*3*
freedom was never offered to us
like a good-hearted man flicking
a nickel to a homeless beggar
we paid for it dearly, fighting
majestic and terrifying tribes of Z
ulu warriors
who wanted only our torture,
chanting ravaging foreigner death
of the fair-
skinned
honourable contracts and verbal agreements
for land and a right to exist
earned Piet Retief a crushed skull and
a permanent good bye
our forefathers forgot us on the big
old toe of Africa, as they fled back
with east Indian company ships
to pursue occupations growing bulbs
and maturing cheese
while we remained
meeting the barbarian hordes
who organised
themselves like
sworded red ants and no conciliatory words
to prevent the bloodshed coming
the pastor prayed:
if it is your wish dear lord,
we will perish courageously
but grant us victory in the shadow
of death and we will unify as
new peoples in this heartless country
mothers moulding lead bullets
children loading muskets
fathers dodging spears and keeping
the laager intact by
shooting and knifing the adversary
till the last battle cry echoed
andries Pretorius
believed moses
visited the slaughter site where the river
ran with blood tainting the fish eagle’s water
the price of our freedom was the death
of the pagan thousands strewn
and forgotten in the long grass
like a naughty child’s domino tiles
our dead are
buried
wounded are tended to
farming commences
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem