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
fired
a
rifle
and the shot was so LOUD I woke up,
and my ears
rangggggg
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
reality.

Was it perhaps the intruder’s who came visiting at Christmas that
Triggered
it off? Perhaps the sound
of a gun being cocked woke me from a nightmare
then.
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
elusive?

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
period
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
compressed
it took nearly
four decades to unlock it.

*****************8

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
shut!”
He shouted, unaccountably singling
me
out,
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
unbarred
then
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
occasion
I had been travelling with two acquaintances: Duke
and Lex
in Duke’s car on a Saturday afternoon. We were
forced
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
pay
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”
discrimination
were largely unknown to me. I was in most ways a
product
of the intention. I never really ‘knew’
how “The system” worked
anyway
or had worked back then before the ‘new’
revised post ’48 system
came;
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
didn’t
“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
for
these
guys
seemed to be always in my face.

I couldn’t discuss it with anyone, ‘cos they
said
if I did
something bad would happen to my folks; and they
knew
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
Medi’
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
out
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
Dionysian
route?

In my adopted country
at the time when I was growing up
there were three classes of
Citizen, respectively first class, second class and
third
class
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
controlled
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
consisted
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,
ironically,
as a result, the Dispossessed Klass came to completely obsess
and
[ultimately]
overwhelm the new ruling klass, [ those known as the “Maboere”] who
feared all along that these
entities,
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
or
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
meaning
of freedom: something
we were not told] We [ the ‘Dissie’s” latest oppressors] on the
other hand
had discerned a latent
humanity
[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
consistently
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
they
had
none.
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
plastic
bubble of
Grande illusion, which existed within a structured
hierarchy
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’
they
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
“Dissielovers!”
secretly lusting to enjoy the
VERBOTEN
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
n
bop, n
things that were alive
like warm wet places, and that first
tentative
open-mouthed
exchange before the tongue arrived and gave
erotic
edge to sudden hardness.

Rock n Roll came, via a crystal set, or short wave
In the days
Before frequency modulation
Made our
Control
easier
maybe,
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
short
years
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
Koloniste
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.

Later,
on the night of the elegant,
but unattended, final
school farewell
dance
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
picture
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
violent
denunciation.

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,
almost,
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-
hour
given to the nation once a week
for Johnny Walker’s hit
parade,
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
thump
thrash. Beat,
thump,
thrash.
Beat,
thump,
thrash
these were the
measures
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,
then…
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
then,
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,
landed
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
streaked
for
the
gap,
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,
bulkier,
uniformed
figure
of
authority.

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
recollection
of those ritual slaughter sessions
where we fifteen kids would take on their always bigger and
bearded
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
driveway.

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
proud
owner
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
hard,
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
indignant
guttural
voice
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
down
into
the
mud
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
truth
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
anyway…
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
later
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.

.NiK[04]

Poetry of the Jonker Memorandum

Jonker Memorandum PoetryDirect Poetry from the Jonker Memorandum.

Comment.

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
Down
A long steel slide
Suspended in deepest space.


The frail and all those of indecisive
Disposition
Were driven to a new edge; the ledge
At the end of the universe
Fell off
And were encountered
No more…
!NiK[‘94]


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
Couldn’t
Understand the speech either
And although I knew none of those
Places
I felt empowered: knowing none of us knew:
And that our president’s secret
Was safe….
!NiK[‘98]


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
Invigorated.
Later when the water is boiling
The turtle is unaware that it has died: for
It had stopped
Living
Earlier.
!NiK[‘98]


4. Notes off a wall inside a police station.


Bear in mind
The destruKtive konsequences
Of unrestrained self-interest
On a simple of
Unsophisicates
No!
No?


No – a simple of sophisticates,
Surely?
And
As they say:


“A bullet in the spine
Will
Change your life”.
!NiK[05]


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.
!NiK[‘78]


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
Nietzsche


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.
!NiK[00]


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
Perhaps
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.
!NiK[07]


9. Systematizing parody

Do we systematize
Our everyday parodies
About the changing
Of time
To suit a vengeful purpose
That we allocated to
Our
Alphaman… to our
Alphapersons
!NiK[02]



10. A


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


The walkies are behind
Us
And I hope that
We don’t die.
!NiK[03]


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.
!NiK[JM]


12 The rain arrived


The rain arrived first
Before the lights came on.


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


The multiverse punishes us
Then
For intemperate acts
And also presents us
With
The opportunity
To
Experience
Disappointment.


Driven only by the
Certainty
That we rule
And to continue
Is to rule
On.
!NiK[JM]


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
Remember
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
Be
Placed.
!NiK[JM]


14. From the Testimonies


Whatever you do
To the web of life
Shall be returned to you
Twicefold.
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
You.


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


The web of life is, it
Seems,
To be
Our
Tangled levy.
!NiK[JM]


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
Rape away?
Rape:
Away.
!NiK[‘12]

Ysberg = iceberg. Afr:

16 Destiny.


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


17 From the 3rd Book of Shadrack


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


While we dance amongst
The fantasies
Of our abstract
Exigencies*


Dissecting parts.
Dissecting portions.

!NiK[‘12]



*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.
Never
Believing that anyone
Could believe.


So ‘Inkambabeyibuza’:
“By this scar then,
You
Shall
Remember me
And this”.
!NiK[‘08]

Inkambabeyibuza… IsiZulu. Means what it says.



19. Remembering


When we did not
Remember
To remember
What we thought
We should
Remember
We found ourselves
Unable to grasp
At straws
Or see the broken
Doors:
We found we had
Forgotten why
We chose to
Do
The things we
Chose
To
do.
!NiK[JM]


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
Not
A Vision
Dronkverdriet*
To which we aspire it is not the knowledge that we
Have represented to ourselves
In a form
Awaitingrearrangement.
History/Herstory/Theirstory/Ourstory:
It’sallintheblankspaces.
Is there existence if no one records it?
Are we as ephemeral as the rock?
Do we matter?
Why?
!NiK[Circa ‘06]


*Dronkverdriet: Afrikaans. Maudlin drunk.


21. Indicators

The bang on the front of
The head
The warning tremble of
Thought
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
Reminded.


You were told!
We warned you when you
Went this way before!
Retention rulz….
!NiK[‘12]


22. With regard to Mr. Thomas



Tremor shakes off me
With every change of way
While you react with
Panic?
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
Though
And do
Break you down…
To
Pray.


Prey?
!NiK[‘12]


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
Level
Likefishthatdailyswarm
To a feeding place:
In search of nourishment.


Does
That figment of the
Imagination
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
Certain.
!NiK[04]

24. Ellis says…


“On running the Mile
there comes a point
at which the
pacemustpickup
in order that one may sprint
toward
the
finish
line
and reach it,
notwithstanding stumbles.
!NiK[JM]


25. Oram Mangosti


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


Inkambabeyibuza… by
This scar
Then
You shall
Remember
Me.
!NiK[JM]


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
Knew


And a cycle preceded a
Cycle
Or in shortening
Became
Interspersed:
So we say
Go
Now
!NiK[JM]


27. Zen zat was ze way.

I am ze way of zen
It’s what I do
I believe every thing
And
No
Thing.


Every thing so that i
Should not
Inadvertently
Miss
The
Truth.


And No
Thing
So that I can
Understand
Certainty.
!NiK[‘08]



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
Into
Hothexadecimals.
!NiK[‘00]


29. Chips in the game.


The dazzling disc called
Moon
Hid itself in plain sight
Behind a swiftly flowing veil:
Rain soaked shards
Of
Nimbus.
!NiK[JM’01]

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
Up
To the brain or… perhaps…
Vice versa.


Did the paper change it?
Or the pen?
Or did i?
And
Why?
!NiK[JM’00]


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.
!NiK[JM’00]

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
Consciousness…


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
Yesterday
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
Then
It has to be now.

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

The idea of taxing anyone
Especially
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
Process.
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
Risk
Modified market uncertainties
Frisk
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
Anger
As
Well.
Then confusion will reign
The markets feel pain
And the cash is away before
Losseswillclaimallthegain.


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.


!NiK[‘00]
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
Felled
Upon a leaf


A vera causa
To the very stuff of Poetry.
!NiK[JM’00]


34. Regarding a Planetary catastrophe.


Ring a ring of roses
All fall down
One-down two-down
All on to our noses.
!NiK[JM’99]


35. Open Season



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


Where have they all
Gone mama?


Where have you all gone?
!NiK[JM’12]


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
Really
Know
Anything at all?
!NiK[‘10]


37. Memories of an Apocalypse


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


Go North said the
Disembodied voice
Through the static clamour
Of mass
Homicidal
Panic.


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


There are graves in
The mist
Here
Just waiting for
You.
!NiK[‘12]


38. Baobab musings

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


But nonetheless
We will take
The journey
To its
End.
!NiK[‘07]

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
graveyards



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


We never fear those
Whose wrath
Cannot move us
To
Terror
!NiK[JM’06]


41. Justwhenwethink….



Just when we think it’s
Time to come in from the
Dark
The light loses its
Exuberance and
We struggle to
Remember
What we want to
Remember
!NiK[JM’06]


42. Collusive coverage.


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


So write us some funds
Brother Yakove
Write us some
Kind
Konsideration for the time
We had to
Wait
For
Our
Turn to bid upon
Our own
Preferential
Apportionment.


Squaring our participation with your
Grotesque
Admission.


So write us some funds
Cousin Yakove
So we can forget:
Write now.
!NiK[’13]


43. Nozik meets Starr.



According to the man
Called
Robert Nozik
Individuals have rights
And
There
Are
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
Permit
A
Wrong?
!NiK[JM]


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
Affinity
With the
Place
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
Subsist
For them.


They sought freedom and
Found
The cost
Of
Living.
!NiK[‘13]

45. When you are tired …


When you are
Ready
To be
Lunch
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
Variations
On a moving average
That nothing matters
And that the idea of
Truth
Is
An
Illusion.


In close-up the Index lurches
With majestic
Hard-driven
Velocity
In repose… pools of Piranha
Sweeping with uniform movement
Breaking
Up
Breaking
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
Truth:
That the moving gobbling average
Merely predicts the
Truth
Whatever it may be.
!NiK[‘02]


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
Somewhen
Where
To feed our present ratio
Cow.


And knew by all that moved
That the future must
Start
To pay Rent:
Now.
!NiK[13]


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
Amen.
!NiK[‘13]

49. Untitled


A loser would not wait to be mated
Knowing the end to be inevitable
The machine would resign.
!NiK[“01}


50. Reasoning Revelations [201]


Praxeological thoughts following perusal of a rationalist critique

Praxeological
Thoughts
Following
Perusal
Of
A secretly
Clandestine
Ran
t


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


They felt the great fear then
Those that waited
In
Judgement
Of the
Poet’s
Conclusions: delivered
Without simplicity of…
Fractions of…
Delusions…


That actions
May
Be lib
Er
Ated
From re-actions…
And a call
For
Restitution
That it should not be
Destitution
!NiK[‘13]


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
Just
Before
Sunrise
Instead.
!NiK[‘12]


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.
!NiK[JM’01]


53. On finding crumpled up notes



I can only say
That memory
Is
Selective


The pencil with
Which
I write
This
Will
Fade
Soon


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


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

Memes being ancient
Themes
From then to
Now
Jumbled and carelessly
Discarded
Straightened not enforced
With
Rigid
Regime where
Write meets
Wong

Where rite and
Wrong go
Badly shod
Go
Ding
Dong
U Pong:
Odd!
!NiK[‘09]


54. Resting on a cliff


Eastern folk saying/proverb Chi-Na



Of the many dozen ways to
Get out of
Trouble
The best
Is
To
Go
!NiK[‘JM]
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
Might
No
Longer
Be

Real
Or even in sight


And you know then
That the impossible
Was
Only
A limitation
Of
Mind.
!NiK[‘13]



56. Endings


When you are no
Longer here
And no longer
Around: then peace
Is
Konstant.
!NiK[‘’98]


Thus endeth the Jonker poems

Poetry from the Jonker Memorandum

Jonker Memorandum Poetry

Episode 84 JM Finale

© applies to all material on this site.

In this final episode we discover what it was that caused this story to be a Mythical tale.

 

Episode 55 JM

Episode 55 JM

Episode 55: Meanwhile back at the Institute investigators are probing both: an unusual murder of an unidentified person and the strange disappearance of Machondo… Zen zat is ze way.

© Applies to all material on this site.

 
Episode 55 [chapter 26] opens with the following piece of poetry…
Chapter 26 Zen… Zat was ze Way

i am ze way of Zen

It’s what i do.

I believe everything
And nothing.
Everything so that i
Should not
Inadvertently
Miss the truth.
And nothing
So that i can
Understand
Certainty.

!NiK[08]

For Dennis.

May he rest in blissful memory.
 

Episode 53 JM

Episode 53 JM

Who is Professor Oram Namgosti? And what is his story?

© Applies to all material on this site.

 

Episode 47 JM

Episode 47 JM

Machondo has been found dead and it seems he was murdered. By who? Why? A pattern of violent event seems to have been taking place involving [perhaps] people who known to have, or believed to have disappeared abruptly and without trace.

Luhane investigates the events surrounding the disappearances and it may be that a return to the Virtuality Game is demanded.

© Applies to all material on this site.

 

Episode 43 JM

Episode 43 JM

Marak Kondrago and his fugitive associates flee towards Bamangwato and seem to be heading for an ambush

© Applies to all material on this site.

 

Episode 1 JM

IN this opening you the listener are introduced to the general theme of the Jonker Memorandum. you will hear a short snipped from a later episode to assure you that the story goes somewhere and you will hear a brief synopsis of the plot

 

© applies to all material on this site.