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The road has long since forked, with both paths aiming toward the eternal abyss. Oh, how long must we submit to Raca’s will and barbaric whim? Oh, how heavy is the yoke, without prosperity or happiness?

How long must we reap the rewards, while we humbly crouch before our enemy? This is how the Boer succumbs, under unprecedented pressure. And before we could know or realize, we must choose between the authority of the incompetent Cush, or the superior Russian.

Too late for console, too late for rest, while Raka’s beer ferments over the rim of all his drums. Look, through the streets there reigns frightening chaos. Vehicles, trucks and also many buses are burning everywhere.

In chaos, the very last bit of surplus perishes. In the dark night, the fear hides in terror. Many shops are standing ablaze, burnt pitch black. While the poachers themselves are suffocating in the smoke. Oh, how heavy the yoke under years of oppression? So, how much longer do we have to reap the fruits, while we choke on their bitter poison?