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The Africa beer is leaven for the big blood-feast. The creature dances maliciously around his fire. I see a witchdoctor staring into a pitch-black darkness. Opposite him a see a missionary with an odd posture. He is squatting in a primitive ritual intercession. Both know it is the time, it is the hour.   

The bolts of hell are broken, and demons are sent wide across Africa’s plains. With the weather now dark, grey, and bleak, lighting strikes from the sky in beams of fire. Bubbling water is cooking in pools of poisonous acid. Food becomes so expensive it is unaffordable. In total chaos, the infrastructures are not purposefully managed anymore. 

The sun begins to burn in unprecedented high temperatures. With almost no maize in the silos and even less wheat in the shed. The writing is indeed on the Africa wall, written in blood. But in Raca’s dance around his war-fire, hate is incited to the uttermost. The missionary experience, to his regret, how fatal his Catholic cure was. Yes, there where he stares into nothingness, weeping and praying.