“He didn’t even tell me”. The Youngest called me. But wait, I’m jumping too far ahead.
One day, somewhere in 2010, The Youngest was visiting Middleboet. They drove to the shops to get meat and drinks for a braai. Back in Middleboet’s bakkie, The Youngest noticed the balls in the back. Quite a few soccer balls. The kind you buy at most supermarkets. As a member of a proud rugby and cricket family, she was puzzled by these foreign objects. “And these soccer balls? Did you suddenly develop a love for the game?” she asked.
Now, those of us who know Middleboet will tell you that he’s a man of few words. In fact, some days go by with scarcely a word leaving his lips. “They’re for the kids. It’s the World Cup, the kids must have balls,” he mumbled. Back at Middleboet’s home, refreshments are poured and the fire is lit. By now, The Youngest is adamant about the soccer balls, she can’t let it go. “What children are you talking about?” she wants to know.
Over the course of a few hours and more than a few refreshments, she manages to drag the story out of him.
In 2010, Middleboet worked as a contractor developing training material for a project on the other side of Kakamas in the Northern Cape. He spent a lot of time driving around the desolate province in his beloved bakkie, where he noticed children playing soccer on dusty, red clay fields.
Each of these games was different. The number of players in the teams, the uniforms and the condition of the pitches. Even the ages of the players changed in every impromptu match he passed. The one constant was the ball. Without fail, the balls used in these games were beaten up grey lumps of canvas, seemingly stitched together by dreams and hope.
And so began Middleboet’s own contribution to the successful World Cup of 2010.
He made a rule for himself. Every time he went to a supermarket, he had to add a soccer ball to his trolley. The ball would then join the others on the back of his bakkie. And every time he passed one of these matches in the middle of nowhere, he would pull over on the side of the road and fetch a ball from the back of the bakkie. Without saying a word, he would then kick the ball to the players, get back in his bakkie and leave.
Over the course of the year, Middleboet kicked his soccer balls far and wide across the Northern Cape. All without a sponsorship or assistance from the government, or even help from any of those businessmen with their unfulfilled promises of upliftment. Middleboet was just an ordinary guy who tried to fix something, one supermarket soccer ball at a time.
Two weekends ago, at the end of 2015, I visited Middleboet and The Youngest for a Sunday braai. To be honest, Middleboet did the braai work while the rest of us (me, The Youngest and The Mother) ‘kuiered’. As usual, Middleboet said very little. Looking at him quietly tending to his fire, I thought about the soccer balls, and about all the ordinary folks, everyday South Africans who were now, during one of the driest years on modern record, transporting water and animal feed to the parts of our country effected by the drought.
As I sat there, I opened up Facebook on my phone. The first post I saw was a photo of a truck convoy, proudly flying the South African flag, fully loaded with water and animal feed, on its way to the Free State. And I think about Penny Sparrow, Chris Hart and Velaphi Khumalo with their sad, ‘social media savvy’, hateful words, and about our President and his indifferent, cruel witch’s laugh echoing down from his high tower.
I think about ordinary South African citizens struggling through life every day, but still taking the time to help others. The kind of people who don’t ask for any recognition or send out press releases when they do something ‘significant’. These are the people who receive nothing, but ask nothing, for helping and supporting their fellow human beings. People who know that life doesn’t have a Share or Like button.
Ordinary people. Our people.
And suddenly this gives me hope, like a small flame starting a dance in my heart.
And I think: you know what, we’re going to be okay.
