My brother, The Skinny One, bought 2 tickets for the quarter-final at Soccer City as a 40th birthday present to himself. He, correctly, argued that never in his lifetime will world class football be so affordable to him. As he bought 2 tickets, he needed a companion. He choose me. I just had to make my own way there. When first approached I thought he got category 4 tickets. Relatively cheap tickets reserved for South Africans. Turns out it was category 2 tickets at R2100 each. This value will become important later on.
I flew on a low cost airline to Lanseria and learned the following:
1. Cheap people are short and thin. Why else would the seats be so close together and would I need an extension piece for the seat belt used by pregnant women and fat people?
2. Cabin crew can be very funny. That is, ha-ha funny. Not funny as in come with the large gentlemen and let him fasten your jacket at the back funny.
3. Small airports are better. I got off the plane, walked to the terminal and waited all of 20 seconds before picking up a bag (my own) and sauntered to the car rental area.
Spend the evening and next morning with my good school friend He-with-the-pretty-name and his lovely partner consuming vast quantities of wine. I then met up with the Skinny One, his wife, The Long Suffering One, and their offspring. The Ghanaian flag with legs is my niece. She asked not to show her face for fear of being ridiculed by being associated with me.
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| Flag with legs |
I last rode on (or in) a train in South Africa 5 presidents ago (I don’t count the one between Mbeki and Zuma as you don’t know his name either) It was half my life and weight ago and we went from Pretoria Station to Park Station in Johannesburg. I bought my second, and last, vinyl record on that trip. We called them albums back then and not vinyl. Eet Kreef by Johannes Kerkorrel and the Gereformeerde Blues Band. This was me being as rebel as I ever got. This time I took a train to Soccer City and did not pay. On purpose. Well, the train was free. The trip, obviously the train cost money, but I did not have to fund it aarrghhh, back to the story. The narrative.
The Skinny One was like a small child. He kept repeating catch phrases “Soft vuvuzela” then blowing softly on the thing. We followed the Brazil v Netherlands game on various cell phones and when we realised the orange team won, his new catch phrase (phonetically) became “Nay der land!” We were not yet in Germiston and I was measuring the window to see if I can fit my brother through it. Only he had the tickets. In our compartment were a Mexican an Australian and normal people. Once at Park Station, the train filled up completely. Eventually we saw the stadium and the packed roads leading to it. Making our choice of transport the better one. Why I felt proud to be a South African at seeing the stadium, I don’t know. I did not make the steel, did not work on the project, I just took a train to see it. But I felt proud. For the first time in weeks the reality of the tournament that cannot be named™ hosted in my country struck me.
We had about 40 minutes left before kickoff. The din of vuvuzelas in the train station was amazing. The joy of thousands of people converging on the stadium was palpable. Overwhelming support for Ghana. Most people probably could not point to it on the map, but it was the last African team remaining. We were proudly African. I was ardent Ghana supporter for oh, about a week.
As we joined the queues at the first security checkpoint, The Skinny One gave me my ticket. And his was taken by a pick pocket. And a very unusual, but ultimately edifying experience started.
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