“I cried, We cried” – on Africa’s big day

“I cried, we cried.” So reads the headline of one of the many South African dailies covering the emotional events of June 11^th 2010, now a famous day not only in South Africa’s football history, but also perhaps in the country’s history from a wider social and cultural perspective.

For South Africa, for football and for Africa as a continent, the 11^th June 2010 must truly go down as a landmark occasion. A triumphant day of unity for a nation scarred by a history of division, and a coming of age for a continent that for too long has been confined to the periphery, left to glare enviously at the riches of others.

A long awaited, momentous day on which the colour of Bafana Bafana flags and yellow and green shirts stunned the senses and the whoops and cheers of a people united in happiness, accompanied by the brash din of the vuvuzela, symbol of a football revolution, filled the air.

South Africa vs. Mexico. The start of World Cup 2010. At our own base in the northern part of Johannesburg, few South African faces are untouched by facepaint in colours Bafana. Female staff at our hostel have their fingernails painted in the style of South Africa’s flag. Men women, children – everyone has some Bafana related item on their person, be it office attire with a Bafana hat or full, traditional African garms and a South Africa training top. The balmy sun smiles down on the country. The people smile back.

The lucky thousands with tickets make their way to Soccer City, this stunningly beautiful visual tribute to the Rainbow Nation‘s new era. Ticketless, my travelling friends and I make our way to the fan park in Sandton, one of several in the city.

Our journey in a way represents a microcosm of South Africa’s road to the World Cup. Huge excitement. Endless wonderment. The sense we might not make it. There were road bumps along the way (both on our journey to the fan park and to South Africa in the first place) but hope and optimism remain prevailing traits. Various sacrifices were made by all of us to ensure we’d be there to witness this unique moment in history. And there we were.

It seems like the cliché du jour from endless road movies and documentaries shot in poor countries – but as our driver weaves his way creatively through the streets of Johannesburg we are privy to the classic. Smiley kids on grimy streets running past us waving. “Go Bafana!” they cried. Cynical old me wasn’t sure that sort of thing actually happened in real life. Now I know better.

With the roads jammed we get off and walk the last mile or so of the journey with thousands of others. All you can hear is the vuvuzela. Thousands of ‘em, as Michael Caine might say. “That African trumpet,” as Xabi Alonso so disparagingly referred to it, may be a recent phenomenon in South African football culture, but it has completely and I suspect permanently altered the landscape of football in this country. They are everywhere.

What’s more, they are so ear-deafeningly loud that the whole world – including Mr. Alonso – now seems to know about them, thanks to the mouthpiece that is the World Cup. In South Africa, vuvuzelas are definitely here to stay.

When we finally get into the fan park emotions run high, for me anyway. My first World Cup, on the continent of my origin, watching the game I follow to the point of love, in the company of great friends, surrounded by scenes of jubilation from a people oppressed for decades. We estimate around 100,000 people in attendance at that one fan park alone. By no means all, but most of the faces are black, football being considered a black sport during the apartheid era.

The national anthem, I can’t deny even for fear of ridicule, brings a tear to my eye. As the camera pans along the proud faces of 11 black players I am overwhelmed by the occasion. Just a matter of decades ago those faces would not have even been allowed to represent their country. Now they simultaneously carry the hopes of a nation united and represent the remarkable progress of both country and continent in the face of endless adversity.

Tshabalala’s goal is greeted with wild celebrations. Imagine a football stand stretching acres of land, with everyone a home fan. People jump, dance, sing, chant, scream and – yes – blow their vuvuzelas. A young man next to me hugs me. “Tsha-ba-laaaa-la” he repeats over and over in awe. Looking up adoringly, his girlfriend repeats his words in parrot like fashion.

When Mexico equalise the park is silent, but for two beautiful, scantily-clad Mexican girls who dance gleefully. Their unique “charms” effortlessly cool any potential neighbouring animosity.

The game ends 1-1. People are happy – spared any blushes that may have come South Africa’s way after an assured first half from Mexico and delighted to have witnessed a second half display that offers hope for the next two group games against Uruguay and France. “Four points will be enough” screams the headline of South Africa’s Sunday Times sport section.

While South Africa’s chances of qualifying are still alive and well, that is hardly important right now. What is important is this. They did it.

A nation and continent that was beaten from pillar to post from the moment the venue for WC2010 was announced, by everyone from respected football journalists (like Brian Glanville) to leading figures of the game (“I was never a fan of the World Cup being held in South Africa, or anywhere on the African continent” – Uli Hoeness) proved to the world with a magnificent opening ceremony and opening day’s action that – in the words of Obama – “yes they can” stage the world’s biggest sporting event.

I cried, we cried. Indeed.

African Football, Politics and Society, South Africa, World Cup 2010