I once read that Jews believe the Word of God is supposed to bring joy, and for that reason they sing the Torah out loud. There’s just one problem if Christians try it- how to find joy in singing Revelations. That’s the Apocalypse, the end of the world. I know a guy, a barman, who once told me over many drinks and a meal that all he wanted to do was to kill the world. “That’s called mundicide”, I replied. “There are some people who have that idea. I’m not too fond of it, but given how the world is, I can understand why”. On the other hand, mundicide is quite an ambitious project for a personality which is being torn apart by extremely low self esteem, narcissism and megalomania, and these are big problems for a small man to have if you ask me. So yes, I can understand why a guy would want to kill the whole world, but that doesn’t mean I won’t put a bullet in his head if I see him try… Unfortunately, there are other people whose goals are a little more modest. They only want to destroy a whole country and profit until it all ends in ashes and tears, after which they’ll be sitting in some paradise, wearing nice clothes while the country wallows in misery and underlings dodge the International Criminal Court.
Dear readers, I’m sure a lot of you have heard of the term “American exceptionalism”. Though there doesn’t seem to be an established expression for it yet, I have noticed long ago that a lot of people here think in terms of “South African exceptionalism”. Politicians, fellow travellers, useful idiots and many opinion makers reckon the ANC -which has a documented 24-year record of consistent governance failures and corruption- can take farms from white people without collapsing agriculture and inducing mass starvation along with disinvestment by foreign firms and huge outbound domestic human and capital flight. They think that in spite of 101 years of history since Russia’s October Revolution of 1917, communism can be made to work in this country. They believe it is the duty of innocent people to roll over and be robbed, or murdered if they resist, without any kind of repercussions. They have the dumb idea they can pull this off because South Africa is the exception to the rule. This country is beautiful. Despite the almost medieval savagery of some scumbags, it is fairly civilised and modern. It has amazing potential to be even greater than it has ever been. What it does not have is the ability to exclude itself from the shit storm that will land on its collective head if the envisaged horrors are attempted, because South Africa is not exceptional. It is a human construct which operates according to established rules of human society and is therefore subject to the universal law according to which there are consequences for our actions- without exception. I beg your forgiveness for my language, but these dumb fuckers are like a donkey with a carrot sticking halfway out of its ass!
The story is long, driven by deceptively simple people and factors, and is not over yet. Mr. Billy Roper, who has been kind enough to give me the space to unpack a lot of issues on his blog, suggested that I go deeper into the story of South Africa and what’s been happening here over the last year. Like other ideas he’s had before, I reckon his suggestion is correct. Therefore, I shall do my best to explain what I called “the meat and potato issues of crime, farm murders and expropriation” so that you, dear readers, may have a greater understanding of South Africa and more importantly, what is happening to the white people who struggle to live here. Grab hold of something folks, ’cause here comes “12 to 12: On the lines, behind and between”.
Manhunt- a South African crime story.
I was looking after the house and dog of a friend a few days ago. The guy knows me, because he left a bottle of very fine limited edition brandy so I could get some much needed inspiration to write. December is what I like to call “housesitting season”. It’s when most people go to visit friends and relatives, and I rarely spend more than four or five days at home the whole month because I’m too busy looking after other people’s houses. The consequence of all that moving around (and it’s not over yet) is stress, back pain from weird beds, lack of restful sleep and disorientation which turns off the mental tap. This time the booze made me melancholic and philosophical, so I sent my army friend this famous quote by Ernest Hemingway: “There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter”. He understood, having done some hunting of his own. The sad part was that I hadn’t been there when it happened, so that I could be the one who did what had to be done. He carries a terrible load thanks to some rebel group which paid a ten year-old boy to lay mines… I am a hunter of men and women who break the law, and have been one since the age of eleven. To me there is no difference between a 10 year-old and a 45 year-old. If they’re armed and pose a threat, I’ll kill them then go home to have cornflakes. The “new” South African army, the bovine faecal matter post-apartheid story, were scared of me because of this. I was forced out and later they deployed my friend, so that the man who could kill without remorse rotted in civilian life while the peaceful, good Christian and quiet patriot got his soul mangled for putting lead in a kid who would’ve blown up his squad to kingdom come. I am a hunter of women and men. I have done it and liked it. I really care for nothing else. Had you asked me a month ago, I would have told you my best hunt was the tracking and capture of two women. They had a 15 minute head start and all I had was the general direction they were headed in an urban environment. I caught them in 7 minutes and that shocked the hell out of anybody to whom I told the story for the next 11 years. That record was broken a month ago, and here is what happened…
No shit, there I was in a friend’s pickup truck. He’d gone to a shop to buy prepaid electricity and took the keys with him, so I sat in the vehicle to keep an eye on things. Suddenly the screams of a woman pierced the noise of traffic about sixty or seventy yards to my right. The horror and anguish in her voice made it sound like she was being beaten or stabbed. There was a black male in the parking lot ten feet from the pickup, a so-called car guard. You can’t trust them. Most of these people are convicted criminals (many I’ve known were rapists and murderers, some out on parole) who instead of looking after your car, pick targets for their thieving comrades lurking in the area. My friend had a ladder on the load bed, there were tools worth thousands in the back, and so was my backpack which contained a laptop that was more expensive than the tools. All in all, it would’ve been a nice haul for anyone ready to do a smash and grab. Lacking the car key also didn’t help, so I unsnapped “my colleague” and sat there swivelling my head from the car guard to where the screams were coming from. In seconds I saw my friend run diagonally across the street and out of my line of sight, heading to the scene. A little after that he ran for the pickup truck and told me while climbing in “A woman just got robbed of her cell phone. The guy’s on the run, we gotta catch him”. I don’t know why, but I got a bad feeling when he said that and my first instinct was to tell him we shouldn’t get involved. Before I could say that, a look at him showed me he was dead set on this and wouldn’t be swayed. He’s my friend, we were both armed, I am a trained professional with every security grade and a security instructor qualification to boot, and there was nothing for it but to back him up. “Oh, what the fuck. It’s been a while since I last hunted a man, might as well have some fun today,” I thought.
My friend backed out of the parking spot and turned left, then put his foot down. “All right. Suspect description?” I asked him. “Black male, white shirt,” he replied. I flashed back to my security training and saw some major gaps in the BRASHH acronym I was taught (Build Race Age Sex Hair Height), to say nothing of the target’s direction of movement and whether he had accomplices or not. Going right was a non-starter because the intersection was full and traffic heavy. We had to go left, turn right at the next intersection and double back. “Get my gun out”, he told me. “Where is it?” I asked him. “In the cubby hole (glove compartment),” he replied. I reached in, pulled the piece out, racked the slide back and chambered a round, then held it with the barrel pointing downwards as I scanned every person walking on the opposite side of the road. My friend freaked out. “What are you doing? What if there’s an accidental discharge? Take the round out!” he yelled. I didn’t like that. This is a Glock. The safeties are internal, but there’s also the little lever which protrudes from the middle of the trigger. It’s not that Vektor piece of shit which had to be recalled because of safety issues, but a fine piece of Austrian engineering I know won’t fire unless you pull the trigger, and since we were going into a dangerous situation, it’s best to do so “one up”. I’d had firearms training just like my friend. We both knew the score, so what the fuck was he thinking? “Hey man, I know what the fuck I’m doing, it won’t fire” I told him. “Yeah, but what if I shoot myself when I get out of the car? Clear the chamber!” he said. I couldn’t resist lifting my index finger in the air and quoting the Delta guy from Black Hawk Down. “This is my safety,” I told him. He would have none of it. “Oh, all right. Hang on a sec.” Release mag, pull back the slide, catch the round, release the slide, pull the trigger, insert round in mag, slap mag back in, hold gun by the barrel, ready to hand over at a moment’s notice. “For fuck’s sake,” I thought. “It’s clear, chamber empty, round back in the clip,” I told him. “Are you sure?” he asked. What am I, a three year-old with his sleeping daddy’s gun? “Of course I’m sure”, I replied. “Did you put the round back in the mag?”, he asked. “Yes, man. Round’s in the mag, chamber empty, hammer down. Good to go,” I told him while trying to bury my disapproval. Sure, he had a point, but I’d rather be ready to kill than sorry I got shot because I was too busy loading the chamber while the bad guy got the drop on me- “And anyway,” I thought, “if you worry about an accidental discharge, that’s not exactly inspiring confidence when we’re on a manhunt”…
For better or worse (probably for the better), I kept my mouth shut and eyes busy scanning every pedestrian. A hundred and fifty yards passed by, maybe more. We were doing around 40 miles an hour, my brain lit up worse than a Christmas tree from the effort of scanning every human being in visual range at high speed. Nothing. We hit the intersection, cut across all the lanes and turned right. Up we went, until the next intersection, where we turned right again and began to double back. It was as good a search pattern as any. Pick a direction and try to get ahead of your target, then watch and wait. If nothing pops up, pick another direction, do a visual search on the way and set up again. Maybe you get lucky. Maybe you don’t. It’s an art, not a science, there is an element of chance involved. I searched both sides of the road but nothing tickled my fancy, at least not until we approached the intersection of the side street that was two up from where we had started. “Possible target, half left, fifty mikes (metres). Black male, black pants, long-sleeved white shirt, bundled white floppy hat in the left hand, early twenties, slender build, looked like he’d been running until a few seconds ago and checked over his left shoulder as if someone’s after him. Time and distance match. Body language says ‘bad guy’ to me,” I thought. Just to be sure, I asked my friend “Hey man, give me that suspect’s description again?” “Black male, white shirt, white hat”, he replied. The addition of the hat helped. “Bingo! That’s the motherfucker,” I thought. “Got him,” I said. “Black male, black pants, white shirt, white hat crumpled in his left hand. Walking on the left sidewalk, moving to the left. That’s him right there, gotta be”, I said. “You sure?” my friend asked. “Yeah man, I’m sure. Black guy, black pants, white shirt, he’s got a white hat in his hand,” I replied. “Let’s get ‘im”. “Oh, you stupid motherfucker, we got yo’ sorry fuckin’ ass now…” I thought as my friend made a fast left turn, but which was quiet nonetheless.
This is real life, not some Hollywood movie. You don’t go around blaring sirens, honking your horn, shouting and shooting out of the window like some animal on crack. The target knows he’s being chased. His senses are lit up and he’s looking everywhere, so you don’t do anything to arouse his suspicion until you’re in a position to take away all of his choices, which if you’re good and lucky, on average narrow down to two anyway- capture or death. We being white men in South Africa in the 21st century and on the trail of a black man, capture is preferable because the law is so tight that you really don’t want the shit that follows killing one of these fuckers in broad daylight in a busy suburb. My friend focused on driving. I had my face off-axis but eyes clapped firmly on target. We both wore sunglasses, so the bad guy couldn’t see he was locked on. That helped, but what our quarry did next put a little smile on my face for half a second. Doctrine says you have to get off your pursuers’ radar as soon as possible. Blend in, be just another fish in an ocean full of fishes, and maybe the good guys will catch the wrong one by mistake. His tradecraft was reasonably good, but not up to professional standards. He clearly thought his safest course was to get off the street, so he entered a little convenience store. “That was stupid. I know the shop, there’s only one way out that’s unlocked, and we’re coming that way. We got you now, motherfucker,” I thought. My friend stopped in front of the store about five seconds later, I handed over his gun and went for “my toy”. We got out fast, stood in the classical gunfighter stance and I yelled “Freeze, motherfucker! You’re under arrest!” He looked for a way out, but saw there was none, and so he said “What for?” I sort of followed procedure and replied loudly “Security officer. You’re under arrest for theft and robbery. Get down NOW!” He didn’t like that idea and tried to brazen it out. My friend racked the slide of his Glock in full view, pointed it at him and yelled “Get down, get the fuck down NOW!!!” and as soon as he dove for the ground, we moved in from both sides. The two Pakistanis behind the counter freaked out. Their eyes were wide in fear, so I told them “Security officer, arresting a robbery suspect. Don’t worry, we’re not robbing you. Stay there and don’t get involved, we’ll be out your way soon”. I was calm, calmer than if I’d been crossing the road, especially just behind us on the main drag where I had almost been killed twice in six weeks by careless female drivers about three months earlier. Because of that, I realised immediately shit just got complicated.
Why? For starters, we needed to bring him to the victim so he could be identified, but had no handcuffs or zip ties, nothing with which to really secure this guy. My idea was to lie him down on the floor of the back seat of my friend’s pickup truck and sit above him with the Glock to his head, but my friend wasn’t keen on that, so he suggested we ride on the load bed. A bad guy who’s not secure, on the back of a pickup truck? How the hell was that gonna work??? We picked up the suspect and walked him to the tailgate. My friend covered the bad guy while he climbed on the left side and I on the right, after which I ordered him to sit down and I sat on the top of the side panel across from him, with my hand on “the toy” the whole time. My friend climbed in the driver’s seat and turned around to take us back to the crime scene. There was nothing to do but watch my package and if he tried anything, to kick him squarely in the chest and follow him over the side if he tried to make a run for it during the less than two hundred yards’ ride back. We sat on the load bed while waiting for the traffic lights to turn green. He thought about escaping, that I could see, but he realised it wasn’t a good idea with me watching his every move. The seconds ticked by, then we were on the move. Thirty seconds later or so, we entered the parking lot of the small shopping centre and stopped almost at the place where the suspect had robbed the woman four minutes earlier. Did I say shit just got complicated? If only… It started to roll downhill immediately. We got the suspect lying on the stomach, hands on his head. I stood next to him on the right, my friend in a covering position 10 feet away. Witnesses came forward and identified him as the robber. They then told us the victim’s daughter had gone hysterical and the woman, who by then had recovered her cell phone, just up and left. Uh-oh, we’re in deep shit… My friend and I needed her to identify the robber and agree to press charges, but now she’s gone and so is our legal protection for the citizen’s arrest. I had an idea. We needed to cuff this guy, then call the cops. They could take him in custody, go around to the shops which had surveillance cameras and try to identify the woman. All we needed was her licence plate, the cops could run it, come up with a name and cell phone number, after which they’d call her and tell the woman we had the thief in custody and ask if she could make her way to the station to open a case, then my friend and I would be in the clear with our civic duty done. What happened next was an insane, but typical South African farce.
I asked somebody to go into the biggest store to notify security that we had caught the bad guy and needed handcuffs along with a call to the police. An elderly white security guard came to assess the situation and told his controller we needed the South African Police Service on scene. Next he dropped a bombshell. Neither he nor any of the guards in his shop had handcuffs! I asked one of the witnesses to go to the pawnshop two doors down and check if they had handcuffs. The guy went pretty much everywhere, but nobody, and I mean nobody had handcuffs in that entire complex! This is South Africa, we have some of the worst crime statistics in the world, but none of the shops and security guards had something as basic as handcuffs? The guy came back with two thin cable ties, when we needed heavy duty ones. We couldn’t secure the suspect and the only thing keeping him on the ground was two guys who stood ready to kill him if he tried anything funny. Problem was my friend was becoming increasingly irate. He kicked the suspect once or twice and threatened to kill him. I told my friend to back off, that we couldn’t do anything stupid with a lot of people around, but he wasn’t listening. Now I was in the position where I was obliged by law as the arresting officer to keep the suspect alive, by using force against my friend if necessary. People began to take notice of what was happening and kept coming around. I had to watch the suspect, establish and hold a perimeter, my friend, my own back, had to work with the security guard (who identified the suspect as a thief who stole from cars), coordinate with his control and the police dispatcher some sort of extraction plan and keep the bad guy alive in a parking lot where more and more people were saying they wanted to take him out somewhere to kill him. Then I saw a guy who was trying ineffectively to act as a bystander. I don’t know what his role was, but my suspicion led me to believe he was some sort of coordinator, and that meant there were more bad guys in the area. The avalanche of shit kept rolling downhill, making things ever worse. I asked the security guard what the ETA was on the cops. He got on the radio to find out, and told me the cops weren’t coming! Well, ain’t this a bitch… Now what?
Undeterred, I asked my friend to call his armed response company to request they send a guy. They had handcuffs and could transport the suspect while we followed them to the police station, where I was going to hand him over and cause enough of a scene to get the lazy pigs to do their jobs. They didn’t want to come out either. I watched my friend call them three times, and only when he threatened to terminate his contract with them did they finally send a vehicle. By then too many people were milling around, crowding the scene and some had tried to assault the suspect. I did my best, but one or two managed to kick him. By my count, six people’s lives were now in danger. Mine, my friend’s, the suspect, the security guard and two witnesses- all because the cops and damned armed response company didn’t want to come out. My thinking was clear. No way was I gonna die protecting a scumbag. If the mob wanted him, they could have him, but I just had to hold out a little longer. Two or three interminable minutes later, the armed response officer showed up. I gave him a little briefing and asked for his handcuffs. He wanted to know if I had searched him. I told him that I hadn’t, because I needed the suspect’s consent and he hadn’t given it. No shit, this is the law- if you make a citizen’s arrest (and security officers only have this power), you need the suspect to consent to a search. If he doesn’t give it and you search him anyway, resulting evidence is deemed illegally obtained and thrown out of court, and you end up being charged with assault by the suspect. It’s ridiculous, but TIA- This Is Africa. There is a twisted sort of upside to not being able to search a suspect. I could deem him armed and dangerous. Any unauthorised move he made could be interpreted as hostile action and I could kill him in justifiable self defence. It’s not perfect, because there’s a problem with this too. This is South Africa, not America. If you kill someone here, even on your property, with video cameras rolling, plenty of witnesses and so on, the cops still arrest you on a charge of murder- and a white man in a prison cell full of blacks and coloureds almost never fares very well…
Against my advice, the armed response officer and a bystander searched the suspect. They turned up three cell phones, a wallet, a piece of paper, car key and a car remote jamming device. One of the guys also loosened his belt and searched inside his pants, but neglected to re-fasten the zipper and belt. The ARO cuffed him and I felt a little better. We put the thief’s belongings in a plastic bag after I photographed them so he wouldn’t claim later that we had robbed him. My friend was running late for the job he had to do and left me, even though I had asked him to drop me off with the thief at the police station which was less than two miles down the road on the way to his gig. The ARO was a pain in the ass. He could see the situation as well as me, that the whole thing hinged on finding the victim, and refused to lend me the handcuffs so I could walk the perp to the police station or give us a ride. Although I technically had the power to commandeer a vehicle and demand support from members of the public, that wasn’t going to happen because nobody was willing to help and I would’ve had to use force to persuade them. Yeah, right. As if I wanted more legal problems than I already had… The only play left was to move the suspect to the receiving area of the store from which the elderly security guard had come, to get him out of sight and more secure until I could arrange transportation to the police station or in the worst case scenario, release him. The suspect had been lying on hard tiles for at least half an hour by then, so once he was cuffed, I helped him sit on the raised threshold of a closed door. Once the decision to move him had been made, the security guard, ARO and myself walked the suspect to the receiving area around the back of the complex. It was ridiculous. As soon as he started walking, his pants began to fall, so I grabbed them from behind and the four of us walked with my hand holding up the pants of a black man. “Jesus,” I thought, “if anybody uploads the surveillance video to Youtube, I’ll never live this one down till the day I die…”
The receiving area was a long rectangle teeming with pallets, cargo, vehicles and people going in and out. There was no holding area, no cage, nothing. We sat the suspect down on a plastic crate by the gate and the security officer went into the store to find out if the video surveillance people had come up with anything on the victim. He came back a few minutes later with more bad news. The robbery had happened in a blindspot. All they could see were some people reacting to the incident, but nothing else. While the security guard had been away, I had a hell of a time keeping away curious employees who got too close and one of them, a white guy, even showed up with a broom to beat the guy up. “Back off,” I said. “You’re white, he’s black, there are surveillance cameras all over the place. Are you fucking mad?” By then the ARO’s radio was going berserk and he wanted to leave. I begged him to stay, but he wouldn’t. The most he could do was to leave the handcuffs. The suspect was beginning to annoy me and now even I wanted to kill him. He’s thirsty, the guy said. I knew where this was going- a tap, then he’d need the toilet, I’d have to release at least one hand, he’d try to escape… No way was I stupid enough to go down like that, so I pulled out R20 and asked a store employee to buy a bottle of water. It took a little time, then the guy came back with the water. I unscrewed the top and helped the suspect drink. Crunch time. The ARO had to go and I needed to make a decision. While the guy was there, I left the suspect in the gate security guard’s charge with the injunction not to release him until I returned and also to make sure nobody harmed him in my absence. Quite honestly, by then I thought the perp would’ve been killed in seconds without me, but as the arresting officer I had to decide whether to let him go, and therefore needed to see the surveillance tapes for myself in order to make that decision.
I went to the surveillance office, which turned out to be locked. Somebody went to get the person responsible. It turned out to be a very pleasant coloured woman who made it clear she could not let me in the office. “That’s okay, ma’am” I said. “I’ll stand in the doorway and you just show me the footage for that time frame. I don’t need a copy of it, only to see if I can spot something that was missed which might help me identify the victim, because if I don’t get that, I’ll have to let this guy go”. She actually let me in, and rewound the footage to the time frame I requested. The reports I had gotten up to that point were accurate. All I could see were some people reacting to the woman’s screams, but nothing else. That told me something- the robber and at least one accomplice I identified earlier had had inside information on the surveillance system’s capabilities and blindspots. Much as it sucked, the decision was easy to make. I had to release the suspect. I thanked the woman and left cursing the victim for her stupidity and hysterics. The suspect and guard told me he hadn’t been harmed in my absence, then I informed the scumbag he was about to go free. “I’m gonna let you go,” I told him. “But do yourself a favour. Find a job or something else that’s honest because one day you’ll run into the wrong guy and get fuckin’ killed”. He denied again that he had robbed the woman, which again didn’t convince me. “Cut the shit. I know you robbed that woman. Learn from this and get the fuck out while you can”. He thanked me for treating him well, to which I replied “You have rights and it was my duty to act according to the law. I’m not like these other people who wanted to kill you”. Then just as I was fumbling with the tiny handcuff key, my damned phone rang. This always happens, right when I don’t need the distraction. It was my friend. He had come back to fetch me and I arranged a rendezvous point, then hung up. I fumbled some more with the handcuffs and let the bad guy go. He went to the right, through the receiving gate. I went to the left through the store. After exiting the place, I ran like hell to where my friend waited and we got out of Dodge.
My friend and I caught a robber in a little over three minutes for no reasons other than to help a woman, do the right thing and to have a good time doing it. Well, at least I had a good time. I like hunting human beings because I get to pit my wits and skill against the most dangerous prey in the world, but that’s me. For the majority of cops and private security personnel in South Africa, it’s just a job which they pretend to do while the country slides towards the fires of hell and damnation because most people don’t want to take a stand, do the right thing and to unite. I’ve known what follows for many years, but this episode made me determined to act accordingly. The victim was white and the robber black. Two white men went to catch the bad guy and give her a chance to set things right, to make a difference. She abandoned us. It wasn’t the first time this happened to me, but it will be the last. White people are not united even now, when they see emerging threats beginning to coalesce and that the consequences will affect them all. They live in denial, unwilling to admit the truth and act according to it. It’s all about them, their comfort and interests, and fuck anybody who tries to tell them otherwise. Well, I tell them, if for no other reason than to look after my own interests, which are peace of mind and security, and quite frankly because I love to burst their beautiful pink bubble of denial with the sharp and uncompromisingly ugly truth of what their cowardice and indifference does. So, love it or hate it, here is the truth I promised…
South Africa is increasingly dysfunctional. In general, citizens do not help one another, private security is an ill-equipped and poorly trained joke, the cops often ignore calls to come out, the courts release suspects on something as stupid as R50 (around $3.50) bail for murder, cases take a year or more to be heard and drag on for years, sentences are often light and even then prisoners are paroled way too early, often after serving just one sixth of their time. “My colleague” is a very solid looking hunting knife. I’ve been unemployed for almost four years and even when I was working, guns were (and still are) just too expensive. It’s clear there isn’t much support when shit hits the fan. As a result, about a week after my record breaking hunt, I bought handcuffs. I carry them constantly and feel better knowing that at least I’ll never again have to rely on the goodwill of unwilling armed response officers. If necessary, I will either walk the suspect to the nearest police station myself, or just sort things out more informally in a way that will require a shovel, rubber gloves, overalls, tape, a shitload of bleach and some heavy duty plastic, but for sure hope to never have to do that because South African society frowns upon white men who decide to eliminate a black threat…
There is no White Nation or any truth to the fairytale of White Monopoly Capital which Bell Pottinger concocted and racist black political leaders such as Jacob Zuma, Julius Malema and Andile Mngxitama mention every chance they get. White people are fractured along many lines while confronting a vastly more united threat from blacks. The majority of white big business owners worry more about their Broad-Based Black Economic Empowerment (B-BBEE) certification than to wake up to the fact that things are only going to get worse for every white man and woman they refuse to employ, and eventually for themselves. Come to think of it, I heard more than once rumours about a covert Afrikaner intelligence organisation called Die Organisasie as well as the Boere Mafia, but to this day no evidence to back this up has come to light. The police have a corrupt and incompetent black-heavy leadership. Whites don’t get anywhere in that place, and hardly any response when they call for help, because the usually black cops show up in anything ranging from 30 minutes to two weeks, if ever. Prisons are controlled by The Numbers. They are gangs run mostly by coloureds and as far as I know, whites in prison don’t have something like the Aryan Brotherhood to turn to, so horror stories about what happens to many of them are legion and horrific. To put it bluntly, there’s a pale horse coming and the whites won’t ride it. Oh no, they’ll be ridden by it all night long and to the end of the bad times that are coming our way, yet they’re still sleeping at the wheel of their own fate as it hurtles ever closer to the dark mouth of the abyss.
Dear readers, we have come to the end of 12 to 12: On the lines, behind and between. Time and inspiration permitting, I will write more follow-up articles to expand your view of South Africa. Until then, I wish you all a merry Christmas, happy new year, health, wealth and happiness.
The Southern Wrong Racist