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Messages - king daniel

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1
Readers Corner - Books / Re: peace to dj roc raida
« on: September 11, 2009, 08:34:48 AM »
You prolly askin what I would do with a beat like this
I’d get up turn the plate so I can eat my chips
Most the skeptics pessimistic bout the heat I spit
Feelin a tad thirsty servants might just need a sip
Check it how I bring the fire when the needle dips
Natural mystic blowing through the air no seeds with it
Some forgot about the time I was in sizwe’s whip
Seem like the dues are fully paid so he’s really sick
Tryna build on certain concepts that can feed your kids
Beat down mic up till you freed from bids
Knowin why even the caged bird sings might lead to hits
Word of mouth they heard about some ill MC that sings
Negative experiences I done seen them things
So sit back relax and let me begin
That’s not medicinal herbs son it’s leaves and shit
Nowdays I’m out the game no more mischievious cliqs

Handle ya angle
Don’t get it twis or tangle
Or you might wind up strangled   X2

Spent a lot of high times writing these fly rhymes
Don’t matter what you might find when you read my mind
Just get up write signs
To buy your girl size fives
Who the nice guy killin sets keeping it quite hype
I’m tyryna reach for the stars so I can touch my sky
When I see you at the market tradin these dimes fine
Might be wonderin how I came up with these type styles
Better do your multiplication I’m you times five
See I’m fightin for your writin son besides inclined
So if you are opposed to it then try decide
Why I’m goin back in time with my tee tie dyed
And like wicked selectas you should C I’m Live
In your sector with a lecture that will climb grapevines
Problem is you got the vocab of kids in grade five!

Handle ya angle
Don’t get it twis or tangle
Or you might wind up strangled    X2

2
Hot Traxxx / Re: Mos Def - Ecstatic
« on: September 08, 2009, 07:22:28 PM »
Mos nice you saw the evidence, a downside was when some cat strolled onto the stÀge and hugged him tho. This was bad in terms of future shows, security needs to be beefed up or cat§ simply won't tour SA no mo. Peace

3
Chief Rocka - Open Mic / Thirteen Cents
« on: September 08, 2009, 02:04:39 PM »
Word up to hiphop heads shanghai to changmai
Gotta stay up and defeat them bad guys
True our way of life has changed it’s due to mad lies
Who can predict if we’ll communicate through hand signs
In a future imperfect they put youths on standby
Who coulda seen that those who used to hang high
Fell by the wayside leather skin like tanned hides
After almost a million and one bands tried
To recreate the big bang of King Dan’s styles
Now they looking down when before they had pride
Thas why I cant condone those brose who plan heists
Since big brother watchin us and tap lies
I got bigger fish to fry no time for crap rhymes

Down below or overhead
Thirteen cents don’t but you a loaf of bread
The rich stay powerful don’t forget
Some so sick that they’d prolly bone the dead
So don’t forget         X2

Record labels sign these kids with no talent
Who rose to the top of the charts but lost balance
All this mining them do is so parrot
Mostly they mastering the thick pallete
Looking like they tryna get picked by nick mallet
The natural flair is lost it’s apparent
Like the Malawian kids with no parents
Tryna get they a**es to work with old carrots
Whenever I’m on ya sets with dope habits
Ain’t givin them the blunt they don’t pa** it
Phoenix risin out of the ash with gold talons
Child at heart style of art not grown manners
Won’t get me at portobellos I told Tarryn
Rather bring light in the dark and hold lanterns
Sometime I might rock the gear with bold patterns

Down below or overhead
Thirteen cents don’t but you a loaf of bread
The rich stay powerful don’t forget
Some so sick that they’d probably bone the dead
So don’t forget         X2

4
Readers Corner - Books / Re: peace to dj roc raida
« on: September 08, 2009, 01:40:21 PM »
Lemme bless it again
Forget about the stress on my brain
Unnecessary pressures and strain
Difference between pleasure and pain
Is you could have an excellent day
Situation flips instead you get played
When I’m gone the lessons remain
Yet still telling you the lessons remain
And I’m telling you the tension’s the same
Conformists tell us ‘get in your lane’
Life’s mysteries and questions explained
Though the medium of depression and shame
Stopped me from expressing this way
Keep on playing your professional games
But chances are I’ll bet crews get maimed
While possibly collecting they change
Or just planning to jet in a range
Then you wonder why the melanin fades?
It’s cause the sadistic are messin with change.

5
AG Wire / Re: BlackStar Reunion
« on: September 07, 2009, 06:53:11 PM »
Word I gat you.

6
Chief Rocka - Open Mic / beat down mic up
« on: September 07, 2009, 04:25:15 PM »
Fools in SA done been frontin on me way too long
Thas why you listen wonderin why I rarely make new songs
Typical criminal mindstate so I may do wrong
Take it back to adolescence when my faith grew strong
Unlimited lyric spiritual journey I take you on
Give critics specific directions to a breakthrough blog
Even in he stormy weather he still wades through fog
With this fitness level witness rebels make crews jog
Uninpired by the bullrap or what place you bombed
Small wonder like sitcoms youths escape theough bongs
Cause I’m telling you the revenue the same news on
All these troublesome bubblegum raps the fame’s soon gone
Careful of industry snakes who feed your face to dogs
Lave kids out during the coldest nughts to break stew logs
Don’t forget to show pride and inprove the race you from
Doin some lateral thinking but the space is wrong

Beat down mic up :my cup overfloweth
He sounds quite stuffed :my cup overfloweth
Eat clowns like what: my cup overfloweth
Need I say the name: don’t you know it

7
AG Wire / Re: BlackStar Reunion
« on: September 07, 2009, 03:55:23 PM »
s hood news
Gives the rest of us who retired hope that we can get up again one day
Blackstar thas true school.
Peace

8
Readers Corner - Books / Re: peace to dj roc raida
« on: September 07, 2009, 03:48:55 PM »
You got insides?

Those who fake scriptures
On phones which take pictures
Control the late fixtures
And known to break mixers
That’s sold for eight figures
Exposed to great spitters
He’s grown a fate switcher
Who as old as great pitchers
Dude sold a grape picker
When told the game’s bigger
In odes to crate diggers
Who hold the plate injured
Although it may linger
Was told the jakes injure
Choke hold and mace niggaz
Ten fold this aint sliqour
In homes that make liquor
For shows that quake richter
Broke toes of place kickers
So coach replace victor

Clear the ringside
Boxing over the king’s died
You got insides?                   X2

9
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


10
General Discussion / Re: Jay Z. Illuminati Satanist?
« on: September 06, 2009, 11:54:12 AM »
jealousy, the number one killer amongst black folks.(superMFvillain)

11
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?

12
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 

13
Hot Traxxx / Re: Bread and Butter - Rattex - The Official Thread
« on: September 22, 2008, 04:32:19 PM »
looking foward to it
thanks for the inspiration fellas
what next i wonder

14
General Discussion / Breaking norms in the Cape of storms
« on: September 12, 2008, 10:41:04 AM »
Against a backdrop of colonial architecture-from the Herbert Baker facades to the Cape Dutch homesteads which litter the Western Cape and Cape Town in general, the street and highway names, schools and hospitals, dedicated to colonialists and slavemaster statues, one is so often reminded that nothing has changed in these parts. In our 14 plus years of liberation from apartheid, which was subsequently replaced by tripartheid, the lesson we have all learned is perhaps most aptly personified by our present-day crime stats. So gross is the situation that it affects even those at the upper echelons of our currently elitist society. The only ones unaffected are the nativistic denialists who sit with their heads in the clouds and eyes wide shut, oblivious to the obvious.
In 1652, we are told that a certain Jan Van Riebeck landed on our shores at what is known by the rich as Camps Bay. This makes the bay of pigs our very own Plymouth Rock. This was, I can safely a**ume, an area inhabited by a vast populus of people who practiced a lifestyle which may have been viewed as primitive by the standards of the Dutch sailors. However, instead of allowing this way of life to continue unabated, the Dutch went about implementing the original RDP(rape,devastation and pillage)of the Khoi San and other indigenous peoples. This ultimaltely resulted in (a) the so-called coloured race, and (b) the cape flats. If these men and women were aware how the situation would turn out 400 years later, perhaps they would themselves have deviated from their plans of settlement on our shores.
I was once told that the reason why the white people of Cape Town are so security conscious is largely due to the fact that they are in actual fact aware of the fact that they are thieves. The fact is, no one has ever had the courage to take any member or offspring of the settlers and overseas overseers to suit for theft of their land. Instead, we have been forced to accept donations and such from sympathetic governments as compensation for the loss of our birthright. The Land Claims Commission has done little or nothing to remedy the irrepeairable situation.

Most white families continue to own two or three homes, sometimes acquiring property simply for developmental purposes or profit. The fact is, there are more than enough houses in this province to house us all. And enough food to feed us sevenfold. Enough clothing is manufactured here for us all to change every day. Yet those who complain or cry out are merely viewed as threats to national security and so on. That's what they call a revolutionary nowadays.

Presently, it appears the succesion debate has been somewhat settled. The corruptors have voted the corrupt into power and so on, in order to ensure us and our future generations another 10 years or more of shitocracy. Thus, the brain drain we so often complain of is in order. For anyone with a sound mind knows that the black, gold and green gra** of home is clearly not in the hands of the descendants of those who died for it.

I leave you with this afterthought: During the recent power outages in Gauteng, there was a ma**ive power failure which affected the city in its entirety. The only building which still miraculously had power was the Goldfields building. What does this spell out? Those elected to power have been placed in these positions as a mere formality.

Happy Biko Day!

15
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

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