Fabulous (and also not so fabulous) South African Story #8

On Saturday the Amaboko boko were scheduled to be in Buffalo City. So, utterly filled with the zeal of a newly converted groupie/disciple of Bra Siya and his band of merry men, there was no way I was going to miss the festivities and the mayhem. Also, as an embarrassingly proud Eastern Caper (or whatever our new name is going to be) and a daughter of the same soil as our Great Scorers of Tries, I needed to be there to own some of the glory. And so I grabbed every “SouFafrican” flag or Springbok colored thingy I could find, rounded up a bit of a party and headed straight for the City Hall, where I imagined the most bok befok bedlam would be found. And yebo yes I was so right. My daughter, Hannah, was determined to get close enough to blow Siya adoring kisses, her friend wanted to catch a glimpse of Snyman and have him acknowledge her sign (“Snyman is my man” – consider the dual lingo situation going on here –the Afrikaans version is better because it rhymes). I mainly just wanted to be star struck, mingle with the elated masses and touch the hem of Mapimpi or Beast’s garment. We parked illegally on arrival, ramping onto a pavement in our bakkies, but I figured all the law enforcement folk would be making a human chain around the team and thus unable to wheel clamp me. Also there was a South African flag attached to my aerial, which felt like an advance apology insurance strat. We had only just gathered our flags and begun advancing on the City Hall when we almost collided with a gang of Dudes, in tight formation, heading with urgency in the wrong direction. They were clearly on a mission. Our investigative journalist maatjie couldn’t help herself and so we surreptitiously followed them, hoping at the very least to witness a dodgy deal. In an alley between two parked bakkies someone was handing out free (grey market) merch in the form of Springbok T’s. Massive ones designed both in the generous front and back for the most substantial Saffer bosom/belly/buttock situation. We quickly made new friends in the queue, immediately united by our common world champ status, fun dodgy deals, and fabulous freebies and were soon taking selfies and pausing to emotionally embrace each other in the street en route to the actual event. With my full length 3XL freebie tunic on over my other green and gold clothes, a massive flag attached to my shoulders as a cape, a Springbok buff on my head plus a Mapimpi/Am/Kolisi sign I was starting to feel that I looked the part of a truly committed disciple-groupie-zealot. (I could have maybe improved things even further with a crate of 10 sentenced-to-death chickens in Mr Mapimpi’s honour, but that flash of genius only came to me retrospectively).
We joined the main show outside the City Hall (all the good spots sharing a podium with Steve Biko and other statues were taken already) and started getting into the spirit of the celebration. I immediately lost the children I was supposedly in charge of. It was exactly as fabulous as I knew it was going to be: regal makhulus sweeping by in their shweshwe dresses and Springbok coloured qhiya’s, wildly excited children on their parents shoulders, painted flags already sliding off their sweaty cheeks, slack mouthed infants in Springbok babygros without a clue what was going on, the enormous Border Bulldogs dudes looking like jolly, over-inflated bouncers, flamboyant, opportunistic vendors selling springbok/SA paraphernalia and my favourite demented sandwich seller who seemed to be a uneasy mix of a Xhosa warrior and a praise singer aggressively declaring his sandwiches to be the breakfast of champions in 11 languages while simultaneously doing an enthusiastic and high energy traditional dance, kicking his feet over his head while (seemingly effortlessly) also balancing a tray of sandwiches. A whole bunch of school kids had hijacked an elevated position on a balcony overlooking the Hall which also housed the media and every time the TV cameras swung in their direction they would squeal and shriek with such excitement that it triggered a false springbok arrival alarm stampede. There was an old fellow in denim dungarees (one strap nonchalantly off the shoulder) and a cool black beret, apparently in his own world, swaying to the beat and (gently) punching the air every now and then in a placid power salute. The Harley gang arrived in full force waving enormous flags the size of billboards and accelerating so stridently that the crowd panicked and surged away from them, forcing me to leap backwards out of the way (no mean feat in my synthetic tunic.) We had been waiting for a long time now and still there was no sign of our hero’s on the balcony of the City Hall. Just important looking, politician-like people in enormous hats. Lots of them. A flamboyant woman in gigantic, lurid earrings (she seemed to be a prefect or possibly even the head-girl groupie) was standing close enough for me to admire her robust ear lobes, supporting that jewelry with no visible effort or damage. How? How?) She was chatting authoritatively with her gang of cool friends and exuding an air of someone who knew exactly what was going on. She caught my admiring eye and I was about to (humbly) asked her what direction she expected the Boks to appear from when she suddenly bellowed “Yeka sela! Stop thief!” Her arm shot past my ear and grabbed someone by the jugular. She began to rebuke the offender who she now had in a vice-like grip. In the crush of bodies I looked with some difficulty over my shoulder to discover she had my friend, Bulelani, by the throat and was now berating him for trying to steal stuff from my backpack. He had been standing directly behind me and noticing my pack’s zips were all untidily open he was helpfully closing them. OMG. One of those wretchedly sobering moments. In a flash of clarity I grasped that while folk may have jumped to incorrect and annoying conclusions about me, underestimating my strength or my intelligence (“Oh shame my girlie are you going to try the fun run? Not the marathon, surely?” “Can you spell that my dear? S. M. I. T.H…”) people (maybe even routinely) jump to the conclusion that this beautiful young man is a thief. WTF. In my head I know this stereotyping happens all the time and all over the world but in that moment I experienced it like a punch in the gut. My heart literally smote me. And because I see myself as his 2nd mummy I felt a full portion of helpless rage against the injustice and sadness of this reality. And with that came a perspective overload wrt the level of my own privilege…. So people don’t always immediately recognize how fabulously gifted I think I am. Hayibo! Shame! Poor me.
“No, no he’s with me!” I insisted, while Bulelani smiled at her amiably, held his hands up in the universally recognized “I’m innocent” pose, showing no sign of being offended. The moment was over and everyone (except me) was at ease again.
And then suddenly Captain Siya was on the balcony brandishing that trophy above his head with Makazole Mapimpi and Lukhanyo Am flanking him like the super hero’s they are and punching the air in victory, beaming their big beautiful smiles. And I was ugly crying the painted flags right off my cheeks because all the tragedy and all the triumph and all the hope was right there in the glowing beam of light reflected off that impossibly shiny cup. And maybe, just maybe the mere existence of these magnificent men will start chipping away at the granite-like stereotypes in all of our heads. And maybe their presence will begin to make the world, and this special corner particularly, a better place for all our people to grow in. And I’m staying to help make that happen.