In layman’s terms: my tribe is dying. Like flies.
We are dying at a rate completely unknown to us. And this in a time of peace. But even in times of war, we did not die like this. And there was not one single war in our history where we had the joy of outnumbering anybody. My small tribe always fought giant armies. The Xhosa, the Zulu and twice, the mighty British. We sacrificed lives in these wars, bloodied wars, we conquered some, lost others. Small nations need lose very few casualties to feel it in their bones. Our small victories we guarded jealously, only to be told those victories, achievements, sacrifices, graves and scorched farmsteads amount to theft if and when the majority tells you so.
Today again the masses, outnumbering us four to one, are prescribing to us how we should respond to today's brutal slaughter - ignored also by the world at large. But we cannot be told when we should cry, whom for and why. We cannot be prescribed to how we should celebrate the legacy of Black Consciousness, The Struggle, Steve Biko, the ANC, Youth Day or Nelson Mandela while the daughters of our little group are raped as we speak and a white farmer is slaughtered every five days. While nothing, not health, not education, not unemployment, not the mortality rate and not our life expectancy have improved for any South African. In fact, the deterioration is spectacular.
Still they say we do not have a case. We are laughed off as silly or racist, off course.
The gravity of this concerns very few when you are a minority and nobody seems to be watching.