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In a dark dark night where Raca growls at the crescent moon with bared fangs, he makes a deafening noise before the sun rises, with the dull dum-dum-dum of his primal African drum.

Wrapped up in a tailor’s suit, Raca-Cush now stands on London’s station platform. Yes, he stands there disguised as a cocky, genteel Westerner . And while this identity thief’s lack of intelligence completely amazes the conservatives.

Raca-moron boasts to be just the great rich land baron. With a great noise he considers himself haughtily as just the leading bastion. But for a rotten apple and an onion, he squanders each of his ancient precious resources.

Dum-dum-dum, comes the rhythmic sound of the African drum. Crooked and askew his newly built cheap cities, made of glass and concrete, stand next to dirty squatter camps. It is paid for with his precious oil, gold, and diamonds, which come from his unrehabilitated earth. From one mouth he now worships Ancestral Spirit and Mammon. And monotonously, dum-dum-dum, the ancient African drum beats on.