My hero for the week is Zulu king Goodwill Zwelithini. At the Reed Dance in Nongoma last weekend, he had a few words for the rhino poachers among us. “I will personally hunt you down and deal with you accordingly if you carry on with this unbecoming behaviour.”

If the Zulus could stick it to the British army at Isandlwana, they shouldn’t have a problem sticking it to a small crew of reprehensible horn snatchers.

The king might want to change out of his traditional kit, though. It wouldn’t do for him to be stalking a gang of poachers only to be mistaken for a leopard and shot in the leg by a half-drunk sheep farmer.

Right away, Brenda picked up on the king’s reference to unbecoming behaviour. She did the old snort-and-head-toss, put her hand on her hip and said that in some societies, unbecoming behaviour could quite feasibly include insisting that hundreds of half-naked teenage virgins kneel at one’s feet each year while taxpayers fork out R55-million for six wives, 27 children, servants, staff, luxury cars, palaces and farms in a country drowning in ignorance and poverty.

I don’t care. If he puts together an impi and manages to impale a few poachers on the royal assegai, he’s more than welcome to some of my money.

And moving on. I don’t like it when judges start banning words. I’m in the word business and it makes me uneasy. When I was a kid growing up in Durban, my parents would call me dreadful names. I retaliated by chanting, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”

They thought about this for a moment. “You’re right,” my father said, going into the garden and filling his pockets with rocks. My mother broke a branch off a thorn tree. Then they chased me around the house trying to thank me for showing them a more effective way of disciplining me. I was too quick for them. Before they knew it, I was living in Cape Town.

Those tight-assed mooncalves over at AfriForum and the Transvaal Agricultural Union are going to get us all killed. In the old days, if an Afrikaner had a problem with you, he’d gnaw off one of your arms and beat you to death with it. I can’t tell you how many times this happened to me in the army. Of course, if you were black and he had a problem with you, he was likely to be a lot less gentle.

These days, the educated ones take you to court. But outside the cities, you can still find those who are happy to just drag you behind their bakkie.

I almost prefer the old ways. I’m reminded of the kangaroo courts that are still held in the more remote parts of Australia. Because they are frequently smarter than the locals, real kangaroos are in charge. The more serious cases are heard by a full bench made up of three kangaroos. Unlike here, the cases don’t drag on forever. Judges hear the evidence and waste no time in jumping to conclusions.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Judge Colin Lamont has a bit of kangaroo in him. Here’s what he thought of the case dragging on for five months: “This matter could have been dealt with on the basis of the known facts at the commencement of the hearing and the video. Little if any other evidence made any difference to the outcome.”

He might have saved everyone the trouble and simply phoned in the verdict before the case even started. Perhaps Mrs Lamont threatened to send him to Exile Island unless he did the right thing.

Our waters are becoming seriously muddied, and I’m not only saying this because I happen to be listening to Muddy Waters. Check this out. The Democratic Alliance, whose hostility towards white people is on a par with that of the Aryan National Front, is only half over the moon.

Although welcoming anything that gets Malema to keep his horrible trap shut, DA member of parliament Dene Smuts said on Tuesday: “Afrikaners are not “fragile”, as the judge fears, and they know only too well from their own past history that laws pretending to prohibit bad vibes between population groups are simply an instrument of political majority control.”

Bad vibes? Listen, Dene. You went to Oranje Meisieskool in the Free State. Give it up. You’ll never be Marianne Faithfull.

I found her statement on the internet. The first response was from something called Gramsci. It said: “Why does the DA hate its largest group of supporters so much? Once the Afrikaners wake up, the DA is finished.”

I’m sorry to tell you this, boet, but if you know of any Afrikaners who haven’t woken up yet, you might want to check their pulse.

The Freedom of Expression Institute would also prefer AfriForum to focus its attention on stuff it knows about. Like, oh, I don’t know, maybe creating a genetically modified cow that produces brandy instead of milk. On the udder hand, Darren, perhaps that’s not such a good idea.

Interviewed outside court, a little grey man from AfriForum warned that Dr Gregory Stanton, the president of an outfit called Genocide Watch, had recently upgraded the genocide warning for South Africa from level five to level six.

Level seven, according to this one-time Fulbright professor at the University of Swaziland, is mass extermination. I may be wrong, and for the first time in my life I really hope I am, but somehow I don’t think we are one step away from seeing four million whiteys being slaughtered in their beds.

Genocide takes commitment and hard work. The hours are terrible and the commute is even worse.

I’m just not sure enough people would be up for it.

BOERYAKASHA: AfriForum’s military wing, the elite Aardvark Unit, prepares to

defend the Afrikaner way of life.