Look! Today I want you to understand

the essence of our distress.

Compatriot, wrestle with what I say,

meet me in sober debate.

The hill can't be scaled! It's slippery.

I won't mince words, I'll bare my heart:

up to this point in time,

just what have blacks achieved?

Take the African National Congress:

we once burst our ribs in its praise.

Now we go round in search of it:

“Has anyone seen where it's gone?”

None can deny, I'm sorry to say,

these questions have some point.

But as for me, I'm not at pains

to mock their efforts to date.

Vying for status is lethal poison

internally sapping Congress.

Undermined by the envious,

black people strive in vain.

This hill Difficulty's beaten us,

we've tried and tried to scale it:

it can't be scaled by blacks

strapped with the millstone of custom.

Envy's an obstacle up this hill,

money's another obstacle:

and so we battle to scale it.

Greybeard of ours, am I wrong?

Uniting's an obstacle up this hill,

so, burdened, we no longer praise it,

like plains cattle lost in the mist,

black as crows in our ways. That's us!

Why, my good man, are we slumped at the foot

of this hill Difficulty black people scale?

You've set your hand to many things

but which of them persist?

Your loathing and goading of Reds

are obstacles up this hill—

yet how you covet their cash!

Sweat all you like, you won't reach the top.

Unity's our only strength,

what has more power than unity?

How long must we hack away at this,

like novice diviners in groves of mimosa?

This hill frustrates attempts to scale it,

lions and leopards ring it;

the hill stands firm, our people slip

on slopes with carpets of cash.

You've set your hand to many things

which continue to list and sink.

You've all turned into Hottentots

snoring their heads off, arse in the air.

This hill the black man scales is steep,

it nearly daunted Christian;

his mouth frothed with a sloven's foam,

his ears stuck out as he scaled this hill.