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Topics - king daniel

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Readers Corner - Books / peace to dj roc raida
« on: September 06, 2009, 12:04:35 PM »
Did'nt read anything here about roc raida's accident...please keep him in your thoughts as a hiphop comunity it's always possible for us to stand together.peace

My birthplace

It would take some years of therapy to heal from this
Junk jivin sports hall dimes sealed the kiss
These are those good old days the ones we really miss
We’d go out grab a bottle of that eagle fish
So young drinks were definetely illegal kids
Most times throwin up after a lethal binge
Maybe some shorty desperately let you feel her tits
Friends stayin over a the crib steal ya kicks
Posin in supermarkets fam was feeling rich
Moms found a bag of weed what the deal with it
Slave wages to make pages it means ya whipped
By a system that was put here to decieve too quick
Fruit from the vine time cause it seems you picked
Frontline not dictated thas some g-sus tip
Fortunately rockin a tee baggy jeans with it
Cause it’s mad hot choppin emcees so chill a bit
On occasion rite of pa**age climb your hill and sit
When you saw coming of age roads that kill and spit
Then get out life’s tools and woodworks drillbits
Now you’ve grown a heart so that you can start buildin ships

My birthplace
Is also the place I caught my first case
Rat race blue collar factory work late
A coastal port for vocal thoughts on happy earthdays
Learn first aid even though its just wordplay    x2

General Discussion / bushradyoh
« on: January 13, 2009, 07:00:59 PM »
can anyone let me know if there's still a headwarmers show on 89.5?

General Discussion / James Baldwin
« on: December 04, 2008, 10:13:39 AM »

An Open Letter to My Sister, 
Angela Y. Davis

by James Baldwin

Dear Sister: 
One might have hoped that, by this hour, the very sight of chains on Black flesh, or the very sight of chains, would be so intolerable a sight for the American people, and so unbearable a memory, that they would themselves spontaneously rise up and strike off the manacles. But, no, they appear to glory in their chains; now, more than ever, they appear to measure their safety in chains and corpses. And so, Newsweek, civilized defender of the indefensible, attempts to drown you in a sea of crocodile tears ("it remained to be seen what sort of personal liberation she had achieved") and puts you on its cover, chained. 
       You look exceedingly alone—as alone, say, as the Jewish housewife in the boxcar headed for Dachau, or as any one of our ancestors, chained together in the name of Jesus, headed for a Christian land. 
       Well. Since we live in an age which silence is not only criminal but suicidal, I have been making as much noise as I can, here in Europe, on radio and television—in fact, have just returned from a land, Germany, which was made notorious by a silent majority not so very long ago. I was asked to speak on the case of Miss Angela Davis, and did so. Very probably an exerciser in futility, but one must let no opportunity slide. 
       I am something like twenty years older than you, of that generation, therefore, of which George Jackson ventures that "there are no healthy brothers—none at all." I am in no way equipped to dispute this speculation (not, anyway, without descending into what, at the moment, would be irrelevant subtleties) for I know too well what he means. My own state of health is certainly precarious enough. In considering you, and Huey, and George and (especially) Jonathan Jackson, I began to apprehend what you may have had in mind when you spoke of the uses to which we could put the experience of the slave. What has happened, it seems to me, and to put it far too simply, is that a whole new generation of people have a**essed and absorbed their history, and, in that tremendous action, have freed themselves of it and will never be victims again. This may seem an odd, indefensibly pertinent and insensitive thing to say to a sister in prison, battling for her life—for all our lives. Yet, I dare to say it, for I think you will perhaps not misunderstand me, and I do not say it, after all, from the position of spectator. 
       I am trying to suggest that you—for example—do not appear to be your father's daughter in the same way that I am my father's son. At bottom, my father's expectations and mine were the same, the expectations of his generation and mine were the same; and neither the immense difference in our ages nor the move from the South to the North could alter these expectations or make our lives more viable. For, in fact, to use the brutal parlance of that hour, the interior language of despair, he was just a n-----—a n----- laborer preacher, and so was I. I jumped the track but that's of no more importance here, in itself, than the fact that some poor Spaniards become rich bull fighters, or that some poor Black boys become rich—boxers, for example. That's rarely, if ever, afforded the people more than a great emotional catharsis, though I don't mean to be condescending about that, either. But when Ca**ius Clay became Muhammad Ali and refused to put on that uniform (and sacrificed all that money!) a very different impact was made on the people and a very different kind of instruction had begun. 
       The American triumph—in which the American tragedy has always been implicit—was to make Black people despise themselves. When I was little I despised myself; I did not know any better. And this meant, albeit unconsciously, or against my will, or in great pain, that I also despised my father. And my mother. And my brothers. And my sisters. Black people were killing each other every Saturday night out on Lenox Avenue, when I was growing up; and no one explained to them, or to me, that it was intended that they should; that they were penned where they were, like animals, in order that they should consider themselves no better than animals. Everything supported this sense of reality, nothing denied it: and so one was ready, when it came time to go to work, to be treated as a slave. So one was ready, when human terrors came, to bow before a white God and beg Jesus for salvation—this same white God who was unable to raise a finger to do so little as to help you pay your rent, unable to be awakened in time to help you save your child! 
       There is always, of course, more to any picture than can speedily be perceived and in all of this—groaning and moaning, watching, calculating, clowning, surviving, and outwitting, some tremendous strength was nevertheless being forged, which is part of our legacy today. But that particular aspect of our journey now begins to be behind us. The secret is out: we are men! 
       But the blunt, open articulation of this secret has frightened the nation to death. i wish I could say, "to life," but that is much to demand of a disparate collection of displaced people still cowering in their wagon trains and singing "Onward Christian Soldiers." The nation, if America is a nation, is not in the least prepared for this day. It is a day which the Americans never expected to see, however piously they may declare their belief in progress and democracy. Those words, now, on American lips, have become a kind of universal obscenity: for this most unhappy people, strong believers in arithmetic, never expected to be confronted with the algebra of their history. 
       One way of gauging a nation's health, or of discerning what it really considers to be its interests—or to what extent it can be considered as a nation as distinguished from a coalition of special interests—is to examine those people it elects to represent or protect it. One glance at the American leaders (or figureheads) conveys that America is on the edge of absolute chaos, and also suggests the future to which American interests, if not the bulk of the American people, appear willing to consign the Blacks. (Indeed, one look at our past conveys that.) It is clear that for the bulk of our (nominal) countrymen, we are all expendable. And Messrs. Nixon, Agnew, Mitchell, and Hoover, to say nothing, of course, of the Kings' Row basket case, the winning Ronnie Reagan, will not hesitate for an instant to carry out what they insist is the will of the people. 
       But what, in America, is the will of the people? And who, for the above-named, are the people? The people, whoever they may be, know as much about the forces which have placed the above-named gentlemen in power as they do about the forces responsible for the slaughter in Vietnam. The will of the people, in America, has always been at the mercy of an ignorance not merely phenomenal, but sacred, and sacredly cultivated: the better to be used by a carnivorous economy which democratically slaughters and victimizes whites and Blacks alike. But most white Americans do not dare admit this (though they suspect it) and this fact contains mortal danger for the Blacks and tragedy for the nation. 
       Or, to put it another way, as long as white Americans take refuge in their whiteness—for so long as they are unable to walk out of this most monstrous of traps—they will allow millions of people to be slaughtered in their name, and will be manipulated into and surrender themselves to what they will think of—and justify—as a racial war. They will never, so long as their whiteness puts so sinister a distance between themselves and their own experience and the experience of others, feel themselves sufficiently human, sufficiently worthwhile, to become responsible for themselves, their leaders, their country, their children, or their fate. They will perish (as we once put it in our black church) in their sins —that is, in their delusions. And this is happening, needless to say, already, all around us. 
       Only a handful of the millions of people in this vast place are aware that the fate intended for you, Sister Angela, and for George Jackson, and for the numberless prisoners in our concentration camps—for that is what they are—is a fate which is about to engulf them, too, White lives, for the forces which rule in this country, are no more sacred than Black ones, as many and many a student is discovering, as the white American corpses in Vietnam prove. If the American people are unable to contend with their elected leaders for the redemption of their own honor and the loves of their own children, we the Blacks, the most rejected of the Western children, can expect very little help at their hands; which, after all, is nothing new. What the Americans do not realize is that a war between brothers, in the same cities, on the same soil is not a racial war but a civil war. But the American delusion is not only that their brothers all are white but that the whites are all their brothers. 
       So be it. We cannot awaken this sleeper, and God knows we have tried. We must do what we can do, and fortify and save each other—we are not drowning in an apathetic self-contempt, we do feel ourselves sufficiently worthwhile to contend even with the inexorable forces in order to change our fate and the fate of our children and the condition of the world! We know that a man is not a thing and is not to be placed at the mercy of things. We know that air and water belong to all mankind and not merely to industrialists. We know that a baby does not come into the world merely to be the instrument of someone else's profit. We know that a democracy does not mean the coercion of all into a deadly—and, finally, wicked— mediocrity but the liberty for all to aspire to the best that is in him, or that has ever been. 
       We know that we, the Blacks, and not only we, the blacks, have been, and are, the victims of a system whose only fuel is greed, whose only god is profit. We know that the fruits of this system have been ignorance, despair, and death, and we know that the system is doomed because the world can no longer afford it—if, indeed, it ever could have. And we know that, for the perpetuation of this system, we have all been mercilessly brutalized, and have been told nothing but lies, lies about ourselves and our kinsmen and our past, and about love, life, and death, so that both soul and body have been bound in hell. 
       The enormous revolution in black consciousness which has occurred in your generation, my dear sister, means the beginning or the end of America. Some of us, white and Black, know how great a price has already been paid to bring into existence a new consciousness, a new people, an unprecendented nation. If we know, and do nothing, we are worse than the murderers hired in our name. 
       If we know, then we must fight for your life as though it were our own—which it is—and render impa**able with our bodies the corridor to the gas chamber. For, if they take you in the morning, they will be coming for us that night. 
       Therefore: peace.

Brother James

November 19, 1970 

General Discussion / steve biko memorial lecture
« on: September 11, 2008, 03:41:57 PM »
10 September 2008

Finance Minister, Trevor A Manuel, will deliver the ninth Annual Steve Biko Memorial Lecture on 11 September 2008, at the University of Cape Town.

The Annual Steve Biko Memorial Lecture is a flagship of the Steve Biko Foundation and has taken place annually since 2000. It is intended to provide an opportunity to reflect upon the legacy of Bantu Stephen Biko in relation to contemporary issues, particularly regarding the challenges of development and nation building.

The lecture has in the past been delivered by luminaries such as former president Nelson Mandela, Archbishop Desmond Tutu and President Thabo Mbeki. Attendees include political leaders, members of the international community and local community members.

Date: 11 September 2008
Time: 18h00
Venue: Jameson Hall, Upper Campus, University of Cape Town

Please note that seating is on a first come, first served basis.

Issued by: Ministry of Finance
10 September 2008

General Discussion / Artquake
« on: April 24, 2008, 09:17:11 AM »
With the current state of affairs in south African Art circles, we are reminded of a stage when local artists were foced to base their operations abroad due to hostilities within the scene around these parts. At this present moment it appears that more or less the same mood persists. Meaning that there has been little or no fundamental change as far as the intergration of black artists into the mainstream galleries and into curatorship positions. This is evident in the number of solo exhibitions featuring artists of colour within our borders. Without relying on the usual race rhetoric, I will attempt to highlight why i feel such a mood exists within our contemporary scenario.
Firstly, without having to name any institutions, I recently viewed an installation in one of the local galleries that was staged or put together by an individual or group of artists known as 'the farm' in late 2007. This exhibition consisted of what appeared to be a family of homeless people who had seemingly set up a kind of informal settlement within the confines of the gallery space. Another interesting observation was that it included a live pig as part of the installation. What struck me as dubious and infuriated me the most, was the fact that there was on the wall pasted a 'contract of exploitation' which stipulated that the subjects of the installation had signed to do this work for no renumeration every day. Another disgusting aspect was that the gallery as well as the art school stank of pig faeces for days after that.
The second point which i wish to reflect on was a piece by one of our esteemed local art theorists that was called' niggers can't be choosers'.(Ed Young) This piece was supposed to have been part of an international exhibit in the US but was later pulled after being paintbombed with white paint. However one of our prominent writers of colour, namely Ronald Suresh Roberts, was later photographed wearing a t-shirt withthe same statement screenprinted on it. With both of the abovementioned pieces, both the human zoo and the Ed Young Piece, one thing that struck me as akward was that in the manner of normal art, these pieces did not provoke thought, but rather brought about a negative reaction from observers, differing according to one's social grouping.
The third incident was perhaps not so art related but more in line with the fact that the spaces in which the works are exhibited, ie the galleries have become areas in which certain people are unwelcome. I am not aware whether this is race related, however my understanding of such spaces is that they are public spaces into which any member of society should be allowed in order to gainfully engage wuith the artworks and have their own opinion of them. This in my view would entitle a better quality of art in the end ,as artists form differing social backgrounds could then relate and camaraderie as well as competition would stay healthy. The unfortunate thing now is that unlike in the past one cannot bring a child to view these pieces, as in most shows there is usually an element of pron or adults only material. This in my view is a regression of sorts. Anyway  to cut a long story short, a few days ago I returned to the same gallery to view the master's exhibtion that was hung there. As far as I knew it was available for all to see. Yet as I was only half way through the viewing I was interrupted by a security guard who asked if I could produce identification. This was not only an interruption of my artistic experience, but an affirmation of that which I was already aware.
To conclude, South African Art has once again become an elitist pursuit,to which an inner circle appear to excel while the starving artists and curators are forced to ply their wares elsewhere. The sad part of this is that the outcome of this experience creates a disjointed view of the visual art scene and makes it hard for galleries to be aware of the true value of our artworks and artistic integrity of the artists, as well as the fact that certain artists fade into obscurity never to be seen again. Neither the galleries nor the partrons can locate them after that.RIP Billy Mandindi.

General Discussion / prodigal son returns tracklisting
« on: November 22, 2007, 02:42:12 PM »
1:400 year plan
2:return of the prodigal son
5:around the way feat.franktalk as getafix the wise druid and bif 37
6:time to choose feat.nimbus
7:rise and fall produced by maf stereotypes
8:after the rain feat empress meru
9:who said voetsek
10:no weaponry
11:bless them
12:rags to riches produced by dplanet
13:whitecollarcrime part two feat. naid fuk
14:africa b4 the ma**acre interlude
15:the mad damn speaker
16:won't be long feat. midus the jagged jigsaw
19:use your hands feat. spartan
20:sofa sonke

General Discussion / dan yell...p.s i'm back
« on: September 21, 2007, 02:42:34 PM »
met through a mutual friend
unusual blend of
long    hair
and dark.k.k skin
for oneundividedeternalove
we got more       from
confidence was dealt a blow
know now
that  everything
happen for a reason
seasons have pa**ed
but i've been meaning to ask
where did it all start?

and which one of us had a small heart?

General Discussion / f*** ZULA
« on: March 23, 2007, 01:53:01 PM »
let's chase those crazy bouncers out of town

the grapes of rap have been sown many times
terror requires complete silence when he rhymes
if you think he's weak do you see any signs
been involved in and perpetuated many crimes

General Discussion / white sangomas
« on: September 29, 2006, 12:19:12 PM »
what you think about white sangomas
are they for real
me i rob them and flush their muti down the toilet
and what about the phallusy of white ppl with dreadlocks

btw i am not a racist
my best friends are white!right

General Discussion / marvel cpt
« on: September 11, 2006, 01:07:05 PM »
'bouncers actin like cops in the club'
don't bother going there it's a waste of time

Chief Rocka - Open Mic / to all those who doubt me
« on: August 08, 2006, 10:20:22 PM »
there are but a few other views aside from this
some are new and come to do what they know they missed
number two f***s with you but the flows stay fit
nothing's new i been to the far side exists
jumpin through something looped to get on the list
run with crews plus the view has just changed a bit
pap and stew on ones and twos who's as strange as this
come and do some for you ask the age of chris
stunning news for frontin dudes who aint made a script
guns or booze funds are few on some major shit
one will lose drunken feuds but he makes it fit
drummers choose to one excused like a naked chick
currents prove sons are true while your label kicks
done it too wanna move but can't take a hit
love her food hungry dudes who might break your hip
drug is proof thugs are clues pirates takin ship
justice threw somethin due when he paid for it
one dispute stuns the youth while creating skits
sun was blue gunja blew in relating with
rushin soon cousins who sit debating spliffs
fussin june cussin tunes and we hating it
dust with jews just will lose like a paganist
stubborn sues stub the mood quickly make a fist
jumpin queues up in schools deal in breaks and kicks
frontin dudes done it too in a cage they sit
puff would lose plus its rude and engage in spit
butter smooth swum in pools like an angelfish

Producers - Discussion / rainy day east london kingstitute
« on: May 23, 2006, 06:05:08 PM »
what a life it cuts like butterknife
member way back when it was fun to write
something nice now kids just run and hide
cant walk anywhere without a gun at night
plus they bit my dogs we coming right
cheatin us  for so long we jumpin twice
tell a bookie throw the f***in dice
keepin is soulful cause funk is nice
drunken type master of duck and dive
summertime un_earned a son of mine
still lookin fresh as cargo just arrived
never hesitant to bust it live
and the nine is mine to stun a mind
dj powers drops in stutterheim
at highschool i was never the flunking rtype
visitin priznick got stuck inside
now i walk around carrying a riusted mic
strugglin man across the colour line
had a full head of hear a rasta type
show you a hundred ways to kap a pipe
ya record might just sell the cover's tight
you lookin so british become a knight
we stayin grimy dark like covered lights
courted scandal shit i love that dime
lost on a road with a dozen signs
found self again it seems some punks are blind
up at five to make beats come alive
nothin new about the puppet jive
hiphop connected look to one archive

_after the rain must shine the sun bright
true for every dark tunnel sight
i am the light_right(repeat)

Hot Traxxx / top 5 east cape homies
« on: May 06, 2006, 01:12:29 PM »
was going to post a script but decided against it phaps later on when i'm blunted i'll check it out though. Not really trying to be the nr.1 mc in apetown and shit when i'm actually from eastern cape....
here's my top 5 eastern conference heads
peash kapish

Chief Rocka - Open Mic / king daniel survived to tell tell
« on: February 20, 2006, 05:07:31 PM »
i met up with these israelis who introduced me to Beezy Bailey
asking me about headlines in cheezy dailies
soon come like the day that my own feet'll fail me
especially since vegetarians found leaves is tasty
if you don't get the call so you can even page dee
can't catch us over your head these thieves is hasty
have to stay alert even when he sees them waste beats
thinkin shit has changed but still it be the same peeps
promotin american acts on african soil is easy maybe
but it's perpetuating uncle samboism to needy babies
doesn't take genius brains to see these days we
got our priorities mixed up believe in safety
once had this girl who turned out to be an easy lady
took the whole pie didn't even leave me pastry
burned up the bridges now you can't even face b
whoever controls the media's mind can read on page 3
bin followin jim morisson doors as she embraced keys
leapin lizardz from scorpion bites it seems we scaly
don't take a game ranger to see them breedin vaguely
runnin for columbian elections sneezin daily
leavin competition at pit stops cheat and make peace
used to write longer scripts he seen them lace sneaks
character a**asiation kills so leave the hate speech

our ancestors were not from manchester they were from africa
before the ma**acre

General Discussion / the king is strong
« on: December 31, 2005, 05:15:56 PM »
yo i was reading about this one 17yr old  kid in ireland who met  this girl on myspace who was 15, killed  her  parents and ran off  with her on some mickey and mallory...internet is evil kids beware. there's a  big  debate now as to how to keep  underage  minors off that site...
plus  in amsterdam  i read abt this new  device they  came with so ladies can pee  standing up. i t's like some piece of cardboard  they dispose after the shower ....sure to be a big hit for all my 'chicks with decks'.  Dutch peeps is interesting           yo
somebody told me theres a track  with damian marley and nas on some zimbabwe concept...anybody  got that  shit?
yo rob one check yr pm any shows we can bumrush  out here?
i still can't figure out the upload shit...will try  again when i've meditated

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