This I Choose, by Vusamazulu Credo Mutwa (1964)

O give me not the strident, Demon wail
Of penny whistle and tea-chest guitar;
Nor give me tales of those who rode the trail
Deep in the West of far America!

Oh, not for me the songs and nonsense tales
That thrill the modern rabble rout
Who, leaving far behind their tribal values
With traitor zest, ape ‘culture’ from without!

Rather than the modern crooner’s foreign voice,
Or the loud howls of modern township jive,
I shall leave far behind that mad’ning noise
And hurry home where Tribal Elders live.

There ‘neath baobabs or flat-topped munga trees
Where nestling birds with many tongues argue,
And flaming aloes bless the smiling breeze
With heady scent; and where the distant view
Of scowling mountains ‘gainst the silver sky
With dread and reverence fill the misted eye!

Where, on the gentle slopes of ancient hills there browse
The bearded goats, the sheep, the shambling cows;
And loud above his lowing wives the bull
With awful bellow, dares the distant foe!

There I shall sit before Ubabamkulu
Who shall relate to me the Tales of Yore.
There I shall kneel before the old Gegulu
And hear legends of Those-that-lived-Before.

There I shall live in spirit once again
In those great days now gone forever more;
And see again upon the timeless plain
The massed impi of so long ago.

The words of men long dead shall reach my soul
From the dark depths of all-consuming Time
Which like a muti, shall inflame my whole—
And guide my life’s canoe to shores sublime.

Clear with the soul’s time penetrating eye
I shall see great empires rise, flourish and die.
I shall see deeds of courage or of shame
Now forever carved on the Drum of Fame.

With Shaka’s legions I shall march again—
A puppet knowing neither joy nor fear;
Which trained to kill, heeds neither wounds nor pain,
And knows no other love save for its spear.

I shall feel once again the searing heat
Of love in hearts that have long ceased to pulse
And with Mukanda shall captain the fleet
Of war canoes; and storm Zima-Mbje’s walls.

Here is these stories still told by the old,
I feel the soul and heartbeat of my race
Which, I cannot in tales by strangers told—
For these, within my heart I have no place!

The tree grows well and strong, Oh children mine
That hath its roots deep in the native earth;
So honour always thy ancestral line
And traditions of thy land of birth!

With thanks to Patricia Lamour