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With the writing already yellowed and aged against the city wall. The infrastructure in South Africa has already been stripped to the bone. With your existence soured in every aspect. So, how long oh, Caucasian, can you
endure your torment?

No longer the captain at your ship’s helm for a long time already. There is no solution or cure for your future. With your summer already so extreme, hot and bad. Winter comes over your fields and plain in consuming fire.

You wanted to rub shoulders with Raka. Yes, you have suited yourself to his every desire and whim. That is why you are now standing with your back against the wall. The scripture has already been written, in fulfilment, on the farm’s kraal-wall. Many farmers start looking to the sky for rain clouds.

They wonder how long the coming great drought will last. Look, from Botswana to the top of Africa, dead animal carcasses lie scattered, disfiguring dry pastures. And with Russia now stingy, no longer sending its surplus grain around.

You too cry, oh Africa-Cush, we can no longer endure the unexpected famine. With the prophetic hand already tired for a long time, of writing on every possible wall. For a lost world, there is no salvation or cure now.