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From old Table Bay to Saldanha Bay. I hear an old-old song, playing around and around its own tune, right through the entire South of Africa. The words go like this: Aai-aai, the old Pied crow. There where he flies in all four wind directions in his wild flight. While he circles ominously just like the vultures. While he caws in wordplay, just like the Africa parrot. The words come: With the harvest soon reduced to just a bonsai. It is soon over, with the word whoa (stop).

With time that can never be turned back, the hope of turning back is gone already long ago.  The last Period of Mercy was scorned disdainfully. Like foolish children the politicians played blind hide-and-seek. But the famine will not be stopped or placated. With little sown, little will also be harvested. Instead of double-o-seven’s spy-o-spy, the Boer volk played betrayal-betrayal.

With the cock that crows from the church tower in three plus three, tree times, in triple six. The preachers, with their lie-language, offered the idol-sacrifice for the beast-dragon on the Holy, Set-apart altar. The Boer woman once so strong and tough, dresses herself now like the whore of Babylon, colourful, yes oh so “pretty”. Therefore her children is weak and finished in their DNA. That which was once sown in weakness, is now turned into shame. And there from Old Table Bay to Faraway Mumbai. Yes, from every bay to every quay, there Babylon and Mammon soon say farewell to their trading ships, with a so-long good-bye.