Isaiah it was who told us

to spurn strange gods on pain of death.

We toyed with God while whites looked on:

today our country's affliction itself.

Ah, the sorrow that siezes your land, Nontsizi,

all the things that bring us grief,

recalling our old Mgqwetho kin

wrapped in blankets of skin.

Begone with all their gods,

their ways rip out our hearts,

and so we don't know who we are,

and our great men all sit mum.

Oh the homestead standing alone

with easy access through its gates,

whose people once had plenty,

now a sign of oppression.

Something's rotten on African paths:

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.

They clapped shackles on you, Africa,

hurled you down with bible and musket.

There's something rotten in Africa now.

That rising sun made me think of Shaka.

Find support in the Scriptures.

Ethiopia should get involved.

We met Isaiah on the way home.

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 with trampling, you'll be trampled.

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

Didn't Ntsikana tell you?

Our homes and our kingdoms all plundered,

Reds and Christians need passes to travel.

May the dumb arise in Africa!

The dumb arose in Decapolis,

the eyes of the blind were opened in Jericho:

may our blind regain their sight today.

The shooting star informed us:

spurn strange gods on pain of death.

The trumpet sounded, calling us.

There, Africa's petticoat's dropped.

Jehovah opened his arms to us,

Jehovah called us with all His might.

Peace, Voracious, browsing the tops,

yours is the day, Thunderarmed.

Peace indeed!!