I see Julius Malema's amicable concession to let whites live a little longer, went completely unnoticed. Here is my letter of gratitude to him (translated):
"Dear Mr. Commander of Thieves,
According to law, prowling burglars like you should not be hurt but treated with decorum. So I write you an invitation, a social contract, if you like. It's just between us gentleman. My promise to anyone occupying or trespassing in my little yard is a shallow grave under the mulberry tree. Unmarked, but with a nice view of Kyalami. It's a shallow grave, because then you can see the historic race track on the opposite hill. I'm sorry if I sound rude, but our grim statistics preclude the idea of hospitality. That you can get at the Holiday Inn. Reception here will be less amicable.
Why so chilly a reception, you may ask? Let me tell you.
Our small country is the world's honorary leaders of violence and crime, a place now rife with self-entitled, thieving and murderous, bandits like you. It's a pity, because apart from speeding, most South Africans are quite decent and rather law-abiding. Even so, we may sport a murder-index six times the global average, but our true achievements deal with a special kind of brutality reminiscent of the worst of genocidal wars - and a degree of bloodthirst that occurs in animals only. There is a very slim chance that a South African wall-jumper is satisfied with a smart phone, a TV and a Marmite sandwich. Humanitarian speeches on civility may still have the desired effect in other countries, perhaps, but not here. If I'm black and you're black, I suffer more so. Often because I cannot always afford protection and I fear for my children's lives like any other South African father. If I were brown and you black, we may be somewhere in the crime capital of the Western Cape, where the same holds true, you know. But if I'm white and you're black, the Afrocentric payback license seemingly inspires a little more creativity with you. There's even a cute Struggle song you can hum while burning the white elderly with a hot iron or raping wives infront of their tied down husbands. I've stopped asking why you do it. Do not tell me you're hungry, because for that lie, you get a deep grave and you lose the prospect of a view.
Allow me tell you why I think you do it. Someone told you of a nirvanic place in the world where everybody is equal (I wish) and of a distant country with top Western cities, infrastructure and life expectancy, which was "stolen" from you and your "peaceful" ancestors. And you bought the whole palaver. The irony, which escapes you, is that you still have one way only to respond to the myth: maximum barbarity.
But by now you and your night prowlers have given us a twenty-two year model of how we should perceive you. And we perceive you with profound distaste, a deep gall in the gills.
You and your occupiers have averaged for this beautiful country a murder rate of 30/100 000 murders. And that is in a rather quiet year. Let's not talk robberies, rapes and violence now because I may not have enough zeros on my fourth laptop. With much respect, mr Commander of Thieves, and in the light of these statistics, I can promise occupiers very little respite on my patio. I don't have much to promise inside either. I have comfortable couches and an old hi-fi. There may even be coins in my back pocket. But I have news for you. You may make it across the fence, or into the house, but if the Lord of Providence gives me a four-meter radius on you, I will defend my family with my life - and yours - long before you get a chance to explain what exactly you are looking for in my bedroom.
Your fat ass, sir, and everyone else's that created legislation to soften your landing on my lawn. Until burglars distinguish themselves with large readable placards, explaining their good intentions, your space is reserved for you under the mulberry tree.
Now, I know you sneak up on the elderly from behind with sticks and stones, but if I see you coming, you need to know: here, you will shit large bricks.