listen, mr. buntu. - what now? - mr. buntu? - eh? then let's report that man to his home, my friend. and how do i know where that bloody dead man stays? how do you expect me to go back to that corner, ask a dead man, "where did you stay before?" don't be bloody stupid. you say you don't know, my friend. how will i know? - mr. buntu. - what? you see this, my friend? that dead man's dom book is going to tell you, my friend. that dead man's dom book, like this dom book of my dogs, i'm telling you, my friend. you want to put me in real kak tonight, wena. i don't want to put you in shit. my friend, i'm not trying to put mr. buntu in shit. that dead man's dom book, like this dom book of my dogs, it knows its english. big words, "endorsement. report back. don't come back." sizwe bansi wants to come to port elizabeth, my friend. this dom book says, "no." sizwe bansi wants to come and work in port elizabeth. this dom book says, "no." sizwe bansi wants to bring his family to port elizabeth. this dom book says, "no." people, it was never like t

so what, mr. buntu? you want us to go there this time of the night, knock at those thousands of doors, wake up the whole bloody compound? does robert stay here? that is... we don't have to do that, my friend. i'm not trying to do that. listen, this is trouble. it's no trouble, mr. buntu. we've got nothing to do with this man. don't say that, mr. buntu. hey, i'm taking this book back. - buntu. - what? and you will do that with me, too, my friend. if -- stabbed at night and left me there, buntu, would you just pee me wet and leave me, buntu, your own friend, buntu? i wish i was dead, buntu. i wish i was dead because nobody cares a damn about me. what's happening in this world, my friend?

bansi and mr. buntu astray. i know my way around this place, and i'm going to moor him if i find him-- you can't bullshit. come. let's get out. there's trouble there. only me in trouble, my friend. i said there's a dead man there. yeah? he's lying flat on the ground. i peed him wet. i thought he was a heap of rubbish. i look again, he's dead. listen, we must get out of here before the policeman come. - come, this... - okay. - this side, man. - mr. buntu. what? let's report that to the police station, my friend. police station? this time of the night? two drunk men, one with a wrong dom book. we both walk right inside the police station. "sergeant, there's a dead man." lock them up. they killed him. i know those bastards. - okay. - come. - okay, mr. buntu. - what now?

why is there so much trouble, mr. buntu? last saturday, i went to a funeral of an old man just on the other side of port alfred in those small farms. you know the way it is with us men. when an old man dies, there is always that service at home, another service at the church, another service at the graveside. all the priests present that day selected one phrase from the bible. [speaking african language] "we are all going home one day." but my moment was at the graveside, when they gave a chance to a lay preacher. he was a very tiny man, with a thin trimmed moustache. he wore one of those double-breasted suits, which -- wore. and every time this man called upon the lord, he had a wonderful gesture for me. [speaking african language] this reminded me of my kieri days. standing next to that little black coffin, he started by saying, "here lies jacob." that was the old man's name. here lies jacob at the age of 101 years old.