The Sunday News
“SIR,” I shouted at the sports master, “you obviously don’t know me well. I may be only 10 but in everything I do, I am as good as Samson of True Africa magazine. I am as brave as a lion, strong as an elephant and fast as a furious mamba. How then can you instruct me to compete with girls?”
The sports master chuckled and playfully pulled me by the ear. “I want all my athletes to aspire for something. The fastest 10-year-old girls must aspire to be as fast as the fastest 10-year-old boys who in turn must aspire to be as fast as 12-year-old boys. So come on, be a sport and show the girls how fast they ought to run.”
I shrugged. “Anything to help my beloved school.”
I lined up along four boys already at the 100 yards starting line. Five girls joined us. Even if I live to be a 100, I will never forget what happened in the next 15 seconds. Ten yards into the race, a girl called Aida Nkomo shot ahead and left us gasping for breath. I came second. Except that my friend Themba came last, I don’t recall the order of the rest.
If Barcelona lost to a primary school team, Messi would not be more embarrassed than I was. Spectators rolled on the ground with laughter. By sunset, the whole township knew the results of the race. Everywhere I went people pointed fingers at me. “That’s one of the boys who were outrun by girls.”
Even my young brother Mehluli who hero worshipped me could not look me in the eyes. Immediately after supper, I sneaked to bed. I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep to come and rescue me. Sleep would not come. Throughout the night, all I saw were Aida’s heels flashing in front of me. I grit my teeth and accelerated but the gap widened.
“I know how Aida beat us yesterday,” Themba whispered to me the following day. “She used witchcraft. How else can a girl run faster than boys?”
“Of course!” I exclaimed, rubbing my bleary eyes. “I should have known. Aida’s mother must be a witch. That woman! Have you ever noticed the way her sharp eyes bore into you? I am sure she sees inside your body. She has given her daughter umuthi to increase her speed.”
We called the other three humiliated boy athletes and told them our discovery. They were pleased. Soon, the five of us had built a coherent story about Aida and her mother. Our mission was to spread the story.
Within a week the whole township knew how Aida’s mother had been driven out of her rural home because of witchcraft.
“No wonder Aida ran that fast,” the five of us explained to all, “she is a witch”.
From then Aida was jeered when she participated in sports. “We don’t want witches,” pupils and teachers shouted. Aida stopped attending sports.
Dear reader, lest you think I am dismissing the existence of witchcraft, allow me to tell you another boyhood experience.
One day during a visit to our rural home, grandpa went for a beer drink at a nearby village. Just after sunset, we heard grandpa chanting as he staggered home. Suddenly, he screamed. Frothing in the mouth, a terrified grandpa rushed into the kitchen.
“Please, please,” he pleaded, “don’t beat me.” He fell on to the floor, raised his hands and feet as though protecting himself from a flurry of blows.
“No one is beating you,” grandma said but grandpa continued screaming.
“I saw them with these eyes,” grandpa shouted. “Two tikoloshis slapped me and then chased me all the way from the anthill.”
Poor grandpa never recovered from the incident. Overnight, his hair turned all white. His mouth shifted to the side and he was now always confused.
Sadly, my brother Mehluli and cousin Joseph were so shocked by the sight of their terrified grandpa that from then the two became quiet and withdrawn.
The following morning a sangoma was consulted. He explained it all. MaDube, the widow who had inherited her husband’s herd was a witch. The woman had sent the tikoloshis. She was jealous of grandpa’s bigger herd. Angry villagers resolved that MaDube immediately left the area. MaDube pleaded her innocence but the sangoma had spoken. She was banished from the area. We never heard from that witch again.
“Brother,” Mehluli called me last Sunday, “I want to tell you my story.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Remember that night grandpa was beaten by . . .”
“I remember.”
“It did not happen that way. Cousin Joseph and I dressed up like the tikoloshis we often saw in True Africa magazine. We hid behind the anthill. When grandpa got near we jumped out with hands flying all over. For fun, we chased him home. We were shocked when we saw him rolling all over with the white stuff on his mouth.”
“Why did you not explain later?” I demanded.
“And try to convince adults that that powerful sangoma was lying! No way. We had to live with our secret.” Mehluli sighed. “Now that I have told you brother, I feel better.”
“You are welcome,” I mumbled.
My mind is in turmoil. Who must I tell about Aida so that I too feel better?
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