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In an atmosphere so filthy and rancid, I hear the spirit of the queen of the South calling, hear oh hear: Who is dancing there as silhouette against the flames of his fire, so grotesque, so backward? Is he bewitched or did he perhaps lose the battle against himself? I see the figure now bending backward so wildly. His skin shines like copper and his sharp fangs shine like old yellow ivory in the light of the fire.

While dancing he steps wild and wide around his fire, deeper and deeper in his tracks. He is a cannibal, a blood-drinking carnivore. From rising up until going to sleep, he just wants to murder. He is also looking for trouble with everyone that crosses his path. There where he steps, everything dies and nothing useless is left. In the night he tears apart and then he devours his prey. All that is left at daybreak, are only bones and the remainders of his fire, smoking and smoldering.

Out of the very best of his creativity, there is nothing that inspires or enchants. He paints with blood and his sculptures are displayed, crushed corpses which he uses for witchcraft. In an atmosphere so filthy and rancid, I hear the queen of Sheba calling: Let everyone that wants to hear, now hear clearly. Raca has brain damage.  I, his mother, have almost suffocated him as monstrosity, at his birth.

But then the mother instinct inside me took over. With my milk I have fed him back to life again. But despite my love, he has lost the battle against himself long ago already.  So I hear the spirit of Africa weeping. She sings: Tulah-tulah my monster baby, over and over again. She sings: Dance my son Raca, dance backward all around your fire. Look, the entire world is anyway busy to lose the battle. For an entire Western population, there is nothing left, no progress.