Black Bodies of Knowledge: Information Gangsters, Guerrillas and Notes on an Effective History by John Fiske

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Black Bodies of Knowledge: Notes on an Effective History by John Fiske

“Recently, I’ve been listening to M’banna Kantako on Black Liberation Radio. I’ve also been reading Foucault. They come together productively. Foucault has helped me understand the importance of what Black Liberation Radio’s ‘information guerrillas’ are doing, and Black Liberation Radio has helped me clarify why I find Foucault’’s notion of ‘an effective history’ both one of his more productive and one of his more frustrating.. . .

In his discussion of Nietzsche’s theory of genealogy as a counter to traditional history Foucault suggests some characteristics of an ‘effective history’ that I find inadequately useful . . . .Black Liberation Radio exists only to empower its Black listeners in their daily struggles against white power: to achieve this it mixes affirmations of the creativity, imagination, and resilience of Black culture through its music and writings with trenchant and tireless analyses of white power in action.

Let me turn first to what I find useful in Foucault’s theorizing before passing on to his inadequacies. An effective history must counter traditional history through its emphasis on the particularities of events and upon bodies: it is genealogical in that it is ‘situated within the articulation of the body and history . . . Its task is to expose a body totally imprinted by history and the process of history’s destruction of the body’. In this task, effective history inverts traditional history’s prioritization of distance, or the grand view, over proximity, whereas effective history ‘shortens its vision to those things nearest to it,’ particularly the body.

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Effective history emphasizes events, discontinuities, and multiplicities over the homogenizing trend of the grand narrative of traditional history. An event, for Foucault, is not, as in traditional history, a treaty, a reign, or a battle, but ‘a reversal in the relationship of forces’, a moment when power is most nakedly experienced, resisted, turned, evaded, or even merely exposed. An event is an instance in what he calls ‘the hazardous play of dominations,’ which is to be found not in structural social relations, such as those between classes , races or genders, but in the ‘meticulous procedures that impose rights and obligations’. . . .

And the final characteristic of an effective history is that

it must contain its own perspective; it cannot aspire to a transcendent objectivism, but must be effective for somebody, and that social body must be explicit in the history. . . .

There can be no singular counterhistory, for its effectiveness is dependent upon the conditions of the body - of the individual through to the social - that constructs it as it is only in those conditions that its effectiveness can be traced. . . . In effect, it is not the white body that the power can be countered or resisted.

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For African Americans, however, these events can carry their histories into the present, not just as understandings of the continuity between past and present, but as experiences of it. They are historical events, but the effectiveness of their history depends upon their historians embodying them and imbricating them into the experience, and therefore understanding , of the present. . . .Provided orally and not in the traditional form of archives, these facts are not equally available to all. . . . One cannot walk into this knowledge as one walks into a library. . . . These ‘weak’ facts, weak only because the social formation with access to them is dis-empowered, are effective because their truths are functional. They warn African Americans of their vulnerability and lack of protection in white cities. . . .

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The effective history of McKeever’s nighttime occupation counters not only the documented truth about McKeever, that he was an ordinary Black citizen, but it challenges the production of that truth and the hierarchization of evidence involved.

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Some facts, which are documented by white information collectors, editors, and publishers, are made ‘strong’ by being technologized into books or journals, and institutionalized into the archive. They, then, contrast and overpower the ‘weak’ facts that are circulated orally among Black people. The strong white facts emerge independent of the social formation experiencing them as events. In a white knowledge system, this exteriority guarantees their objectivity, but in a Black one, it guarantees only their inadequacy; for in this knowledge, whites can know only what Black allow them to know. The knowledge of those occupying the same social formation as the object of that knowledge will know truths that are necessarily invisible to the outside observer.

Equally, effective history actively demonstrates that official history represses knowledge whose truth would challenge the social interests of the power bloc that produces and validates it. To document McKeever’s nighttime work would be to give it credibility that would, in turn, hinder white power; the repressive and self-interested effects of power are best secured when its benign and productive side is the only visible one. Thus, the exclusion of McKeever’s nighttime work from white documentation contains the truth of how whites can write history. This history cannot, therefore, be used to invalidate a Black effective history, in which his night job is thoroughly and accurately articulated, as opposed to simply documented.

Collecting, recording, and documenting information is an urgent concern of the power bloc, as information remains essential to its social control. Selectively documenting others while excluding them from the process of documentation is a strategy of dis-empowerment against which effective history struggles. The knowledge of the power bloc, with all its technologies and institutionalization of literacy and numeracy, of information collection, storage, and retrieval, necessarily produces more socially powerful truths than those of disenfranchised social formation who are historically and systematically denied equal access to those technologies and institutional knowledge. Power is always two-faced, always both productive and repressive, benign and selfish; it is most effective, however, when it puts forward its productive, benign face and hides its repressive, selfish one. . . . Contrarily, then, it is these embodied experiences, which strong knowledge systems overlook, that carry the effective truths of the dis-empowered.

The politics of a counterhistory do not inhere essentially within it: instead, they result from and must be understood according to how it is put into effect. . . .

These competing ways of knowing, identified for the moment as white and Black, do not compete on equal terms. The power of knowledge to produce and circulate truth always has technological and institutional dimensions. The white truth of McKeever was technologized into a book and institutionalized into an archive. The Black truth of McKeever remained in oral circulation, with neither technological nor institutional support, until a Black historian, half a century after its active life, inscribed it in a book in a library and, thence, via a white academic, into this article.

The differential power of competing knowledge systems is determined partly by the social evaluation of their epistemological structure, logo-rationalism versus oral ‘logic’; partly by their material instrumentality, logo-rationalism having more immediate, visible, and measurable effects; partly by the social, economic and political power of the social formation that uses them; and partly by their access to technology and institutions. Depriving a social formation of knowledge involves limiting access to technology and institutions. The fact that the socially weak are denied equal access to society’s technologies and ‘institutions of truth’ does not mean, however, that they are totally excluded from them. . . . As knowledge has to be stored and circulated for its power to be realized, it is inherently vulnerable to guerrilla raids, much as a raid upon an armory would equip those whom the weapons were intended to subdue.

The practice of effective history involves not only the recovery of excluded or overlooked materials but also guerrilla raids upon the dominant knowledge system; both the archive and the armory are valuable targets for the guerrilla.

M’banna Kantako is proud of his ‘knowledge gangsters’ who ‘steal information from any one.’ . . .

I have emphasized the fragmentedness of these bits of purloined information. On Black Liberation Radio, they are linked more explicitly, but the links are associative rather than causal or logical. Their power lies in the affective impact of each piece of loot and then in the overall message of genocide. . . . I have detailed in Power Plays how the experience of apparently autonomous white policies adds up to a picture of genocide if one is on the suffering end of them: these include the location of toxic waste dumps and other polluters in Black neighborhoods, the focus of tobacco and alcohol advertising upon Blacks, the combination of drugs, guns, and the drug wars to weaken Black communities, the systematic denial of education and employment, and so on. Within this Black knowledge of genocide, . . . purloined fragments need only to be associated with each other, for the connections between them preexist them in Black knowledge. . . .

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The history at work here is a counterhistory in a number of ways. At the macro level, the history of white genocide of non-whites counters the white one that no such thing exists, and if it does, it does so only as a form of black paranoia. This counterhistory challenges, too, in the sense that its writing and disseminating counter the process by which this genocide is occluded from white knowledge. Further, the process of gathering it is an antagonistic process; Zears Miles constantly recounts the difficulty he has in getting this information and often glosses his victories with comments like ‘the ancestors must have been working because . . . .

The norm is that whites guard knowledge that is strategically useful and attempt to prevent it from getting into the wrong hands and being turned against them. They also try to prevent counter-knowledge from being disseminated. . . .

This sort of counterhistory depends upon a proliferation of ‘telling’ details whose interconnections are not explicitly traced because the tellingness of each detail reverberates with that of others, finally revealing what is already known - in this case, genocide. And this counterhistory is effective history, whose function is, in the words of Del Jones, another of the station’s information guerrillas, ‘to help us save ourselves.’

Its truth is not to be measured by objectivity but by effectivity.

What is true is what can be made to work, which is, in essence, how the laws of physics establish their truth p especially quantum physics: no one knows how its formulae work, they know simply that they do.

Sometimes this effectiveness is directly instrumental and results in frequent warnings to African Americans to be very wary of the white medial system. These vary from the advice of Dr. Barbara Justice. . . to M’banna Kantako’s warning. . .to Dr. Jack Felder’s call, that African Americans will be safe only when they have developed their own health system. If some whites, with their widespread belief in the benevolence of medicine, are tempted to dismiss this Black mistrust as paranoia, they should listen to Dr. John Heller, the Director of Venereal Diseases at the Public Health Service from 1943 to 1948. Of the men in the Tuskegee study, he said, ‘The men’s status did not warrant ethical debate. They were subjects, not patients: clinical material, not sick people’.

Similarly, African Americans know that they must guard themselves against the white knowledge and the white history presented as truth in the education system. M’banna Kantako educates his children at home. Dr. Leonard Jeffries was demoted for refusing to conform to white educational norms in New York’ City College, and Dr. Jack Felder claims simply that, ‘if we are to survive as a race, we cannot let whites educate our children and we cannot let whites be in charge of our health”.

Black knowledge of white genocidal strategy does not involve only the details of its application but also encompasses its motivation. For instance, Black Liberation Radio reminds its listeners frequently that whites are the global minority, only 7% of its population, yet they control the majority of its wealth and its resources. One U.S. Government document frequently referred to in this context is Global 2000, a report prepared by the Carter administration on the world’s population, resources, and environment. Let M’banna Kantako summarize what it means to him:

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M’banna Kantako: Brothers and sisters, in Global 2000 what the devil said is, look, for us to continue to get the resources of the earth the way we get them - no charge, we take them - we need to make sure there aren’t enough people to pose any opposition by the year 2000. Now, they were saying that by the 2000, there would be something like 6.3 billion people on earth, and what they said was, in order for us to stay in control, we might need to kill 2.4 billion of them. But this is something more that we need to add to this whole thing here: now they’re saying that there might be 10.2 billion people on earth by the year 2000, and if they stick with the percentage, you know, they’re talking abut wiping off almost 5 billion people.

Global 2000 has become a cardinal document in this Black knowledge of genocide. Its argument for population control, so that the population of the world can be kept in balance with its resources, is decoded unequivocally as a policy for ‘controlling’ or, as Kantako would put it, ‘wiping out’ the people of the ‘Third World’ so that its resources can continue to maintain the white world.

Other stolen fragments of knowledge are brought back into Black territory to support this truth.

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The effective history, constituted by the interplay of these fragments, has characteristics that clearly differentiate it from official history and that official history might use to discredit it. Its motivation is not objective but explicitly political. It knows that the truth that it seeks is not merely lying overlooked and unnoticed by official history, but rather that the truth has been deliberately hidden, and that hiding it is another application of the racial power that would cultivate the AIDS virus in a Black woman’s body (Henrietta Lacks).

The effectiveness of a genocidal strategy depends directly upon the success of it remaining hidden.

The stolen fragments, forming the material of this history, effectively render the hidden visible. There is no need to understand them in terms of their explicit contextual relations - the rest of the documents from which they are extracted are discarded as value-less. In fact, in general, the document as a whole is not interpreted and not included in the counterhistory. Occasionally, when the discards are ‘included’ in the counterhistory, they are typically treated as ‘evidence’ of a white cover-up. The London Times report detailing the coincidence of AIDS and the WHO’s vaccination campaign in Africa pointedly includes the statement that ‘no blame can be attached to the WHO.’ When Zears Miles reads this out over the radio, Kantako’s laughter is both delighted and skeptical. The lack of direct evidence of the WHO’s intention to spread AIDS may indicate either that the intention did not exist or that it has been successfully hidden.

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Interpretation depends upon the construction of relationships. Events, objects, statements do not carry their own meaning but are made to mean by the relations in which they are involved. . . . The one side of articulation is a process of flexible linking while the other is that of speaking or of disseminating the meaning that is produced by the linkage. The fact that white civilian hospitals use Black bodies for research may be linked to medical science, in which case, the Blackness of the bodies does not mean anything; or, on the other hand, it may be linked to the Chemical and Biological Warfare Department’s search for an ‘ethnic weapon,’ in which case, it means everything. . . .

Facts never exist independently or in isolation but rather in articulation with others. Their very facticity is a function and product of their discursive relations. Reusing them, therefore, involves disarticulating them from one set of relations and rearticulating them into another. They are never simply inert, like pebbles on a beach, waiting to be picked up by whoever finds them first. While no fact has any essential existence or meaning of its own, it always has the potential for dis- and rearticulation. Evaluating a fact’s significance, which always involves assessing both how much it matters and what it means, is, thus, a matter of evaluating its potential articulations, their social location and pattern of interests, and their predicted or interpreted effectivity. The constitution of a historical fact is an articulation. Stealing facts, therefore, involves disarticulation.

Writing a history through and of stolen fragments may also be understood by de Cereau’s metaphor of poaching as described in The Practice of Everyday Life. The terrain of knowledge is owned and controlled by the enemy; the poacher darts in and out, taking what he or she needs, extracting it not only from the physical terrain of the landowner, but also from his social relations - ownership, legality, exclusivity. The researcher as poacher has to avoid being caught by the articulation or ways of knowing of the owner; he or she has to guard against being captured by the discursive and social relations within which the quarry is already held.

Producing an effective history, then, is necessarily a practice of social antagonism; it is a counterpractice.

For an example of current effective history, read THE COVID 19 CHRONOLOGY THEY AREN'T SHOWING YOU: PROPAGANDA AND DENIAL ABOUT THE SOURCE OF THE PANDEMIC or watch the video below.

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CREDO MUTWA ON THE RACE THAT DIED: A TALE OF TECHNOLOGY AND A WARNING TO THE FUTURE

‘You cannot fight an evil disease with sweet medicine’ is the saying popular amongst us witch-doctors. And one cannot hope to cure a putrid malady like inter-racial hatred and misunderstanding by mincing words. So I warn readers that they are in for a nasty shock. This is not the book for people who prefer hypocrisy to fact.”

- Credo Mutwa 

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Credo Mutwa, heralded as the "Father of Indigenous Knowledge", was, until March 25, 2021, the last living sangoma, or traditional Bantu healer, to undergo the thwasa - sangoma training and initiation. He joined the ancestors at the age of 98. In the prologue of his awesome book, Indaba, My Children, Credo Mutwa writes,

“These are the stories that old men and old women tell to boys and girls seated with open mouths around the spark-wreathed fires in the centres of the villages in the dark forests and on the aloe-scented plains of Africa.

Under the gaze of the laughing stars the Old One sits, his kaross wrapped around his age-blasted shoulders, staring with rheumy eyes at the semi-circle of eager expectant faces before him - faces of those who have taken but a few steps along the dark and uncertain footpath called LIfe - faces as yet unmarked by furrows of bitterness, ill-health and anger - the fresh, pure, open faces of . . . .children. . . .

Suddenly the Old One feels a great burden on his shoulders - a heavy responsibility towards the young ones sitting so expectantly around him. Suddenly there is a visible sag to his thin, aged shoulders. He sighs - a harsh, rasping sound - and clears his throat, spitting and blowing his nose into the fire, as his father and his father’s father did before him. And he begins the story - the old, old story which he knows he must repeat exactly as he hear it so long ago, without changing, adding or subtracting a single word: ‘Indaba, My Children, . . .’

It is through these stories that we are able to reconstruct the past of the Bantu of Africa. It is through these stories that intertribal friendship or hatred was kept alive and burning; that the young were told who their ancestors were, who their enemies were and who their friends were. In short, it is these stories that shaped Africa as we know it - years and years ago . . . .

True, the Black man of Africa had no mighty scrolls on which to write the history of his land. True, the Black tribes of Africa had no pyramids on which to carve the history of each and every crowned thief and tyrant who ruled them - on which to carve the history of every battle lost and won. But this they did, and still do!

There are men and women, preferably with black birth-marks on either of the palms of their hands, with good memories and a great capacity to remember words and to repeat them exactly as they had heard them spoken. These people were told the history of the Tribes, under oath never to alter, add or subtract any word. Anyone who so much as thought of changing any of the stories of his tribe that he had been told fell immediately under a High Curse which covered him, his children and his children’s children. These tribal story-tellers were called Guardians of the Umlando or Tribal History.

And I, Vusamazulu the Outcast, am proud to be one of these, and here I shall tell these stories to you in the very words of the Guardians who told them to me. Indaba, My Children. . . ‘“

In November of 2006, I went to Azania (South Africa) and I hoped to see Credo Mutwa. I had organized The Rastafari Global Inity Conference (RGIC) in Azania and was there as a follow-up to my diplomatic efforts with His Excellency, President Thabo Mvuyelwa Mbeki, President of South Africa. In my five volume work, Come Out of Her My People! 21st Century Black Prophetic Faith and Pan African Diplomacy, I chronicled the event:

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“When I reached Azania, I was met at the airport by a large host of Rastafari. The welcoming was overwhelming . . . .The entire Rastafari Community in Azania sent delegations to greet me. The reception at the airport lasted more than an hour and I was immediately given my Zulu name: ‘Siphiwe” which, like Nathaniel (my middle name at birth) means ‘gift’. . . . I have received the Royal Treatment since arrival. Receptions, lectures, etc. have been planned in all nine provinces, though I won’t be able to make them all. I am lecturing at North West University in Mafikeng Campus in North West Province on November 14 and then on to Cape Town.”

Unfortunately, I was not able to meet with Credo Mutwa during that trip. So I am taking this time to pay my respects. Given that Credo Mutwa has just recently joined the ancestors and that the COVID -19 Pandemic is showing itself as a harbinger of a revolutionary change in human society, it is fitting to share the following two excerpt from Indaba, My Children: The Race That Died and Thy Doom, Oh Amarire!, both ancient history and potent warning for mankind today.

THE RACE THAT DIED

The Holy Ones of Kariba Gorge tell us

That the first men to walk the earth

Were all of a similar kind.

They looked exactly alike, and were all of similar height,

And their color was red like Africa’s plains.

In those days there were no black-skinned or dark-brown men:

No Pygmies and Bushmen, nor Hottentots either.

The Wise Ones of the Ba-Kongo agree

With the Holy Ones of Kariba Gorge,

And they even go as far as to say

That the First People had no hair on their bodies at all;

All had the golden eyes of Ma-

The Goddess who launched them on earth with such pain.

All the Wise Ones and Holy Ones of this Dark Continent

Agree that the splitting of all Humanity into races;

The tall Wa-Tu-Tutsi, the Pygmies, or the Ba-Twa,

The short yellow Bushmen of Ka-Lahari,

Even those long-bearded A-Rabi

Who raided our villages mercilessly for slaves -

Resulted from one great accident which occured

Through the sinfulness of these First Men.

Inspire me, oh Spirit of my Fathers!

Give me courage to proceed and tell the world

What say the Holy Ones of these First Men!

Let me break, oh Demon of Disobedience -

Let me break the stout stockade but once

Of Tribal Secrecy.

Let me relate to the world outside

The Forbidden Story that all Wise Ones -

All witch-doctors know but keep firmly shut

In the darkest tunnels of their souls!

What is this Forbidden Legend about these First Men -

Tales of the Nguni, the Mambo, the Lunda and the Ba-Kongo?

When the muted beat

Of the Drum of Sworn Secrecy has sounded

And the Holy Ones gather to re-tell once again

The most secret tales to the young generation:

‘Tales-that-must-never-be-told-to-strangers-

And-to-the-low-born-peasant-dogs’

What say the Holy Ones of this First Nation?

Lo! I shall open my mouth

The mouth of a traitor most foul

Who, for what he believes to be good for his people,

Here betrays the secrets of his land -

I shall open my mouth and tell you,

So gather around me - ‘Indaba, my children . . .’

It is said that more than a thousand times ten years went by

In which there was peace on this virgin earth;

Peace in the sky -

Peace on the forest-veiled plains -

On the scented valleys and timeless hills.

Only certain beasts were permitted to kill,

By the Laws of the Great Spirit,

In accordance with their victual needs.

There was none of this savage

And wanton destruction of Life

Such as men today indulge in

To gratify their warped and evil souls.

Man against man forged no evil spear

With secret and murd’rous intent.

There were no such things as anger and hate

And nothing of ‘this is mine and that is yours’,

No contention and rivalry.

Man breathed peace on the cheek of his brother men.

Man walked in peace without fear of wild beasts

Which in turn had no reason to fear him.

Men in those days did not suffer

From our emotional curses.

They knew no worry like our sin-laden selves.

Death they welcomed with open arms

And a smile on the face, because,

Unlike our degenerate selves,

They knew Death for what it was -

Life’s ultimate Friend!

But the evil star of self-righteousness,

Was emerging from yonder horizon

And man’s undoing was nigh.

Once in a shady recess of a vine-screened cave

A beautiful woman whom some call Nelesi,

But whom many more call Kei-Lei-Si,

Gave birth to the first deformed child;

Deformed not in flesh alone, but also in his soul.

His shrunken body supported a big flat head

Containing one short-sighted cyclopian eye.

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Painting by Jim Carey

His arms and his legs were shrunken stiff

And were twisted like a sun-dried impala,

While his mouth was completely displaced to one side

In a perpetual obscene leer.

His scrawny neck was wrinkled,

Like a starved old vulture two days dead,

And his round little paunch protruded ‘neath his hcest

In a most revolting way.

Strings of crystallised saliva drooled

Continuously from his sagging lips;

He breathed through only one nostril

With a sickening hissing sound.

The name of this very unpleasant monstrosity -

Tribal Narrators tell today -

Was Zaralleli or Zah-Ha-Rrellel, The Wicked!

This was the man - no, rather the Thing

That introduced all evil to this earth.

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Whenever a child was born to these First Men

The mother would take it straight for a blessing

To the two-headed talking Kaa-U-La birds,

And also to ask them to give it a name.

Thus it came about that when Nelesi

(Let us rather abide by Kei-Lei-Si, for this is

Her proper and uncorrupted name)

Took her terrible offspring to the big old Kaa-U-La bird,

Which nested not far from her cave,

It gave one glance at her

And shuddered at what she carried!

In the half-dead deformed thing that the girl held aloft

The Kaa-U-La bird could see Evil so great

And so utterly monstrous that if unchecked

There and then it would definitely overrun

The Universe outright with its bad influence.

And what it saw beyond the veil of tomorrow

Made it screech with unrestrained horror and pain:

Kaaaaaaauk! Oh woman, what have you there!

Destroy it, kill it, without delay!’

‘What, but this is my baby, my child!’

Cried the mother in utter despair.

But the bird’s voice rang like metal

And echoed o’er valleys and mountains;

‘Female of the human race - I appeal to thee,

Destroy thy offspring before it’s too late!’

‘But where have you ever seen mothers kill babies?’

The poor mother pleaded, now on her knees.

‘For the sake of Mankind, and that of the stars,

And for all those as yet unborn,

I command thee oh female of thy race,

Destroy that thing in your arms!

No baby is that which you’re holding there,

But Naked Evil, devouring and pure -

A Bloody Future it spells for the Human Race!’

‘My baby evil? He is the dearest baby on earth!

My loveliest baby - destroy it? Not on your life!’

‘I command thee . . . ‘ But Kei-Lei-Si screamed;

She turned and ran like a buck through the bush

Her baby clutching her heaving breasts.

The Kaa-U-La immediately took off in pursuit

By telepathy calling all others to join

In the hunt for the fugitive girl.

Only once she paused for a gasp of breath

On the grassy slope of a hill,

And on looking around she saw a black flock -

Hordes of the two-headed, six-winged rainbow birds.

It struck her that these birds rarely flew,

And did so only when the need was great.

‘Aieeee! My baby, they seek you -

But they will not get you as long as I live!’

And with this she turned and sped up the hill;

But as she descended the other side

The great birds were on her and diving at her

Ripping with talons deep furrows on her back.

She reached the dark depths of the forest anon

And the birds in their tireless pursuit

Uprooted trees and moved the rocks

And dived with a roar of air.

Again and again they appealed to her

To surrender her child for Humanity’s sake.

‘No, a thousand times no!’ she panted and onwards fled,

Tripping and falling and bruising her lets,

Only to rise and speed forth faster than e’er.

At long, long last she found a deep hole

In which she sprang with no second thought.

They fell for what seemed like a thousand years

And struck the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

For a long time they lay there completely stunned

On the bank of an underground stream -

A river which roared and crashed with great noise

Through miles of underground caverns.

The evil spawn of the foolish girl

Did not die, as he fell on his mother,

And was thus due to rise soon to menace the world

With the fumes of his evil soul.

Soon the stars would weep in shame

While cursing the woman Kei-Lei-Si

And the wicked Za-Ha-Rrellel.

The otherwise beautiful woman and her monstrous son,

Lived for years in the bowlels of the earth.

Fish, and crabs from the muddy banks,

Were abundant enough to keep them alive,

While above ground the Kaa-U-La birds were searching the forests and plains in vain.

Painting by Jim Carey

Painting by Jim Carey

On returning from a crab-hunt one day

Kei-Lei-Si say her son sitting near the fire

Humming a happy tune to himself.

This greatly surprised her, for never before

Had he spoken a word - leave humming a tune!

‘My son!’ she breathed, her soul overflowing with joy,

‘You can talk . . . you are singing . . . ‘

‘Shhhhh . . . ‘ he said, and Kei-Lei-Si saw

Him fixedly stare at some iron ore,

The very piece she had brought to the cave herself,

Which she used on the flints in the cavern walls

When she wished to kindle a fire.

A cold terror struck the poor woman

As her gaze came to rest on the ore;

Her whole body froze with horror and fear

As the penetrating stare of her son

Caused the ore to grow in size!

Still hypnotized she watched and saw

The ore turn soft and starting to flow.

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A few heartbeats later two bright stalks grew

At the tips of which glowed small bloodred eyes,

And a hungry-looking mouth took shape

Snarling viciously at Kei-Lei-Si

With a display of razor-sharp teeth!

The woman shrieked with horror and undiluted fear

When she realized her son was in fact creating -

That the tune he was humming was an incantation -

Commanding the hitherto lifeless iron

To assume a shape and Life!

She watched spellbound as the living thing grew

And legs like those of a grasshopper took shape -

Then came pairs of dragonfly wings

And a rat-like shining metal tail, with a sting,

A crystal sting with dark green poison!

‘My son!’ cried she, ‘What . . . and how . . . and why . . . ?’

‘This,’ he said, without emotion,

‘Is one of my new weapons of conquest!’

‘Conquest? Conquest of what, my son?’

‘Of EVERYTHING - the earth, the sun and the moon!’

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Then turning to the fast-growing metal beast

And indicating his mother with a deformed limb

Snapped, ‘Seize her, and drink your fill!’

At which command the horror leapt

And pounced upon the startled woman,

Seizing her with his insect-like legs.

‘My son, my son, what have I done -

Why do you do this to me?

I am the woman who bore you, and brought you up!’

‘I know very well who and what you are -

But nobody asked you to bear me and rear me

And least of all did I.’

“I saved you from the big birds my son;

They desperately wanted to kill you!’

‘All I know,’ said Za-Ha-Rrellel calmly,

“It was only the instinct of a female beast

And you were obeying a natural law.’

‘Have mercy, my son,’ cried Kei-Lei-Si.

‘What is this thing called mercy?’

You are of no use to me any more.

I have grown to full independence

And I no longer need your protection.

All I need now is nourishment fro my new servant

To grow and reproduce its kind.’

From the mouth of the metallic Tokolshe

Protruded a long needle structure

With which it pierced her chest and heart

And as it sucked it grew.

Through the mists of her last agony

The mother of the wicked Za-Ha-Rrellel

Saw her son’s outrageous future;

She saw his great evil swallow the earth

And the Universe itself.

Too late she appreciated her error -

That after all the birds were right,

But now she could not destroy her child

To save all mankind from its atrocious influence.

Through eyes that were slowly glazing in death

She saw the object withdraw its cruel probe.

She saw it lay some hundreds of silvery eggs

At her son’s express command;

And they all exploded into hundreds

Of fast-growing winged things like itself.

The last thing she saw was how a litter of four

Bore her son aloft in triumph.

‘Farewell, mother,’ he said as he glanced back at her,

With a last contemptuous look in his eyes.

They carried him forth from the lighted cave

Into the darker parts of the caverns

And slowly the glow from all the luminous eyes

Faded in darkness in the echoing distance;

While with a last soft sigh Kei-Lei-Si died

Alone and utterly forgotten for all time to come

In that maze of underground tunnels.

The fantastic reign of the First Chief on earth,

That of Za-Ha-Rrellel was about to begin.

Today known as Tsareleli or Sareleli

He was the deformed incarnation of naked evil

And was about to burst upon the world

Like a glittering poisonous flower.

Woe, oh woe, to all mankind -

Woe to all those, as yet unborn!

Za-Ha-Rrellel, the Wicked, emerged from the tunnels,

Borne aloft by a litter of four of these metal things,

While all the rest of the metal Tokoloshes

Came swarming behind in a vast and glittering clud

Awaiting his word to enslave and to kill.

The first that this airborne metallic army engaged

In a battle of complete extermination,

Was the Holy two-headed Kaa-U-La birds.

From miles away came the sacred birds

In hundreds upon thousands to stem the tide

Of evil in a final most desp’rate endeavour.

A mighty aerial battle took plac

That lasted more than a hundred days without pause,

Watched in amazement by all men and all beasts.

The birds inflicted a great deal of damage

Tearing and ripping with talons and beaks,

But the poisonous stings of these metal things

Caused havoc among the attackers.

tokoloshe 3.JPG

In their hundreds they fell down to earth,

Followed to be sucked of their blood

And as fast as these metal things nourished themselves

They produced more and more of their metal kind.

For each one destroyed by the Holy Birds

A thousand took its place

And thus the birds were soon heavily defeated

And the remnant fled to the ends of the earth.

‘All is lost!’ cried one as it flew away in the sunset,

‘Woe to mankind - woe to the world.’

But the millions of red-skinned First People

Who heard this last agonizing cry

Did not understand its meaning.

They did not interpret it this way

Till many centuries later with Za-Ha-Rrellel, the Wicked,

They died in agony;

They who were later to be known

As the Race That Died.

THY DOOM, OH AMARIRE!

After his victory over the Kaa-U-La birds,

The deformed offspring of Kei-Lei-Si,

Descended with his victorious hordes of insects

And promised the millions of hiding First People

A new life of plenty of luxury and peace

And pleasure in limitless measure.

At first he told them he was sent by a god

To vanquish the evil Kaa-U-La birds

Which had thus far been keeping all mankind

In savagery and ignorance;

That in fact the Great Spirit had sent him

To deliver them all from poverty and disease;

That if they followed him humbly

They need dwell in shelters and caves no more.

They must render the world safe for mankind

By extermination all dangerous beasts;

And til the land no longer, nor harvest,

While metal slaves could serve their human masters.

He promised them all these

And a life of luxury and ease,

Which the gullible First People believed

And they blindly followed the Advice they received.

Two generations later and now Za-Ha-Rrellel,

Who had meantime discovered the Immortal Secret,

Was ruling supreme at the head of an empire -

The most fantastic the world has ever seen.

This was the empire which legends tell -

The Empire of Amarire, or Murire -

In which men lived in shining golden huts

With a life and a conscience of their own.

They could move from place to place

In accordance with their occupants’ wish;

While metal Tokoloshes served in every way.

From tilling the land to storing grain.

There was no need for lighting a fire

When all one had to do was fill the pot

With whatever one wished to eat,

And then command the pot to boil.

No longer was it necess’ry to walk long distances,

When all they had to do

Was stand outside their huts

And wish themselves to wherever they wanted to go.

No bother to use one’s hands to lift

A drinking pot to one’s lips,

When all one did was to command the pot

To pour its contents down one’s throat.

But as time went on a decay descended

Upon these very lazy men

And they began to think that the simplest things

Like chewing food was far too strenuous indeed!

The High Chief Za-Ha-Rrellel then gave them powers

To wish their food right into their stomachs -

No straining the jaws with mastication

Or bruising the gullet with swallowing too hard!

The result of all this was that men lost the use

Of their arms and their legs and their gullets and jaws,

And on top of all this both women and men

Felt that begetting was too much of a strain!

Thus all men and all women began to lose

Their powers of reproduction;

Sterile they all turned, except the Singer

The beautiful Amarava - about whom, anon.

There was little more that the wicked tyrant

Could do to exploit his powers -

So he turned to knowledge and Forbidden Things

Which the Great Spirit asked us never to seek.

First he passed to his subjects the secret

Of Immortality and Eternal Youth,

To save his Empire - now completely sterile

Save Amarava who remained fertile.

He secondly sent out his metal beasts

To capture wild beasts and then crush them to pulp,

And from this pulp he created new creatures

Resembling the human being.

These queer creatures he earmarked as slaves;

Entertainers and workers in his expanding empire -

These creatures, produced like kaffircorn cakes,

Were Bjaauni, the Lowest of the Low.

tokoloshe 1.JPG

Legends tell us that these Bjaauni

Looked something like giant gorillas;

Completely hairless and of dead flesh and blood -

They constantly had a putrid odour.

They were greenish-darkbrown in color

Like rotten animal flesh,

And also unlike their red-skinned masters,

Could reproduce their kind.

Za-Ha-Rrellel’s mis’rable products,

Unlike the Great Mother’s creations,

Had no power of speech

And could not think for themselves.

They dumbly and blindly obeyed their masters

However mad the instruction;

If asked to drink a river dry

They would drink till they burst and died.

While these Amirere were indulging in all this fun

The Tree of Life said to the First Goddess Ma;

‘What kind of beings did we bring forth?

Look, they’re depriving all Life of its purpose!

They live selfish and useless lives

And no longer beget their kind;

We must now destroy our first effort

And begin all over again.’

‘No, let us send them a warning first

In the hope that they’ll mend their ways;

It is only that evil tyrant

Who has gone and led them astray.’

‘Yes, that most foul being dared to create

Creatures of metal and flesh -

Now he thinks he’s a god - a creaotr

But I shall teach him a lesson or two.’

And with this the Tree of Life ordered clouds

To gather and cover the earth,

Obstruct the sun, and ravage all

With lightning and torrents and hailstones.

In no time the empire’s lands were covered

In waters many feet deep

And half the Amarire nation drowned

In their might glittering towns.

But this did by no means deter the tyrant -

It fired his warped and inventive spirit;

with all his metal and subhuman slaves

They build many vast and oblong rafts.

Each was a hundred miles long - with a breadth about half -

And on these rafts he had them build new cities of solid gold;

And artificial sun was made to float below the clouds

Which shone with a brilliance that put the real one to shame!

And then one day in the glittering splendour

Of his own domestic retreat,

Za-Ha-Rrellel played his final trump -

A last, most terrible decision!

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