Zombies Afrikaners And Blacks

In the eyes of most people, the world went to hell on January 17, 2017, when the zombie plague got unleashed and ninety percent of the human population turned into nightmarish ghouls hell-bent on eating the flesh of the other ten percent. For me, things went to hell long before that. It began exactly four years before the Big Event, in the City of Johannesburg, in the Gauteng province of the Republic of South Africa. Oh, silly me. I forgot to introduce myself. The name is Anneke Tannhauser, and I was born in the environs of Johannesburg to Afrikaner parents of German descent. My family has been in South Africa for well over a century, I think. We've seen it all, and been through it all, before and after apartheid, and the interesting times that followed.

I'm a proud Boer gal through and true, and I've got the physique to prove it. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, chubby without being fat, with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes. My body is big but strong rather than flabby, my bosom is big and my ass is big as well. Yet I can run faster than most men I know and I can definitely beat you in a bout of arm wrestling. I am a true Boer woman. Unlike what you hear in the media, my family never owned a lot of land and what little we got, we took care of by our own damn hands. A lot of folks from the outside world think of us Afrikaners as plantation owners in the Antebellum South of the United States of America. We're completely different from these buggers. Not to say we don't have our faults, of course. Anyhow, I have always believed in Karma, and given the state of the world right now, I'd say I was right, don't you agree?

In the years that preceded the Big Event, people were out there killing other people. The United States, Canada and Europe were fighting a war against radical Islam, both within their borders and in the distant world of the Middle East and they weren't doing too well. These Islamist militants are insane, I tell you. You cannot destroy a religiously motivated guerilla force with overwhelming technology. My parents and grandparents supported the Apartheid regime in the old days and they tried the same tactics on Zulu insurgents and fighting men from the various rebel South African groups, to no avail. When you're fighting people with nothing to lose and everything to gain, you need to stop relying on technology. you need to get inside your enemy's head.

Before you break a man's flesh, you must first break his spirit. Of course, no one can dare tell the almighty Americans and Canadians anything about warfare. I tell you, if they wanted to win this thing, they should have dropped all their nukes on the Middle East and be done with it. Of course, they don't want to be thought of as monsters, and they're trying to prove to the world that they're morally superior to the so-called evil men they're fighting. Bunch of idiots. First win the war and then worry about morality, otherwise forget about it.

I've always been good when it comes to strategy, especially when the endgame is the destruction of one's enemies. Before Apartheid ended, my parents trained me to defend the farm against all enemies. After the end of Apartheid, the world relaxed and thought that all South Africans, both black and white, would hold hands and sing Kumbaya. Well, in real life it doesn't work like that, no matter how many Truths and Reconciliation councils you hold. There are many Afrikaners who hate the fact that the blacks had power now, and there are many blacks, both young and old, who would go to their graves hating us Afrikaners. Me? I'm not prejudiced. I hate everyone equally!

You see, I didn't exactly come from what you'd call a healthy environment, and I'm not referring to the fact that my parents are hardline racists. My father, Alfons Tannhauser, was a charming man. When the zombie outbreak that was happening all over the world came to Gauteng, my father, who traveled all over the province in his truck, was one of the first victims. He came home, infected, and after turning into one of them flesh-eating ghouls, he infected my mother. I put two bullets in the son of a bitch's head, then I put my ma down too. When someone becomes infected, they've got to be killed. There is no curse. It's the only way. I never enjoy killing the undead because I know they used to be people. Someone's father or mother, brother or sister. Anyhow, that's how I usually feel about disposing of them.

In my father's case, I shot him happily and eagerly even. My only regret is that I didn't do it while he was still alive. He used to beat me whenever he felt like it, and he did the same thing to my mother, Astrid Hermann-Tannhauser. Mom never stood up to dad for what he did. However, she used to take out her frustrations on me. Dad called her a frigid whore, and when he wasn't ignoring her, he was yelling at her or beating on her. Still, I was often thankful to have my dad around. You see, he kept mom's attention focused away from me. She touched me inappropriately, to say the least. I told my teachers about it and they laughed it off, telling me to stop making stuff up. The abuse continued until I left the family farm and moved to the metropolis. I enrolled at the University of Johannesburg in the civil engineering program. At long last, I was far away from my parents. I was free. I have never ventured more than a few kilometers from the family farm in rural Gauteng, far from the bright lights of the metropolis, you understand. To me, the City of Johannesburg was a brand new world!

It's at the University of Johannesburg dormitories that I met a certain person whom I'll never forget. He just happened to be on the same floor I was. A colored man named Rashid Douglas, an international student from the United States, if you can believe that. The moment I saw this tall, well-built, light-skinned young Black guy, I knew he was different. The way he carried himself, his eyes directly focusing in everyone he came in contact with, even before we spoke I knew he wasn't from South Africa. And I was right. Rashid Douglas came from Boston, Massachusetts, and he was from a mixed-race family. His father, Clyde Douglas, was black and his mother, Deirdre O'Neill-Douglas, was white. When he showed me his family pictures, I was really surprised. You have to understand that in South Africa, even after the end of Apartheid, blacks and whites still view each other with distrust. Sometimes you'll see black women with Afrikaner men, but you'll rarely see Afrikaner women with black men, because Afrikaner men ostracize white women who date outside the race. Things are more permissible for white men when it comes to interracial dating, I guess.

Now, you might be surprised as to how a Boer gal like myself, straight from the farm, warmed up to an African-American student like Rashid Douglas. I mean, my family isn't fond of blacks, and to be honest, at that point, neither was I. Not because of any feeling of racial superiority on my part but because the post-Mandela government of South Africa enacted policies of anti-discrimination which were supposed to help the blacks achieve in business, education and other areas. Those policies helped a few blacks, and annoyed a few wealthy whites, but they utterly destroyed poor white folks like my parents and myself. I didn't hate the black race. I just didn't believe anyone should be given an advantage over someone else because they claim to have suffered injustice at some point. There is injustice in the world, and it can happen to anyone regardless of color. People of all races should learn to stop whining because suffering is part of the human condition. That's my opinion as a Boer woman and if you don't like it you can kiss my fat white ass. Got it? Alright!

My first week at the University of Johannesburg was hell. It's hands-down the most prestigious school in all of South Africa, and as a country hick, I stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. To go there, whether black or white, you needed some serious money. Me? I was lucky enough to win a scholarship. The other students made fun of me for being a country gal and my rough bearing and outdated clothes didn't help matters. You'd never guess who got them off my back. The tall black guy from America. Rashid Douglas. He stuck up for me while I was being made fun of by a trio of meanies, two whites and one black. How about that? When I asked him why he was helping me, Rashid Douglas flashed me the crucifix hanging around his neck and told me that it was the Christian thing to do. I've never put much stock in religion, because it makes otherwise decent people go bonkers, but there was something about Rashid. He was...different. When he offered me his friendship, I accepted. Don't ask me why. The guy was just different, that's all.

Rashid Douglas was unlike anyone I ever met, black or white. When he spoke about his native Boston, he made it seem like a magical place. I mean, I always wanted to visit the U.S. just like everyone else on this planet. A mostly white country that elected a colored man as its President in a general election. A nation that allowed gay marriage in many of its states. Yeah, after hearing Rashid speak of America, I was dying to go there. My friendship with this charming young African-American man was changing me in many ways. For starters, he told me that he and other blacks found terms like darky, blacky or colored to be offensive. Now, I wasn't ready to start hugging every black person I encountered and apologize for the sins of the white race, but I liked Rashid. So I watched what I said around him. I cared what he thought of me, and for the life of me I couldn't tell you why.

My friendship with Rashid was hands-down one of the most important things to happen to me during that magical freshman year at the University of Johannesburg. He was my guide to a whole new world, in more ways than one. I mean, Johannesburg was the capital of my province, and he knew this town better than I did. Also, he knew everybody at the University of Johannesburg. Even among narrow-minded Afrikaners, being an American was considered cool in those days. Shows you how much we knew, huh? Anyhow, that first year at university was beyond amazing, at least to me. My whole life I thought I was good only for shoveling manure and growing crops in the same farm my great-grandparents owned. At U of J, I made new friends, and discovered new skills within myself. Always thought I had a head for numbers. At our faculty of engineering, I was wowing them with my talents. They were calling me a prodigy. I was amazed. Sometimes I wished I had someone to share it with. My parents were out of the question, of course. They would never understand and of course, they never supported anything I did. I made it to the University of Johannesburg on my own. Always on my own, that's me. Rashid showed me I didn't have to be alone any longer.

I still remember that magical night, in early December, when we first made love. We were hanging out in my dorm, playing chess while listening to music on YouTube. Rashid introduced me to Linkin Park and I must say, I'm really into them. Their song "Numb" was tailor-made for me, I think. Shows exactly how I felt about my parents, and about my life. So there we were, sitting on the couch, the African-American and the Afrikaner, playing chess and talking nonsense. Rashid looked really cool in his bright green Celtics T-shirt and black boxer shorts. I wore a red T-shirt and sweatpants. I never remember which one of us made the first move, but one minute we were looking at each other, and the next, we were making out on the carpet. It's weird how these things happen, huh?

I was laughing as Rashid and I rolled around on the floor, one on top of the other. I ended up on top of him. I looked into his beautiful face, and kissed him again. When his hands moved to my shirt and he started to undress me, I hesitated. I blurted out that I'd never done it before. Rashid smiled, and promised me he'd be gentle with me. He took my hands in his and kissed them. I smiled, for no one had ever done that to me before. I was in for a night of firsts, ladies and gentlemen. Rashid made love to me, and showed me pathways to pleasure I hadn't known existed. He kissed my lips softly, and then kissed my neck before making his way to my tits, which he massaged then sucked gently. He cupped my buttocks, smacked my ass and raised my legs in the air before sucking on my toes. I giggled because I was really ticklish. Rashid grinned and told me I hadn't felt anything yet. Then he spread my legs and began eating my pussy. My sexy African-American stud went down on me, and pleasured me like I've never been pleasured before. By the time I came, shrieking in pleasure, the man made me see stars! Grabbing the box of condoms which gets handed out to guys and gals at University of Johannesburg in an effort to combat the STD epidemic in South Africa, Rashid rolled one on his long, thick member. Looking me in the eyes, he asked me if I was ready for him. I spread my legs wide, grinned and told him to stick it in. Does that sound ready enough for you? Rashid laughed and then penetrated me, gently but swiftly. I winced at the initial pain I had been told to expect, and he asked me if I was okay. I nodded, and told him to continue. Raising my big legs into the air, Rashid began fucking me with deep, powerful strokes. We made love all night, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

Yeah, that's how I became a woman. Rashid and I became an item after that night. We'd walk through campus holding hands, causing both black folks and white folks to gawk. In post-Apartheid South Africa, as I said before, you'll see a few black women with white men, but it's a rare white woman who will publicly date a black man. In class, I'd notice other students staring at me. The Afrikaner males glared at me with open disdain and more than one of them called me a traitor to the white race. The funny thing is that one of the more vocal bigots who hated me for dating Rashid was Brent, a white guy with a colored girlfriend. How about that? The hypocrite never saw the irony in what he was doing. I guess he's an idiot. Rashid and I continued seeing each other and things were getting pretty serious.

I honestly think I fell in love with Rashid. He introduced me to his parents via Skype, and they were really nice. Rashid began pressuring me to meet my parents, and I kept putting it off, not because I'm ashamed of him but because my parents are hardline, gun-toting racists. If they saw me and Rashid kissing, they'd shoot us both. Lots of Boers feel that way about interracial couples, especially when it's the woman who is white. Doesn't seem to bother them too much if the man is white and the woman is black. A white man who dates outside his race is a conqueror and a hero to his fellow white males. He's exploring new, exotic pussy. A white woman who dates outside of her race is a traitor to the white community and the cause of anxiety issues to many white males far and wide. Sad reality of the times we lived in, I'm afraid.

Rashid and I dated up until the end of the school year. At the end of May, he boarded a flight back to Europe, and from there, he would make his way toward the United States. We promised we'd keep in touch, and for a time, we did. We talked through Facebook, and via Skype. We also called each other all the time. I thought he'd come back to U of J the following September. Unfortunately, life had other plans. Rashid couldn't return to South Africa. Indeed, he couldn't even return to his old school, Northeastern University. His father had a stroke and Rashid was forced to get a job to support his mother and siblings. I felt for him, I really did. I even made plans to go to Boston to see him. Sadly, as life would have it, those plans fell through. With Rashid gone, I felt lost. I was heartbroken. When September came, I returned to school but with a heavy heart. My grades slipped. I lost my scholarship. I ended up going back to my parents farm, my own private hell. Isn't life grand?

So you see, for some of us, the advent of a zombie plague that wipes out the bulk of humanity and turns into a global war of man against flesh-eating mindless ghoul isn't the big tragedy many make it out to be. For me, the worst events of my life had already transpired long before ordinary men and women started coming back from the dead, hungry for the flesh of the living, reanimated by a virus nobody will ever understand. I am alone on the family farm now. I buried my parents by the old coconut tree near the shed. I erected a nice fence around the property. I've got canned goods and water, and enough ammo to last me and my five rifles a long good while. From time to time, zombies come nearby and I dispose of them neatly and efficiently. Dealing with the dead isn't complicated. It's the living I've always had problems with.

All the people that once made up my world are gone now. From time to time I think of Rashid. Did he and his family make it through the nightmare North America's big cities became once the undead rose? America and Canada were the first countries to fall, followed by Europe, and much of Asia. The Middle East followed. The last place where I hear people are still holding on is Australia, but that was ages ago. Who knows what happened since? I don't know and honestly, I don't care. I take care of my land. I grow my crops. I keep the farm nice and clean, just like my parents taught me. They were good for that, at least. For some of us, the end of the world isn't a big deal. You see, for me, it happened a long time ago. Long before the first zombie rose, my world ended. And if the day comes when I must go to my grave, I won't make it easy for whoever comes after me, whether man or monster. Taking the easy way out has never been my strong suit. I am a Boer woman, after all.