America is my boiling pot, Canada is its lid;
Of Africa it shall be said that so and so was born here,
Especially of Zimbabwe, that this man was born here.
I'll point to the Australian Island,
Where the kiwis and kangaroos play;
Or European countries like England,
Where my "blon' 'n' gol'n haad" sisters stay; [blond and golden haired]
I also have Asian brethren,
Who speak languages hard to understand;
But all linguistical barriers
Won't exist in the Eternal Land.
Praise the Lord for making me African,
(For what else could I be?)
In the majestic African woodlands,
Under the shady Masasa tree;
Or in the grassy fields where the young boys catch
Sacks full of mbeva,[field mice]
And mark the holes of chirping crickets,
To roast after supper.
For a snack a bowl of roast madora, [edible caterpillars]
With tsambarafuta or ishwa; [fatty flying termites]
At lunch a pool of maguru nematumbu, [cow/goat etc. stomach/ intestines]
And a mountain of sadza. [cornmeal dish]
Its nice to wash it all down,
With a cool and sweet glass of mahewu; [fermented cornmeal drink]
Then sweeten it all with huchi nemazana, [honey & sweet pollen]
Dug from the African anthill.
To live a natural life was my heart's desire,
Just that it cannot grow;
For since civilization came thus far -
Such freedom we rarely know.
Oh life in dark, dark Africa,
A land where witchcraft and spitefulness is tradition;
Cultural beliefs and bitter cursing,
Which, when analysed through the word -
There is but one conclusion:
That such is a result of nothing but confusion.
The devil can do nought,
But fulfill what has been prophesied of him:
To set brother against brother,
Daughter against mother;
Kindle hatred and strife,
Making havoc out of life;
To freeze the love of man,
And he does all that he can -
To achieve his evil ambitions,
One trick he uses is called superstion.
Its surprising to see what people here do,
Supposing that if they stop, things will go bad:
One spends his weekends dressed in feathers,
Barking like a dog, dancing wildly to drums;
Some set tramps outside their shops,
And dress in rags, though possessing great wealth.
A man will marry a prostitute from a beer hall,
Only to discover that she's infested with AIDS;
But with much seduction she'll lie to him,
That she was actually bewitched by his mother;
Thus with traditional geneaologies,
And superstitious histories,
She'll swerve his superstitious wishbone -
To hate the womb from wence he was drawn.
Its amazing:
A wealthy man in an expensive suit,
Wearing expensive shoes, eating expensive lunches,
Educated at the most expensive schools -
Forsakes an expensive house in an expensive surrounding,
Driving an expensive car to seek expensive advise -
From a witchdoctor in a shack.
Talk about inventing gods without wood and stone,
But by intellectual conception such invention is done:
Sprouting millions of churches and cultural beliefs,
All the brain children of different crooks and thieves:
"It's because you don't visit your father's mother's daughter,
That things go bad for you";
"Go and brew beer to appease your late mother's spirit;
(Who staunchly detested alcohol);
"So and so is angry because you said this and that,
"You leave this group and you'll see hell on the earth!
"That Book was written to colonise Africa";
Get thee behind me satan!
I'm not here for money or worldly wealth,
At the expense of righteousness and purity,
And a Promise of Eternal Security;
I'm content with food and raiment,
Which God provides always, as His Word has promised.
I can imagine if Job lived in Africa:
The moment satan was granted permission,
To torment the servant of the Lord;
he'd have kindled flames of jealousy,
I the hearts of a million souls,
Driving them to their witchdoctors out of envy -
Of Job's happy and prosperous folds;
So that when he would act,
Those millions would marvel,
Then fall and worship him while he'd stand in position -
Behind a deceptive mask called superstition.
I've managed to wake up early,
Said my prayers, now I leave in good time;
It's quarter to seven, last time I left at seven,
I'm sure I'll catch this time, I'm sure.
Two kilometers to walk, the station is quite far,
But if I keep walking, I'll get there anyhow.
Exiting the crowded suburb,
Into the sprouting cornfields,
Where old and young are weeding their crops;
Good for them to plant and pluck,
To harvest and to eat,
But the idleness of a righteous man
Is more profitable indeed,
Than all the toiling and ploughing
Of five thousand sinners combined.
Looking in the direction,
From whence it usually comes -
I see nothing, hear nothing,
Let me rejoice and sing Psalms;
The fare is only six thousand,
I think I only have eight,
Which won't suffice for other transport,
So I better not be late.
Three Hundred meters to go,
Let me take it Nice and slow;
And if I see it come,
I can always run.
The station becomes clear,
But there are little houses there;
What are they? When were they built?
Oh why should I care -
Like little appartments, all joined and attatched;
No, they are little cabins,
And they begin to move;
I hear the whistle blow,
And I've been left behind.
Oh Lord, don't let this be prophetic,
Of Thy second coming;
But when Thou dost return, let me be found,
In Thy Word, up an running.
But town is far, my food supplies are low,
Tell me Lord, where should I go?
Should I go back and starve till tomorrow?
Or walk sixteen k's dispite pain and sorrow?
I'll stand at the road, a familiar car might pass by:
Thirty minutes... Nothing -
Oh Lord, tell me why?
People begin to gather,
At the railway track:
Halleluijah, the commuter train -
Will be coming back!
Let me go and join them,
To sit and wait and wait:
Twenty minutes... Nothing -
I know why: it's coming late.
One by one they begin to depart,
I'm almost left alone;
Let me be patient, I know it will come;
I know it will, I'm sure it will;
Man's words fail, only God's abides:
I stand up and begin to leave -
In heavy sorrowful strides.
Across the road a vendor lady,
Is selling packets of *maputi; [Zimbabwean popped corn, not pop - corn]
"How much are they?"
"Eight thousand *chete;" [only]
That's about all I've got;
I buy a packet and begin to eat,
With joy and gladness,
My sorrows retreat;
"Ss-s-s-schu - u - uuuuu!!!"-
Can't be true...
"Wee -eeeeeeeee!!!"
Spent my fare, how can it be?
But it is, it's the second train,
Oh and I've been left again.
Oh Lord... don't let this be prophetic...
Don't leave my soul behind;
When the dead in Christ rise first,
And the living go next,
Oh Lord don't leave me behind.
[aside:](He loves me to much to forsake me):
I walk into town, a good sixteen *k's; [Kilometers]
The Lord prospered my journey,
To Him be the praise:
He Loves me ever,
He's failed me never;
Oh how faithful He is;
The earth and the fulness thereof are His!
Woe is me for I dwell,
With them who hate me well;
Yet I have no choice at all;
They won't tolerate,
My coming home late,
So tell me Lord, where should I go?
I'll walk up and down,
Between here and town,
Till the sun rises tomorrow;
Sit in an open patch,
To pray and dispatch,
All my mounting sorrow.
A sound of footsteps...
Are they robbers?
Someone is passing through;
They are actually policemen,
All holding guns,
Quite a numerous crew:
"Everything all right?
Walking at night?"
I explain to them the story;
"Such a shame,
All the same,
Things will be fine, don't you worry.
They then depart,
Continuing their march;
I better find somewhere hidden;
I'd better rush,
To another bush,
Where I know I won't be forbidden.
This must be a toilet,
I smell a putrid,
Odour of droppings on the ground;
Waiting for the sun,
I hear a bum,
Coughing from somewhere around.
I move myself,
To somewhere else,
Heading this taciturn warning;
Pray, sleep as I sit,
My hands tightly knit,
Till the sun rises in the morning.