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I see a sacrificial table with a single shrivelled pomelo on it. In a vision I hear a sick horse neighing. At the same time, the masses begin to cough fatally.

With the towns and cities now chaotic and in a bad state. The shopping centres have also been stripped and completely destroyed. The bullets whistle and the Boers just have to duck. From politics comes a voice that calls desperately:

Reconcile, reconcile, but far too late, everything is already doomed. In the cities and towns, the last bit of drinking water is rotten and green. With money completely worthless, notes in the millions are easily disposed of as fire material.

I see a sacrificial table with a shrivelled old rotten pumpkin on it. Raka crawls around it, begging and on his knees, his hair standing wildly on end. The bullets whistle in all directions and everyone, without exception, must now duck.

I see warships calling at ports in Africa. I hear bombs falling in a thunderous boom-boom. Fire is used to get rid of the deadly germs.

In between all this, here and there I see a green field again. I hear a voice singing: Even though everything is burned and the harvest is over, it is only the Boer who continues to plant and harvest.