The Thing of Things

It is about twelve days now since my 22nd Re-Birthday. Twenty-two years ago on what has subsequently become a day of infamy, I died on the operating table during emergency surgery for multiple gunshot wounds. Went somewhere learned things and returned. And for twenty-two years now those routinely disturbing ‘travel’ experiences have kept recurring, triggered randomly by some glancing chance: or from the depths of sleep.
Most prevalent of these is a somewhat odd idea of the ‘Things of Things’ [as opposed to the ‘Internet of things’] … Chaos determines that a small event [a thing] can have profound effects on other ‘things’. And I have learned that CHAOS RULES.
Take for instance the currently hypothesized idea [with suitable backup] that a Comet strike on the planet some 12 Thousand odd years ago wiped out a pre-existing civilization, about which we have no knowledge, of its existence… As if an early version of Rome’s ultimate nemesis the Vandals; or even an ISIS [Daesch[sic]] gathering of disaffected billions consumed the past, and obliterated all knowledge of it and persecuted mercilessly any who held any view to the contrary.
It could even be speculated that the glorious cornucopia of pictographic stuff we have been privy to with Gobekli Tepe, a recently ‘discovered’ place in S.E. Turkey associated with this idea of a comet strike 12,000 years ago, was deliberately chosen and [seemingly carefully disguised] hidden; because the vanished civility could [hypothetically since we know nothing of them] have been a digitally literate society such as we are becoming, perhaps as much as we are becoming… and therefore what would we leave were we obliterated by alleged chunks off a comet that generated “The Great Flood” referred to in a litany of ancient myths and legends: and an era called the Younger Dryas.

Assuming the story represented by the unfolding remains of the ruin called Gobleki Tepe has any validity, then it raises the real question of why did it take us the best part of 6000 years to recover, and even then why was it only to the level represented by Akkadia and Sumeria.
And here we are once again on the edge of memory loss, and thus drawn, to often fallacious conclusions, in hopes of triggering truth… whatever it is.
Someone, often a bureaucrat, makes a decision about some pet peeve… or to resolve some issue… and down the line a comet strike occurs and chaos theory suggests linkages. For instance a recent entertaining viral piece of social media, drew attention to a chain of decision making that extended over two thousand years.The chain starts with a decision to construct a Roman chariot to accommodate the rear ends of the pair of warhorses intended to pull it… and the viral piece goes on to demonstrate the effect of that decision, on the design ultimately for rockets being sent into space.
Thus it was that I came to ruminate on yet another burst of student rage over the payment of fees to attend universities that seemingly most of many are unable to handle with any comfort: either in respect of Fees or acquisition of knowledge.And centtral to my rumination was the thoughts i had on learning of an abrupt, unaccountable leap in the “qualification” rate of final year high school learner in 2013.
In evaluating a problem that has the potential to gratuitously, rightly or wrongly, wipe out Mzansi’s inherited tertiary education structure, I wonder whether this thing of things has turned to haunt us. My ruminatory conclusion is that a pair of inherently unrelated “things”, are conflating: to bring down the house. To whit: Ill prepared wannabe tertiary learners and the democratization of corrupt practice.
Regarding the first proposition: Ill prepared learners.
As a long service contributor to the secondary education system it has long been held within the senior levels that the final results for the national senior certificate assessment are routinely adjusted [usually] upwards to communicate the impression that the ‘system’ is not as dark as it is painted and that a rising number of Children are achieving a university standard assessment. I admit that this is speculative and based on kolektive routine amazement that leaners who seemed and presented as, inept, unprepared and incompetent, routinely end up amongst the low end of the ‘winning entries’ [no offence intended to any so fortunate.]
Thus it was that I have long wondered wondered at a decision [presumably taken] to hugely and perhaps artificially inflate the final results for the 2013 high school year’s Senior Certificate assessment.
The figure jumped some 8 [eight] percentage points above the preceding year, which, notwithstanding the relevant minister claiming an “Eight percent” improvement was nonetheless in reality, in statistical language, closer to 14 Fourteen Percent. Either number was way outside the margin of error, or models of acceptable standard deviation, applicable to the measurement of relatively standardised and homogenous numbers and how they change over time.
It is undoubtedly a common occurrence to have successive school years or grades that are higher scoring than the preceding or following peers. So a fourteen percent improvement when viewed over say a fifty-year period would seem normal. When however, we review performance over a considerable and uniformly heterogeneous number drawn from the entire nation; and compare that result with the year preceding, then, in the absence of some considerable disruption, a movement of such magnitude is inherently suspect.
Nonetheless as we all know; for whatever reasons, no one official said anything to the contrary. The system ‘bought’ into the ‘development’, there was a national election pending, there were other more pressing issues of the day: than ’whingeing’ over the immense “success” of the new order. That was that and we all moved on. In fairness any demurrage would have been decried as an example of extreme political inappropriateness.
And thus it was, among other outcomes, that some 50,000 happy [albeit most fraudulently deluded] post -matriculants who, having ‘discovered’ that they had always been lied to, and that passing was a whole lot easier than everyone had always claimed, rushed to enroll in Tertiary, in a social media revolution driven militant wave that should already have had the eyebrows seriously raised.
For those unfamiliar with the usual process aspirant university entrants start planning and sending in reports from 11th grade, and the news media of the day were crammed, you may remember, with tales of administrative chaos: as a sea of new order millennials hit varsity in a wave that is cleansing out many a gloomy corner in its tumultuous passage.
Among other aspects of chaos an innocent mommy of one aspirant, was crushed to death, somehow in the maul that flooded unwary campuses. Multitudes who had mysteriously passed without much effort found themselves in a place where performance was all… and no one was playing games with outcomes. Thus their routine, embedded, standard, reflexive, procrastination model has yielded only rising un-payable debt and a terrifying wake up call to a reality that was instantly defined as deliberately and obfuscatingly complex.
Naturally this kolektion of happy under-ready persons, borrowed money at globally extortionate interest rates to go to the Uni’ of their dreams; assuming [reasonably] that their routine dilatory study habits were not the problem, for they were the same habits that got them through, so it was not that they had an intellectual problem with grasping the complexity of what they had chosen to study ….. The idea that the system had been rigged to their advantage was/is obviously both offensive, patronizing and also wrong enough for them to discover that their dreams had become nightmares.
The outcome is well known to those who follow events in obsessively parochial Mzansi. #Fees must fall, #all inconvenientlearningmustfall, #Universitiesmustfall
And to drive the message home ‘Burn baby burn’ as campuses in many quarters have seen artworks destroyed, libraries containing irreplaceable documents torched, entire science facilities razed to the ground, not to mention about two years of minimal learning; and skills development [the latter not strictly speaking, a university function… but rather one, recently imposed, through killing off the entire inherited alternative learning Technikons and similar institutions providing skills training.]
For skills you needed to go to a tech, or similar type of tertiary function designed to create a functional workforce. So we did away with all that and now you MUST go to Varsity. So we have masses of unemployable 20 something Arts graduates in such random fields as Biblical studies while we are short of plumbers, chefs, computer technicians, dental technicians, car mechanics, cabinetmakers, and toolmakers and so on, over pages of occupations… for whom no serious consideration has been given. When post are advertised, for instance by the local city council, one reads reports of applicants by the tens of thousands seeking to work as traffic cops, where ill- gotten ‘small payments’ are rumoured to be the bait: while ads for plumbers and electricians go unanswered.
People have literally died to get jobs as traffic cops and no one even knows that being an electrician in a country that must build at least ten million homes over a career lifetime would be a meal ticket for life: without the reasonable possibility of being shot dead by someone you pulled over for an offence.
Now the word is out. The exam results must be managed back down again. Last year’s [2015] results were down nearly 5 Percentage points on 2014, and there were some reports during the year from news aggregator services online, that the result was still 15 percentage points above the initial raw score recorded by the system before being “moderated”.
In the meantime the UNi’s are in some cases teetering on bankruptcy and even the most well off are taking a hammering. They have been prevented from raising their fees. The present government has apparently slashed their budgetary contributions, and a crashing economy is yielding a paucity of private benefactors. The kids don’t want to pay fees to study things that don’t understand.They have also become privy to the fact that the new elites are getting rich on democratised tax returns and thus comes the conflation.
The failure rate is apparently at all time record levels, one has heard figures of 90% under-competence levels being routinely reported in some quarters, and the international rankings of even the historically best universities are no longer anywhere near approximate of desirable. In other words they suck.
The mob, representing those who have been defrauded, and hence cheated out of their lives are righteously angry and absolutely no one in any form of authority is even starting to get to grips with what is a viral pandemic nightmare with no prospect of resolution. The relevant Minister of Higher education has ‘washed his hands’ apparently and put off “indefinitely” any consideration of what to do about the disastrous mess… which naturally can’t go away … until the Uni’s do.
And then having done that, and mindful that it was the President himself who elevated the government to central player in this years long tussle, last year, by unilaterally cancelling all fee increases for this year now in progress. The issue of the moment is whether the Uni’s can raise their fees for 2017. Decisions by the government were carefully withheld until breaks were over and the kids were on the home run to the exams and then the relevant Minister ducked completely and handed the responsibility for ‘increase decisions’ back to the Uni’s: successfully triggering off yet another anarchic wave of righteous indignation, burnage, rock throwing, teargas, molotov cocktails and stun grenades.
And so the entire “Pay back the money” idea takes a new turn as the students correctly argue that the money used for decades now for self enrichment shouold be theirs for a fee free education… and while i do have reservation on that with regard to University, i do bloggishly feel that the vocational sector should be released from the academic sector so that people can get skills that will be commercially useful and a price that facilitates national development.
And hence we have an insight into why it took thousands of years to recover our momentum when, as seems to be possible [and subject to further evidence] our entire evolutionary path was knocked of course… many thousands of years before we even began to now that learning was an arduous and contradictory journey.
The sheer weight of disillusion must inevitably break the system, and in the way of Gresham’s law* [Bad money drives out good] the empowered but powerless and vociferous majority must cancel out the potential of the tiny band of academic heroes.
And that is without throwing into the mix the growing disillusion with the way the fruits of the revolution have been allegedly appropriated by new elites intent on self-enrichment in place of fostering development and this is of course a problem regarding the perceptions of leadership in the country.
So the new ‘unspoken’ revolves around the knowledge from kolekted annual Auditor General reports. It is that the sheer scale of personal “Acquisition” over many years now would have comfortably funded free education at a range of tertiary levels, as it was once when it was heavily subsidized, without placing the pinnacle of the system at risk of disintegration.
So when rage conflates with disillusion a “comet” hits a planet’s comfortable existence; and the results, should care not prevail, could be a journey to a place that was not thought of when the word transformation became the new buzz term… but which has become the new normal for a range of other declining territories.
So what are the What if’s to this now overwhelming conundrum brought about by a simple failure to understand the dramatic difference between 8 percent and eight percentage points at a time when even point eight percent would have seen growing excellence being burnished and would have represented reality more closely. Notice that no one is sharing the secret of what to do, and the What if’s remain in the realm of fiction.
Perhaps that is why those ancients we knew no thing about, left us Pictographs at Gobekli Tepe, knowing we have issues with understanding.


Morabaraba: for four or more

Blog: 1st November 2015
Greetings: illustrious readers.

This has been a most amazing fortnight in the “Rainbow’ Territory of Mzansi. To begin with: in scenes not seen since ’76 a mass student ‘uprising’ occurred. One suspects it was triggered by some successes earlier this year; when they [the students] were aimed at a rather more complicated vision in what is called a “Transformation Agenda”. On that round rage was directed at inanimate statues of eradicating statues and other historical memorabilia, mostly targeted at a long dead Koloniste alien who played a huge part in eradicating the traditional lifestyle of those who were recently liberated. And it proved to be successful. The changing of the past is well underway. The strategy was however not fully understood nor particularly widely approved of.
The tourism industry for instance had some muttering about the loss of storytelling opportunities, which were ignored with the “Contempt they deserved” according to the loudly demanding change agents.
The “Fees must fall” campaign however resonated in a way few campaigns have recently. The idea that access to education should be freely available to all persons is deeply ingrained in the fabric of the struggle and access to the [apparently] “better” universities has become almost impossible for many who do qualify but have no access to funding. The national funding agency having long since, ‘lost all the money’.
It is difficult for radical proponents of leftward [best intentioned] political agendas to understand the linkages of capital expenditure: that make it problematic to create free products that are not produced by robotic machines. The idea is to get ‘Free/Quality’ education: a seriously misunderstood oxymoron.
The entire movement is especially ironic given the explosion in access to free information over the past two decades in the form of Search Engine availability. As I have pointed out in other blogs: today’s ‘learner’ sits in a classroom with INSTANT access through a pocket held machine to trillions of pages of random data… on any subject namable. No other generation in recorded history has ever this level of access on such a totally democratised scale.
In this regard the ruling party’s multi-pronged strategy to provide free WiFi access across the region I call Zone One, specifically the two major urban centres that between them house about a 6th of the national population, is slowly under way… as is a project to make all state school paperless within this century… or more hopefully, the first part of it.
In the meantime an allegedly dysfunctional Secondary Ed’ sector is resolutely annually dumping hundreds of thousands of High school graduates who in one way of another qualify for Tertiary Ed at either a Bachelor’s, Diploma or Certificated level: and in a burst of revolutionary fervour a decision was taken sometime to kill all those Public Educational sectors that served the Diploma and Certificated market need and combine them into Universities because everyone [having been liberated] should go to university…
So for instance this bloggist and his spouse routinely have their older ‘out of warranty’ vehicles repaired and even completely rebuilt by their informal mechanic who operates out of the slowly ruining remnants of an engineering workshop in a broadly deserted former technical college in the next neighbourhood to the one in which we live.
So now we have hundreds of thousands of university students doing a range of hugely more complex courses than they need to be employabe and virtually no people doing training for the hundreds of thousands of jobs that are going begging in a huge rang of stereotypical occupations like electric wiring, motor electronics, food delivery, basic bookkeeping and accountancy Plumbing and: and: and.
And since in the normal nature of things most of this logic is lost on most of the young especially those from unsophisticated backgrounds there has simply been a rise in the level of general disappointment with the fruits of liberation and a demand for more.
Thus the movement to liberate the poor and disadvantaged from their marginalised role at the margins of the margins gained shock momentum this pre exam period, when the [so-called] ‘historically advantaged’ cluster of universities suddenly, seemingly erupted out of no where into a FEES REVOLT. And won. Well round one to activists.
As a bloggist I was puzzled that only one [so-called] ‘historically disadvantaged’ university seemed to be involved in the unrest: i.e. Fort Hare … [apparently] one of the country’s most famous universities in the field of supplying the Kontinent with political leaders.
Now it seems, from otherwise unverified phone-in’s to radio stations; and social media comment, in the general chatter that has accompanied the exlosion, that the State [through Police action] has been violently suppressing student unrest in many of those less urban accessible institutions in out of context rural locations beyond what I call “The Dome”. And, so it would seem, it has been almost a strategic requirement: that the [so-called] ‘middle-class’ range of institutions join in an increasingly loaded and all too routinely ignored state of reality.
The issue is should people pay for education at, especially, higher levels. Yes or No.
Broadly it is A qualified YES [i.e. Alternatively, No] i.e. some people should be free and [so-called] “rich people” should pay, and in fact pay more to support those that can’t pay. This means boring work for bureaucrats, evaluating whether you are poor enough to qualify for free fees. [Albeit this task could perhaps be delegated to robots at lower cost.] Of course if everyone was free then this requirement would not be needed.
Still Access is the issue and the system is unable to cope with the demand. In that regard the “system” has certainly been caught napping. The massive numbers of bachelor pass matriculants rising inexorably year after year and notwithstanding waffle over pass rates et al, means that there is hugely more demand for Tertiary Ed than anyone planned for. And if my local tech to which I referred earlier is any indicator [and I understand it to be] then we have lost considerable capacity at exactly the moment it became more urgent to have it.
I’m sure there’s a saying somewhere about being careful what you wish for because it could take you by surprise when you get it.
The great problem with the desire to make everything free though, eventually comes down to the late Mrs. Thatcher’s classic comment on the Achilles heel of all well-intentioned socialist fantasies: “Eventually you run out of other people’s money.” I don’t think we have quite reached that point yet notwithstanding alleged leakage on a scale not seen possibly since the Norman Invasion of Britain in 1066.
Nonetheless the question of how the Uni’s bridge the gap is paramount.
Most Universities needed a 10.5% increase to maintain the existing system and there is a great official silence from the Ruling authority regarding how the gap will be breached. Less informed persons are enraged that the Uni’s want “Twice the inflation rate” and “how dare they?” “Rotten exploiters”, they punt. No one actually asks why 10.5%? …Was it a negotiating starting place, or what?
And I make no claim to know. I do suspect that differential inflation rates are playing a role, as is the fact that some of our trading partners are operating on [in some cases] historically unprecedented, negative interest rates, while we operate on interest rate gaps that could be as wide as 800% higher than theirs, not to mention that our economy is operating on SloMo; and therefore the tax revenue base is shrinking rapidly at its margins. [See my previous comments on Negative interest rates in Europe versus 8 plus % age money in Mzansi]
Also there seems to be a huge backlog of non-development catching up with the State authority structure that almost seems as absent as it was at the height of the HIV no anti retroviral era.
According to some Internet accounts there are as many [or maybe more than] 700 [so-called] S.O.E.’s [State Owned Enterprises] operating in some or other way in the economy. The more noticeable ones are all looping around in an abyss of rising costs versus stagnant income and underperformance, and many, such as the Post Office, the Electricity monopoly ESKOM, and the national Airline are being routinely bailed out of financial trouble. A key discussion point this week on social media concerned the fact that the Post office… a branch of government was unable to pay the wages of its staff this past month, and cannot guarantee full payment this month. Each one is looking for a bail-out. One suspects that if we had an entire duplicate One Trillion budget it would not fill all the holes that have leaked apart with reckless abandon while too many were partying on the spoils of victory.
Pointedly, key persons are hoping to distract attention from these crises of performance by arguing that the universities freedom to operate should be curtailed, and they should be subject to state control of their finances. This is an idea that has been usefully used elsewhere on the Kontinent to eradicate the possibility of producing too many ‘Clevers’, who will, as is presently occurring in Mzansi [according to some of the more Kontrarian Social media], bite the hand that rescued them from the misery of being ‘Kolonized’ by ‘Aliens’. Additionally as a bold distraction the “invading influence” [characterized by ‘Aliens’] is to be eradicated as part of policy. No one is too sure about what that means.
This point was made in no veiled manner by the current leader of the [so-called] EFF political grouping who usurped the limelight after the president pricked the demonstration’s power by agreeing to drop the fees increase idea. He launched a co-optive campaign dragging some forty thousand red shirted acolytes all around the city. He invaded the Reserve Bank and delivered a memo of demands; as he did at the Co operatively named Chamber of Mines headquarters. He then arrived at the base for the “Evil Capitalists” the JSE [local Stock market}
Here he stormed and railed at the building [in which, ironically most of the work is done with computers and algorhythms], presenting a stereotypical, albeit superbly barnstormed, standard, kolektion of wonderfully promissory demands… like: for instance: that all publically listed [JSE] Stock Exchange businesses should [almost] immediately give all their worker 51% of the stock… And huge salary increases to the lowest paid, and they must adopt entire kolleges to which vast sums must be given from their ‘ill gotten’ profits [Which it seems are inherently the illegitimately appropriated property of the workers.]. The actual owners deserve only to be permitted to donate their wealth to the People [who have been treated with appalling rudeness]. Plus they must adopt hordes of learners; and generally ignore their business and their other expenses while serving the needs of the poor.
And there were some confused persons Tweeting “that was the reason they paid tax to a government that was supposed to do those things”. Silly people. Some Tweets would demand more government control of everything; and a few called for less.
The lady from the Stock exchange, their CEO, came and stood resolutely on the back of a lorry parked outside the Stock Exchange offices with the two persons representing the EFF and those two persons were more abusive than has characterized any public discourse recently: upscale if you like albeit in a bizarrely polite manner.
The abuse was not personal of course [unless you wanted it to be]. It was generally aimed at Evil Capitalists exploiting the unemployed by not hiring them [I understand that seems odd]. Mixed in with those persons were their [alleged] associates ‘white racists’, not to be confused with “nice Whites” … at one stage one of the EFF duo suddenly began hurling inverted Limpopo abuse at some unseen [off camera] entity that was presenting a less than accommodating demeanor, identified on sight as it were as a [so-called] “racist white”: to be stamped on were his latent abusive manner not immediately transposed into being “Nice” [whatever that meaans.].

There were moments like that when one felt transported back to the fifties hearing the same arguments being returned from an earlier journey, but in a new disguise. Totally weird
The lady from the Stock exchange was the heroine of the day… she was every bit my Korinth Starr. Handled an inherently scary situation… there were some 40,000 seriously unhappy dudes surrounding the lorry… who could with a wrong word explode into deeply morally righteous inchoate rage.
She handled the circumstance, for which one assumes she didn’t have much preparation, with equanimity, composure and a certainty of response that politely thanked the crowd for taking the trouble to walk the many kilometers they had in what is a heat wave that is entering its second month… a time when tempers flare; and the thoughts they had shared were to be the subject of much thought and consideration.
The JSE would respond she said.
THEY said. “You have thirty days… then we target each company with further action.
She said, “Thank you.” and then left.
We await the Stock Exchange’s response.
So for a moment the easy part has been done.
The takeover of the Stock Market is on “Hold” for thirty day and the students pay what they paid this year next year.
The State unilaterally [well under duress] ‘borrowed’ some 3-4 billion of “other people’s money” [the Fees payable] and cancelled it out. The accounting error stands however.
We are left with the question? Is the system sustainable?
How long is a piece of string?
Do you ever wonder if you took a wrong turn somewhere and suddenly found you were in a world you hadn’t planned on being in… maybe you even found the place you were in confusing suddenly as if it had changed without you noticing and you were now somewhere else even though everywhere was still physically the same.
Recently I spent some time waiting for service at a local Home Affairs facility and pondered a story on which I’m working at the moment… it centers on an historical pair of linked events looking out from the Rashomon konstrukt of my first story [The Buffalo Hunters : Part 1 Azanian Quartet.] that now following the visit repeats on different variations on a reality that may or may not be here, there, or anywhere other than in your own place of residence: your mind.
Knowing I would be spending hours in a Kolektions queue, and that I had some space to focus exclusively on some random needs of the story, I grabbed a book at random from a pile of unexplored second hand books I had picked up at a ‘ten bucks a book’ sale a few weeks back. Once in place in the ‘line’ i invited the Multiverse to join me in an exploratory journey into the heart of my tale using the random work as a talisman [or is that talisperson?].
Reading my own destiny [for the story] via a random walk through words, pages and ideas plucked like so many snowflakes that melted instantly into the web of consciousness that represents the theme. It was a wonderfully productive one hundred and forty odd minutes.

I opened the book at random and was soon engrossed in a tale of amazing complexity explained by a master of things: And so I came to understand where the story had to go. By the time a reached the front of the line 145 minutes later I had an outline for what has now become the opening lines of the story: which is not called Marabaraba, because it is unpronounceable even if that is what it is.
“So, [to refer to a previous blog] in other words, we have Jozi past tense, Jozi intermediate Future tense [the time that will be called NOW], but within a decade or so of the ‘Apocalypse’ described in the Jonker Memorandum, which i will also publish sometime soon as a digital book. And then another part will be set in Jozi in a ‘time yet to come’ …maybe a century or so from NOW.”

Marabaraba: With a nod to the Dancers.

Movement, he said, lies in
The role of the
The moment
The ‘wave function’ coll
Whereupon we can visu
Alise a four [or
World that spl
Its in two [or

Worlds in one
You will go
This way and in
Thers, some routes less

While this vir
Tual circle
Blance of ten
Each one will be
Of any other
For both [or

Worlds are forever spl
It in to sep
Arate realities arrived at ran

Ultimately the really coolest thing about this fortnight of actively voiced rage and discontent was that NO ONE DIED
We are walking the path less travelled perhaps.
Best wishes to all readers.

The Evolution of Tulba.

The Evolution of Tulba.
Some of this blog was originally written in August 2010 and found by me in one of my notebooks while searching through many of them, for material, written randomly over many years, as maybe having bearing on the story, on which I am currently working. This story is part 4 of what I call: “The Azanian Quartet.” [The Buffalo Hunters , The Ashanti Raider and the Jonker Memorandum are respectively 1,2 & 3].You are warned that this [generally excessively long] blog will travel across a range of ideas on route to a conclusion.
A low key feature of the “Jonker Memorandum” was a background reference to a cult form called Tulba. As those who have followed the story of the “Jonker Memorandum” will remember, a part of the story happens after the world, as we know it now, has ended: and we are [in some minimal respect from the story’s perspective] in a post apocalyptic: hence post ‘Revelation’ phase… after “The End”.
Regarding ‘Revelations’, a subject on which I have commented in blogs over the years. The ‘Jonker’ is heavily flavoured in some of its mystery: most specifically the mystery of “The End”. I have a venerable copy of the old King James Bible, presented to me by a ‘godfather’ uncle and signed “Easter 1947”. After the final words in that closing chapter, “Revelations” the words “The End” appear. I have never found that in other editions [Well one does say “End of new testament”, which seems reasonable, since it is.]
But the baldness of “The End” is not in any other version. It has been something that puzzled me more and more as I got older. What do you mean it “The End”? What happens after the End was my unanswered question. There are now stories written about that time after “the end” that demonstrate that it was a ‘relative’ end. So for me though; eventually I understood that “the end”, was as always… Life goes on. Before this [so-called] Common Era, we had Mithraism as a dominant ideology which came to “The End”: and prior to that Dionysus, Horus, Krishna and various others ad infinitum through the mysteries of time itself.Each in turn came to “The End”. And yet here we still are.

In the ‘Azanian Quartet’ The world effectively goes through a period of revulsion at the extreme destruction waged on ordinary people, by those who seem increasingly obsessed with the end game of Ideological madness. The drama of “The End”: the Apocalypse [as it came to be known]; began to be seen as an unintended outcome of a ‘war’ between factional Irrationalists. Think of a conflict between supporters of the Tooth Fairy and those of the Easter Bunny regarding who gets what… two irrational but nonetheless widely subscribed ideas.
And so people sought the sanctuary of Order. Tulba is concerned with robotic machines [aka computers in their expanding range of forms] and their capacity to replace authority. To become, as it were ‘The Supreme Being’in place of the current crop of popular “Supreme Beings”. As this blog evolves i shall return to this idea of “Tulba”, after walking through a few themes, in the form of a poem to the rational world of the irrational: and if that makes sense prepare to meet thy doom.

“Tulba” was someone’s jocular response to the question: What happens when Computers run everything? And Tulba it is, was the answer I came up with eventually. So some of this blog which started with an idea prompted by Terence Kealey’s book: “Sex, Science and Profits”, moves into the evolution of the Tulba construct … As with the ‘Jonker’ it [Tulba] is essentially a background development and is not the focus of the story, which as always is concerned with other things, of a more grounded nature… like how machines are becoming more dominant features of our world and what happens when they are smarter than humans. And of course what happens when someone falls in love and discovers that someone [hopefully but not yet certainly] has to die in order for the love to be fully consummated. And then, as with the ‘Jonker’, where the story is ‘Set’: ie: happening? This is a key scenario to be konstukted, dekonstrukted and then rekonstrukted… and of course using all these “K’s” in place of “C’s” is part of the process.
Thus, as to ‘Scenario’. Those who are familiar with the titles i mentioned above will know that “The Buffalo Hunters” is entirely set in ‘Jozi’, in the place i call “Zone One”. “The Ashanti Raider” and “The Jonker Memorandum” are both partially in Jozi and mostly in the Outlands or Auslaande of Mzansi, in places that generally are otherwise nameless: as i refer to all the regions outside Zone One; which gradually disintegrate into disrepair and neglect and are abandoned as they cease to supply sustenance, and return to their natural state. Again these are simply backgrounds to the story and are not the story itself… like the scenes in a movie are set somewhere and there are ‘extras’ running about to make up the ‘wallpaper’ of the tale, but are otherwise not part of the tale.
Now in this Part 4, the entire story will return to Jozi… the difference to the Buffalo Hunters [BH] being that it [BH] consisted of a number of disconnected tales, that merge around a central “RASHOMON STYLE” event and through the amorphous synergy of that madman “Murphy”, construct the illusion of plot. In Part 4 the ‘Rashomon’ event is a single action that changes things… maybe, and while most of the action takes place on the same day in the Buffalo Hunters it will do so again in [Part 4… as yet untitled]. The difference being that the same event occurs, in different ways, in three time eras, or as i prefer, in parallel multiverses [or maybe even in the Virtual Reality Game.].
So, in other words, we have Jozi past tense, Jozi intermediate Future tense [the time that will be called NOW], but withing a decade or so of the ‘Apocalypse’ described in the Jonker Memoranum, which i will also publish sometime soon as a digital book. And then another part will be set in Jozi in a ‘timeyet to come’ …maybe a century or so from NOW.
So what this means of course is envisiging how “Jozi” will be a dozen or so years from now but also how it will seem around the time dealt with in the Jonker: about century or so down the line. Which brings us back to what i said at the beginning of the blog; and to Mr Terence Kealey’s book: “Sex, Science and Profits.” the subject of the forgotten blog i found written in 2010. And what do `Mr Kealey’s observations have to do with “Future Jozi” and why the setting must somehow correlate with reality in a few places.

Mr Kealey, in his book [“Sex, Science and Profits”], confirms something most recognise as true even though they had never thought about them in exactly the way presented. He tells us: “Most trades in an advanced economy are ‘risk’ trades’, because an advanced economy is based on long term investments.”
By “Trades” he is not referring to, for instance, carpentry or boiler making; but rather to the mass scale exchanges that take place between economic entities that have long term configurations and relationships. For instance: the decision to build the Lesotho Highlands water scheme decades ago, goes ahead, even should the country in which WATER is sourced, and thus originally located, falls apart. The fact that it [Lesotho] is in a presently threatened condition is, as you well know my happy followers, part of the history of post-Apocalyptic Mzansi: as presented in the “Jonker Memorandum”. Another example would be the issue with Mzansi’s power supply: and with who will take on the financial risk of remedying the problem.
For instance; currently we are tossing a $100 billion [US dollar] bone out in the form of a proposed nuclear deal with China [ChinNya or general ‘friends of BRIC’]. What could be the priority “Risk” element in such a ‘Trade’? Bearing in mind that [US]$100 billion is 50% of the ‘real’ income of the Mzansi for any contemporary year: after extracting that part of GDP that represents State expenditure.

Risk you will remember is as fundemental to Trade as oxygen is to breathing… taken for granted often: ignored at one’s peril. In considering a future Jozi, one would have to factor such a ‘risk’ consideration into one’s vision: in order that the picture could be realistic. On the other hand the essence of Zone One is that it is the single overwhelming part of Mzansi that is market driven: notwithstanding Kolektivist pretensions. And much as Kolektivists hate to admit: The Market always rules [as Komunist China, for instance, is busy rediscovering]. So as part of my own more empirical investigation i shall visit one of, arguably, two of the world’s most modern cities next year with intent to put a constuction ethos to go with my ‘Five Towers’ constructions [ref Jonker Momorandum.] So as an example of where this could end. Could part of the RISK play be the arrival of a few million workers from SE ASia into Mzansi: to carry out and manage the Nuclear activity being presently and how would that change things.

Building cities, like that I described in the Jozi Unicity series, [see: forthcoming new poetry kolektion “travelling by hand”] to handle the rapidly evolving information age, would be another such trade, as much as would be the development of new energy sources, like power stations and whatever evolves to replace them in their present form.

Because advanced [or advancing] economies need long term investments to grow and thrive they are dependent therefore on people keeping to their agreements [As Socrates observed some two and a half thousand years ago.]
In short for an economy to be successful, at its most intimate heart it is dependent on millions of ‘strangers’ adhering to, or rather, trusting each other to honour their respective words.
In summary: Mr. Kealey observes: “Trade depends on trust.” A point made centuries ago by Adam Smith: a prime architect of the modern capitalist world. The economist Mancur Olsen demonstrated in his works “The Rise and Decline of Nations” “Power and Prosperity” and “The Logic of Collective Action”, that Kleptocracy amongst the power elite retards the development of poor countries. Wierd isn’t it the way we always have to prove that which seems obvious. And of course the issue of a [possibly] Kleptocratic Mzansi is one that must figure in the background to that future perspective. And it is noted that some believe it to be presently already Kleptocratic while still others believe that it always was Kleptocratic and that ‘Kleptocracy rules’.

Part of the argument that I shall develop here is that, notwithstanding that an objective assessment would assume that trust is peculiar to a rational world [and is anything more rational than the existence of money itself?] [Especially given that much of it now is inherently “FAKE’] it [trust] is nonetheless an inherently irrational and emotional decision and hence behaviour.
In other words Risk assessment is a rational response to questions relevant to an irrational emotion called “TRUST”.

According to Spengler, the Western world is ending and we are witnessing the last season — “winter time” — of what he called “the Faustian civilization.” In Spengler’s depiction, Western Man [sorry: he predated gender sensitivity] is a proud but tragic figure because, while he strives and creates, he secretly knows the actual goal will never be reached. And trust is hard won and easily lost, as Mr Tsipris of Greece is busy discovering right now. These ideas are some of the elements that need to be dealt with in Part 4 of the Azanian Quartet… as part of the background to a story derived from one of Mzansi’s most colourful and problematic historical events.

To return to the joint issus of Risk and Trust; The heart of our Faustian western Capital structured model was initially constructed by the previously mentioned Mr. Adam Smith [He of ‘Wealth of Nations’]. Kealey quotes Adam Smith when he observes that: “In a rational world no company would survive because no rational employee would honour the contract to work while the boss is away… rather, the rational one would play”.

He [Smith] continues, that in a society constituted solely of rational people everybody would cheat on their contracts and thus no risk based contract would be sustainable, especially one spread over decades.
Kealey reinforces this argument quoting a Professor Douglas North saying that: “ … a strictly rational world would be a jungle and no society would be viable.”* [Welcome to Mzansi and the brand new urban jungle].

Mr. Kealey perhaps suggests, by inference more than intent, that a central dilemma of under-developing countries is that they are governed more and more, by supremely rational people. And that self-interest motivated Kleptocratic behaviour is a rational behaviour form.

Thomas Hobbes; he who famously described the circumstances of Stone Age persons as being “nasty, brutish and short”, argued that all persons were inherently unreliable, due to the ‘fact’ that all significant players were rational, and hence unreliable. Question. Are we today governed by people driven by rational self-interest.[Is this the sign of 21st century Person] This idea too will be explored in this tale, which shall as before be about love and daring deeds, mysterious bodies and nasty tricks: and the silliness of Being.

Thus it was his [Hobbes’]opinion that the citizen should be controlled through Tyranny: because rational people are by definition untrustworthy. Rationality it should again be noted is a counter intuitive response to emotionality. And therefore since emotion is contrary to reason it was by definition “irrational”. IE: Emotion is by definition “Irrational”.

As already stated; In his [Kealey’s] opinion Trust is an inherently emotional construct and is therefore ‘irrational’. It is also an appropriated term, given that often in ourstory/history tacitly cooperating/ tacitly competitive business organisations known to Economist as Oligopolies, are routinely referred to as Trusts. So the word has a double meaning contributing to ‘contradiction and conflict’, which, as many observe, are the “deepest truths of reality.”.

One such [unreliable hence rational] Trust was bust recently in Mzansi, with some smacking of hands, regarding the case of Konstruction Kontract Kollusion over Football World Cup Stadia in 2010. In a rational society run by rational people unrestrained ambition and self-interest unregulated by power produces a negative trust factor, in that all systems gradually become unreliable and then dysfunctional. Many people feel this has happened post the SONA episode in Mzansi’s Parliament earlier this year.[see my blog “Our own Mugabe Moment”]

So with respect to Mr. Kealey’s thesis: Naturally, and notwithstanding Oligopolies, [Ie: Economic dominance of selected markets by a handful… ie: two to four/six corporations, that dominate the market and tacitly collude on pricing] that he perceives as the cornerstone achilles heel of the Capitalist system, he nonetheless fixes his support on the Private sector for growth in all respects and argues most convincingly, using a veritable cascading barrage of evidence, that Government funding of anything distorts the market for whatever it finances: with a consequent fall [decline] in performance in those financed sectors. What was that we said about a State controlled electricity supplier?

In this regard; Evidence of the accuracy of his hypothesis may be found [in Mzansi/RSA for instance] by those living in a now permanent world of routine electricity outages sponsored by a monopoly State entity. Add to this the bankruptcy of the State Postal service, the National Airline, The Passenger Rail Agency of SA [PRASA] and routine revelations regarding the financial impecuniousness of many other State monopolies. Even the normally sacrosanct Revenue [Tax] authority has felt the brush of disruption. Readers in other jurisdictions may find head nodding examples, in those, in your own turf.

Mr. Kealey’s work is a testament to the power of the market to solve problems … It is however realistic about the conundrum faced by most societies that finds themselves plagued, with a vested establishment position that abhors the idea of private sector activity facilitating growth. Control means control. Rationality prevails. Oligopoly … Capitalism’s nemesis, becomes de rigueur.State control compounded by Oligopolistic control. Argentina has been regularly cited as an example of an Oligoply driven society that simply trundled down the economic performance ladder from lofty heights to a nugatory and unremembered performance.[The fact that their Rugby Team beat Mzansi’s rugby team recently for the first time ever, demonstrates the numbing effect of ‘oligopoly meets oligopoly’.]

The respected Late Economist JK Galbraith says of Oligopoly: ‘There is no longer any certainty of technical advance….prices no longer reflect the ebb and flow of consumer demand….and it leads to profitable and comfortable stagnation’ [ref: ‘American Capitalism’ JK Galbraith]
Thus naturally Mr. Kealey’s ideas and proofs are not popular especially amongst the geometrically expanding flotillas of parading minions who derive their funding by chipping off a slice of the public pie, facilitated by vast oceans of regulation. These will fight tooth and nail [naturally] to protect their sinecured fiefdoms.

On the other hand [as economists like to point out] the most routine alternative to comfortable and profitable stagnation is seldom pretty. Ask any Zimbabwean/Somali/Syrian traveler you come across.
So we can assume that many of the facts of his presentation have been carefully airbrushed out of consideration by his critics, to avoid inconveniently coinciding with truth. I have been party to this ‘spin management’ myself, it is almost routine. This real world barrage exists, notwithstanding and in spite of the collection of alternate proofs provided by Mr. Kealey. And all of this has to be catered for in preparing the the final installment of The ‘Azanian Quartet’. This means that somewhere in the space between rationality, irrationality, risk and trust; lies that confusing idea called TRUTH… what is TRUTH? And what does it have to do with Tulba, a new evolving ‘ideology’? Tulba derived from the prospect of a computer controlled world: aka. ‘Robots Rule’.
What is TRUTH anyway other than a set of confusing opinions masquerading as belief: isn’t it? Isn’t it?

In essence TRUTH is a dogmatic assertion of REALITY. Which raises an intriguing question? regarding matters relative to REASON and UNREASON.
Tulba: The Post-Modern alternative.
Is reason capable of
Knowing reality?
What is reality?
Death, Hunger, Pain?
Kant tells us that the “dog
Matic solution is there
Fore not only un
Certain- but-imp
Riposte Stephen Hicks “Thus
Kant – that great cham
Pion of reason
Asserted that the
About reason is that it is
About reality.”
Kant quibbled:
“I have found it ne
Cessary to de
Ny Knowledge
In order to make
Room for
Faith” – the absence
Of reason
Gives us
A reality that
Isn’t it?
Heidegger affirmed his ‘friend’
This Reason thing
Is simply skin
Deep beneath which is this
What is this Being
The skin?
What makes “Being” Be?
Why is there even a
Being at all?
Why is there NOT
NO THING since every
Being [it seems] is made
Out of No
Hysteria abounds “No
Thing!” cries Hicks:
“In the
End all things
Are No Th
Ings… No Thing is
Concluding: “Meta
Cal Ni
Welcome to Tulba
Order be with you.

For David Gordon: Mathematician/Musician and my late collaborator who,
in his mathematically pure manner, considered Post-Modern thought to be vituperous.
With thanks to Mr Orwell, who originally gave us the ‘Newspeak’ that so comfortably modifies our lives.

**J J Wallis and DC North: ”Measuring the transaction sector in the American Economy 1870-1970” Part of Long term factors in American Economic growth. University of Chicago 1987

Rehearsing Nietzsche

Rehearsing Nietzsche:

During the millennium gap year: that year when we didn’t really know if we were already in the twenty first century or mopping up the back end of the twentieth, I embarked on two separate but ultimately intertwined experiences.
The first resulted from a decision to write a piece of poetry daily for the entire year. That was the only requirement of my plan: length one word onwards, form: whatever I felt like; and no matter how many poems I wrote in any one day the next day I had to write another. From time to time I imposed rules, like: for the next few days I would only write haiku’s, for instance. I also never made a rule to write a sonnet, and so there are no sonnets in this collection.

The reasons for the poem-a-day thing are not germane. The result was 826 pieces of writing most of which was garbage [in retrospect], but then my rule did not extend to judgements… I simply wrote something about whatever took my fancy and it was a challenging exercise.

And then secondly, a month into the year I was invited by the organisers to read the part of the late poet philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, for a centrepiece production based on his life to be performed at the Centennial International Nietzsche Convention, that took place at Pretoria University in 2000, the centenary of his death.

What started as a workshop play-reading involving a small group of enthusiasts became a complex production embracing Nietzsche’s key philosophic developments: from his devastating critique of western philosophy as being “founded on a conjecture”, to his devastating denouncement of the concept of ‘god’ in arguably his most powerful and ultimately influential work “Thus spake Zarathustra”. We embraced too his more romantic poetry and his catastrophic personal life. In the way of a Method-trained actor by the time we finished I had become Nietzsche and I the poet drank at a hitherto unimagined alter. The exhilaration was electric.

I feel him still sneaking around after me in retrospective moments and I am discovering that he is all around us. That world he described for us in which we live shorn of its falsity and illusion is all there is. Everything else is hope, blind faith, and crass stupidity overlaid with marketing hype. Each moment is the one that matters: pursue the mission, capture the vision, by all means: but it is the moment-by-moment achievements that are the only reason for doing anything. Ultimately this is his position so reminiscent of the old Zen masters.

Yet for all that his position is ultimately that we cannot uplift ourselves, other than over millennia and that ultimately we begin again, and again, and again… times without number as we have done over millennia past. Each generation repeats the promises of the one preceding, playing the same tunes endlessly to a constantly moving backdrop… and should we be fortunate and particularly attentive we may grasp an insight, in an unguarded moment, that reveals all the secrets of the universe.[whoops: multiverse. ed.]

Playing Nietzsche was for me a continuous dejavu as, piece-by-piece, we slowly and with painstaking intensity ‘unpacked’ the scenes we had chosen. We’d started with hundreds of scenes from everything he’d ever written, and we read everything the Internet could deliver written about everything he wrote: taking scenes and playing them, reading the most erudite interpretations and some less erudite too. Interpretations: what did he mean here when he said that. Eventually it became all consuming, eating up fifteen to twenty hours a day and ultimately finding and confirming that chink in his super rationalist amour… the fantastical and terrifying idea of eternal recurrence. And through all this each day I had set myself the task to write at least one piece of completed work.

Part of the joy of being a performing poet is the process of becoming that which one plays.

I eventually had a sense of why Nietzsche [N] went mad. [If indeed he did go mad] such honesty was not made for our world. A particularly profound statement [for me] by N was his assertion to his friend and collaborator [and my co performer, Gäst , played by Sam Sleiman, philosopher and storyteller.] “I want to say in a paragraph what others say in a chapter.” That is a certain formula for insanity in my view.

And then of course the years raced on. 9/11 and all that: Afghanistan and Iraq, a world suddenly at war again denying Fukayama’s “end of history” theory and loading us down with liberation language of an unaccustomed kind, as the resurgent forces of conservatism outweighed the degenerating forces of progression.

It has also been a time of financial scandals and public trials. And then mention too, the generally cool and absorbing razz-ma-tazz, in the form of gladiatorial sports events and major movie releases all part of the super globalising endless marketing exercise cycles that constitute modern living. Suddenly it was five years after Nietzsche and a gap appeared and this collection said it was time for an airing.

Some of the pieces in here are what my family like to call “weird” and I don’t profess to understand some of what’s in them. I’m not even certain that I wrote them other than in the technical sense of being scribe to some remote intelligence or perhaps, experience… they were pieces that came from somewhere in the depths of whatever it is that we do when we sleep: go on adventures, travel in other dimensions of that multiverse predicted by quantum science: have nightmares. Sometimes they arrive from nowhere in the midst of wakefulness and demand to be recorded. Yet they are there in counterpoint to the Nihilistic world predicted and so accurately described by Friedrich N on the very threshold of the post-modern era.

Other pieces were of a routine “okay its poem writing time of day” because I had set myself something to do as one of that year’s “things” to do. These seem more prosaic and in some senses historical. In a similar way other selected pieces from outside of that millennium gap year were more compulsive: such as the surreal effect of watching the Second Gulf War on television, or the more realistically prosaic, trivial and often-random violent events of a stereotypical day around town n country.

And then of course there were those pieces that were written by the Nietzsche I became during rehearsals for Nietzsche during that same epochal year that has become buried in post 9/11 rhetoric.

Poetry is a strange literary form that appeals to fewer and fewer people which means that as a reader of this poetry you are amongst a tiny elite at the cutting edge of thought.

It is not essential that you like or love my work it is enough that I wrote it…the rest is outside of my control.



About the Poet.

Nicholas Jakari-Williamson [subsequently known as Nicholas Jakari]. has been writing and publishing poetry for the past three decades. His first published collection, Maze appeared in 1978 and his second collection “Random notes of a marginalised man” was published on his [now terminated] weblog He does also write other things but his business card describes him as a poet, which as he says makes his business card an oxymoron.

This third collection includes some seventy-five pieces, with the oldest dating to 1979 [Winter], and the most recent in 2005 [Never kick a man until he’s down] and [ a dualist issue]. As you will find each piece carries the designation [b] .!NiK [year written][/b]


A considerable part of the collection is dated [00] indicating that it was written during 2000 when the poet set out on an objective to record the millennium year day by day in poetic form. This was a prolific period and resulted in more than 800 pieces of work. As is well known however “good poetry” is seldom made ”to order”. And so maybe 40 of the pieces are worth a second read, of which 33 were chosen for this collection, including the title piece for “Rehearsing Nietzsche” [Rehearsing lines from N….] Because the work of Frederick Nietzsche [N…] comes to centre stage in the poets theatrical life during 2000 some extracts from N…’s work are included where they seemed appropriate, with due apologies to any copyright holder from who’s property the poet may have made his selection… He doesn’t remember where any of it came from, since, he said, he didn’t select the vast cornucopia of words for academic purposes: he simply ingested them; and then presented them to an audience of aficionados who roared approval and called for more.

Some of this work may well also be called trauma poetry, for some pieces: Song of Victory, Reading some earnest undergraduate poetry, twelve September, were written following a horrific and tragic incident during the second half of 1994, which changed the poet and sent him off in a completely different direction.

Jakari-Williamson says his philosophy as a writer is founded on Derrida’s premise that ‘all the words have been written’ and the best we can do is to rearrange them in different forms and guises according to the rhetoric of the time, and then ”they have to be aimed somewhere”. He has no philosophy as a poet, he says, “the things keep happening and then plague me, smashing at the door ‘till I write them down and dispose of them.”


This collection is what he says anyway and who am I to gainsay this.
This excerpt that follows are the opening set of some 70 pieces: of many varied themes and lengths.


A dualist issue

When you seek outside yourself
For exuberance and joy
You miss the moment
When it visits you
And you are not at home.


A Statement solicited from the Poet
on surviving a stereotypical
suburban street shoot-out

For an instant
I escaped our
image-loaded simulations
of day to day uncertainty
for a dose of the real thing:
and was
for that brief moment

NiK (1995)


Slipping on the road to Shangri la: making movies

There was a man
who ran a business
selling time from out of clocks:

sold it by
the minute
and the hour.


If you had an
that you’d
for some time,


you could pawn it
by the minute
for an hour.



Never kick a man until he’s down

It’s amazing how a cliché can come to life
In front of your eyes and instantly
Have both validation
And confirmation
That a horror you
Had previously always
Or believed to be true, and forgotten,
Its meaning sandwiched between lunch and dinner:
Remains true and active: not

So the cliché…the forgotten noun
Always kick a man when he’s down.

The venue was an open air
Public drinking
Of note
With “more than 20,000 people”, who all could vote,
In a park in our city.


The party was held by
The local
Operating division
Of an offshore intellectual enhancement movement
Dedicated to advance the
Of local young humans: drilled without pity.
Once a year they party in a beer drenched ‘fest’
Joyous and hearty; a ritual mime
That few decline
To bask
And debauch and “do their best”
In monogrammed vests under
Glorious scorching vaults
Of azure May sky.
It’s a party “to die for”. Slavering hordes
part with a buck, run
amuck guzzling
eisbein and bursting on
Washed down with flagons of
A fond foaming brew.


The thrash runs all day
Then ends
Sharp by the way
At eighteen hundred hours: when the uniformed
Glowers, and orders
The taps all be closed
The moment
The licence expires.
By then the party is rowdy with noise ebullient
Some of the crowd
Spoiling with effluent, searching for
Action as drunk tempers fraction:
Guess why the “day” ends at nightfall;
When the temperature plunges like a fast falling wall
Degrees by
The minutes
And revellers dressed thoughtless for the heat
Of a high autumn day.
Feel the onset of winter as they suddenly
At that moment when the sun begins to slip behind
The distant edge and the hard chill
Of winter
Rushes to replace the joy and the fun,
The blistering heat,
The blazing sun
The festive joy starts to run.
Blooding the urge to stay
And perform
Desperate now to regain the warm
It is losing.
It is then: that’s the way…
The fight exploded
Abruptly: a spontaneous expulsion of
Loud shouting: voices loaded
With rage: a beating of fists: an instant onstage.
A prime aggressor raised his hands
A toreador, to the rhythm of the bands
Facing off across the ‘floor’ on a shorter, squared off fellow,
Stripped to the waist no longer mellow
With a flourishing score
Not waiting for gore:
A bull pawing the ground, head muscle-bound.
The tattooed
Fighter trembled,
Anticipating, glistening; flexing, his
Creatine steroid loaded,
Laced, muscle, definition, display.
His proclamation
In finale to the bold matinee.
The bull rushed in
And a blow was flung and the bull went to ground as the crowd
Surged around in an exhaled bound
Some in panic sensing doom leapt about seeking room across
The tables
Where the beer was served all unnerved. Picadors grabbed Matador
held him back from taking the floor: held him hard while
He roared
Defiance to the mob…lifting his head to the universe:
Fuck you all! … He was heard to curse.
In the gap where the crowd was thin…
Lay a figure and within
An instant as they all swept back toward
That struggle vortex
A hail of feet filled boots and running shoes
And high-heeled spikes held tight with screws
And hiking shoes hard laced with booze rained down on
That recumbent lump
Thump, thump,
Crash: fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck You!
They answered back and formed a ruck
For the rough hard taste of flesh:
The mesh of an upturned back;
Allowed the surge to rent and hack and hack….
When the crowd settled
The bull was gone; the toreador too
Lost his mettle:
Vanished before Security came
Trooping their colours threading through
To the place hunting for blame.
Waiters poured beer from portable barrels
Carted here
All day on their banner shrouded backs
Rushed in to replenish the thirsty hacks
Filled the upturned glasses
Lest the grand thirst passes… by.


Of rubicons and rubrics
I pledge to
Like the hooligan
On the bus
Waiting for the sixes
To stand.
I shall repeat the oath of
To the time of
For a chance to chant
Striving to live
Up to the values
Of a disrespectful crowd.




A break of light
Against the wall
Reveals the bar
‘tween me and you.
And here to keep me from you
A cross to bar the night
To share the quiet solemnity;
Our unimagined hope, held tight.

Beyond the squares
The bare fleshed veins
Etch out nature’s child
Stark with naked pain
And stroked with evening’s chill.

A howl across the darkness
Of a moment
Echoes off the
Barren seeds
Marked out by season’s change.

Now is the time
When warmth has gone
Our peace is held restricted
To the square yard of our mind.


The Jonker Memorandum: chapter: Confession of a witness.

What follows is an extract from the text of the Jonker Memorandum. The full digital version will be uploaded in 2015. In the meantime you can listen to the story on the relevant podcast link.

Confession of a witness.

I once had a dream in which I
and the shot was so LOUD I woke up,
and my ears
for weeks thereafter. The sheer
reality of the experience
disturbed me for months, in fact:
still disturbs me. Recently
I was again woken from a dream by its [the dream’s] sheer

Was it perhaps the intruder’s who came visiting at Christmas that
it off? Perhaps the sound
of a gun being cocked woke me from a nightmare
It may even have been a gun being cocked in my dream
that had woken me. But when I
woke it was with a crystal clear perception of something;
an incident
that had been so deeply buried by me that it was
forgotten until then.

How can a dream be so real yet
its truth
cannot be clarified?
An event
so real and yet so instantly

I remembered that
there was a time, when I first went to the University that I pursued
the flames of passion and
railed against the oppressive State
in which we then lived. I even, I had believed
managed a marginal notoriety which
brought its own unwanted attention…
and terror. My low-key activist
lasted two years. The effect
was that there were three occasions
during those two years when I was plucked
from my world and shown the truth
of my situation. It took a while
but the penny finally dropped,
as they say.
Then I buried it all in denial and misdirection so
it took nearly
four decades to unlock it.


On the first occasion a stranger approached
our group and shouted at me
in a downtown bar
where I was drinking
with some friends, “Keep your trap
He shouted, unaccountably singling
using the language of the, then,
oppressor class in our country. He produced
a revolver and pointed it at me. I reacted by leaping
through a handy window, fortuitously
and got out of there fast. It had
simply seemed a strange albeit
not unheard of experience; and it was
a downtown bar, in one of their neighbourhoods. Now of course I know I could have been freaked out for days and probably was
Then… it was/is…? Uncool? To show that…
I put it out of my mind and
Got it on with living.

On the second
I had been travelling with two acquaintances: Duke
and Lex
in Duke’s car on a Saturday afternoon. We were
to stop, by a car that pulled in front of us
on a quiet road, and a man
claiming to be from the feared Special Branch waved
his badge, told the
two in the front to keep
their eyes to the front,
pulled me to the window,
stuck a small revolver into my mouth and told me
to keep my trap shut
or else the finger would move … “You keep your fucken
trap shut.”
Again the language was that of our Oppressors and again
the phrase was common cause with those who would not hear the
truth. Curiously none of us discussed the incident
after they had gone. My acquaintances
dropped me off home and I never saw them again…. Did they know that the incident
was going to happen?

My photograph had appeared that week on the
front page of a
Zone One daily,
The Star,
in connection with “Mass protest action at the University”, where I was a first year student of politics and economics…1967.

I didn’t really understand
what it was all about…my subject choice
was dictated by how the lecture times could be
fitted around the many part-time jobs I needed to
for the journey. People said that the system was bad
and generally I responded to it on the basis
that it was I was discriminated against by “them”. I was both an immigrant
and a country boy
and those “others” who were the true target of “Their”
were largely unknown to me. I was in most ways a
of the intention. I never really ‘knew’
how “The system” worked
or had worked back then before the ‘new’
revised post ’48 system
and what was “a system”
anyway… Still, that is the role of the front line trooper… to do but not to know.

I worried
that the mere sight of a photo could have the ever-omniscient Bureau of State Security on my back
or more specifically in my mouth. In my
personal hubris,
or perhaps denial, perhaps, something
even more horrible for it never occurred to me until this day
that there could be an ulterior motive. That could indicate the state of paranoia that prevails in a Police State. It reveals too the level of paranoia that we all lived with that
could blind me to a certainty for so long..

Then later, a year later, during Woodstock [which
I was unaware of at the time
like everyone else I knew] they came
for me
at three am. Bashed
the door until I awoke, and
hooded me,
and took me somewhere that was cold and dark and
shouted oaths at me
and told me what would happen if I
“Keep my trap shut”…And in my foolish
innocence and deep committed
denial, I had
presumed them to be obsessed with
my unbelievably small part in the “Struggle”,
and that those more involved than I must get hell
seemed to be always in my face.

I couldn’t discuss it with anyone, ‘cos they
if I did
something bad would happen to my folks; and they
my father had an aneurysm explode
in his brain the previous year; and he could barely work
and how much
he owed to the State for
care, and they would call
in his account. In any event
I had no idea who I could trust or why I
seemed to be singled out, and being
truly intimidated by then foreswore the struggle for solitude
and avoidance; for
the whole Sixties thing of lust, booze and dope. Later I dropped
and never dropped back in again.

And the voice still rattling in my nightmare came now with absolute clarity…it never had anything to do with ‘The Struggle’ it said. No…it was more prosaic than that…it had simply to do with “Murder”.


Is there an act of evil
more calculated to inspire terror
in the gathered citizen,
than the sound of murder on the night-still air, carried out for all
the world to hear because those who carry
out the act do not seem to care that they commit evil?
Truly they do
not believe
that they commit a crime.

What after all is a “crime” and
Is not
One person’s “crime” another person’s act of liberation?
And should we
Go that

In my adopted country
at the time when I was growing up
there were three classes of
Citizen, respectively first class, second class and
and what applied to the country applied to my adopted ‘homey’: a mining/ industrial town
that formally committed suicide in more or less
the year
that the incident resurrected from my dream
took place.

The town itself was
a modestly prosperous archetype, of a formerly first class,
now relegated to second class, Koloniste
pre-revolutionary Azanian
urban place.

It was
in reality
modestly prosperous
for only a small part of the recently deposed, former Koloniste ruling class, now known as the second class.

The rest of us lived bleak lives, forever at the edge of catastrophe.

Understand that we are talking about days far,
far away. A time
soon after the war that Mehta* calls the First World War and others call the Second.

We [my immigrant parents and I] were technically
part of the former ruling
class, the Anglos, and we,
[our tiny family],
were a particularly despised part, because
we had come directly from the “motherland”,
and were poor,
and were regarded with deep suspicion
by both of the established
Koloniste groupings.

Indeed life in our adopted town was harsh, and
of real grinding poverty
for most of the newly empowered
jackbooted, ruling Koloniste class, or ‘The Maboere’, as the Dissies
liked to call them.
There was naturally a small established and establishing
Cronyist elite
Whose lives
were more pleasant.

Life amongst the Maboere was
so harsh
they made a virtue out of sending their children barefoot to school,
and those scions of the newly enriched
amongst them
would leave home shod, then hide their shoes, so as to fit in with their peers. They would see us watching
them do it and we knew
to run or cycle off at speed.

These brutal antagonists who came to dominate and overwhelm
our lives
were themselves confusing:
capable almost simultaneously of unspeakable cruelty
and gregarious warm hearted kindness
coupled with
a certain brutal honesty
quite absent from the more duplicitous species,
with whom we were forced
to bond
by legislative decree,
and with whom I found scant comfort.

And then; beyond we two groups: the old Koloniste class and the newly empowered ‘other’ Koloniste class, the Maboere,
were the Dispossessed, third class, living in a place
so dark
most of us were unaware of their existence, even though
we were completely aware of their existence.

“They” were “those”: known only as “THEM”: the ‘Dispossessed’, ‘Dissies’… the “despised”, the disenfranchised…the despairing.

The new ruling class was forever in our
faces with their “RULES”.
For back-up their philosophy was
reinforced by an entity called God, that
was omnipotent apparently, and omniscient
and couldn’t be seen by unbelievers, and spoke the “truth”, only
to our new rulers. And we saw
this “God” to be an evil entity that
ruled on the myriad things we weren’t allowed to do.

The most important of “the rules” was that
it was forbidden
to be even remotely polite or
“nice” to anyone
from the Dispossessed class,
and so,
as a result, the Dispossessed Klass came to completely obsess
overwhelm the new ruling klass, [ those known as the “Maboere”] who
feared all along that these
as they perceived them,
would ultimately undermine and usurp
their own revolution. And as we now know, this eventually came to pass.

The Dispossessed were called “Sataans” by
the newly empowered, yet brutalised, new, first
Ruling Klass “Maboer” citizen…Old women would
watch a passing dispossessed
entity, a ‘dissie’,
and hiss… “Sataans”… “Children of evil,” and we were told
by our teachers, who
were more often than not Maboere, who beat us regularly in
the name of the new religion
with planks taken from the tops
of the school desks, and ripped at sinews
under our flesh until in
agony we agreed that “they” must
be left to do their own thing, because
“they” were incorrigibly wedded to darkness…This was an unforgiving mantra.

We were further instructed to believe that “these
people” were condemned by the
sin [whatever that was]
of a name called Adam, and
marked by a name called Cain to live
lives of enslaved servitude
in awful bondage to brutal leaders who would make them suffer because
“they deserved it”. And
in our own ignorance we heard how
“they” had been rescued
from ignorance, and
perdition and
the desperation of their previous existence, whatever
that had been,
to subsist in some discarded refuse heap where their choice was dispossession
or death.

In other parts of the planet, we learned, really
evil Koloniste
had exterminated those they could not
subdue [and in so doing discovered the real
of freedom: something
we were not told] We [ the ‘Dissie’s” latest oppressors] on the
other hand
had discerned a latent
[apparently] in the “Dissies”
as “they” were called, and therefore our treatment of them
was more humane. As proof of their [Maboer] humanity
they would point to how “their” [Dissie] population was
growing for the first time in their [Dissie] recorded history; maybe even ‘their’ [Dissie] unrecorded history too. indicating,
they asserted, with beatings and threats
that “they” were thriving
in captivity. The idea that “they” were dispossessed was never raised
or if it was
it was argued, again with beatings implied or actual, that all groups of citizens were really Koloniste
and that
the “real” inhabitants, now nearly all dead,
were never “owners’, actually, notwithstanding unfettered
occupation for a hundred thousand years.
They had never learned to read and
write and develop property rights so logically
The original
Inhabitants had been caught in a vice
Exterminated from both ends; hunted down
and killed
for loving freedom more than
servitude. “…And for living on the land
like a wild animal…”

We thus lived in a wonderful
bubble of
Grande illusion, which existed within a structured
of benefits.
These benefits permitted swill to be gobbled from the trough
of goodies
available to the “successful” in such an ordered world.

While we [the new second class Koloniste] had “rights” to ‘it all’
were tempered
by the obligation,
sponsored by the book inspired ethos
“Thou shalt be mean to the
dispossessed.” And therefore, since
the dispossessed could be anybody
simply by association… those who were
“nice” to the “Dissies” must be
secretly lusting to enjoy the
bodies of the “Dissies”. For as everyone
“knew” [and was evidenced by the rapidly expanding population], ‘Dissies’
“fucked like rabbits” and that
was true
as it turned out for the “dissies”
soon outnumbered the new ruling Klass by far.

So the New Ruling Klass [NRK] carried their power with increasing
fervour: a holy
book in one hand and a rifle
in the other… Do as I say or die…those were the options.

For many years life was bleak
and tedious and within
the narrow perimeters set by zealous
god obsessed,
dispossessed obsessed,
dark suited, dark hatted Bureakrats, we,
who were now being called the “baby boomers” got on with the business of living.

Through short wave we discovered:
Rock n Roll, Elvis
Presley n Micky
Most, n jive
bop, n
things that were alive
like warm wet places, and that first
exchange before the tongue arrived and gave
edge to sudden hardness.

Rock n Roll came, via a crystal set, or short wave
In the days
Before frequency modulation
Made our
the long, main wave went for their god as often as not
with mournful dirges
interspersed with long speeches
by dark-suited voices. And in
between were the commodity prices and the price
of wool and maize and millet and hay and gold was
pegged at thirty three dollars
and we lived on a gold standard and what everybody loved
and obsessed about almost as much as they obsessed about the dispossessed, was gold.

Our family came to live amongst the former now declining
ruling cl
ass who were mostly
Well off and established while we
were new and poor and not. Immigrating
to east south central back [aka: east central Zone One] then at that particular time proved to be imprudent ultimately, for the adults in the family, and fraught with daily violence for us kids.

And so we found that behaviour
is indivisible. To spend your life ignoring
the horror of what was being done
gradually corroded the very soul of pity
and peeple took whatever opportunity

they could
to dis a neighbour, harm another person if they could.

If the first mantra of the Dispossession era was
to be nasty to the dispossessed
eventually everyone became nasty
to everyone. It was easier that way
to remember to be bad
to “dissies’. My folks found themselves in
a blocked drain and were soon…within a few
without many of their few
friends, some old friends: having like us
come inadvertently from the ‘motherland’.

Most left at the first sight of the coming storm, and
being “our” network,
it shredded and left us [my parents] somewhat stranded…not terminally stranded, well not then, but
yes, eventually, terminally stranded.

So the fifties came and went and
the sixties compressed
us to bursting point
and we lived in our leafy suburbs that
were designated to be solely
territory and we were forbidden on pain of terrible retribution to ever go to a place where the “sataans” dwelt…a place with a name that no one spoke of. It was simply, “There”.

We sailed through childhood steering
with greater certainty. I gradually
discovered that no matter how painful, the pre-emptive
strike option, ultimately used by Uncle Dubya Bush in Iraq, was
the only rational response to bullies. Take
your moment
when it suits you. For bullies
were abounding and encouraged. And
after an event called
Sharpeville things became pretty
brutal for a time, and it
became sensible to carry a stick
when cycling
to beat back marauding informal enforcers.

on the night of the elegant,
but unattended, final
school farewell
we listened rather to the news of Kennedy’s assassination on
the short-wave radio
in the Nash 600 bought eighth hand and only running cos the old-man knew how to build motors
and torture young sons to be his “spanner boys”.
He chose not to hire from the local mine compound; where
the men were grudgingly
allowed to
work in private gardens
on their Sunday’s-off, from work in the mines.

We had heard of Kennedy.
The year before he had done something against the Komuniste,
whom we understood to be the agents of evil,
and the “sataans”.
And when Bay of Pigs and the Cuban missile
crisis happened,
followed by our trial examinations, we had all been
so freaked out, because we had been told
by the voices on all the waves
that the world was about to end, and not really
grasping the big picture, understood that the little
meant, fuck the exams and get
drunk and, hopefully, maybe, desperately, we could get laid…Hhhah.

Kennedy had been cool and gave us
glimpses of what was coming. The world shed
its skin then
and began bursting from the chains of former consciousness. The world stirred
and the bullet took its own
patterns of unintended consequences…perhaps. We produced
the worst set of final results in the history of the school
to that time and people bewailed the declining standards of youth
and an evil maths instructor
beat me regularly with a stick and predicted inevitable failure…Violence and failure were our lessons in Trigonometry
and the rest and so by the end there was barely a flicker in me
of what my parents had come to escape. Barely a
spark undimmed by the
savage nature of the place.

But those other places; “there”
where the Dissies lived were also bursting
and the streets were patrolled by hard
faced upwardly
mobile despots
presiding over autarchies
with short whips called sjamboks
and guns and an attitude that permitted the assault
and beating of a citizen without compunction; or redress
for a ‘dissy’, or someone designated a ‘dissie-lover’!… A mark
of shame spoken about in either hushed and muted voices or with

And if perchance a ‘decent’ Koloniste man
should have need to carry a Dissy
female in a vehicle alone
then it behove him to put her on the back
seat and have an innocent third party like a Koloniste
child travel with them, lest he be apprehended for licentious behaviour and be ruined.

For through all this the hormones
flowed, finally affecting me
in line with
all the other guys who discovered
‘stoneys’ somewhere in the ninth
grade, after which the
urge to penetrate warm folds of flesh; to feel
the thrust of orgasmic glory…prevailed over sensitivity.

By then we too believed,
that those Dissies were ‘Sataans’, when
we thought about “them” at all, for “they” were largely unseen
and seldom reported on, other than in the statements of sombre ruling cadre Koloniste.
And of course in the
weekly news reports
when a dissy committed murder. “They” became the bogeypersons of our waking nightmares, when we ever had them.

Then, there were so many things to think about…rock n
roll had been banned on the radio
except for some token half-
given to the nation once a week
for Johnny Walker’s hit
and we gangling know-it-alls were tuned to LM
radio and the sounds of Eddie Cochran and the Rolling Stones; not to mention ‘Ruby’.

The explosion of the sixties was right
on us when
we went off and had our heads shaved to become acolytes
of the noble Reich: learning to shoot “sataans”
and going awol to Durban beach
for a month and losing four days pay for
days in detention
barracks and being beaten
and beaten again…Head shaved, again
How dare you dis the people who dis the dissies. It was beat
thrash. Beat,
these were the
on the path of childhood from the beat, thump, thrash
of infancy to the beat,
thump, thrash of a wild November night
in ’66,
when the truth was all revealed
and nothing could ever be again as it had been.

That Friday night started
at the Drive-in
movie house,
which was rarely visited anymore for purposes
of watching movies, visited instead
with accomplices
encountered on the afternoon
umbilical train rides home from the city where I passed
the day. In our time of real innocence
we eat popcorn on the back seat, watched the miracle of movies between mom n pop’s heads,
fighting for the best place
nearest the sound machine propped onto the windowsill,
Now the sound box played
to dis-interested attention and the propriety pretence of being there for a movie, but alternately occupied, with vodka and willing young lusts.

Later when the movie ended
and our excuses for impropriety had fled
and the necking hour outside in the drive
way was ended, then
I returned home in sublime ecstasy.
Lost in the lust
for newly discovered flesh and feeling the effects of some vodka I carefully parked the second hand Morris
I had bought, flushed with my pay, saved in the bank like a good little boy, accumulated while disserving the
country for compulsory prison
service, abused by a half blind
corporal, reading the weather
forecasts. Being thrifty with money brought
wheels and willing partners, thereafter there’s none anymore and thriftiness gets you nowhere.

Our house was on a road
that overlooked a vlei,
or wetland, if you prefer. Running through it
was a concreted gully that carried what was originally a stream, for a few million years,
before the mines came
and turned it into a cyanide sluiceway.

On either side of it was parkland, extended
wetland really,
originally all scheduled for parkland
development by the old elites
and then rapidly invaded by those new
elites who wanted to swamp the place with voters. The parkland was cut at right angles to our boundary road by a footpath, which in turn was lit by streetlamps every thirty metres or so.

The full moon
that had
earlier been hidden behind the storm clouds,
to give our booze coated kisses convenient darkness, had now
burst through the moving cumulo nimbus
and sparkled
with the lamplight
on a hundred scattered puddles.

It was not widely thought
then that the full moon would bring a werewolf.
It was however widely believed that the full moon brought
prowlers of a different nature…
Werewolves were not real. “Sataans” were. Even as we
were being desperately advised
that they weren’t…Our world was obsessed to the point of prurience
with the sleeping habits of ‘sataans’.

By then we had lost our own Kennedy alter
ego, Verwoerdt, the bad man who had straddled
our emerging consciousness and died, stabbed
to death
by an unsung, yet unacknowledged, hero, unmourned by all
save his acolytes.

Unlike today
when all our homes are walled and locked, secured
by bolts and violent dogs
and we are all free,
then there were no such simplicities. Then
the chains were on the perimeters and within lay our
bubble of illusion.
A simple gate to define a boundary, and a gap in the driveway
next to the hedge
where my Morris would park in the open: freezing in the
winter from the passing vlei
and rained on through summer,
with a storm a day just
before dusk: a routine rhythm for a routine life…Go to
work on a train.
Score someone on a train. Go to the drive-in and explore all their parts. Go home sleep
go to work on a train….

Sleepyhead time to wake up….

And now we live in the echo of those days.

When the full moon is up and
the storm has gone and the heat of November has been
cooled by moist
sombre air the sounds carry further than is usual. I had
just finished chaining the steering wheel to the clutch
pedal, standing, in the absolute silence
of the moonlit moment, with
the key in the lock
when I heard the distinctive clunk of a firearm being cocked.

I’dbeenthere,fired a fewthousandroundsknewthesound.
My hair stood
on the back of my neck; bristled through
the vodka.
A sharp command rang
through the night.

“Halt “Dissie” followed
by a string of foul oaths
relating to the unseen Dissie
in the dark: and then the sound of running.

The air always settles after a storm and the sound
waves flatten out and sharp noises and voices travel for miles
kilometres now,
along beaded atmospheric droplet cadences of water.

So as to where the sound came from I couldn’t tell. We lived in the wetland
valley and it was questionable
whether the house should ever have been built there; like the
school for mini Maboere built on the opposite
side of the park, built where a crafty sum of
money had caused a line to move on a map
somewhere, disrupting the soundflow in the ancient vlei.

Then I knew where it was.

Still barely conscious of my current surroundings, still locked
in thoughts of pleasant dalliance, lifted
by liquor and the afterglow of lust,
I was fumbling in the moonlight for the cold metal keyhole when a figure burst across the courtyard gate.

The gate was a normal height, about head
high to the average male adult of the day
with none of the razor wire adornments that festoon gates today…so it was a clean hurdle of the kind that would score gold medals in another setting.

The figure had cleared the gate,
and hurtled past me in the driveway,
while I was still relating to the truth of some intrusion….
And what should I have done then? Should I have stuck my leg out backwards….
tripping him up as he flew past…
Better for him I had…but would it have been better for me?

The driveway gates were still
wide open
and the dark figure of the running Dissie
head down and moving faster than I ever could.

Then, as he reached the road a second
figure came across
the courtyard gate,
fifteen metres behind. My first thought…was it his accomplice?

No. He worked alone it seemed, or perhaps he went
the wrong way.
The second figure was the taller,

The man’s cap flew off as he grounded, and landing, he
gave a strangely characteristic twist of his
body as he by- passed me, still half
crouched in the driveway. Step, Step
He’d done it before,
many times before, I knew, through our respective
childhoods when we former Koloniste elites fought out
our ancient antagonism for the newly empowered
albeit longer established Koloniste on the hallowed battleturf called rugby.

My heart lurched in the streetlight at the
of those ritual slaughter sessions
where we fifteen kids would take on their always bigger and
eighteen men,
in unequal contest, dominated by maximum
punishment inflicted on the ‘enemy’; and generally
we gave as good as we got.

Before I could fully
grasp the strangeness of a schoolboy
now a big bulky policeman;
his partner came over the gate, slower and with less
agility and plenty of oaths. He never sidestepped, but cursed
and knocked me aside and I crunched down on the

My heart lurched about.
I heard again the caning sounds of ritual beatings from the owners
of those voices that swore the oaths
that drew me towards the gate. I should have ignored it all and gone to bed to dream of sweet Angelica.

Like a well-trained boy I picked up the fallen cap, rolled it over
where regulation required that a
should hide his name:
Korn?: with the hard plosive K the hard rolling R and the sound attributed to a horse; going to ground with the ball, for his
inevitable touch down.

Yo Aah Korn?, Yay Korn?: and he condescending of we “souties”
as ‘they’, the mini Maboere,
would call us.

I found I had followed them to the pavement’s edge, watched
them chase their quarry
past the swings
in the small children’s playground
across the street: an abstraction in the park
where once Lorraine from down the street had leapt from a swing, hooked her dress which remained behind and revealed
pink knickers and sweet little bumps and ran home mortified
and never came to play again.

They were running towards the light at the edge of the footbridge that crossed the slow moving cyanide oozings.

Then one of them shot the Dissie. My guess
was Korn? shot him cos there was only one shot
and it was taken on the run and the perfect execution of the ball and the posts was Korn?’s trademark
in those bi-annual blood-baiting contests
between antagonists that we’d played between 5th grade and 12th.

The running stopped.
I could see a shape lying in the moonlight; a blob of
shadow spotlit in the circle of light
at the mouth
of the bridge.

“Get my cap”
the order,
like “get the ball!” was barked
in the “Taal”
at a subordinate,
although they both seemed to be equals: Konstables. But
Korne was like that.
Since 5th grade he was the boss,
playing barefoot on a burned crisped pitch that tore our lesser well-shod feet
tender feet…”You vil remove your boots to play here”
said their referees, “it is the only fair thing to do”
and left him champion of the entire field and we all let him be.

I met the partner at the edge of the playground
By the swings,
and silently handed him Korn?’s cap.
He scrutinised me,
a familiar
intense, mad dog stare:
bush fever glittering in the eyeballs. The excitement of the hunt
completed they now had to check out the witnesses and take their statements.

They never took mine.

There were others who arrived and from whom they noted down and elicited words of praise
for a job well done.
They were neighbours who came out to check
what the shooting was about, and soon saw the figures
by the footbridge in the lamp lit moonlight
and within a minute or two it seemed the street was there approving the deed.

And I saw the figure move.

They had stripped him
when they reached him. Down with his
trousers and shirt over his head. Incongruously
somehow he was wearing a brightly coloured swimming
costume in place of the more common cotton underpants fashionable
amongst the rest of us, and I thought, how odd,
for no dissie was permitted to enter
a swimming pool, and I
wondered how he had been able
to buy one.

There was a small hole
oozing blood
alongside his spine where the kidneys
should be
and he had landed face down in a small muddy
streak of slimy water
where the ancient clay met newly minted cyanide;
and he lifted his head to breath.

“He should be dead.” Spoke a vengeful
voice from the growing crowd in the darkness beyond the lamplight. “Make him dead” growled another
in the dark. This prompted a chorus of approval
from the rest accompanied with foul oaths regarding the once again ‘proven’ satanic ancestry of the ‘fucken dissies’:
death it was asserted would be welcomed by the Dissie.

And Korn? struck a pose. Like
an old time hunter
with his daily slaughter, he
placed his foot on the back of the
wounded man’s head and firmly pushed it
for a time, while he took out his notebook
and called for witnesses
to certify that
what they had seen was the truth, the whole
and nothing
but the truth, and god [whatever that was] help those who said otherwise.

If any found the scene distasteful they said
nothing, and most, it seemed,
murmured approval. The dissie was getting his deserts. How dare
he be out here in
town in the middle of the night…The nine
o clock curfew had sounded!
Everyone could hear it!
Curfew meant that a dissie on the streets could be shot on sight and it was okay.

And I couldn’t look at them. I stared
in turmoil
at that boot, in contact with that woolly head; watched the smearing
lurch of bubbles,
the spasm. Could this be right? Was this allowed? Should I not speak out!
And would I be beaten again and again if I did.
And then,
too late…the silence of stillness when he drowned.

I told myself he was going to die
that was a killing shot,
they said,
and there were no hospitals then
that could deal with that…certainly no hospitals for a dissie. I heard them
say that, as if in a dream.
But i knew
it was wrong and i did nothing
and what did that make me, when they came
to tell me to keep my mouth shut
or the same
would happen to me…They came for me because
they knew what they had done… was wrong.
And in so knowing
revealed their own slithering humanity
beneath their carefully airbrushed
cloak of evil… but I kept silent and lost mine…They said that I must keep my trap shut, that he died resisting arrest.
But they lied, for we all knew.
It was murder.


The Ashanti Raider: opening

The Ashanti Raider aka The Girl in the Golden Kusheshe
By: Nicholas Jakari-Williamson aka Nicholas Jakari.


“You are sure? It is convenient that this would be assassin is dead ” Bone saw the expression of fury on the old man’s face and backed off.

“Do you want it to go to New York?” Koyo walked into an alcove of the small chapel where an officiating burial officer was fidgeting about with his tools of spiritual redemption, ostentatiously peeking at his watch: trying not to lust after the golden mask lying in one of his cut price coffins. The officiating officer had made calls to various prospective buyers within moments of eyeballing it..

“No…it is too complicated.” Bone chewed his lips for a moment, and he stared vacantly at the coffin. Saw the pseudo priest eyeing its contents, and reached a decision that seemed to hurt him “She must go to Zone One, in Southern Azania. There will be a buyer there…and sellers too. We can move guns quickly from Zone One …” then, masking his own lust for the priceless artefact, “My main concern is whether she can be trusted to trade something this valuable without being tempted.”

“Yes. Well technically the thing is her’s by right of inheritance.” Koyo shrugged again, turned and leaned against a looming oversized plastic icon, which interpreted Durer’s immortal praying hands, and which decorated the cheap-whitewashed wall. He took out a battered packet of cigarettes, remembered where he was and put them away again.
“I do not understand.” Bone eventually decided that he was not going to get an answer. “What do you mean, hers?” He frowned, and then turning his face so Koyo didn’t see him, scowled.


“It is complicated, but by the more arcane rules of our clan, given the number of those who were slaughtered in the genocide, and ruling out those of the clan who orchestrated the murder of their kinsmen, she becomes the rightful inheritor. She has agreed to do this in the interests of rebuilding our people.”

They both stood staring at the mask, which had a history so complex that Bone’s mind had reeled when Koyo had first told him at the briefing just before the old bitch had died. It gave the resting body of the late Queen a surreal appearance. She had often called it the Golden Raider, and she would laugh and tell the stories of its creation back in the ancient golden time of Afrika. It had travelled from west Afrika to central Afrika over many centuries always travelling in disguise, with its lawful owner, until for the past century or so it had lived at Goma on Lake Kivu.

“Will that not affect her judgement?” Bone was impatient with all the mumbo jumbo of past protocols. He also had no truck with the idea that a woman had any entitlement to wealth, especially young and beautiful woman. He belonged to a generation that venerated new instruments of authority in the strict context of the old: the rights of present power blended to the rights of the past. A woman’s place was to be fucked regularly, and to stay in the kitchen afterwards. This was what he believed, notwithstanding any bullshit he may utter to the contrary while on the trail of campaign funds.

“Who knows? You can’t have it both ways.” The older of the two men shrugged again,” The truth is there is no one else we can trust after what happened.” He stared at Bone with such a hard intense stare that Bone began to feel uneasy, felt himself overwhelmed with guilt and hoped it wasn’t showing.
“Sh…she comes…”

“Greetings Princess, “ Her knees buckled slightly as she bent to accommodate Koyo and she hugged him, a hug that spoke of all the pain of loss and the joy of finding a familiar face in a strange place. It was an awkward hug, for although the man with parade ground bearing was tall; the epitome of a military man from a long military line, the woman was taller.

“Greetings from Goma.” She replied, referring to her home on the shores of Lake Kivu, one of the gem like cluster of lakes that collectively make up the Great Lakes region of central Afrika.

“May I introduce Compatriarch Born, this is Princess Ransome-Frankfurt of Goma.”
They both bowed with a certain stiff formality. They were after all at a funeral on a bitter cold October afternoon in an alien country.
“Call me D’Ax please.” …
This is an extract from the story called ‘The Ashanti Raider’ Part Two of the Azanian Quartet … The full digital version of what has been described as a violent, sexually explicit Adult content story, should arrive during 2015 and for sure by the meantime follow the podcast of the Jonker Memorandum”.

Territorial Notes regarding 2136 circa AA.


With reference to place names and the past.

Your Excellency should take note that:
The unfolding of these testimonies involves travel to, or reference to, a number of places in the southern part of the aforementioned Azanian Konfederacy and those that seem most important are herewith briefly described to obviate the need for description further: It being understood that all information is as presented in the kollektionof doccuments referred to as The Jonker Memorandum and those called the Testimonies together with the reference dokument referred to as Koz.
1. Amazulu: Kingdom of, Territory bordering eastern coastline between latitudes x and y (see map). The territory appears to encompass the Free Zone of Port Natal (sometimes also referred to as New Jaakarta). It is our understanding* that this territory was held as a free trading colony of Amazulu. Capital Ulundi. There are also indications that the first wave of Grimdonesian survivors who swept in over a newly created landbridge from the island of Grabdamasker made their way to the remaining parts of Port Natal and settled there; and then not being joined by any successors were gradually absorbed into the local populace.
2. Bosigo: A Mountain State with extensive arid semi desert holdings. These latter are situated on an expanse of low-lying territory eastwards to the confluence of the Orange and Bambata [previously known as Vaal] rivers, as denoted. It is centrally situated and landlocked, which limited the damage caused by the series of floods (referred to by the Enumerator and validated through archaeological records) that apparently changed the geography of the planet extensively during a period some time before these testimonies were collected.
Bosigo claims Tribute from the Kimberly City State and controls the headwaters to a considerable part of a dry interior especially to Zone One where it helped to nourish that region’s hydroponic farming system.
With its capital at Maseru it would seem to be a form of warrior/brigand State comprising 60 commune zones linked together violently when necessary through suppressive outbursts. Property rights were interpreted collectively and a highly disciplined, so-called ‘Spartan lifestyle’ was maintained. We understand this to mean that the peeple who lived there could live with little in the way of what we understand to have been important to Peeple elsewhere: a comfortable life. Notwithstanding this though Bosigo it seemed was pragmatic to the passage of trade, from which it extracted heavy tribute in the form of tolls. Govt: post- feudal/ intermittently constitutional monarchy with putative multiparty chambers of oligarchic parties.
New Cape Town: (NCT) City State. Legislative council based on popular vote. Formerly historically associated, variously, as a trading station and a legislative centre for hinterland associations of sublegislative regions. It was also a maritime centre with shipping facilities for peaceful and warlike purposes utilizing the vast ocean of water that gave it its reason to exist.
The city was completely rebuilt after it was destroyed some time before that being considered in the Testimonies. Apparently the city [and many other places] was struck by a form of extreme water movement called a “Tsunami” that seems to have emanated from a region to the southwest, from what once appears to have been a polar region.
NCT: Consisted of Fort Table a fortress Island, which towers over all the City’s elements: the Fjords of southern Cape Town, the extended city, called BoKaap, A region known as The Southern Peninsula and the Liberty Islands.
Kollektively these were known as The Cape Federation.
The territory extends for some two hundred kilometres* (*Kilometre: a measure of distance equal to a thousand paces made in sensory space: Kompiler) and claims suzerainty over the city-states of Graaf-Rienet and Kimberly. Bosigo and Kei (see below) repudiated these claims. The Cape Federation was also in frequent conflict with Bosigo, using its control over limited Port facilities to counteract water toll charges.
Bordering on Amazulu and Bosigo and occupying the southeastern coastline to the Gamtoos River, where it maintained garrisons against encroachments from the Cape Federation. The latter made claims on various territories, based on historical precedents that were also disputed and of which we have no records. Capital Mtata. Government Oligarchic with strong Feudal overtones: “Good Ole Buddie” * State corporation style systems of duopolies. [* ref: KKWAN ibid p744 aka Koz]
Principal Regions: Port Sandile situated on the Buffalo River, Nonquaze at Algoa Bay also known as Ebaayi and also formerly known by various other names apparently was acquired from the Cape Federation after the Wars of the Acquisition* [*There is little clarity on the nature of these wars: why they happened or for what purpose, other than perhaps to be associated with water shortages. Water was a critical requirement for the survival of Peeple and was apparently in short supply.
We also understand that these places to which we have referred were built inland from earlier regions engulfed in the rising of the coastline following the event that leveled Old Cape Town. see earlier ref re NCT: Kompiler.]

Monomatapa …North of the Limpopo River, to Zambezi in north, and to the east coast. Described as a Makaranga Theocracy dominated by a leadership known as the New Roswi. Capital Harare. Principal regions: Zimbabwe, Nieue Sofala, and Victoria. Suzerainty claims over Bulawayo City State enforced through tolls on the Zambezi pipeline.
Bamangwato: Desert territory bordering the Newe Karolinga Republik on eastern side and encompassing all the desert regions to the western city state of Windhoek on the Namib coast. Bamangwato claims conflicting suzerainty rights against Monomatapa over the Bulawayo City State. Lost control over the Zambezi pipeline to Monomatapa during the fourth war of the Chimurenga* [similarly, to earlier references, we have limited knowledge of this event: Kompiler]. Popular assembly supports a business/ agrarian oligarchy. Capital Gabarone.
Newe Karolinga. An agrarian republic governed by a popular assembly, subject to theocratic control. Party list system overwhelmingly supports the Karolingan* Assembly Party who had governed the region for many, many segments of Peeple time. [ Karolingan: see below] A desolate and dirt-poor region supporting various forms of permaculture and low yield mining activities. The bulk of its citizenry survived on Basic Pay…a form of income grant, which it seems, was a right to which all citizens of the Konfederacy were entitled.
(NB Kompiler’s note: We understand ‘money’ to have been a medium whereby peeple could arrange exchanges between them of physical and conceptual objects that were required in order to satisfy certain survival and other needs. References are made throughout the Testimonies to this substance…money. KKKWAN refers to it as “an ephemeral substance that appears to have no constant or absolute value but by virtue of its elusive relativity. Love of the concept was described by educated commentators as the source of all evil.”)
Newe Karolinga was situated in a sandwich between Monomatapa, Bamangwato and Amazulu, the region was at the time of the testimonies host to many descendants of the Karolingan Krusaders, who, it seems, had undertaken an epic journey to a place called The Holy Land following great floods and the onset of frozen conditions in the northernmost regions of the planet which occurred at a time called Armageddon.
According to Koz* [ref: Koz: Legends of Urdos. Parallel edition Ref co-ord 763908] these particular Karolingans apparently became confused for some unclarified reason and went off course on their journey to this alleged “Holy Land”. They landed somewhere on the continental landmass of Azania and fought their way south. It seems they were armed apparently with terrible weaponry of a type never encountered before. They left nothing behind them as they moved directly south along a great river.
Much of the territory through which they moved was already laid waste by critical shortages of water, and many of the places where water was reasonably plentiful were equally devastated by a terrible plague that afflicted great numbers of peeple and rendered them incapable of much resistance.
The Karolingans kept moving although their numbers shrank considerably. A great many settled in the fertile regions of east central and south central Azania after claiming land in exchange for assisting the Azanian Konfederacy to repulse a second invasion by Grimdonesians across the landbridge linking the mainland of Azania to a former island off the east coast.

They were finally allowed free transit through Monomatapa following something called the Treaty of Victoria and finally settled in the territory that came to be known later, as Karolinga. These Karolingans as they were known were not a friendly people and were apparently fiercely addicted to a belief in a non-physical reality and governed their lives according to a ceremony known as the Klensing.
Zone One: The pulse of the Azanian Konfederacy. Zone one was unusual by the standards of peeple around the world. It was a city region that was not situated on a water confluence point. Apparently it came into existence to mine gold, a commodity highly prized for its intrinsic value. Later it became a trading and manufacturing region. Over time the gold was mostly gone and the region entered into a condition of seemingly terminal long-term decline.
According to the testimonies it [Zone One] was being used as a temporary “cash cow” * [we do not know the meaning of this term; referent sources indicate that it has something to do with easy wealth generation, Koz refers to “Rent seeking”, although we are not certain what that means.] to supplement the development of the entire Konfederacy.
Strategically located in the highland prarielande, also known as ‘Velde,’ of southern Azania the decline was arrested after the “Ringing” * [Kompiler’s note: the events known as the “ringing” are comprehensively described earlier.]. Foresight had seen the development of a system of solar powered towers, the ruins of which could still be seen and which curiously were laid out in a pattern reminiscent of our own star system. This as you no doubt know has given rise to numberless theories relating to prescient possibilities.
Various other forms of weather modifying devices were apparently built on to the towers over the years and they became a primary source of foodstocks for the citizenry. We have no samples of these.
Because it was a desirable place to live and many were attracted to it, residence rights in Zone one had,apparently, eventually been limited to those who had a birthright to a water supply, or who could make a large enough investment to acquire basic water rights for themselves, and any they may bring with them.
A “water rights market” existed to distribute possession of water rights. Entry by non-residents was moderated by their ability to purchase water rights vouchers on the rights market. All citizens had basic rights to minimal water needs. Outsiders and residents alike could trade water surpluses to facilitate intermittent visiting for business or recreation purposes. Notwithstanding this or perhaps because of the problems associated with water there was minimal movement of citizens between regions.
[Kompilers note: Numerous references are made throughout both the introduction to the testimonies and the testimonies themselves to events from a period called, The Past. In many cases these references are made without explanation. We are at this stage only able to speculate on what these events could have been in most instances. There are however some instances where other archaeological information lends evidence to support or supplement the limited information we have on the planet.]

* Note: The planetary sub-species Humanity, also known as (aka) Peeple, who form the primary subject of this document calibrated the passage of their lifetimes by conceptualising a process which they called ‘Time’. This process was itself then calibrated by various methods of chronological record using periods called centuries according to a range of referent points, amongst which we have established two, called AD and BC, which seemed to be a predominant referent for this region.
We are uncertain whether the term ‘Twentieth Century”, refers to the former or the latter referent although such evidence as we have gleaned tends to indicate AD. It is not certain to what these terms signify although all indicators point to a reverential figure affecting the PAST of some of the Peeple, and who provided, it seems, a start for an era. We do not believe Jordan Marak to be that reverential figure since he appears to have arrived at an end time between one age, AD, and another called AA.

Post Jonker

Blog #1 Post Jonker.

Writing this blog as I am now in 2014 September 23rd, on Heritage Day eve, I find myself looking back on to what I wrote and thinking how weird it is that in one way or another ideas and themes that formed part of the backwash scene setting display that runs like a thread through the story, are becoming mainstream ideas or are affairs that are pushing their way to the front row.

Starting with right now.

As I write this much of the city [Jozi] is without access to on-demand water. Part of the reason has to do with old and increasingly dilapidated infrastructure. To this is ascribed the widespread unhappiness with the state of affairs requiring citizens of all classes to queue up for a water supply from a passing [intermittent] tanker. Allegedly thieves have been stealing components necessary for the pumping of water from reservoirs to storage stations; or some other gobbledy gook explanations. I.o.w: The system broke down. We expect it and are not surprised and acceptance is bleak. Nonetheless: As always there is the inevitable Elephant in the room.

Gauteng: aka Zone One in the Jonker Memorandum has water issues… as does the country Mzansi. Some of Zone One’s water comes from a landlocked traditional albeit constitutional Monarchy tucked within a mountainous region inside Mzansi.

The place has been taken over in some as yet undefined coup and notwithstanding much huffing and puffing by worthy politicians is still unresolved as at today: and coincidentally we suddenly have water issues.

In the Jonker the keen listener would have noted that the entire region [Lesotho Kingdom and the Province called [currently] Free State] is called Bosigo [circa 2136 AD or Sometime AA]: and is a Sparta style military State, routinely at war over water rights with Zone One. Oh dear.

On another topic this past week the BBC announced that the Belgian court of appeals had granted a first ever precedent. A man serving a life sentence, for horrible crimes, has been granted the right to die in terms of the country’s Euthanasia laws. In the Jonker Memorandum this action is referred to as the “Socratic solution.” In effect we are witness to the modern world’s first State sanctioned suicide.

Then of course there has been the flurry of activity over the introduction, currently;y still on hold of a Transaction levy [as i call it] or Tax as Mrs Merkel likes to call it. When Mr Cameron of the UK condemned the idea as unworkable last year i chuckled merrily remembering that the reasons he gave for why it wouldn’t work were the same reasons i used to justify wiping out the present order in the story.I.o.w. why the “Apocalypse” became a necessary part of the plot.

And then the surprise of all, is that the Swiss are currently investigating the central idea of “Basic Pay” that threads through; and is a key part of Korinth Starr’s election campaign in the tale. The proposal to vote on the idea seems to be on hold presently but nonetheless the idea is out there.

As an author of a futuristic oriented work I have already been amazed at many of the things that have happened in the “real” world while I was podcasting my tale about the fictional world were part of my text already. On one level it was tsunamis that affected Japan [Keiretsu in the story], climate change resulting from “The Ringing” about which we may all still be in denial. And then there is the airliner that disappeared without trace one night and then came back again… which of course we hope remains fiction don’t we….?

I shall continue to note other events as I remember that they happened in the wake of the tale. And in the meantime I keep hoping that I do simply write fiction and am not some uncanny seer.


Poetry of the Jonker Memorandum

Jonker Memorandum PoetryDirect Poetry from the Jonker Memorandum.


The Jonker Memorandum is, as stated elsewhere, an Allegoric prose poem: meaning that the prose part is written using poetic forms and patterns. And much is prefixed by a piece of [so-called] ‘poetry’. The pieces that follow and are called by me ‘Direct’ are, essentially, the punctuation dotted throughout the tale: as a form of ‘Brechtian’ introduction.

Regarding the pieces contained herein; #6 & #39 are attributed to the poet/philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche with thanks, and are from the script for my performance of that Poet’s work at the Centenary Nietzsche Conference: Pretoria University in 2000. The script was in part derived from the Portable Nietzsche. Viking edition: 1954: Edited by Walter Kaufman.

Other pieces elsewhere may contain words in quotation marks because the words are not mine, but borrowed albeit not attributed because I’ve forgotten from where they were absorbed.

Each piece [other than the two referred to above] is attributed to !NiK [being aka Nicholas Jakari]. [Btw: the ! is a San sign: not a common or garden exclamation mark… Rather it represents the San ‘Click’ sound, and is a symbol for my return in 1994 [referred to elsewhere].

The numbers in Brackets after ! [00] for instance, identify the year in which the piece was composed. In some cases the designation inside the brackets is simply [JM] meaning the piece was specifically written for the place where it was used, when it was written somewhere between 1994 and 2010 when the text was complete or 2014 when the Podcast series was finished.

The name of the Story, the Jonker Memorandum, based on a tale told to the writer in a random barroom conversation by an equally random, aging drunk Afrikaner man in a downtown bar, is to honour the poet Ingrid Jonker who took her life in despair: never believing that a world such as this represented by the tale was actually possible and: nonetheless wrote words that moved souls.

1. The Enumerator’s summary.

The poor and the weak,
The strong and the meek
Were led like lambs to the
Reconstruction yards
A long steel slide
Suspended in deepest space.

The frail and all those of indecisive
Were driven to a new edge; the ledge
At the end of the universe
Fell off
And were encountered
No more…

2. The State of the Nation.

I listened to our leader’s State of the Nation
Speech and couldn’t understand it
I read the critic’s review that
Said the
Citizens of
“Manenbug, Harrismith, Diepsloot, Hanover Park,
Phomolong and Crossroads
Understand the speech either
And although I knew none of those
I felt empowered: knowing none of us knew:
And that our president’s secret
Was safe….

3. Cooking Turtles: Part One.

From “A Bundle of thoughts`’.
Off an old, Long Playing Record… now broken, and lost.

Cooking Turtles is a slow process of
Heating up the water
From cold and there
Will be a part
Where the creature becomes wonderfully
Later when the water is boiling
The turtle is unaware that it has died: for
It had stopped

4. Notes off a wall inside a police station.

Bear in mind
The destruKtive konsequences
Of unrestrained self-interest
On a simple of

No – a simple of sophisticates,
As they say:

“A bullet in the spine
Change your life”.

5 What happens when the Juggler
loses its footing

Kri-o-genia + Her n Me n Then

A break of light
Against the wall
Reveals the bar
‘tween me n you.

And here to keep me from you
A cross to bar the night;
To share the quiet solemnity: of
Our unimagined hope, held tight.

Beyond the squares
The bare fleshed veins
Etch out
Nature’s child
Stark with naked pain
And stroked with evening’s chill.

A howl across the darkness
Of a moment
Echoes off the barren seeds
Marked out by season’s change.

Now is the time
When warmth has gone
Our peace
Is held restricted
To the square yard of our minds.

6. Hyperconsciousness & Freidrich Nietzsche.

“Could you create a god? Then
Do not speak to me of any gods. But you
Could well create the Overman.
Perhaps not yourselves my brothers
But unto fathers
And forefathers
Of the overman.

You could re-create yourselves:
And let this
Be your best creation.”

Thus Spake Zarathustra

7. Probable Possibility.

Was the core of reality
Really a place
Without light:
A howling soup of uncertainty
Without konstrukt or meaning?

So much for probability.

8 We’ve changed time.

We’ve changed time,
He said.

I’ll fight the rules
I will not succumb.

We do more in a day
Than our forefathers
Kould konsider

I’ll fight the changing
Of the rules
I will not succumb.

Doing in a week
I will not succumb

What our ancestors did
In a lifetime.

So we have compressed time
And burned out our ability
To keep up,
She chirped.

I’ll fight. I wont succumb…
I will not succumb.

Yes we have changed time
We’ve also sold off
Most of it
He concluded caustically.

9. Systematizing parody

Do we systematize
Our everyday parodies
About the changing
Of time
To suit a vengeful purpose
That we allocated to
Alphaman… to our

10. A

Shall we take a
little walkie
said the spider
to the fly…

The walkies are behind
And I hope that
We don’t die.

11 Loadshedding: voices in the dark.

How do we make it rain?
We water the garden
Wash the car.

We wash the car
We wash the car
We wash the car
For Korinth Starr.

12 The rain arrived

The rain arrived first
Before the lights came on.

When power goes
We have to talk to each other
And deal with truth…
Deal with silence.

The multiverse punishes us
For intemperate acts
And also presents us
The opportunity

Driven only by the
That we rule
And to continue
Is to rule

13. Those who konstrukt rules.

I met a man who said he
Had been drinking with me
All night
But that the bottle was still full.

I met a gambler in denial
Who said he couldn’t
Drinking Bell’s
Or even why he gambled.

It’s the little things
He said
That gradually pisses you off
About a place:
The soap that you don’t
Find in the
Bathroom; the sun blinding your eyes as you
Drive east in
The morning
The fool who drives to the
Corner at
The edge
And waits there
To be fetched.
And the ambitious
Who block the road
With their egos.

Most of all it’s the issue
Of chairs
And how they should

14. From the Testimonies

Whatever you do
To the web of life
Shall be returned to you
And shall through all your lives.

The book of Shadrack: Navaho section.

So the Navaho say
Whatever you do
To the web
Of life
Will come back to

Is that the same as fate?
Is that why we cannot
To be

The web of life is, it
To be
Tangled levy.

15. Rape: The genocidal Crime.

< /br> Variations on some lines in the Jozi “Star” newspaper.
Wed 18/4/2012

“A crime that shames us all.”

It’s the crime of shame
And it is here to stay
Seven rapes per man
In a single day
Violently taken
In only one way.

“The tip of it all”
They lasciviously say,
To an ‘Ysberg of rape’
Oh yay…
Oh yay…

Deep down inside
A penetrating ray
Thrusting up, up, up:
Through the curds and the whey.
Rape… oh rape… a girl child a day
Rape, rape, rape your worries away.

Oh… rape, rape, rape to show you really care
Rape away the rage at all that isn’t fair.

Shame, shame, shame.
Do not stay
It’s just a little game so
Rape away?

Ysberg = iceberg. Afr:

16 Destiny.

Couples parade with
Earnest enthusiasm
To the fast moving Fox –
Frantically giving new
To otherwise
Futile purpose.
That’s what we do.
[Book of Shadrack]

17 From the 3rd Book of Shadrack

Exploit the minds
Of those who dress
In finery
And march to the tune

While we dance amongst
The fantasies
Of our abstract

Dissecting parts.
Dissecting portions.


*Exigencies: New Webster – intrinsic requirements or circumstantial necessities.
** Caprice: New Webster – mere fancy.

18 Inkambabeyibuza*

from: ‘The Notes of Joy’

You can be a part
Of the power
Or apart
From the power;
Parceling tradition
Or facing madness.
Believing that anyone
Could believe.

So ‘Inkambabeyibuza’:
“By this scar then,
Remember me
And this”.

Inkambabeyibuza… IsiZulu. Means what it says.

19. Remembering

When we did not
To remember
What we thought
We should
We found ourselves
Unable to grasp
At straws
Or see the broken
We found we had
Forgotten why
We chose to
The things we

20. Return to the Virtuality game.

Don’t talk to me of ghosts
For there are none
I don’t believe this to be a rock
This is a rock
And when I am not here the rock remains
I’m sure…
Aren’t i?

Our world is
A Vision
To which we aspire it is not the knowledge that we
Have represented to ourselves
In a form
Is there existence if no one records it?
Are we as ephemeral as the rock?
Do we matter?
!NiK[Circa ‘06]

*Dronkverdriet: Afrikaans. Maudlin drunk.

21. Indicators

The bang on the front of
The head
The warning tremble of
That preceded it
When I walked that way
With the load.

And then… to forget: in
That same instant
To forget:
And be so brutally

You were told!
We warned you when you
Went this way before!
Retention rulz….

22. With regard to Mr. Thomas

Tremor shakes off me
With every change of way
While you react with
And break you down
To pray?
Or do you prey?

So: you do not go fiercely
Into that good day
Tremor shakes off
You… tremor shakes
Off you
With every change
Of way…

You do react with panic
And do
Break you down…


23. The Apocalypse came and went:
Legends of Urdos.

What if the people in the stories
In which the committed rapists lived
Were able to Emote
At some
To a feeding place:
In search of nourishment.

That figment of the
Carry with it the
Residual information
That caused it to be formed?

Is it accessible?
And so:
When people follow leaders
As shadows follow
Owners then all are blind
Following the virtuous certainties
Of faith: a deep conviction
That certainty
Is ruled by uncertainty,
Which is itself

24. Ellis says…

“On running the Mile
there comes a point
at which the
in order that one may sprint
and reach it,
notwithstanding stumbles.

25. Oram Mangosti

Should you say you
Cannot go on
Moving forward
Then perhaps
It is because
Are unable
To forget…

Inkambabeyibuza… by
This scar
You shall

26. The thing about the wind

The thing about the wind
Was the timing:
There was none.

As soon as you knew
Or thought you knew
You no longer

And a cycle preceded a
Or in shortening
So we say

27. Zen zat was ze way.

I am ze way of zen
It’s what I do
I believe every thing

Every thing so that i
Should not

And No
So that I can

28. What’s in the dark.

A byte is eight bits
And a bit is a binary digit:
A zero or a one.
And this Unicode stuff?
Ah… that is a lot bigger… binary processed

29. Chips in the game.

The dazzling disc called
Hid itself in plain sight
Behind a swiftly flowing veil:
Rain soaked shards

30. Dekonstruktions

From: Random Notes….

I am beginning to grasp
At the secular nature
Of consciousness.

Is this what I mean?
Or did the message alter from
The hand
To the brain or… perhaps…
Vice versa.

Did the paper change it?
Or the pen?
Or did i?

31. Regarding Intellectuals – Guilty as Charged.

Oh vanities of intellectuals, and pride
Before a fall
Sovereignty and self-determination help
A girl
Walk tall.

Oh vanities of intellectuals, pride
Before a tumble.
Sovereign self-determinant so
A girl shouldn’t grumble.

32. “All tax is theft”…

A response to a strident call from a Stakhanovite style apparatchik for “poems about the economy” made in the context of confiscatory “take it all back” tax proposals. 29/05/00

Taxes, levies, history, herstory
Computers, smartphones,
Investors, strikes, footballers
And murder: plus the concept
Of delete

The world of today
Is the world of
Delete – consciousness?

Nay – I never heard of that!

Those who live today
Are not the same
As those

People who lived here yesterday
The people of today have deleted
The people of
From their consciousness in
Order to
Cope with today… [Podcast ends here… balance of original
should you choose i.e. it is ex-Jonker.

Yes in order to cope with today…

To demand of the world of today that it should pay for the
Deeds of yesterday
Is an idea that can only
Begin to work should people decide to love
A Demander today.
It is no longer enough to be loved
It has to be now.

On the Dow, the product must have
And unspeakably sharp and acute
Marketing methods to get good attention
That attracts velvet paws
And a favourable mention.

The idea of taxing anyone
As a form of reparation
Is a demand
That must be analysed
In the context of what happened to
Other similar taxes in the growing of the nation:
The general state of the tax inflation
The treatment of corrupt tax thieving officials
Caught, as it were, during recess:
Generally what the
Taxpayer gets after the promises have been
Deducted from the bill;
Instead of “fuck you, stand back,
I haven’t emptied the till”.

Securing invested money: that is
Securing other people’s money, honey
Extends through risk evaluation
To the limits of gradation, mixed
To bland computerized credulity
Impacts upon the premium
We have to pay
For nice clean offshore money:
Instead of dirty honey, hey
Where the Anti-Kollektive Kolektas
Karry Kalashnikovs and K….

All tax is theft. Especially those bereft and
Confiscatory deductions
Like capital gains disruptions
Those are scary to all those mary’s
Who seriously dispose with
“Other people’s” woes, by handling their cash
To demo overwhelming dash:
At the same time, with great care,
Beneath an open stare.

Investors are owners of money.
They are not politicians or something
Else funny
It may be in doubt they are human at all;
Concepts wired up
With a screen for a wall to show memory:
Spewing out models of risk
And uncertainty.
Measuring the loot of the world’s
Aging billions:
Cash that adds up to hundreds of trillions.
What you did last month doesn’t matter a jot
It’s what’s happening now that counts for the lot.

When a butterfly tumbles
And falls in Peru
The red card is flagged from computer to you. The
Risk model says the risk
Factors have altered:
That risk you took last week has now
Gone and faltered
So follow instructions: delete from the programme
That order we called
And that hold put on Put
The rate must go up
Or the cash go on out.

Perceived expectations: perceived quantum
Modified market uncertainties
Down our hopes
Batters our fears
Causes the money to stop
And change gears.

Perennial problems perplex perceived risk.
Confusion of outcomes presents the most risk
To one who man’s mountains of money: to plan and to
Do and to follow things through to
The end:
That should always be happy.

Should this Hollywood twitch
Suffer a glitch… should heaven transform into hell
When success equals misery,
Inconsolable outrage,
Mixed in with
Then confusion will reign
The markets feel pain
And the cash is away before

In other words: in the world of money
Something is done; that is not at all funny:
A result is achieved, expected or not.
There are no relative gains
For corporate aims
But returns, as predicted.
Should results be in doubt,
Then someone with clout
Changes course,
Before loss is addictive.

When bosses complain, cash workers feel pain
And the outcome is bad for the homeowner’s loan and the girl
Who was Jill becomes Jane.

Alt.F1 delete part one: next transaction please.

Episode 59
This entire piece originally was used in “Random Notes”.
The introduction only the was used
in the story of the Jonker Memorandum.

33. Tear down the house.

With kompliments to R.J. Mugabe [aka Bob the
Roz] – One who kept his word.

Fragment from Lemuria.

Between the desert fathers
And the measurement problem
There remains something
About a grave
That never saw father time
Upon a leaf

A vera causa
To the very stuff of Poetry.

34. Regarding a Planetary catastrophe.

Ring a ring of roses
All fall down
One-down two-down
All on to our noses.

35. Open Season

We thought the storms
Came yesterday
But they came again
And things are broken
And everything’s gone – again.

Where have they all
Gone mama?

Where have you all gone?

36 Alldays

Running on a road to Alldays
When what happens is
Not what happens:
Searching for the things we thought
We had;
Finding things we didn’t want
Then finding … do we
Anything at all?

37. Memories of an Apocalypse

I was taking a Thai massage
When news that the
World had
Came through on the

Go North said the
Disembodied voice
Through the static clamour
Of mass

Why North? Why?
North was gone
South was too.

There are graves in
The mist
Just waiting for

38. Baobab musings

I’m neither a joiner
Nor a hand’s upper
Of these
May differ
According to circum-

But nonetheless
We will take
The journey
To its

39. Loadshedding again.

“This life as you live it now and
have lived it you will have
to live again times
without number.”…

F. Nietzsche

40 Investigations into meat and aging

Ageing graveyards [or are they?]
Aging graveyards.
Does it matter?

We never fear those
Whose wrath
Cannot move us

41. Justwhenwethink….

Just when we think it’s
Time to come in from the
The light loses its
Exuberance and
We struggle to
What we want to

42. Collusive coverage.

The spider has had to run for cover.
Its web was
Wasted when those,
Who travelled with un-
Tested hypothesis
Of broad unearned
Merit crashed
Through the
Demanding arbit-
Rary affirm-

So write us some funds
Brother Yakove
Write us some
Konsideration for the time
We had to
Turn to bid upon
Our own

Squaring our participation with your

So write us some funds
Cousin Yakove
So we can forget:
Write now.

43. Nozik meets Starr.

According to the man
Robert Nozik
Individuals have rights
Things no other individual
Or group of individuals can do
To them
Without violating those rights:
Ding dong.

Does this mean? We thought,
That when we penalize
Those who exercise their
Right to rape
And to murder
That we therefore
Unnaturally oppress those persons.

Or do two rights therefore

44. Waar der Schterre loop.

Primeval memory: – Auslaande ballad.

We are the masters of the soil
You are but its slaves.

On reading “Tilling the Soil”: – David Day

When the first settlers came here,
To this region
Those who were here already
Or claimed a hunter’s
With the
Scorned their slavery to the soil
That could
Feed them
Without toil

And so: they found it was taken
From them.

Now that they have it back
It was again
Found that
What they wanted
Was gone and
Could no longer
For them.

They sought freedom and
The cost

45. When you are tired …

When you are
To be
To be lunch.

When you are tired
You are ready to be lunch.
!NiK [‘13]

46. On Market Piranhas

“Money is a way of thought” [Oswald Spengler]

A market fundamentalist would be likely
To say that the only real
Truth in the known
Multiverse is the moving average
On a Stock
Market index.

Others might argue that there are so many
On a moving average
That nothing matters
And that the idea of

In close-up the Index lurches
With majestic
In repose… pools of Piranha
Sweeping with uniform movement
Down: threshing their wake
Rippling their spine
Konstantly Klenzing… rejuvenating
A veritable ebb and flow
Warp and weft.

The purest of the pure would call
The Index itself
That the moving gobbling average
Merely predicts the
Whatever it may be.

47. Fibonacci’s Financial Flaws

All debt, she said
Is a right against
The future.

So I thought of Fibonacci
And his rentals
On the seconds of time
Borrowed from
To feed our present ratio

And knew by all that moved
That the future must
To pay Rent:

48. The legend of Korinth Starr

They – you know who ‘they’ are?

‘They’ think they live in a tent
Where no one pays rent
For the space that they take
From the place they call Sent
Now and again.

Now, again the future is stretched
So it reaches the past
A paradox sweep
That leaves us aghast
A quantum leap
And mortgaged deep our vast
Existence now and now again
And again now to a thirty third
Time over again.

So the future now
Must pay rent now
To save us then
To save us when
To save us again
When we save

49. Untitled

A loser would not wait to be mated
Knowing the end to be inevitable
The machine would resign.

50. Reasoning Revelations [201]

Praxeological thoughts following perusal of a rationalist critique

A secretly

Reason unlocks the door to transformation
Reason staggers; confounded by transformation.

They felt the great fear then
Those that waited
Of the
Conclusions: delivered
Without simplicity of…
Fractions of…

That actions
Be lib
From re-actions…
And a call
That it should not be

51. Escaping

Those little boxes were not
So little
Each one fitted
A person
And those that didn’t
Want one
Could wear sackcloth
Or even ashen finery

52. What wasn’t imagined?

It was known that time curls
Around things and shows
Us what we already know
As something that we didn’t.

When we foresee that which
We didn’t dare to
Perceive then
We know that what
We see
Was not imagined.

53. On finding crumpled up notes

I can only say
That memory

The pencil with
I write

And when i
This note
Into a pocket
In a few months
It will have be-
Like my recollection of writing it

Thus therefore to such
On the submersion [?] of money
And other curious,
Felicitations: like
Does Dawkins
Meet Dworkin’s
Prompting rape* [ukudlwengula… IsiZulu]]
Gryp.** [To ‘grab’ lasciviously: Afrikaans]

Memes being ancient
From then to
Jumbled and carelessly
Straightened not enforced
Regime where
Write meets

Where rite and
Wrong go
Badly shod
U Pong:

54. Resting on a cliff

Eastern folk saying/proverb Chi-Na

Of the many dozen ways to
Get out of
The best
for Chi-Na

55. A limitation of mind

Everything is ‘gonna’ be all right
All right?
As long as you keep
Holding tight
To your vision
Of you
When you
Thought you

Or even in sight

And you know then
That the impossible
A limitation

56. Endings

When you are no
Longer here
And no longer
Around: then peace

Thus endeth the Jonker poems

Poetry from the Jonker Memorandum

Jonker Memorandum Poetry