by Fenek Solère
‘Meaning?’
Aarde looked at him sharply. ‘What you have to recognise Gijs is that Africa is now part of a rapidly consolidating global economic order. Let me paraphrase. The manufacturing base is now essentially Asian, mass consumerism is an American and European phenomenon and Africa is to provide many of the resources to feed the two. Not so different from our past, you see? The Globalists realise there is no way the Africans themselves can be converted to production. They have no powers of concentration or precision and lack discipline. Not to mention low IQ levels and the absence of any sort of work ethic? Africa, just like in the nineteenth century, is to be exploited by the New World Order, in much the same way has King Leopold’s Belgian enterprises raped the Congo.’
Gijs affirmed the truth of what he was hearing with a bitter grunt.
Aarde continued, his eyes lingering with strange intensity on his visitor, though it seemed outwardly that what he was saying had little or nothing to do with Gijs.
‘The slow withdrawal of the colonial powers in the twentieth century was simultaneously replaced by a new, less overt strategy. Henceforth the plan was to foster and support an ethnic and tribal patchwork of African states in order to weaken local self-determination, ferment tribal divisions to keep these states weak and to exert influence on their puppet rulers through various bribes and foreign aid packages. Naturally the globalists granted so-called Western corporations exploration rights and access to an endless supply of cheap unskilled labour.’ The leader of the Orde Boervolk suddenly waved a finger in Gijs’ direction. ‘When things don’t work out as they want, they occasionally use military intervention under some pretext, like fraudulent elections and other pseudo-moral excuses like human rights. Air power and special forces effect regime change now, having learned the lesson from Vietnam and Iraq that body bags returning home discourages tax payers from stumping up to fund unpopular wars. Or in the case of African ones, it could draw the simmering racial tensions to the surface outside the Washington Beltway. So they use the mask of the UN, Arab League and the African Union to justify their claims that a multi-lateral and multicultural coalition of the willing is working together to resolve the African problem. In the past, leaders like Mobutu and Félix Houphouët-Boigny fully recognised the limits of their power and stuffed their Swiss Bank Accounts full to bursting with illicit cash, indulged their concubines in haute-couture and built marble cathedrals in the middle of the jungle. Today, the European Union gives Foreign Aid to the tune of four hundred and fifty million Euros to Malawi, while the President buys himself a multimillion Rand jet and Uganda’s President acquires for himself a Gulfstream G550 jet and a lavish one hundred million Euro residence. Did you know the Europeans give more Foreign Aid to Turkey than to Afghanistan, a country ten times poorer per head of population?’
Gijs shook his head. ‘I had no idea!’ he murmured.
‘It’s ridiculous! Until you see what is behind it. But other African leaders like Nasser in Egypt, Mengistu in Ethiopia and our old friend Gaddafi, were slightly less malleable. Whole countries like the Ivory Coast are run by proxy from Paris. Coups like that which removed Henri Konan Bédié were all engineered. The plan of the string pullers in America, France and Great Britain is to utilise short-term leaders — as long as their actions are acceptable to themselves. For example they would let the Southern Christian Sudanese be defeated by the Northern Muslims if it suited them, and then hope to exploit the divisions between the Muslim Firs, Nubians and Bejas. No African leader can feel safe. Look at Gbagbo. The rebels the West supported were responsible for terrible atrocities in Duékoué. So much for the West’s so-called humanitarian concern’
Gijs contemplated the words of the man before him, seeking out their hidden sense. ‘So, you think it is only a matter of time before the ANC becomes a proxy government?’
Aarde shrugged contemptuously. ‘They are in effect already controlled. Probably were even before Mandela: the great sweep of history has a guiding hand but it is covert rather than overt. All Government Ministers are in somebody’s pocket. Our ape-like masters are no more in control of policy than the liberals in the West. Politicians are career professionals these days. They can be bought and sold. Look how front organisations for the financiers like Nkuzi, HORIZONT3000 and the Open Society Foundations operate. Soros and his ilk control the money markets already and now they intend to arbitrate the moral ecosystem. I say enough! We are idealists and theoreticians. For us, the role of man is to reach for the stars, not wrestle in the quagmire scrabbling for Soros’ shekels.’
Gijs realised that the time Aarde spent on him was a substantial commitment; he seemed to be looking for something. Gijs was about to venture a query, when Aarde, after a significant pause, answered the question for him: ‘I have plans for you and the rest of Muller’s unit,’ he was saying, ‘Have you ever heard the name Peter Janssen?’ Gijs shook his head.
‘Never?’
‘You will!’ Aarde predicted.
The visitor could see Aarde was rapidly transforming into a political as well as military leader. There were always groups of men and sometimes armed women, the Rooi Valke, waiting in the shade of the bluegum trees at his headquarters. Some came openly, others in secret, each snatching a few moments with Aarde, before driving away under the watchful eyes of the government security services, who stood around in dark suits holding graphite binoculars.
The Shanti Maurice was a five star hotel sitting on the edge of an inky blue bay. The incoming tide lapped over bone white rocks and the exquisite cuisine was served with freshly squeezed cocktails at poolside. As Hastings and Marie stepped through the pellucid sliding doors they were confronted by a naturally illuminated lobby area with glazed ceramics, hand polished marble and Oriental wall hangings.
Hastings noted the wide toothy smile from the cinnamon coloured face of the native girl on reception. Just for a moment he thought he caught something like surprise in the girl’s glance as she greeted the new guests.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur et Madame, avez vous une reservation?’ she inquired brightly. Hastings hesitated, feeling insecure because he could not respond in kind. Marie stepped forward, explained they were together and that they had ordered a honeymoon suite for the weekend. Then with a warm easy gesture she encouraged Hastings to hand over the e-ticket confirmation to the girl who was now extending a small tentative hand towards him. Hastings passed over the print-outs and visa as the young lady turned to her flat screen to confirm payment and release the room entry card.
‘These reservations are made in the name of Gazupo... but your Mastercard is in the name of Mabuza?’
Marie raised her eyebrows.
‘Why, Hastings, are you ashamed of me?’ she laughed, glancing ambiguously at her companion.
‘Purely a matter of discretion. I am sure you understand?’ he said under his breath, folding a fifty dollar bill inside his passport as he handed it over the desk.
‘Well, not really,’ she continued to tease him. ‘Most men like to be seen with me...’
Then the girl on the desk cut in.
‘We are very discrete, Sir, we have many Bollywood celebrities visiting us.’
‘Then we understand each other,’ Hastings said, with a threatening undertone to his voice. ‘And I am just like them, I don’t want my privacy compromised, either!’
‘Certainly, sir!’ She clicked her fingers and a hotel porter came over, picking up their luggage and leading Hastings and Marie towards the elevator.
Their room overlooked the bay, opening up on the wide Indian Ocean, where three hundred years before Dutch ships like the Banda had wrecked off the coast in a tropical cyclone. The hotel’s limpid ambience seemed distilled with pretentious excess. Hastings walked out onto the balcony, draping his jacket carelessly on the back of a chair. Marie slipped the loop of her handbag off a bare shoulder, running her hand over the complementary bouquet of Pink Torch Ginger.
‘Hastings!’ she called, ‘Would you like a co
ld drink?’ She waited, watching his back stretch out over the iron rails. His rounded shoulders shrugged.
‘If you like?’ Marie opened the drinks cabinet, the tips of her fingers lingering on the opulent green bottles, feeling the tingling chill run through her painted nails.
‘Juice or beer?’
Hastings swivelled about, the sweat running in black hoops from his armpits.
‘Do they have Stella Artois?’
‘No, they have Blue Marlin...’
‘OK!’ Hastings walked back into the shade, salty bubbles breaking out on his forehead.
He scowled a moment over the panorama, its beauty touching him not at all. ‘Did you see the look that receptionist gave us when we came in together?’ he suddenly asked, swinging around to face her. Marie shook her head.
‘Not really?’ she pretended, fully aware that the receptionist’s face had registered instinctive distaste at their coupling. It was a common reaction that she herself sometimes thought about too. Her conscience, increasingly in conflict with the liberal left education she had received while in college in Perpignan.
Hastings was perceptive enough to read the surface ripple of that struggle as it worked its way across Marie’s face. For a nano-second he thought about confronting her, like he had his students so many times in his tutorials, telling them that they should integrate and socialise together, that coffee-coloured children made ideal South Africans. But something closed off in him at the very thought of it, as if a shutter had closed on a window, and he sipped at the glass of beer she handed to him and glowered about the room, something bitter and hateful looming up in his soul.
→ At least 58 babies are raped daily by HIV infected men but 50 percent of such crimes go unreported;
→ Analysts indicate a woman born in South Africa is more likely to be raped than to learn to read;
→ A two year old is sodomized to death;
→ A woman is attacked by three blacks in Selcourt;
→ A teenage girl is surprised by a black intruder wielding a baseball bat;
→ A young man from Bloemfontein is locked in a car boot while his female companion is gang raped in the car;
→ A fifty-year-old nurse is brutally murdered. Her attacker cut open her stomach and ripped out her intestines.
It was on Mandela Day that Gijs found himself driving down Steve Biko highway towards Zumaville. He was reflecting on how everything had changed. The black majority now held the Boers in open contempt. They no longer even bothered to imbue their actions with the moral weight of retribution for past transgressions. Their decisions were now De Facto. The ministries were all aggressively anti Moedertaal, the Boer mother tongue, and had become militantly black racialist in ethos and outlook. Nelspruit was now Mbombela, Krugersdorp and Steyndorp had been renamed Sisuluville and Tamboville. The teeming townships like Khayelitsha near Capetown and Alexandra outside Johannesburg were still growing day by day, fit to burst like bulbous septic boils with refugees fleeing the widespread epidemics and rumoured cannibalism in Zimbabwe. Like Aarde had predicted, the Zulu, Xhosa, Pedi, Venda, Swazi, Tswana, and Sotho tribes had always made uneasy bedfellows, but now it was somehow worse. Sometimes their disputes led to bloodshed. Any pretence of law and order had been dropped after the country had hosted the great sporting events of recent years. Nearly half a million had been murdered since the Great Transformation from white to black rule. Men who had perpetrated the infamous Church street bomb and the explosion in Magoo’s Bar in Durban had been appointed as heads of security at banks and as regional police chiefs. Leading lights among the National Liberation Movement had grown rich siphoning off charity money when once they had scurried like rats to dirty flats in Moscow and East Berlin, afraid and continuously failing in their lacklustre efforts to liberate South Africa from the white demons.
But now they had the upper hand and conducted themselves by the old Maoist dictum that ‘power grows from the barrel of a gun.’ Gijs’ blood used to boil at the thought of Boer girls, some as young as ten, being defiled by the khakis and their dim-witted black auxiliaries at the Irene concentration camp during the Old War. But now that tradition had got worse with child pornography, with drug and people trafficking becoming staples of the economy. The KykNet channel poured out its pap propaganda night and day, programme after programme featuring happy mixed-race families in multi-racial communities dealing with insignificant problems in the sunshine, while the snuff movie featuring the vicious annihilation of Tanya Flowerday was reality.
Everyone knew that exchange students could no longer come to the country due to the numbers of young white American and European girls that had disappeared while on assignment. Over thirty thousand whites had been killed since 1994, surpassing the death toll of the women and children interned in the British camps and double the casualty list in the protracted Angolan war.
Car-jackings were a daily occurrence, as were no-go areas, raids on the AIDS sanatoriums for drugs, and simple mischief making. The daily chaos in the urban areas started early. Street gangs rose with the sun, usually smashing windows, then stealing the commuters’ cars that rolled by on the pot-holed roads. By noon they would gather around the bonfires of rubbish piled up at the street corners where tribal troops congregated like armies of black cockroaches. They infested the centre of cities like Durban, even business districts like the International Conference Centre, areas that had previously flourished. Now, men high on PCP stormed restaurants, taking sharpened machetes to the staff, lopping off limbs because their owners had not paid the local mob protection money. Neither the Isolezwe newspaper or the Zulu Ukhozi FM gave prominence to such incidents anymore — not that they wanted to anyway, highlighting as it did the true colour of crime in the city.
His father had recognised it was a country in freefall and told Gijs so, but no one with a public platform had wanted to point out the obvious fact that ‘Emperor Mandela’ had no clothes and no policies and that his laughing hyena sidekick Desmond Tutu had the moral and intellectual gravitas of a tsetse fly. ‘Cowardice!’ he heard Aarde’s words in his head, ‘Terrified of a race war, the whites tolerated Mandela and his successors in the hope of placating the savages!’ Yes, Gijs thought, the day that terrorist buffoon had been freed from Robben Island, had indeed signalled a time of change. It became acceptable then to wear garish shirts at black tie dinners, spout sanctimonious platitudes and accept the title father of the nation while being involved in dubious thirty billion Rand arms deals. Rather than investing time and the country’s money in health care, Mandela spent his time frivolously flying around the world like some kind of black Jesus, devoid of miracles, accepting accolades from global leaders and Hollywood’s self-anointed gay elite, rather than being shunned for failing to renounce the killing of innocents. His obstinate silence was clear confirmation that he condoned the murderous bombing campaigns conducted against legitimate civil authorities, the attempted murder of white policemen’s wives and children.
Gijs spat contemptuously at the accolades the media gave him in their obituaries:
One must go back to Dallas, Texas in 1963 to find a comparable occasion of collective bereavement as that which has met Nelson Mandella at 95… Mandela has been venerated by more millions in his lifetime than any political figure in history… The world responded to the qualities it perceived in the man, as well as to the scale of his achievement…
— David Beresford, The Guardian,
5th December, 2013
On the stage, surrounded by his closest advisors, Nelson Mandela danced and waved to the crowd. He smiled the open, generous smile of a man who had lived to see his dream…
— Fergal Keane, BBC,
5th December, 2013
Who was the greatest statesmen of the 20th Century? … It would perhaps be Mohandas Gandhi, Winston Churchill, Franklin Roosevelt, Charles de Gaulle, Jack Kennedy and Nelson Mandela. For many people, in many lands, the most inspirational of these would be the last!
— The
Economist
Heroic in his deeds, graceful in his manner, saintly in his image, Nelson Mandela long served as both cause and muse in the entertainment community.
— The Huffington Post
Nelson Mandela who led the emancipation of South Africa from white minority rule and served as his country’s first black president becoming an international emblem of dignity and foreberance died Thursday. He was 95.
— Bill Keller, New York Times
The first black president’s successors were no better, and probably far worse. They felt they ruled by some kind of divine right. Corrupt and thuggish graduates of the armed Umkhonto we Sizwe, they pranced like sooty circus clowns, rambling about orange juice cures for HIV and dancing with their multitude of concubines to the relentless refrain of ‘Get me my machine gun, my machine gun, my machine gun’. Meanwhile the ‘la Xhosa Nostra’ Mafia, once associated with the former President’s wife’s evil brood, continued through the aptly named Supporters’ Club to control various commodity transfers and ‘off’ rivals by means of poisons, cricket bats or pangas, depending upon her mood and the size of her on-line shopping tab. Nothing was simple or predictable any more. The only certainties were burglary, excessive reparations for suffering under Apartheid, rape, fraud, self-indulgent ANC potentates in positions of authority and attacks on white farmers. Where were Joe Slovo, Helena Dolny, Helen Suzman, Nadine Gordimer’s daughter and Alan Paton’s widow now, Gijs thought, with their sarcastic and cruel caricatures of the Boer people? He doubted that the new post-Apartheid South Africa had lived up to their expectations. Were they hiding in Europe, crying at a safe distance for their Beloved Country? And where were the bored middle-class English-speaking women of the Black Sash now, protesting against apartheid before they ‘lunched’? Did their concern stretch to the wives and children ravaged and brutalised by the lawless brutes they had championed for so long?
Gijs looked out over the mounting wreckage of a civilisation, and knew the answer already in his heart. It did not matter where they were, or what they thought, for they had been wrong, mortally wrong, and the sins of their ignorance and the error of their misplaced sympathies were now coming to settle like hungry jackals upon his country. The time had passed to try to talk people like them out of their folly; only force signified anything now.