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Showdown, Showdown, The time has come; To show the world,

the true South African Son.


Showdown, Show?own, The time has come; To show the world

the true South African Woman.

 The loss of generations of talent we see, Caught in chains  of dominated history.

Forgotten it seems are the struggles of yore, Which  Duma and Mahomed bore.


The skills and talents of the oppressed lay bare, For history to stand and stare.

Judged are we not by skill and talent,

But by a ready, willing  and oppressive ballot.


Thieves are we thought of by most,

Yet for our colour we are the chosen host

                 To win the brief so that they may toast.

And yes, we still remain that elusive ghost.


Money it seems has no colour and race, Except when it comes to keeping us in our place. From pillar to post we are sent,

To ensure that their system remains without a dent.


Their hallowed halls are littered with pictures of men, To remind us to respect them.

Oppressors, racists or imperialists we may not say, But respect and obedience we are commanded to pay.


Pitje is nowhere to be seen,

Mahomed as though the first CJ he has never been.

Duma is thrown into the dustbin of time, So that their insignificant heroes may shine.


A hundred years they cry is the time, That gives dignity to their crime.

Four hundred years ago we state,

Is when our forefathers informed us of our fate.


To the one hundred years we say: Keep that as yours today.

                   Remember well the history it covers,

No favour has it done to ours.


Forget not when that gallant son Duma was made, To beg for leave to ply his trade.


Forget not when that gallant son Mahomed was made, To eat on the sidewalk while you sat at tables laid.


Forget not when that gallant son Pitje was made, To fight for the right to sit on your side.

  Forget not!


The money you hold in banks, You may  keep, no thanks. Our dignity we choose,

The cash we are prepared to lose.


Our culture is not for sale,

Your hegemony of necessity will fail. Based on human worth is all we ask, To you it is a burdensome task.


Our own path we must beat, Lest we our progeny cheat.

Our values of dignity we must save,

So that our right to a bright future we do not waive.


Your mentors and leaders ways you may follow, To us they bring only sorrow.

Our history of value is on our side, You cannot stem that tide!


The spirits that roam you do not see, Beware the Duma, the Mahomed and the Pitje.

                      To you they are ghosts to fear, To us they are spirits so dear.


Our young are forced to leave, Your policies being the main thief. Their hopes and dreams lay dashed, You rejoice at them being thrashed.


Scottish Chamber is you creation to prove,

A squatter camp to which our young were forced to move.

To a chamber of worth our young are not entitled, You are the master we are continually reminded.

  From the back door must we continually enter, To succumb to the master’s continuous banter.

Alive must we be kept as slaves,

To provide briefs to the masters until they reach their graves.


To live we seek not your permission, Our lives that we live is our decision. To your dead society we say a prayer: May its fangs of racism never prosper.


To you who stubbornly stick to your old structures, We part ways on the basis of cultures.

We invite you to our culture of dignity, So throw away your ways of superiority.


Faced with the situation we have accepted the call, To change the years and years of the shortfall. On this you may chose to frown,

Then, beware the Showdown!


















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