Oh the homestead standing alone

with easy access through its gates,

whose people once had plenty,

now a sign of oppression.

The African continent's put to the test,

the next generation will gaze slack-jawed,

passers-by will shake their heads

at this home without hospitality.

Its enemies plundered the pots,

the knives and sacred vessels,

all the gourds and little trowels

passed down through generations.

Wailings, indeed!

They clapped shackles on you, Africa,

hurled you down with bible and musket;

the homestead of Africa raises a cry.

Christians, where are your bibles today?

Now their fiery breath

scorches those who received them.

What does the prophet Isaiah say?

When you've done trampling, you'll be trampled.

This land of Africa's ours,

here we leapt in dance with our fathers;

the stranger from overseas knew very well

that we also had our heroes.

We're still here, sleeping with one eye shut;

when news comes, we'll watch with the other.

We never took part in all those prayers,

so particularly pitted against the black,

snapping wires and shattering cliffs

from Tugela to the Winterberg.

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Keep our country in mind.

Our homes and our kingdoms all plundered,

Reds and Christians need passes to travel;

when we saw you Christians no better off

we in Ngqikaland wanted to quit.

Our fathers bore the yoke together,

together they snapped the traces,

in the forest they slew the lion,

dealt with the preying wolf.

Why can't you see what I've seen for so long?

Didn't Ntsikana tell you?

Bear our report to the One on High,

burn your firstborn son as sacrifice.

Even sucklings swore by our fathers,

in courtyards princes cavorted.

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Remember our countrry.

Wailings, indeed! Awu!!