This is indisputably the most exciting day of this year. Okay, maybe the day his daughter got married three months ago was joyous, but he feels sure that today will come close, depending on the final score. What's there to celebrate anyway? She left the homestead and moved in with her husband, taking his surname and bearing kids that will ultimately bear that name. She's not continuing the Tshabalala legacy. That day came close, but today takes the trophy. And so will his team, he hopes.
It is the exhilarating annual Telkom Cup. The air around his house is unusually merry as the kids know, with a certain mischief, that today will be the first day in many months that they see any expression on their father's face. He's usually unapproachable, intimidating and omnipresent, but today he will be shouting around the house, looking for soccer fan accompaniments. His wife also smiles in with keen satisfaction that is definitely premature, for should his team, the Orlando Pirates, lose, he will recluse into his old stoic self. She gives a silent prayer that he will come back singing jubilant songs, armed with novelties like fish and chips from that old Mama at the stadium who prepares it perfectly, drenched in vinegar and peri-peri salt. She has wondered what it is about this peri-peri salt that her husband finds so addicting. She can't seem to put her finger on the exact recipe, and she gets increasingly offended when he seasons her food, cooked with love, with that foreign mix. Did he really have to embarrass her by asking the old Mama for more of this spice to take home? She will think he hasn't married well. What is in the damn thing anyway? Is it paprika mixed with sea salt? Or is it cayenne pepper with ‘Aromat' salt? She does not attribute her failure to the obvious fact that msg's and colourants constitute the taste and colour of this ‘special spice'.
“Today is the day I've been waiting for,”, her husband shouts from the main room of the house. “Revenge is sweet”, he says with his hands deep down the chest that doubles up as a table in the bedroom. He's looking for that huge wig he always wears; the one with a mask that resembles a skeleton, in true Buccaneer style. This is highly amusing to his last born son, Tiki, who seldom sees his father act in an animated manner.
Papa what does Buccaneers mean?” Under normal circumstances the man would have dismissed him but today this particular question offers a chance to bolster his mood and commitment for his team.
“It's the mighty sea-robbers, the buccaneers, the Pirates”, he says with poetic enthusiasm. Tiki finds this a vague answer but is just glad to partake of this build up.
The man's cellphone rings and, upon seeing that it is his soccer buddy calling, answers it by launching into a melodic “happy people,” just the way R. Kelly sings it. He listens with unprecedented attention, nods, speaks in agreement, and hangs up. He immediately turns to Tiki and commands him to get ready, for he is will be joining his father at the stadium. On the phone Uncle Kabelo had proudly announced that he had extra tickets so Tshabalala can bring his son.
Tiki's mother can hear his peals of laughter as he goes through the rituals of preparation. He has never been to the stadium because his dad said they would go together only once he turns seven. His birthday is only in a month away, he thinks, but he will not jinx this journey by even thinking about it. He grabs the vuvuzela, Pirates flag and the wailing generator that sounds like a crying infant, the same way he would gather them for his father when he's going alone or with Uncle Kabelo. Tiki also puts on his miniature Pirates t-shirt that his dad bought him for his sixth birthday. He can hear his dad leaving the main bedroom. They meet on the passage and he finds it amusing that his dad is wearing an eclectically decorated hard hat known as the makarapa, and a matching t-shirt, only worn back-to-front to boast the surname of Sono, one of the Pirates legends.
They both go to the kitchen where his wife knows that laughter, surprises, shock and a bit of defence on her part are guaranteed. This is where her husband will pick up random things to take to the stadium. Things she finds irrational, radical, and irrelevant. He went for two heads of cabbage first, looked around more and took the derelict old home phone. At this his wife challenged, “where are you taking that phone, I am taking it to my mother's house”.
“Aai relax man, I'll bring it back. It's a Telkom cup and of course I must take a Telkom phone.” His wife just grinned and shook her head. This is as far as she can go with the protests; she knew for sure that she would lose the cabbage fight. He retrieved his custom-made, stylised vuvuzela from the broom cupboard, saw the black polish for the stoep outside and called Tiki towards him. He put two black lines under each of his eyes, just like native red Indians, and stood back to muse over his creativity. He thought it was a true representation of affiliation to Pirates and decided to put the same two lines under each of his eyes. “This will even show our bond of father and son.” He smiled thoughtfully.
Uncle Kabelo arrived with his gold car, which Tshabalala always teased as ‘so Kaiser Chiefs,' referring to the opposing team's colours: “eish the enemy is sitting on the other side of the stadium but his spy is right under our noses,” to which they laugh uncontrollably. He attempts a comeback, “brother, you know when you drive a car like BMW, it's not the colour that takes precedence but the quality and brand.” They exchange such greetings all the time, but the weight of the joke never lessens. They always take great pleasure in such pleasantries. Uncle Kabelo offers Tiki his hand for what Tiki thought would be the usual handshake, but uncle Kabelo is so consumed by excitement that he pulls Tiki's frail skeleton in and starts tickling him on his ribs till he laughs to submission. The three ‘men's' exhilaration is observed by Mrs. Tshabalala from her dining room window with a tinge of satisfaction mixed with anxiety. Although she is glad that her husband is opening up to their son, she's also worried about the venue where all this will take place. She exchanges a quick glance with Tiki before he jumps in the back seat of his ‘uncle's' gusheshe, the elaborately embellished version of BMW 325is.
Tshabalala and uncle Kabelo have a peculiar relationship. It's because they don't see each other all the time, “like teenage best friends for life,” as he told his wife once. They are both married and attentive to their families' needs. But it is days like this when they resurrect their inner adolescence and live without inhibition. Uncle Kabelo, who does not usually consume alcohol, takes advantage of days like this by treating himself to a ‘straight', or 750ml, of Johnny Walker Black whisky. He takes enormous pride in this ritual: buys it from the same shebeen and brings a Johnny Walker whisky tumbler. He also buys ice that was frozen in shapes of circle, not blocks, “because ice blocks are treats for children.” They laugh once again at this joke that mocks the township ice blocks made of frozen juice or sherbet that people eat or suck on to cool off the heat. After the shebeen it's off to the stadium. Uncle Kabelo knows very well that alcoholic beverages are not allowed into the stadium but he cannot abandon his ritual. It used to be easy to sneak alcohol in but these days it is a hustle, what with the newly renovated stadia for the 2010 World Cup. Security is tight; zero tolerance for hooligans. Tshabalala tells Tiki that they will get him something to snack on when they get there.
“Plus kick-off is very soon, let's go Bra Kabza,” he calls with wonderful impatience.
The jovial mood outside the stadium is visible to the eye, enhanced by the carnival-like myriads of colours and motions, and one can smell excitement in between the quarter chickens sizzling over crimson coals or the old Mama's famous fish and spiced chips that. She pushes by at a rapid pace, claiming that the hake comes straight from the coast, now-now. The outside of the stadium is a haven for hawkers: women are selling their home-cooked and home-baked confectionaries; men are selling the most random things like super glue, inflatable teletubbies, ties, sock, and even counterfeit tickets. The man selling the tickes stands a strategic distance from anyone who slightly resembles a figure of authority.
Everyone's face is beaming and they all carry their club's colours with pride. To Tiki some look like apparitions with their buccaneer skeleton masks on, drifting past swiftly. His father looks like a part of this band of witches. They carry sonorous mechanisms that produce all sort of strange noises. He wonders if it is like this overseas somewhere when the champions meet for a final, as he has seen on TV with his father. He wonders about their excitement. Is the European excitement the same as the African? Could you compare Orlando Pirates with, say Liverpool? He has seen those Liverpool and Barcelona fans looking possessed and mystic, crossing their fingers and praying for their teams to net another one. He secretly wishes that this is the beginning of many soccer outings, and that one day his dad will take him to England to watch the Champion's League. His father disrupts this dreamer's scenery by making him choose between Fanta or Coke, and peanuts or chips.
They arrive at the grand stands to find staggeringly bold contrasts of eclectic fluorescent yellows on one side and black-and-white on the other. These colours, which represent the respective teams, are loaded with history and the burden of affiliation today. The three take their rightful seats on their side of the ‘frontier'. And, as if their sitting cued some grand director, the players come out, much to the fans' delight, and stand in their rehearsed positions to proceed with formalities. At the Charity Cup they always sing the national anthem. This commands attention and a respite from the incessant blaring of the vuvuzelas and other cacophonies. It also reminds the players and the fans of the importance of this cup. They stand at attention like armies of different countries, weapons down, hats off, mesmerised by the same tune. The South African national anthem is sung, first in the Zulu version, then Sesotho, and then when it's time for the Afrikaans part to be sung the boisterous vuvuzelas resume till the end. It has become habit. No one, except the players and dignitaries, sings the Afrikaans and English part. Even they do it just for the media. Perhaps it has got something to do with the demographics.
From where Tiki is sitting, he sees himself as a little fish in the ocean, like that one they went to last December with his mom and dad, in Durban. The ocean is big and colourful. No. Actually, he's an infant in a sweets factory. All enticing and inviting, but this infant cannot peel the wrapper off, never mind eat solids. This is the best day of his life. He doesn't mind just looking; it's every child's dream anyway. When he gets home to his friends he can retell this story with ‘strategic improvisation.' He won't be lying, he won't be exaggerating. No. He will lack the language to tell them and end up improvising. This is a culture shock. He is immersed in drunk sounds, crazy adults, one of whom is his ‘strict' father. These adults play with all sorts of toys that his mother won't allow him to use. They have computer monitors and home phones. Or is this what adults do when they get together? They play with derelict electronics? What about dad? Does he assume this stoic sternness around the house but fills with joy and laughter when he plays with his adult mates? Wow, ain't he glad to witness this!
Nothing comes close to the experience of a goal. For both the players and the fans. As the player advances towards the goal post, all the fans' hearts seem to slow down in an anticipatory silence, and then boom! The net shakes at the back of the post and the stadium becomes thunderous like a herd of Kenyan elephants being pursued by Masai warriors. It is the Orlando Pirates that has scored. Everyone screams, hugs, shouts the goal scorer's name, calls someone on the dysfunctional home phone, eats from the loaves of bread only to spit them out. The latter is symbolic of intimidation; it shows how the team will feast on the other opposition. Someone in close vicinity to uncle Kabelo has ‘borrowed' their head of cabbage to partake in this intimidation tactic. Tshabalala turns to his son, lifts him high in the air, twists him around and then, much to Tiki's surprise, plants a long wet kiss on his cheek. Wow. It took seven years and a soccer game for Tiki to see this side of his dad. This transformation reminds him of what happens to butterflies and cocoons, as on the chart in his bedroom. The Orlando Pirates has come up from a one-all draw, and time is almost up. Premature celebrations commence. Rumour has it Pirates fans are the wildest and most eccentric. It's gonna be a good day, perhaps a good weekend. But Tiki can't help thinking his dad will not remain in this jovial mood forever, for the rest of their lives. He wishes that could be so, but he suspects that the wish won't surface.
When the final whistle goes off everybody starts moving restlessly to the gates, some sombre and others in exhilarated motion. Tshabalala realises that a sphetephete, a pandemonium of rapidly moving bodies, is about to ensue, and picks Tiki up, putting him around his neck on his broad shoulders. Tiki has always known his father is strong, but this, wow, this is an act of a superhero. He literally swept him off his feet to protect him from potential stampede. They slowly navigate out into the streets to Uncle Kabelo's car. Uncle is already slightly soused, singing jovial songs of conquest. He has made new ‘friends' and they are singing the teams' celebratory song Happy People, with him sharing his beloved whisky. Tshabalala is leading the ensemble with his tenor, and this makes Tiki's chest tremble. Tiki could not stop giggling with glee from the vibrations on his bottom from his father's broad shoulders. It had become ticklish. Happy people, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah... and so this boy's choir kept singing.
What a fun day it had been. Tiki feared its abrupt ending. He looked outside the window solemnly, as the trees, buildings, spaza shops and other cars whirled past. He just wanted to take the car keys out of the ignition. Freeze the moment. Sit with his father on the grand stand. Wait for him to lift him in the air and kiss him. Pat him on his back and look into his eyes. He wanted to see, in his father's eyes, an older version of himself with all the lines furrowing on his forehead, his dark grey eyes that seemed to pierce through anything they landed on, and those other forged, constructed lines under his eyes, made from polish. Those lines that seem to be the very signifier of the father and son bond. He could see these lines below his eyes from the reflection on the window. He quickly stole a glance at his father's eyes on the reflection of the front seat side mirror, and a small prayer passed through his parted lips. Freeze. That's what he wanted. Frozen moments of crazy, drunk, jovial adult love and acknowledgement. Uncle Kabelo's car stopped abruptly in front of their house, disrupting Tiki's reverie. No, time was not frozen. It was fluid and running carelessly, streaming into the unknown.
Tshabalala took Tiki by the hand after some exchanged goodbyes with Uncle Kabelo, who had asked if Tshabalala wouldn't join them at the shebeen. Uncle Kabelo was just taking chances. He knows Tshabalala doesn't enjoy the company of loud, drinking, and singing Orlando Pirates fans. He is a private man who gets business done and then goes home, as Tiki would soon discover. When they entered the house, his father took the nearest rag and wiped the lines from under his eyes, turned around and complimented his wife on the delicious odour coming from her pots. He then headed for his bedroom. Tiki was standing at the end of the passage watching his father retire, with his back-to-front t-shirt, into the main bedroom. Right there and then Tiki grasped the concept of the butterfly and the cocoon.