We had all been happy, except Mama, about the World Cup. While we were generally happy and proud of the World Cup, stunned by the breath-taking transformation of Cape Town and the wonder of the Calabash, Mama behaved as if the whole idea of hosting the World Cup was evil.
“The Cup is a curse!” Mama always said.
She always referred to the World Cup as “the Cup”, and it carried a greater meaning for us. It became frightening for me when she said she was not going to drink her medicines anymore because Jabulani had scattered them and her old steel cup with the sound of the vuvuzela.
“Is Satan making a camp inside your head, Jabu!” Mama thundered.
“Aaaah, sorry,” Jabulani said, rushing forward to gather up the scattered medicines and steel cup.
“Another bad sign!” she moaned.
“What, Mama?” I asked.
“That cup is cursed, Jabulani,” she said to Jabulani. “I’m not drinking out of it again.”
“Don’t worry, Mama,” Jabulani said, with a cute smile. “When we win the World Cup, I’ll tell President Zuma that you want to drink from the gold cup.”
“That cup has no cavity,” I said. “Nobody can drink with it.”
“That cup is cursed,” Mama said, referring perhaps to her steel cup. “And the medicines. I will throw them away!”
“This is no time for superstition, Mama,” Jabulani said, smiling. “There is a World Cup in our country. Bafana Bafana will get the cup, Mama.”
“Bafana Bafana my foot!” Mama spat. “Don’t even start hoping, Jabu.”
“Why are you talking like this, Mama?”
“Disappointment.” She stood up from her bed, snatched the vuvuzela from Jabulani. “Blessed are those who do not hope, for they will not be disappointed.”
“That is not in the bible, Mama.”
She waved the vuvuzela in the air, searched for where to throw it into. “Who says the bible says everything?”
“Your faith is changing, Ma,” I said, looking at the FIFA posters on the wall.
“You don’t preach faith to me, Brenda,” Mama snarled at me. “You are not Desmond Tutu.”
“Sorry, Mama,” I apologized. “I was only joking.”
“Well, your Mama is not in a mood for joking. Not as long as I am in this camp,” she snapped, knocking Jabulani’s vuvuzela against the tin wall.
Jabulani stared long at Mama, shaking his head. She didn’t use to bite anybody’s liver like this when we were in Athlone.
“Well, I know one thing, Mama. I am going to make you happy,” Jabulani said.
“Where is Thabo?”
“Playing football outside.”
“Eish!” Mama yelled. “Your brain is faulty, Jabu. You leave your brother outside, playing Satan’s game. Go get him, idiot!”
Mama had always been superstitious, but now she behaved as if a secret god of this camp was eating up her soul. We had always been poor, for all I remember, but Mama had never been depressed. She had been a strong wilful woman who never married and yet brought Chocolate and Jabulani and me and Thabo into this world. She always talked to us about freedom, about Nelson Mandela, about the ANC and how it fought for the blacks of my country. She said we could be poor and still be free. But when we came to Blikkiesdorp, she said we could no longer be free. We would queue up for charities. But we would never get enough food for ourselves. We were far away from everything. We could not leave Blikkiesdorp after 10 in the night. We were sent armed policemen to keep us in leash so that the tourists from different corners of the world coming for the World Cup would not see us. On the day we relocated to this place, a bad wind was blowing, throwing sand into everybody’s eyes. Mama bent down and packed the grey sand in both her hands. She let the sand stream out between her fingers back to the ground. She looked here and there like one who had just woken up on another planet.
“No tree grows here,” she said. “No grass. It is a cursed ground!”
