koeksuster

Ek het wraggies gedink gister is die einde van die wereld, so freaken warm was dt hier.Die termometer in myse flat het gese dis 'n magtige 43 gewees.

So ek hoop arme Lelie het dit oorleef en het nie te vreeslik verwelk

Ek weet nou nie meer wat om te glo nie.Die moevie 2012 is dan al amper klaar gemaak so dan kan die einde nie 2011 wees nie, en ek dink nie dit beteken die einde van die aarde nie, miskien net 'n verandering van rigting, 'n groot gemors, hoe"r petrol, krag, siggarette, drank, melk, graan, pryse. En die wurg greep van Mamon al stywer om die middel, So geniet die oorvloed wat ons nou het en nie soos Duvie wat pyn en steun en kreun al beskryf hy dit ook hoe goed, dinge kan nog erger word. Ek het nou lekker koffie gedrink met bone uit Suid Amerika melk uit 'n koei wat ek nie weet van waar nie en suiker van seker Natal en water uit ons eie boorgat,lekker geslaap op 'n poste pielie. Neem die basiese dinge weg en ek gaan sit soos daai klomp in New Orleans heetemal hopeloos. Dis lekker somer en dis lekker warm en ek kan dit geniet en is dankbaar daaroor

...of eers wil glo nie!!! wat lees ek in sondag se rapport!? die einde v d wereld op 21 mei 2011!!!
johannes, ag johannes!! en ons het jou nooit nie geglo nie...

Die lewe is vol resepte gedoseer met wynrooi-laggies en engele van die bodem wat versuip in my alkohol-droom. Dames wat afwagting vermy en doodswere uitruil vir penne en papier, ons almal het ’n siekte onder lede. Kom wat wil, ek moet die dood vertroetel. Met so ’n klien knertsie in my linkersy en ’n bietjie moed, loop ek elke dag dag verby my gedaante-verwisseling.
Saans voor ek my oë sluit vir bietjie droom, bekruip die dom bliksem my en vervang my siel met ’n vars bom, gereed om te ontplof. Gereed vir ontplof is nog nie eens koud nie en ek skuif al klaar vier dae die toekoms in. Ek skuif berge sonder geloof, maar net as die draak sy rookwalms my longe beset. Dit brand hier diep binne my, soos ’n donderwolk wat met die wind paar is dit onmoontlik om te stop. Ek wil skree. Soms dwaal ek af in gange van verlange en vind myself lieg voor ’n jurie oor wat ek is, is dit dalk net die waarheid wat sy seskop-hoof uitsteek en my wil byt?

My rowe klou aan my hemp vas en dit is tyd dat ek my vlerke weer sprei en die vlug aandurf. My motvlerke is styf en vol stof, maar ek sal maar die stuitigheid eenkant toe stoot en vlieg, weg van nou in gister in.
Asseblief, vokkof voor ek ontplof. My naels krap al hoeka te lank aan die kisdeur. As die jirre maar net geweet het my kind, sou hy jou oë nie so helder geskape het nie, hoekom die skape en die sarkastiese ge-? Hoekom die soete reën wat val, is dit om ons te reinig? Ek het dan gesplete hoewe en die lewe smul aan my so asof ek iets skuld, ’n vokken verduideliking vir wat ek is? Hoeveel vrae is geregtig my kroon?

Nog steeds hamer die skap-wees in my kop, ek is g’n wagter se dier wat rondgeskop kan word en met masjiene vervel nie. Ek is nie vlakgat moedervokker wat gedienstig soos die groot trek moet sukkel deur stof om die lewe te spyker nie, ek is eerder dan daar in my hoekie en snuif aan verkoolde brandnetel en bepaal my by my eie sake. Toe doos, sê iets wat kan seer maak, ek gee jou ’n vinger vir die hoop en sonder om skeerbuik te proe sout ek jou vleis vir die ewige brand.
My lewe is ’n versameling kapstokke, daaraan hang ek my ou siele en ek vervang hul met nuwes. My kapstokke strek ver oor ’n dorre landskap sonder enige wil vir skadu of water. So ver as wat die oog kan sien, is die lig ’n dowwe, rooi duiwel wat die stank draaglik maak vir diegene wat ongenooid kom wandel. Bewaar jou siel my vriend, want as die dwaling lei tot nuuskierigheid vyl ek my torvlerk-naels en val jou aan soos die dief in die nag en ontneem jou van jou blom, steel jou siel en verorber jou menswees. Ek laat jou kaal staan en sanik met die nat, rollende vrae wat grond toe drup en vraagtekens vorm in die droeë sand onder jou voete.
Jy sal wil terugkyk en wonder waar jy die fout begaan het. Jy sal wil terugrol in stadige aksie om te kan verstaan waar jy die verkeerde pad gekies het, maar vinnig sal jy agterkom dat jou oë vasgenael is in jou handpalms. Om te keer, sien jy jou einde nader.
KykNet se sletnet se ‘wannabe-grotesque’ tot vervelens toe, ek verkrag my gedagtes en weer spoel ’n nare gevoel deur my lewer en los my met ’n kak smaak van poeier-poppies en ou sokkies in my keel, of dit is wat almal sê!

Die wurm is weer verdeel en maak nou twee soos die geboorte van Christus wat split in drie. Die heilige se skape van Ge, en die troon met ’n gesplete toon. Wolhaarstories van kindwees met sjokolade-slange en aarbei-gegeurde vlermuise wat nekke byt en koek in die ou tannie se hare.
Vok wie weet waar die ou dae heen vertrek het. Nou, met my swart klimaatgordel trek ek myself vas teen die muur tot op die derde gat totdat die bloedsomloop my keel toedruk. Ek weet as ek nou wegruk is my laaste asem die moer in. Ek weet statigigheid is aan die orde van die hoer en ek weet dat ek my einde kies, die dwelms maak my moeg. Die hale van jou sweep sny in my rug en ek proe die heerlike pyn wat my mond versmoor in bloed.

Ek is reg agter elke saadjie wat jy plant. Dit is my demokrasie, my hond wat die kak van my skoene sal aflek. Dit is my droom.

Aaaaaaaaa hiers my paspoort.

The Bantu Education Act (No. 47) of 1953 widened the gaps in educational opportunities for different racial groups. Two of the architects of Bantu education, Dr. W.M. Eiselen and Dr. Hendrik F. Verwoerd, had studied in Germany and had adopted many elements of National Socialist (Nazi) philosophy. The concept of racial "purity," in particular, provided a rationalization for keeping black education inferior. Verwoerd, then minister of native affairs, said black Africans "should be educated for their opportunities in life," and that there was no place for them "above the level of certain forms of labour."

Official attitudes toward African education were paternalistic, based on trusteeship and segregation. Black education was not supposed to drain government resources away from white education. Per-capita government spending on black education slipped to one-tenth of spending on whites in the 1970s. Black schools had inferior facilities, teachers, and textbooks.

http://www.country-data.com/cgi-bin/query/r-12129.html

Even Anne Paton has left South Africa *
"In times of universal deceit, telling the truth will be a revolutionary act."
George Orwell, 1984 Why I'm fleeing South Africa
by Anne Paton (widow of Alan Paton)

London Sunday Times

I am leaving South Africa. I have lived here for 35 years, and I shall
leave with anguish. My home and my friends are here, but I am terrified.
I know I shall be in trouble for saying so, because I am the widow of
Alan Paton.
Fifty years ago he wrote Cry, The Beloved Country. He was an unknown
schoolmaster and it was his first book, but it became a bestseller
overnight. It was eventually translated into more than 20 languages and
became a set book in schools all over the world. It has sold more than
15 million copies and still sells 100,000 copies a year.
As a result of the startling success of this book, my husband became
famous for his impassioned speeches and writings, which brought to the
notice of the world the suffering of the black man under apartheid.
He campaigned for Nelson Mandela's release from prison and he worked all
his life for black majority rule. He was incredibly hopeful about the
new South Africa that would follow the end of apartheid, but he died in
1988, aged 85.
I was so sorry he did not witness the euphoria and love at the time of
the election in 1994. But I am glad he is not alive now. He would have
been so distressed to see what has happened to his beloved country.

I love this country with a passion, but I cannot live here any more. I
can no longer live slung about with panic buttons and gear locks. I am
tired of driving with my car windows closed and the doors locked, tired
of being afraid of stopping at red lights. I am tired of being
constantly on the alert, having that sudden frisson of fear at the sight
of a shadow by the gate, of a group of youths approaching - although
nine times out of 10 they are innocent of harmful intent. Such is the
suspicion that dogs us all.

Among my friends and the friends of my friends, I know of nine people
who have been murdered in the past four years.
An old friend, an elderly lady, was raped and murdered by someone who
broke into her home for no reason at all; another was shot at a garage.
We have a saying, "Don't fire the gardener", because of the belief that
it is so often an inside job - the gardener who comes back and does you in.
All this may sound like paranoia, but it is not without reason. I have
been hijacked, mugged and terrorised. A few years ago my car was taken
from me at gunpoint. I was forced into the passenger seat. I sat there
frozen. But just as one man jumped into the back and the other fumbled
with the starter I opened the door and ran away. To this day I do not
know how I did this. But I got away, still clutching my handbag.

On May I this year I was mugged in my home at three in the afternoon. I
used to live in a community of big houses with big grounds in the
countryside. It's still beautiful and green, but the big houses have
been knocked down and people have moved into fenced complexes like the
one in which I now live. Mine is in the suburbs of Durban, but they're
springing up everywhere.
That afternoon I came home and omitted to close the security door. I
went upstairs to lie down. After a while I thought I'd heard a noise,
perhaps a bird or something. Without a qualm I got up and went to the
landing; outside was a man. I screamed and two other men appeared. I was
seized by the throat and almost throttled; I could feel myself losing
consciousness.
My mouth was bound with Sellotape and I was threatened with my own knife
(Girl Guide issue from long ago) and told: "If you make a sound, you
die." My hands were tied tightly behind my back and I was thrown into
the guest room and the door was shut. They took all the electronic
equipment they could find, except the computer. They also, of course,
took the car.
A few weeks later my new car was locked up in my fenced carport when I
was woken by its alarm in the early hours of the morning. The thieves
had removed the radio, having cut through the padlocks in order to
bypass the electric control on the gates.

The last straw came a few weeks ago, shortly before my 71st birthday.. I
returned home in the middle of the afternoon and walked into my sitting
room. Outside the window two men were breaking in. I retreated to the
hall and pressed the panic alarm.
This time I had shut the front door on entering. By now I had become
more cautious. Yet one of the men ran around the house, jumped over the
fence and tried to batter down the front door. Meanwhile, his accomplice
was breaking my sitting- room window with a hammer.
This took place while the sirens were shrieking, which was the
frightening part. They kept coming, in broad daylight, while the alarm
was going. They knew that there had to be a time lag of a few minutes
before help arrived - enough time to dash off with the television and
video recorder. In fact, the front-door assailant was caught and taken
off to the cells.

Recently I telephoned to ask the magistrate when I would be called as a
witness. She told me she had let him off for lack of evidence. She said
that banging on my door was not an offence, and how could I prove that
his intent was hostile?
I have been careless in the past - razor wire and electric gates give
one a feeling of security. Or at least, they did. But I am careless no
longer. No fence - be it electric or not - no wall, no razor wire is
really a deterrent to the determined intruder. Now my alarm is on all
the time and my panic button hung round my neck. While some people say I
have been unlucky, others say: "You are lucky not to have been raped or
murdered." What kind of a society is this where one is considered
"lucky" not to have been raped or murdered - yet?

A character in Cry, The Beloved Country says: "I have one great fear in
my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving they will find we
are turned to hating." And so it has come to pass. There is now more
racial tension in this country than I have ever known.
But it is not just about black-on-white crime. It is about general
lawlessness. Black people suffer more than the whites. They do not have
access to private security firms, and there are no police stations near
them in the townships and rural areas. They are the victims of most of
the hijackings, rapes and murders. They cannot run away like the whites,
who are streaming out of this country in their thousands.

President Mandela has referred to us who leave as "cowards" and says the
country can do without us. So be it. But it takes a great deal of
courage to uproot and start again. We are leaving because crime is
rampaging through the land. The evils that beset this country now are
blamed on the legacy of apartheid. One of the worst legacies of that
time is that of the Bantu Education Act, which deliberately gave black
people an inferior education.

The situation is exacerbated by the fact that criminals know that their
chances of being caught are negligible; and if they are caught they will
be free almost at once. So what is the answer? The government needs to
get its priorities right. We need a powerful, well-trained and
well-equipped police force.

Recently there was a robbery at a shopping centre in the afternoon. A
call to the police station elicited the reply: "We have no transport."
"Just walk then," said the caller; the police station is about a
two-minute sprint from the shop in question. "We have no transport,"
came the reply again. Nobody arrived.

There is a quote from my husband's book: "Cry, the beloved country, for
the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the
earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs
through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red
the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land
are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley.
For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much."
What has changed in half a century? A lot of people who were convinced
that everything would be all right are disillusioned, though they don't
want to admit it.

The government has many excellent schemes for improving the lot of the
black man, who has been disadvantaged for so long. A great deal of money
is spent in this direction. However, nothing can succeed while people
live in such fear. Last week, about 10km from my home, an old couple
were taken out and murdered in the garden. The wife had only one leg and
was in a wheelchair. Yet they were stabbed and strangled - for very
little money. They were the second old couple to be killed last week. It
goes on and on, all the time; we have become a killing society.
As I prepare to return to England, a young man asked me the other day,
in all innocence, if things were more peaceful there. "You see," he
said, "I know of no other way of life than this. I cannot imagine
anything different." What a tragic statement on the beloved country
today. "Because the white man has power, we too want power," says
Msimangu.
"But when a black man gets power, when he gets money, he is a great man
if he is not corrupted. I have seen it often. He seeks power and money
to put right what is wrong, and when he gets them, why, he enjoys the
power and the money.
Now he can gratify his lusts, now he can arrange ways to get white man's
liquor. I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men
and black men, desiring neither power nor money, but desiring only the
good of their country, come together to work for it.
I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to
loving, they will find we are turned to hating."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hoe is dit nou met jou. Mens hardloop mos nie sommer so gou weg nie. Die kommentaar wat jy oor die Vierkleur gekry het was net een persoon se mening. Hier kan 'n ou skryf wat jy wil en daar sal maar altyd iemand wees wat nie saamstem nie. Nee man, ek gaan jou nie afhaal nie. Bly net hier en skryf jou hart uit.

Joe

Heg my. Ek is ongeneeslik. Droewig maar gewillig om myself op te hang om te droog - in jou koel, droë briesie wat soos gal jou mond uitwaai. Jou samesang van verlange wat saans oor my aamborstig streel laat my verward. Kommin, verwaand en soms deurmekruis.
Dronk, en selfsug kom kruisbeen hier en haarself langs my neerplons in afwagting – vir my om opeens die laaste van my kanse te verbeur, te verbrou soos die brak gras wat bees se kind saans onder die sterrehemel lê en herkou – gal bitter, maar sluk sal ek sluk. Als is dog nie tot niet, ek is my eie.
‘Dag skuwelik’ - streel ek ‘n pittige woordjie my kant toe. Terwyl my kneukels wit oor die wasbak se rand strek, voel ek die punt van my vingers klop soos die been-agter-vleis wil-wil deurbreek. Ek staar diep in my oë opsoek na redelose redekawel van toet en tye, gister se drome en môre se demone.
‘Saam sal onse mens onder toe neuk’.
Met ses van my vyf vingers om ‘n glasie vergewe, verlustig ek myself aan stommerik en sy trawante – breindood sou ek eerder sê. Sulke luidrugtige dommes sal tot vervelens toe sanik oor allerlei kak – vanaf hul vyftien-man-manewales tot masturbasie op ‘n parkiebankie , die skurwe nonsens laat my bloedrooi, en skaam sak ek eerder my kop, knyp my hoof styf vas tussen my duim en middelvinger en werk die dan stadig teen my gesig af tot waar ek my keel raak druk. Te veel hardewater saam met ‘n dwelm en ek sê Sproetjies, liefling, daar's 'n duiwel in my hart... Maar terdeë, ek wens my lewe wil eindig – al dan nie, steek my eerder in die diepste donker van die nag.
Te pletter en ek bieg - alkohol laat my sintuie oorwerk en ek voel hoe die mensdom se oë my deurboor, ek voel hoe hul tonge my vel oopkloof en vir die Dood los. Ja, die man in vodde wat saans op ons stoepe kom baljaar en met sy grillerige lang vingers teen ons ruite kap, tartend soek hy ons siele uit – een vir een. Tel jou seëninge. Toets jou bloeddruk. Want netnou-netnou as jou oë toeval, stuur ek ‘n geritsel deur jou verswakte are en bars jou hart soos ‘n ou ballon.
Die jir weet alleen! Hoe smag ek om my naels tot op die gatkant van skedel te plant, sonder huiwer der oog uit te krap, sy kop terug te gooi en diep sy gedagtes in te staar – na sy verlate gedagtes van toet en tyd...

Die jir weet alleen.

‘Liefs nie troebadoer, liefs nie’ - haar oulike kortgekapte pakkie treiter my wyn deurdrenkte oë en ek swoeg nader, ontmoet haar harde lippe en snak skoon toe haar spookasem my neus tref – die reuk van aangeplakte Red Door en goedkoop sigarette laat vaar my vuil gedagtes, en ek vlieg terug in verbasing met ‘n hoofletter ‘Wat de Vok’ . Haar naam was stil swye. Sy was kom en gaan, die eerbare tipe wat jy eerder self teen die muur van miskien vasspyker en daarvan vergeet. ‘Ek’s ‘n oukei girl’ neurie sy . Ek is seker sy is, of was. Ek is net versigtig – want goggas byt, almal weet dit. Haar goggas mag dalk net dood. Ek wuif sku ‘n nee dankie haar rigting in, en kort voor lank het sy my met wilde oë tot dood veroordeel.
Soms wonder ek of iemand my nie net in die yskas vergeet het nie – of ek moontlik nie net dwaal in my eie waansin nie. Alleen loop in ‘n plek soos ons eie opgeskote hel. Want ek huil. Ek skree soos ‘n maer vark met ‘n machete diep in sy keel gebêre, maar niemand neem notisie nie – niemand hoor haar huil nie, niemand hoor die vuishoue klap nie - want niemand gee ‘ n vok om nie.
Met die ontnugtering swaai ek bloedkeels om en weereens staar ek myself aan in ‘n vuil spieël. Koue druppels vorm soos pêrels teen my voorkop.
Seg my eerbare, wat is nou tuis – beter as om in die vars reuk van urine in die arms van jou geliefde te lê? Wat is nou tog beter as om die yster smaak van vars bloed te proe nadat jy jou lip te pletter gekou het? Wat die donner sal ooit beter as dit wees? Wat is tog beter as die geskree van jou nagtegaal, wat jou straks aangluur met ongoddelike oë van swart en gloeiende kole – reguit uit jou hel? Wat die vok sal beter wees?

Met dié, skrik ek wakker langs ‘n pikswart rivier wat galbitter my neus laat brand – die suur reuk van teer terg my diep, my diepste gees word getart...
‘n Ongeagtige eweknie spaar my die moeite en spring voor aankomende verkeer in - en in fynste grynslag op knipoog afstand, bars sy skedel oop teen die linkerkantste voorlig van Medusa se vierwielaangedrewe monster. In die split sekonde verduister my denke, en voor my onheilige siel hoor ek die sagte borrel geluid uit ‘n holte in sy hoof, waar daar eens ‘n denkende mens was, is daar nou niks. Streel my, dink ek. Stilweg maar nietemin dink ek daaraan, of ek nou wil of nie. Of ek nou alleen wil vertoef tot die dood my kom haal of der halwe nie – graag sal ek ook gestreel wil word. In stil genade dood soos ‘n liewe moeder haar kind versmoor, wil ek ook so tussen haar buuste rus, daar waar niks seer, of pla nie.

Heg my. Ek is ongeneeslik. Droewig maar gewillig om myself op te hang om te droog – in jou nagmerrie waar ek saans met my swart vlerke aan die diamant-tiet soog.

. . -. | -.. .-. .- -.-. .... - | -- .- .- -.- - | -- .- -.-. .... –

©

Dis nou nie nodig om oor te reageer nie, dit laat may net negatief reageer as daar sekere mense en groepe is wat reken dat dit net hulle is aan wie iets onreverdig gedoen is en dat dit hul reg is om te haat en soos dit gaan hier in SA word jy vermoor omdat jy iemand se egotjie seer gemaak het, en ek sou graag wou he^ dat daar in die toekoms 'n liggie skyn en dat ons ^erens heen op pad is weg van die spul "bafoons" ( volgens die britse pers )