We'd do well to buy land:

I'm excited to tell you.

Government troops clashed with Phalo's,

we sneaked to our holes like swallows.

This government from overseas

forced thousands of people to move,

hounded them from their shanties:

my heart bleeds at the news.

We'd do well to buy land:

black nations must act together.

A kite with even a shack on a moor

can offer a white man shelter.

The topic's taboo in Natal,

the government raps for silence.

It's time for us to be alert:

opportunities beckon in Rustenburg.

Where are the black nations’ chiefs?

They once offered shade to all,

a kraal gate for the cattle of Phalo;

now you're kicked off your plots after ploughing! Buy land!

People die when shacks collapse:

we'd do well to buy land.

We'll seal Tshiwo's deserted villages,

begin by breaking our chains.

Something's coming!

A Rustenburg carnival,

acres of land up for sale:

let your wagons creak with the load!

Where are the black nations’ chiefs?

Tyo, they're kicked off their plots after ploughing.

First herd and lead us on,

before you wheel and drive us home.

A Rustenburg carnival:

shade from the sun.

Down there you'll see the chicken's tail

on a blustery day.

Ever stumbling on rutted roads,

our chiefs have slaughtered us.

Grab them, bottle-befuddled,

and toss them to the dogs.

There's the princeling, Zibi's son;

the war-cry summons nations.

The stench from Rustenburg casts its spear

and the rivers all run dry.

Something's coming!

We'd do well to buy land.

The government's made it crystal clear:

you'll do your cooking perched on branches.

Scratch the earth like crows:

Zibi's son's prepared the ground.

Do you want me to call him by name?

At Mdizeni I wouldn't mention it.

There's sweet celebration in Rustenburg.

I lay awake all last night:

the letter arrived as I readied for bed,

dropped a grindstone and set me spinning.

Opportunities beckon in Rustenburg,

hunting those who took to the hills.

The load will burst our wagon tents!

Just look, you don't have to buy.