (the God of the universe) who controls everything
to drastically intervene
rather than rousing people
for a civil war.
[Reference: VOC Verenigde Oost Indiëse companje.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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We did not own this country (in answer to Mathews Phosa)
We did not own this country
the Lord gave it to our ancestors
and when they stepped ashore here,
hordes came from eMbo out of the north
and the country also did not belong to them.
Let you see us as intruders,
you yourself are intruders,
a multitude of people out of the tribes
of Zulu, Xhosa, Swazi en Pondo
came from the big lakes under leadership
of chief Dklamini and later chief Nguni.
Our ancestors made a sacred covenant with God
to be able to survive
and still this relationship is held high
as forever God remains the same
and the people that now governs
do not represent me, are proclaiming laws
that are oppressing my Afrikaner people and me,
making me a third rate citizen
and I did not surrender this country
even less have left it
or have neglected any civil duties
and I am waiting on the salvation
coming out of the hand
of the almighty God.
[References: “Bulala Bathakathi” and “ons het ons land verlaat” (we left the country / land) by Mathews Phosa. (The poet Mathews Phosa is the premier of the Orange Free State province) ]
poem by Gert Strydom
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You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
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Blockhouses had been erected right over the country
Blockhouses had been erected right over the country,
farms had been entered and burnt to the ground,
Livestock and animals had been slaughtered
and women and children were rounded up
and interned into death camps.
Young boys
were set against white walls
and firing squads
was set against them
and a super power
clenched its fist around this country
and stood gigantic
against every Boer farmer.
l’Envoi
That time will be forever black
in history
with the misdeeds of the British
that is well known
and the ruination of a nation, arousing from it
where women and children perished as targets
at the commands of Horatio Herbert Kitchener.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The battle of Isandhlwana
Shaded by a wild fig tree
where the Tugela river enters the ocean
representatives of British queen Victoria
demanded that the Zulus give up
their independence.
The Zulu king Cetshwayo
would never again send his impi
into battle against the Boer farmers,
but the British his impi would spear
and bash to death
and he ordered
his general Nishingwayo KaMahole Khoza
to halt the British invaders.
The Zulu commander remembered the battle
at Blood River well
where four hundred and seventy
Boer farmers fought
from behind their wagons
which they had drawn against each other
to form a almost impenetrable laagered fort
where only three Boer farmers were injured,
using flint lock rifles
three thousand of his warriors were killed,
and thousands more injured
and he knew that the Zulu faced there
an enemy trained through several generations
waging war against fierce men and cruel beasts
in harsh circumstances
making them marksmen and exceptional horsemen
believing in a almighty God
with whom they made a covenant
while asking for His help
and some warriors reported
spirits aiding the Boer fighters there,
but maybe that was as superstitions go.
These British soldiers
wore red and white costumes
as if going to a festival,
didn’t look rugged at all
and even under the fig tree
they were red from sunburn
and although they probably
prayed to the same god
as the Boer farmers
his translators told him
that they didn’t look so devoted
and talked about a empire
and the power of their new guns
having come for a adventure
and he decided to give them one.
Nishingwayo looked
the British through thoroughly
saw Lord Chelmsford moving
his men over the Buffalo river
to Isandhlwana Hill
where the country deceivingly looked
open and stretched out
and at the foot of the hill
the British set up their camp.
Very cleverly the Zulu commander
sneaked his impi armed with assegais
and clubs,
carrying leather shields
into the narrow valley
running up to the hill
and then he send
a small force
to draw the British out
of their camp
to follow it in vain.
The witchdoctors warned
the Zulu commander
against a attack,
but a scouting patrol of the British
by chance encountered
the front Zulu position.
Ignoring his spiritual advisors
Nishingwayo got his impi
into war formation
forming up like a storming Buffalo bull
into a chest and two horns
on the confused British camp.
Lord Chelmsford and his men believed
that the battle formation
of the square
could withstand any attack,
with their Martini-Henri rifles
but at Isandhlwana that square broke,
shattered under attack
from thousands of Zulus
who with shining spears and clubs
rushed in like a huge thunderbolt
screaming their ear splitting battle cries:
Ngathi impi and Abatagati
sounding like thunder
from thousands of voices
and swarm upon swarm
of spears filled the sky
making the sun disappear
and the Zulu war formation
annihilated the British
closing in
like a tremendous crashing wave
sweeping all resistance away.
Stabbing, slicing, bashing
that great impi went right through
the British defenders
sparing none at Isandlwana
and marched away
heavy laden with booty
with some warriors
helping the wounded along
still singing their battle songs
and only two regiments
under Dabulamanzi pursued
the retreating survivors
to Rorke’s drift mission station
which was only
but a side show
of that great battle
which the British lost.
[References: Impi= Zulu army. Assegai = spear. At Isandlwana 1329 British soldiers were killed and eleven soldiers were honoured as heroes at Rorke’s Drift with Victoria Crosses. Ngathi impi=> “Because of us, war” Abatagati=> “Kill the magicians.” The Great Boer War by Arthur Conan Doyle (comments on the excellence as marksmen, horsemen and on the dedication of the Boer farmers as to patriotism and religion.) The word Boer is both Dutch and Afrikaans for farmer.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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From pools of blood
From pools of blood bushes, trees
and aloes grow in the veldt
where British soldiers
fired on my countrymen
and some bayoneted them.
Concentration camps where twenty thousand
women and children died without dignity
at the hand of foreigners,
who claimed to be fellow Christians
are now covered with grass
and that past are being blotted out
as if the misery, the indignity,
the mass murder
never happened
and great Queen Victoria
is still dignified
and still I hold Great Britain responsible
for the murder of my great grand mother,
for the destruction
of my great grand father’s farm,
for the seizure
of my other great grand father’s property,
for sending him to St. Helena
as a prisoner of war,
for invading my country
for making profit from the minerals
and the quarter Scotsman in me
together with my three quarters Afrikaner parts
forever wants to be free
from the enslavement
which that foreign nation brought.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather(Gert Strydom) grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Anglo Boer war
When that wimp of a Englishman
called Cecil John Rhodes
decided that he wanted gold,
that the diamonds in his pockets
was not enough
he wanted to see that British Union Jack flutter,
over the whole of Southern Africa
to his queen he went
to enchant her patriotic soul
to claim the Orange Free State
and Transvaal Republics as British territories
to sent three thousand
Christian farmers to their deaths,
to burn farmsteads down to the ground,
to throw salt in the lands,
to slaughter every animal there,
to murder twenty thousand women
and children
in concentration camps
and to loose twenty eight thousand
of the queen’s own as killed, as dead
shot through the heart, shot through the head.
[Note: My own great grandmother died in a British concentration camp and my great grandfather was sent by the British to St. Helena as a prisoner of war and as a result of this, my grandfather grew up in a orphanage.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The British descended
The British descended
on the Transvaal and Orange Free State
from their island
on the other side of the sea
and in thousands
they came to ruin the land.
The British descended
on the Transvaal and Orange Free State
and from the sea they came
and an entire empire
send its soldiers to destroy,
to pillage and scorch the earth,
to rape, and imprison
the women and children
of the Afrikaner nation.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war,
with Christiaan De Wet, Cronje
and De La Rey
and they fought hard pressed,
to drive the British
and soldiers from all her colonies away.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war
and landed in prisoner of war camps in St. Helena
and although the second Anglo-Boer war was lost
and the Afrikaner nation paid the highest cost
in the destruction of the land,
the death of men
and the murder of innocent women and children,
a time came
that once more we were free.
My great grandfathers rode on horseback to war,
but one was from and with the enemy
and a highlander was he
and a more decent man
is still hard to find
and one that hated the English
for the dreadfull things that they did,
at times I see the restored Martini Henri rifles
taken from the British
during that bitter war
and the legacy and great spirit,
of my great grandfathers
still stays with me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Black History
Boom, boom, boom!
That was in 1530 to the Slave Trade;
My Mama told me so,
My Papa told me so,
In the name of our ancestors gone by;
Slaves for arms,
Slaves for powder,
Slaves for hardware,
Slaves for spirits;
Boom, boom, boom! !
All over the West Coast of Africa!
Today, i am a Blackman to tell you a story.
Black History, the Black African, the Black Race;
Of my ancestors gone by,
Boom, boom, boom!
Black head, black sugar, black coffee;
Where are the true identities of the Blacks?
That was in 1530 to the Slave trade.
Black History, black love;
A Black Race to a call.
Tap your fingers and do think about it,
My Mama told me so;
Bllack shoes, black phones;
With the Black History gone too soon,
My Papa told me so.
Black hair, black eyes;
The black coal to steam up the engines!
In the name of my ancestors gone by;
But, where are the black pens of love to share?
Do think about this and learn from it,
Boom, boom, boom!
A Blackman in the house to tell us a story;
Where is William Wilberforce?
Where is Thomas Buxton?
Where is Granville Sharp?
What about the Slaves? !
These men need to tell us more;
They killed my ancestors softly without compensations!
Black love, black stream, a black home to live in;
Like 'Naughty By Nature',
I've got 'Queen Latifah' to tell us more.
Of the Black Songs,
Of the Black race,
With a Black-Limo to keep us going;
This Slave Trade was a Black History to us all.
Boom, boom, boom!
Do contact Africa to learn more from this;
Like a black bird, a black cat and the black fingers! !
Do contact Africa to see things for yourselves.
Oh Blackman,
When are they going to admit to what they did?
Like a Black Ninja in the house,
Do know your history before you destroy yourselves.
Boom, boom, boom!
The very sound of the Slaves marching on;
This is our colour and, we have to respect it.
Black Cop, Black Soldier;
A Black Marine to a call,
We still have more to learn from each other.
Black wine, Black Doctor, Black People;
Know all about your history.
About where you came from and,
Where you are today;
Black seed, black marble, Black Prophets!
We still have more to learn.
Slaves for arms,
Slaves for hardware,
Slavces for powder,
Slaves for spirits;
Boom, boom, boom! ! !
Black beauty, black sea, black pot;
Black Nurse, black melody, black stamp;
Know your history always.
Of the freed Slaves from England to Sierra Leone,
With those from America to Liberia! ! ! !
Today the Black Panther is here to stay like,
The Black Writer.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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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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In Ballarat Where History Don't Fade
In Ballarat where history don't fade
They still honour the Eureka Stockade,
The miners who fought some of them even died
For their rights to them that for years they had been denied
The Town of Ballarat known far and wide
And the people there in their history take pride
Their ancestors fought against their oppressors laws
And even took up arms for their worthy cause.
The name of Peter Lalor they revere
He led the miners fight and conquered fear
But for his fame a huge price he did pay
He lost an arm on that historic day.
The miners were defeated in the bloody fight
They succumbed to the Government forces greater might
But they won their rights for which they went to war
And the story of their bravery travelled far.
In Ballarat where history was made
They still revere the men of the stockade
Who fought against the forces of the crown
Long years ago in their historic town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I'll build you a house!
You lady so bewitching, is your charm,
You lady, disarmed is me, your arrow, my heart is struck
As weaver birds do their houses, on tree tops
As ants make, colonies, for their queens,
As my ancestors, spear in blood they had dipped,
That, their grand sons, would build houses, for their loved ones
So, I'll build you a house, my queen,
Where my ancestors had pointed, with their walking sticks
A place with tall grass where marks were made with sticks
We'll watch the sunsets, and bless the rising moon.
I'll build you a house, my queen!
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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I Am Apart Of History
I am apart of history
History lies deep down inside of me
I am like Martin Luther King
Just like him I'm going to let freedom ring
I am like Mary Bethune
Because like Maya Angelou I walk like I got oil wells pumping in my living room
I am apart of history
History is important to me
I am like Charles DREW
Like him I can be a scientist too
I am like Malcolm X
Come on my sisters and brothers we have to stop that
I am like Chainey, Schwenger and Moore
I will get people to vote I will go to every door
I am apart of history
I accept the rights my ancestors gave to me
I am like Jackie Robinson
Lokking in the sky at my home runs
I am like Harriet Tubman
Taking slaves to their freedom land
I am like Medgar Evers
Like him I too can be clever
I am like Barack Obama
Rising above to greatness despite the drama
I am apart of history
History is deep down inside of me
poem by Jeanette Matthews
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Blood River
They came in thousands
and their spear points glitter,
while the sun’s first rays
folds over the plain.
In the laager the men are drinking coffee
and are eating biltong and gather,
to read out of the bible
and to pray
and make a holy oath and covenant
with the Almighty God
to stop an overwhelming foe.
Out of the fog they rise
and the impi forms
in into all its battle lines,
like a storm sea
of which the waves gather ominous
to smash to pieces.
At every wagon there’s thorn branches
and four hundred and seventy Boer farmers
stand with their flintlock guns,
while the women and children
are melting lead at the fires
and they wait fearless on the enemy.
Their war cries hangs chilling
and Abatagati resounds
like thunder out thousands of mouths,
while the impi
storms in a killing frenzy to the wagons
and spears like a swarm of bees
fill the air
and descent deadly.
Shooting and loading
are repeated without end
and rifle barrels get red hot,
while thousands storm almost unstoppable
to spear and bash dead.
The Lord hears
and thousands are stopped
in their tracts
and before the dark night comes
the river’s water is blood
and on the battle field
three thousand Zulu warriors are dead
and Umhlela and Dambuza
and their whole impi,
is destroyed
and there is nobody
to return to Dingaan.
[References: Abatagati=> Kill the magicians. Dingaan=> Zulu king. Umhlela and Dambuza=>Captain’s of Dingaan.=> Dingaan’s generals. Impi=> Zulu army. At Isandlwana 1329 British soldiers died en and at Rorke's Drift eleven people were declared heroes and still they could not stop death against the Zulu impi. Only three Boer Voortrekkers were wounded at Blood River and they had faith in a Almighty God.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Nothing Ever Last
The World's great Empires have gone to decay
They rose and they fell and each had their day
And one Super Power rise as another does fall
And the small will grow great and the great become small.
The Pharoahs and the Aztecs and the Incas as well
And the all conquering Romans too had their glorious spell
And the Spaniards and the British of the recent past
Were known to be great Empires but they too did not last.
The Soviets and Germans great power did command
But their demise not that hard to understand
Since great powers they come and great powers they go
Though nothing lasts forever as history does show.
Genghis Khan and Napoleon and Alexander the Great
These all conquering heroes had their use by date
Though in the history of the World their names living on
The Empires they ruled over like them are long gone.
Un-rivalled for supremacy as the World Super Power of today
By far the most powerful Nation is the U S of A
But as history does tell us nothing ever last
And one day they too will be a power of the past.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Shaka The Zulu
Here he comes with his muscular
body, in his hands lay the symbol
of Africa the symbol that have sent
many great warriors six feet beneath.
The sound of his voice bring silence
among the bird of the sky.
Shaka the son of Zulu he believe that he
is a true son of Africa.In the battle field
with the great symbol of Africa in his hands
he believe that nobody can defeat him, his
peer believe that he is a god among the
living creature.
Shaka the Zulu he believe in the black power
with iron hands he rule the people of Zulu with
the help of the witch doctors he conquer the
Africa.The name Shaka bring fear in the camp
of the white.
poem by Enyinwa Okechukwu Enyinwa
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Black History Month
In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.
But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!
Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...
*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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On The Flag Of The Southern Cross
On the flagpost in the freshening winds the flag of the Southern Cross
That brave workers once fought under does flap and wave and toss
In Ballarat in Australia where history was made
For their rights brave men died fighting at the Eureka Stockade
The Southern Cross above where they fought in the southern winds did blow
There history was created one hundred and fifty four years ago
The happening at Ballarat became known of Worldwide
Some of the miners who fought the Government troops were badly injured and some even died
For workers rights in Ballarat the price in human blood was paid
For the rights of a fair go it did not seem a fair trade
Each time I see the flag of the Southern Cross Ballarat comes to mind
The miners there who fought for workers rights were of the bravest kind
That great flag has a history for historians to recall
It surely stands for workers rights and a fair go for all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The White African
The White African
By
Ross Dix-Peek
Over the great ocean seas
My ancestors did choose to flee,
Europe’s rumblings and poverty,
And to “Darkest Africa” did journey
It was many, many years past,
When Queen Vic’ was still at the mast,
When my forebears resolute did come,
To live beneath the great African sun
Since has Mother Africa suckled our young
To us her lullabies and sweet songs sung,
And all this time ‘neath her fiery mantle
Did my people in Africa live, toil and battle
Africa is not for the mild and the meek,
It's no place at all for the feeble and the weak,
And the days oft be savage and so very long,
Yes, it's only for the brave and the very strong
Many generations did pass, and many years shorn,
Before I too upon African soil was born,
Like my fathers’ before, a White African,
Created and cast beneath her scorching sun
And although I have since her rugged shores left,
My soul to Mother Africa’s bosom will forever be cleft,
And though I may miss the tight embrace of an African sun,
It matters not, for I will forever be a White African!
poem by Ross DixPeek
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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