There are around 300 kids convened in a long line by the entrance to Ocean View township. They are gathered around banners and brass bands and wearing their team colours as they prepare to march along the streets and inject some colour to the downbeat concrete housing blocks. There’s kids from all over and with a carfeul listen it’s possible to pick out Afrikaans, Twsana, Xhosa and English being spoken - just four of the 11 indigenous languages to South Africa. Around the kids, there are adults fussing and cameras clicking as the procession prepares to set off through the pot-holed streets and ultimately to the civic centre where the draw for the Mini World Cup will take place.
Today is the launch day of the Mini World Cup, a street football tournament convened by the Democratic Alliance, the Western Cape’s provincial government, in an effort to harness the positivity around June’s big kick-off and unite the people of one of Cape Town’s most disaffected townships. Ocean View was created in the 1960s as part of the Group Areas Act and became home to the ‘coloured’ inhabitants of the ‘white only’ communities of Simon’s Town, Fishoek and Noordhoek, as they were forcefully evicted. Today it houses 30,000 people and is listed as having the second worst drugs problem in the Western Cape.
The street football tournament comprises teams from three surrounding townships. The ‘coloured’ townships of Ocean View and Da Gama Park, and Masiphumelele whose 25,000 ‘black’ inhabitants are part of one of South Africa’s largest tribes, the Xhosa.
It’s around midday and the summer wind is pumping, whipping dust from the parched surrounding scrubland through the concrete streets. As the squalls pull through, the kids shelter their eyes as they stand milling idly in their groups, until the drummer initiates a beat and the whole area is suddenly drenched in colour and song. The groups merge as one and the procession lurches off drawing spectators from every nook. The young ones can’t be more than five, and they trail the elders clinging onto fingers and clambering onto shoulders as the procession gathers a pace.
They pass the old concrete housing blocks strung out between spider webs of washing lines, the newer private concrete builds, the concrete schools, the concrete library, the concrete community centre and eventually wind to a halt by the tin shed civic centre. The procession draws to a halt and the line becomes a scrum of bodies gathered around the band as dance circles open up to rapturous applause, and the drum beat quickens.
A programme of events is handed around. The civic centre will be the home for the draw, where the 32 teams will each be designated a group and a country which they will represent. The matches begin in a couple of weeks, and run over a period of six weeks.
The hall is hot and the congregation of coaches, kids and organisers glistens with a thin film of sweat. The heavy mesh wire on the windows prevents any breeze penetrating inside. As per the programme, the meeting kicks off in prayer, but the fervour of the pastor is lost amid the feedback from the monophone amp that sits next to the oversized Yamaha keyboard that pumps out the pre-programmed drum beats and the odd saxophone solo. Though his musings are mostly unintelligible, the hallelujahs are easily distinguishable from the fuzz and greeted with increasing rapture. Next up, in a move away from the scheduled address from the local councillor who is away ‘because of circumstances’, the keyboard is reprogrammed and there begins a very formal rendition of the South African national anthem. Halfway through, the speakers give out only to be quickly replaced by a drumbeat, all formalities are ditched and soon the anthem gets a motown-cum-gospel makeover. As the congregation gathers it’s collective breath, a young girl graces the stage and begins her best Brandy impersonation. Her warbling is heartfelt and the crowd drawn in till a child bursts in from outside and the belch of his vuvuzela horn rather spoils the moment as the room falls over itself in laughter.
The show moves on. The programme seems to have gone awry. The police address was meant to be now, but there’s a rapper on stage. A botched job’s been done on the speaker and the rapper does his best to fuse his gutteral Afrikaans with the 1980s Yamaha beat. It’s all gone a bit wrong and there's a distinct flavour of South Africa’s Got Talent on a bad trip, until the compere restores some semblance of order and calls the coaches on stage for the draw.
From two empty five-litre ice cream tubs the balls are drawn. The compere works his was through the line-up until none remain. The coaches leave the stage save for two whose teams have still not been drawn. There’s a quick scramble and much muffled conversation over the mic, and soon it’s all rectified. The crowd look on patiently, or impassively, despite the heat.
It ends with another heartfelt address. The lady’s name is lost in feedback and her words are consumed by the blown speaker. Instead, the congregation follow through her passionate gestures. However, as she draws to a close, the words ‘there was hope, there is hope and there shall be hope’ are clear and unmistakeable. Rapturous applause flows.
The hall empties into the baking courtyard where there’s a friendly netball match under way. The local police chief is offering advice to the coaches about how to tackle the drugs issue.
“We need to take a stand otherwise we’re going to sit with a broken community…. It’s all about the children and we salute you for taking a stand. Sport is one of the most powerful tools for bringing people together,” he says.
As a first taste for the pride and the passion of the South African townships, it looks like this June is going to be a lot of fun.
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