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In the pleasure of the fool, there the fool makes his senseless mockery. Kush takes his torture rod and mercilessly beats Caucasians with it, as the scapegoat. But in his teasing, mocking and jeering, he only slaughters himself by his own throat.

Oh, what are you cooking, O Raka, in your pot? Is this the last bit of carcass left over from your rotten goat? Look, O Africa, the axe is already lying ready there next to the slaughtering block. With not livestock, but your inhabitants, awaiting their fate, in the abattoir slaughterhouse.

Just watch how one after another ruler’s head rolls. See how everything around you decays into madness amuck. The world’s merchant ships lie empty, stranded, in your quay and dock. In an unprecedented famine, Judgment is plotting against you in accelerated time.

Your squatter camps shake and perish under unexpected shock upon bomb shock. After this, the fate and labour of the water carrier and woodcutter are rapidly replaced by the handy robot of the future. Look, Africa-Kush is relentlessly beating himself with his own rod. And the mocker is now mocked defiantly.