You know who you are. You still think of yourselves as "white South Africa". Not as human beings, not as Africans, not as South Africans, but as "white South Africa".
And you do not know me.
Many of you think you know me.
Some of you hate me and call me racist because I have dared to challenge the lie that you are responsible for the achievements of me and mine. You do not hear when I sing the praises of the late Dr Nak van der Merwe, a Nat health minister under PW Botha.
Others of you like me, because you hear me speak of the need for good governance, for responsible fiscal and monetary policy and for unions to moderate their demands. You do not hear when I condemn the repression of unions in Swaziland and Indonesia, or the child labour of the Asian tigers.
You have chuckled when I quoted Pictish legends, scientific oddities, biological paradoxes. You have taken comfort from the fact that I am comfortable with Henry David Thoreau, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Rene Descartes, Ayn Rand and Adam Smith.
You have squirmed when I quoted Franz Fanon, Mao Tsetung, Malcolm X, Amilcar Cabral, Arya Bhatta and Karl Marx. The fact that I am as comfortable with these disturbs you.
There is a lot you do not know.
You do not know what it means to lie bleeding on the roadside, in a province that you are expected to leave within 48 hours because you are of the wrong colour.
You do not know what it means to have an ambulance arrive, but leave without you because you are not white.
You do not know what it means to finally be tossed into the back of a bakkie on a mattress while your leg lies crushed.
You do not know what it means to see the land that belonged to your family and friends stolen from under you and bulldozed to make way for the nothingness of Durban's Block AK.
You do not know what it means to work in a building erected on that very same land, and gaze out of your office every day to see the mango and litchi trees that stand alone as a mute testimony to the thriving community that once lived and loved there.
You do not know what it means to be surrounded and beaten up by a group of white men on the beach near where you have lived all your life because your companion happened to be a white woman, and you happened to kiss her.
You do not know what it means to dread the day when you will have to explain to your daughter that the reason why you are not welcome in her grandparents' home is because you are the wrong colour.
You do not know what it means to be praised by some of the finest minds in the world -- Pulitzer Prize winners, Nobel Prize winners -- but have your expertise challenged in your own country because you are the wrong colour.
And this is why I know you do not know my country's president, either.
You do not know what it takes for a man to waste his life in your prisons, and emerge preaching love and peace.
You call upon him to reinstate the death penalty. You do not know what it takes for him to not use that penalty on those of you who imprisoned him.
You cheer when you see him put on the Springbok captain's jersey. You do not know what it takes for him to do so.
And you see him, on the eve of his departure from politics, candidly and passionately describing what is wrong with my country and you squirm.
You do not hear the anguish and the frustration he feels at that which he has not been able to achieve. Your leaders call him racist and paranoiac, and that is what you hear.
This is my gift to you, white South Africa. Open your eyes, recognise the greatness of the man who leads my country. For our history books will one day record that this was the golden age.