‘Before funny things started’ | A World Cup monologue by Tapuwa Moore

The sound of the vuvuzela never went away, the buzz reached the church premises. I heard church hymns blowing out of a vuvuzela.

The latest house music had vuvuzelas. I tell you even the iPod had them. Social networks like Twitter had “vuvuzela” as one of the highest tweets. Goodness, my world became vuvuzela-infested when I saw Caucasians blowing that horn.

The World Cup started. The French blamed the horn for their poor performance. It dawned on me that I got World Cup fever without realizing it. This fever made me forget a particular woman. It coerced me to stop loving her. And I wrote poetically the following: I walked out on you when I realized and exclaimed curses, “Shit! I’m on my periods again” . . . The Jacobs Kronung coffee advert on TV reminded me that I bought the coffee two or three months ago and still had not finished it. I went on and finished it. When the World Cup is on, no woman matters. I made a decision to stop loving you and to go watch soccer with clarity. That woman was just an infatuation. I listened to Gil Scott-Heron’s The Revolution Will Not Be Televised with a smirk on my face, and my heart’s conviction was that my heart will never televise you. I watched on as you faded into thin air. The revolution is live in Jozi when you see a Caucasian, Indian, Asians, Japanese and all the colours of the world blowing this South African horn.

And this revolution did other funny things.

Magoshas (prostitutes) went out of business.

Therefore sex was for free, alcohol was free, and people were free to be happy.

The Brazilians were ousted. Kaká left without a single goal. Argentineans and the English were annihilated by the Germans. With so much revolutionary drama live on television, in my country, I didn’t have to worry about a certain woman.

Damn, if I were religious I would have prayed for my fellow people to engage in responsible sexual behaviour.

Thus preventing more HIV infections. Prayed for the man on the street to get a job, to be employed. Prayed for the girl next door to get an education and stop being a baby factory.

To stop rape and murder of lesbians. To stop talk of xenophobic violence. I have so much on my plate to worry about, more than a woman who was not infatuated with me.

Then more drama unfolded when the Spanish whipped the Portuguese and women all over cried foul ’cause their eye candy Cristiano Ronaldo, the skipper, sank with the ship. No more ogling! Soccer prevails!

I don’t want to speak about the World Cup holders. The Italians were torpedoed. I saw on Facebook some women weeping that the hottest men are “out of touch for them!”

This revolution brought on Paul the Octopus who predicted that Spain would win. I forgot about the World Cup host and their shirt, my shirt, that serves as part of my pyjamas. I forgot about that woman, my infatuation factor.

I had soccer exhaustion by the time it got to the semifinals.

I refused to watch the semifinals. I sat in my kitchen tweeting. And listened to my sister drooling over Paul Ince the former England captain. Then I attended a conference discussing the legacy of apartheid, soccer, FIFA, and its cronies. Speak Smiley Moosa, speak. Speak Nkosi Molala, speak.

I listened, I vividly saw what Smiley described, about his magic left foot, equivalent to Lionel Messi, who failed to score a goal, too, at the World Cup. About Nkosi’s nickname “Let Them Dance.” The forgotten Jesuses of soccer telling about their evolution.

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