Off the pitch

The fun continues. And to think I almost missed this. A year ago, I had made up my mind that the FIFA world cup would be such a nuisance. That Johannesburg would be so full of people and terribly chaotic that it was better to go away. While I do love football, I still haven’t reconciled myself to going into a stadium to watch it since my footballer brother passed away in 1995. So I reasoned, why bother sticking around? Going as far away as possible from Johannesburg and South Africa felt like a good idea. My friend Nancy, bless her beautiful heart – convinced me otherwise. She painted such a glorious picture of how much fun it would be that I wouldn’t want to miss it. Truth be told, I half listened to her, and what stopped me from travelling is that I was broke, couldn’t get myself organized for a whole year, and eventually I just found myself here. Am I glad I stayed. Oh it has been just amazing.

The locals can smile….

Yes they can! I have discovered this in the last two weeks. Surly doormen at various establishments, who I always thought had no teeth, do have their mouths full of pearly whites. They can even say, “hello! Good morning! Welcome!” For the five years I have been in this country, I mostly encountered these grumpy (mostly men), who treated me like a nuisance. Now I get greeted, doors opened. I am invited to come inside.
The women (mostly), at till points at all my closest shops have discovered that I am a paying customer. I get greeted with smiles, and a nice “thank you!” when the transaction is done. I enter these shops at least once or twice a week. I should be on first name terms with Pinky, Palesa and Futhi at Woolies, Pick’n’pay and Clicks by now. But no, I was always treated like that pesky woman (and her clearly coconut son who doesn’t speak Sotho and Tswana). The most I ever got was to be “mummified”, coupled with a scowl. A little explanation; “mummy! Mama!” is what women of my age + race+ weight +perceived economic bracket, get called by pert little girls and boys in establishments. My (seriously empirical), research shows that this is not a term of respect, but rather a form of condescension and simply telling you that you are nobody in their wise opinion.

Respect at last – but only if you are carrying a foreign credit card

The most remarkable revolution has been amongst white (mostly), owners of establishments. Restaurant owners, boutique owners, hair dressers, masseuse, folks who never deigned to look in my direction or if they did, they would quickly summon Mamosebi the black cleaner from the back to come and ask me who (not what) I wanted. Poor Mamosebi would get a rude response in English from me, and Mrs. Snyman would start shouting at both of us for not being able to speak to each other. In some cases I would be followed around by said Mamosebi, or her front office colleague loudly indicating the prices of every item I touched, “one thousand rand! Oh that is very new stock, too much expensive ne?” I was worn down by this running commentary and left empty handed.
I am now a potential customer, These days I get shown around, escorted to my table. I even get waitrons fighting to serve me in restaurants where I used to be invisible. I am milking it for what it’s worth and making fun of some of these folks just for the heck of it.
Mrs S; Let me show you our new boots
Me: Great
Mrs S: Terrible weather we are having, pity it’s summer back home for you hey?
Me: Mmm, ummm
Mrs S: These look fabulous, great colour. You can always use them in winter back home?
Me: Mmm, ummm
Mrs S: Thembi bring the new scarves as well please
Thembi: Yes, I am sure she will love these
Mrs S: Oh eekslent! You will be snug as a bug
Me: Yes. Definitely
Thembi (to another sister standing by); Abantu be overseas laba baya shopa ne? (these people from overseas shop hey?
Mrs S: Great, so will you be paying by credit card or cash madam?
Me: Credit card thanks, here you go.
Mrs S: Wow, I have never seen one of these, but it should go through no problem
Thembi: That’s an interesting one. Overseas ones look different
Me: Mmm, yah…umm
Mrs S: Thank you so much ma’am have a lovely time in our country. Hope your country wins.
Me: (to Thembi and the other sister) Ngiyabonga. Lisale khahle!
Me: (to Mrs S), I am from Zimbabwe and I live just here in Illovo. Have a lovely day!

Not a moving ATM ….for now


Twice this world cup I have bumped into members of the police force. Those men of the thick blue line, who normally love to harass foreigners and ask for IDs. This as we know, as a way of making a rand, or a hundred. As I started fumbling in my handbag for my passport, which I knew wasn’t in there as I had just left it at some embassy for a visa, I was pleasantly surprised to be greeted with wide smiles by the men in blue, as they simply sauntered past. The next lot I bumped into helpfully gave me directions as I was lost. “Enjoy the World Cup ma’am”, they waved me off with yet more smiles.
Ma’am! Yes that’s me.
I got the same smiles, efficient service, when I arrived at OR Tambo airport from Kenya. Surprise! I was asked how my “holiday” had been and bade, “a fantastic world cup in our wonderful country”. Our. Not his. Not my. Our.

The unifying powers of football

My heart has been warmed, in this dreadful cold, by the scenes of erm…brotherhood at the public viewing places I have been to. Blacks, whites, coloureds, locals, foreigners, have been hugging, physically embracing one another. A lot has been said, about the unifying powers of football, and South Africans have written about what this festival has done for them. For me as a foreigner living in this country, there has never been a time when I felt like I truly am welcome here like this week. But more importantly, this is the first time I have seen with my own eyes and heard South Africa talk about itself as being an African country, and publicly embracing its own Africanness. I have been physically folded into that embrace. I have seen black South Africans waving Nigerian flags. Nigerian!? That bogey country for all things terrible that have befallen this country? People I never expected suddenly know how to pronounce Cote d’ Ivoire, and wear T-shirts with Drogba’s name at the back. One white guy proudly walked around wearing a Ghanain wig, (or was it German? Those two’s colours are confusing). No matter, he wore it on the day Ghana was playing so I am happy to assume he was rooting for Ghana.
Seeing so many African singers at the opening concert and ceremony of the World Cup brought tears to my eyes. It is such a pity that nobody thought it appropriate to play Thabo Mbeki’s I am an African. The MTN advert with the African footballers just makes me want to weep. It is just a commercial, yet such a powerful symbol of a South African company identifying itself with the continent.
And Africa hasn’t disappointed. It has embraced South Africa back. Everyone I know has been rooting for Bafana Bafana. Even those of us for whom yellow was never our colour, made concessions! We went for the flags and hoisted them all over, polished up our knowledge of the Sotho bit of the national anthem, (we know the first bit), but drew the line at the last bit, sorry. The diski dance will definitely replace the wedding shuffle at many a party across the Limpopo.

All of this will change come July 11th. I hear rumblings of xenophobic attacks being planned in the townships. Some of my relatives have already been told to pack up and leave, before the end of the World Cup. I know I must make a copy of my passport and always move around with it. Mrs Snyman and other shop owners will count their windfalls and take long holidays in Mauritius. Lerato the bank teller and Moses the doorman will go back to their surly ways. But for now, I shall enjoy this mirage, of a rainbow continent.