The White Farmer

I am fed up! Yes, to sign petitions, to read day in and day out about the vicious and brutal attacks, killings and murders of South Africans and in particular, the white farmers! It’s not always I feel like this, but after reading about more brutal attacks, I felt like crying – and the very young couple, with a month old baby, how they were murdered and tortured!

This is my poem based on the very famous poem of Ingrid Jonker: The Child is not dead.

The White Farmer

The white farmer is not dead
at Hopewell nor at Port Elizabeth
not at Kimberley nor at Brits
where he lies with an axe in his head.

The white farmer is in the dark shadow of the ANC
the ANC on guard with pangas, axes, rifles, guns
and kitchen irons, ready to brutally burn and torture farmer and wife
the white farmer is present at all food markets, charities and schools for black, white and brown children
the white farmer peers through the hearts of EVERYONE
this white farmer just wanted to feed the whole nation
of South Africa, black, white and brown children
the white farmer is brave and a refugee in a whole world
that turned a blind eye.

The white farmer is not dead
at Sabie and Lydenburg nor at Tzaneen
not at Uitenhage nor at Randfontein
where he lies with a bullet in his head
and his wife tied to a chair – raped.

This white farmer supported the community
in every way he could by sharing his belongings with his black workers
on the farm as well as in his shop but laid
dead in his house, brutally murdered by one of those…
in a world where world leaders are turning a blind eye

and the white farmer without a life!

Nikita (24/8/2018)

The Child is not dead

The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart

The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride

The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa

the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass

Ingrid Jonker