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.

Our Own Mugabe Moment aka “Blame Someone Else Day”

State of the Nation” [SONA.] Report.
Joint sitting: both Houses. Thursday Feb 12, 2015.

Friday the 13th came early
Same ole…
Same ole… report
On relative stability
Of a wobbly backbone
Carefully deflected: risen on
A “POINT of Privilege” NOT
A ‘point of order’.


No No No’
Madame speaker.


Are we now a POLICE State? someone sks
Later when a question of
Privilege, seemingly unanticipated brings
Crashing down.


Red goes
Mourning goes
‘Terra’ goes
Bantu goes! “It’s a slippery slope” he
Voices woes
The applause for SONA grows
Routine; reflexive: without theme


Some doze; others…
Knows a bad time comes


Who will pay back
The money;
Point of Privilege NOT
Point of order
Clauses 14C & L [?] of some random
Numbered annexure to a rulebook appendix points
To a motion of Privilege
Last applied – perhaps
To Lord Charles Somerset.


Perhaps or
Oliver Kromwell – he of
Drogheda…. *


“Poppycock!!” growls Gatsha
To a “Point of Privilege”.


A question of privilege
And choosing to hear
What will be heard: Madame
Speaker chose the point
Of order
To be outweighed by disorder:
To be curtailed
Lest it determine a fixed response: “When
Will the money be repaid?” Madame


This is not a new point Madame
You may not raise this Point
Of order carefully ignoring to note
Caring NO Thing


“Will it be repaid Madame
Chair by
EFT, by CASH or [perhaps] by
E Wallet?


Neatly deflected then, further
Questions overridden
Privilege overwhelmed by renta thugs
And bullies wielding guns and
Masking fists: they were evicted with
NO point of privilege to be ordered
To interrupt a deflection
Deflected in this
Our fine
Mugabe Moment.


!NiK[Feb.12: 2015]
Nicholas Jakari


“After the massacre, [at Drogheda] Oliver Cromwell declared to the English Parliament, “I am persuaded that this is a righteous judgment of God upon these barbarous wretches…”
Ref:…/massacre-of-drogheda-under-oliver-cromwell- 11630121.html?

*The first Friday 13th each year is traditionally “Blame somebody else day” In 2015 it came early in Mzansi [as South Afrika is commonly called by its inhabitants].

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.


Random Notes: a promo

is an Anglo Afrikan poet. He was born in the United Kingdom of Anglo Welsh parentage in 1946, and migrated to South Africa with his parents in 1947. There he grew up in a gold mining town as a member of a despised, newly side-lined, Anglo-Celtic minority community, in a society controlled by fanatical, god-subsumed zealots who sought out every opportunity possible to beat the hell out of everyone who wasn’t in their club.


To give his life some kind of balance .NiK began giving poetry readings from Gilgamesh when he was four, continuing from then on. He grew up to the sound of TS Eliot, Dylan Thomas, James Joyce, Euripides, Shakespeare and almost every other poet of significance. By seven he was roaring out both Gilgamesh and Beowulf and at the age of fifty-four, in 2000, he performed the work of Friederich Nietzsche for that poet’s centenary, and as his own fiftieth anniversary performance as a performing and secular poet. He started to write down his own poetry in 1973.


He read Political Science and Economics at the University of the Witwatersrand during the turbulent end of the sixties and later trained as an economics schoolteacher: then ‘dropped out’: ‘Sixties’ style. He travelled in Europe, at first alone, then later with his wife, Diane, with whom he has also worked in various parts of Afrika, in a variety of occupations. Amongst these they spent some years working in the former Rhodesia where he was part owner of the Sundown Theatre Company, and where two of his three children were born. He returned to South Africa in the early eighties to generate family sustaining revenue via a variety of opportunities in the field of direct marketing, writing Marketing ‘stuff’, selling, debt collecting, more writing and, doing whatever else went with urban survival in an unwelcoming country being assiduously raped by International sanctions.


In the ‘Year of the Revolution’ in 1994, on a fateful 11th of September .NiK was ‘reborn’ in Afrika, when he survived an assault by armed murderers, killing at least one of his attackers, and wounding two others in a wild and frenzied close quarter unprovoked gunfight. He learned later that he was the 37th person to be shot by the same group over the preceding six weeks.
The injuries he sustained though, changed his life; returned him to the classroom, as a substitute teacher in a variety of State high schools, presenting various subjects; mostly 9th Grade economics and senior business and experimenting with methods of accelerating awareness and insight amongst young humans.


Eventually, in about 1998, he was declared permanently redundant in the State sector, as part of a process that favours the appointment, to State teaching posts, of citizens who were, in pre-revolution days, disadvantaged by discriminatory hiring policies. He now teaches part time in the private sector; and writes full time, when he is not busy doing something else entirely: living in the only time we know… now.


Random Notes is literally that: a kollektion of random pieces written over decades simply because they ‘happened’ when they did and were kollekted.




‘Truth knocks upon the door
and you say
go away I am looking for
the truth.

zen koan
I was an
old fragile man
it seemed to them then.
They were young
fragile men when
the business began
and I felt a gathering
of angels
swirling through the dust
of our berserk
to fetch us
to our destiny,
amongst the anthills
of urban renewal?
There were we
those three, who
their lead
at me; striving
through such
to burn
their way to
the centre
of my station;
convinced I
should fall
to their
They came;
unheralded they left,
the way stoned men
for mitigation.
The circle closed
the loop was done:
in blood:
to links of lead.
In the dark soul of that instant,
the moment of
at the place
of convergence,
I slipped into
I slew one of them
And he was not even my enemy,
was never
the one in the swirling mass
of our
who have howled for
the bullets
of our darkest desires:
I have made life
and I
have taken it
And yet do
I know
I am not
some deity
awaiting frantic offerings
upon the essence
of our darker rhetoric.
It is simply this:
I have killed
a man
and now
know the
passage of life;
breathed first
upon my arm,
and last as well.


Performance Poetry
Sitting in the park
one blustery day
I noticed the distant
of a man
from the roof
of a building.

At first I thought it
was a
by the wind,
then heard his
voice crying out;
a primal song of joy:
to seek eternity.


Election Manifesto.

It is a one step two step
slanging match again
I run you down
You do the same
One step, two step,
Throw a bad word
Never think of telling
Where the whole thing will go.
Never think, or never dare
mention how to do it.


No it’s
One step, two step,
Ignore the pointed question
Hover on the edges, until
They’ve all forgotten
Then promise something
No one thought to mention.
One step, two step,
Shifting from
The centre…………….


Publ…Sting Mag, Former Rhodesia 1980. (Now Zimbabwe)
Banned by the British Interim Administration…1980:
A faceless flunky fellow told me it was “bad form”.
Refers to the election that brought Robert ( Bob the Roz)
Mugabe to power in Zimbabwe.
Inspired by Lewis Carroll’s “ Lobster Quadrille.”


Some lines spoken by a long distance
shooter about:
the Man who never shot Mugabe

Doping the wind
Depends on the
Like Pool you know
Or Billiards even.
You know when you play
Pool you have to think at once
Of angles;
Subjectively nominating
Places on the cushions:
Angles to strike
A glancing blow to fetch up at a given point
Over there at the right edge of some other target
Which heads off to the pocket.


Feel the wind.
Feel the wind inside your head.
Stand in the weather:
Stand in the weather.
Rippling through your last remaining years;
Swirling around the backstretch of your ears,
Rippling tangentially, across the back stretch of your ears.


Lining up the barrel
On a heap of reckless sandbags.
Lining up your energy,
Between your finger and the wind.




To Wilfred Owen,
On the death of
Fourteen civilians,

We saw your pity of war
Wilfred Owen
distilled in the mine
blasted corpse.

Where laughter had been
there was now only death;
the horror of love
on a quiet afternoon
torn apart for
no reason at all.
No dignity here;
no graceful repose:
an arm
or a leg
are all that return
a vague
personal form,
stamped by the arbitrary bomb.
This charred human meat;
remnants of life,
converted to something obscene.
A shadow of hate
links us with you,
and that implacable darkness,
born in the vile


Freedom, enriched
with a harvest of blood;
and maniac
slanderous metal,
tears the smile from the eyes
of a child who survives:
and grows
in a gurgle of tears….

Publ. Maze…1978.



A vision at Easter
While rehearsing Marc Anthony


Across the veld
the horsemen rode,
they rode behind the light.
they rode from far
to rendezvous,
and end a ceaseless fight.

Never trust the horsemen
howled the man
with the bones,
never trust their solemn
hymns of praise.


The horsemen come from far
he called
and lust to take the land.
Never trust the words
they call,
or scribble
with the hand.

All hours long
the vultures hovered;
swooping as the sunlight softened,
as the daylight died.


Never meet the savage
warned the man
with the book,
Never trust the savage
warned the one
with the word.


But the feasting group
of horsemen sat bemused
beyond the fire;
they never heard the
heeded not
the warning:
never saw the shadow
in the flames…


And as they sat
and gorged themselves
the old temptations flew
the assegais were sharpened
and the battlelines formed true.


Then when the pounding
reached the top and
the whirling dancers flared:
lightning flashed
across the gap
the waiting vultures reared.


Never trust the savage
warned the one with the book
Never trust the horsemen
warned the ones with the bones,
never trust their solemn hymns
of praise.


Then the Man screamed out instructions
‘Bulala abathakathi!’
And then they looked,
and heard the warning:
called upon the word…

All hours long
the vultures hovered;
swooping as the sunlight softened,
settling as the daylight died….



· Bulala abathakathi…kill the wizards. (IsiZulu)
· Gingingdlovu. HQ of Dingaan, Zulu king who succeeded Shaka. Vision: refers to the murder of a Settler party in 1838, an event that has bedevilled race relations in South Afrika/Msanzi right into the present day. Editor.


WHat you have read so far are the first group of poems at the beginning of the Kollektion: the rest of the 50 odd pieces will appear in the digital kollektion soon [ish]… Hope you found them accessible… editor.

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”.

Poetry from the Jonker Memorandum

Jonker Memorandum Poetry

Episode 84 JM Finale

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


Episode 81 JM

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What happened!

Episode 80 JM

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Marak is a prisoner in a notorious place of detention. Something unthinkable happens.

Episode 78 JM

Episode 78 JM 2

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In which Inspekta Suth  goes fishing for clues and Marak discovers he is lost.