The night is deep before the dawn,

the roosters’ racket heralds dawn.

Our rough treatment brings in the dawn.

So take a look, Africa, dawn's breaking now.

Peace!

For a long time, men, we occasionally see,

for a long time, men, we hear of the slain.

Our people were seized and sent off to war,

with the word of God as a battle cry.

What's this?

“We're British: the Kaffirs can die!

We'll rip the candy from your mouths.

We didn't touch you: we're British!

A baby baboon's no stranger to misery.”

Do you hear?

God is the toy of black behaviour,

paganism's rampant.

We toyed with God while whites looked on:

today our country's affliction itself.

Mercy, Africa, strife-torn land!

There's little indeed we can take for the truth.

Awu, we're covered with chaff from the threshing-floor!

We cast off God, went in search of a wife.

Think about it!!

The homestead of Africa raises a cry.

Christians, where are your bibles today?

Now their fiery breath

scorches those who received them.

The land is aflame and the Creator's not guilty.

Who doesn't weep in the face of oppression?

The nations on earth tug at each other,

waste themselves for a bone of earth.

This land of Africa's ours,

we frolicked and danced with our fathers.

But those who came by ship shouldn't fool themselves:

the Prince of Heaven's wide awake.

We're shackled today because of our country,

handed to you in the act of creation.

When the white appeared, all was normal:

abnormality came with his bible.