I have two friends, a Nigerian and a Tanzanian. I am a South African. Western, eastern, or southern, we are all African.

My country· is not in Africa. It's down South. On it's way out; it's culture having gone through destruction. And now, inevitably doomed to extinction. My brother and my sister from Nigeria and Tanzania thought they'd suckle on the same breast. Yet they remain orphans in the solitude of transformation.

Who will acknowledge them and how? When a country's myopia prevents its from acknowledging its transformation. Transformation, of course, is movement. Or lack thereof. Moving from a past as numbing a comfort as alcohol.

Here they are, my brother and sister, amongst blind drunkards. Dancing crazily to their own songs. Songs from their home, songs from Africa, songs with no drum beat. Rhythm-less. Alone dancing, they look like fools.

I urge them on, but my voice is caught in the uprising snore of my society. I admit it might actually contribute to this excruciating grunt. This is a RANT. I'm helpless in this web. I want what was, because I'm afraid of what's to come. They are my friends because they pity me. Ironically hungrier than them, I am unsure where to find the gold in this rich mine called Earth. My friends and I identify. We are one. The Tanzanian, the Nigerian and the South African. We are African.