Now Is the Time for Running

by Michael Williams

  Then Salie makes each of us foreigners partner with a South African. T-Jay is my new stretch mate. We do weights together, we partner for all the soccer drills, and he gets to run across the field and up the stadium stands, carrying me on his back. Salie is sweating out all the trouble of a few days ago.

  “We might as well be married,” T-Jay grumbles over his shoulder as he struggles across the field under my weight.

  “I don’t like this either,” I say, gripping him around his neck as I feel myself slipping down his back. “Shut up and hold me tighter.”

  “You see what I mean? We sound like we’ve been married for thirty years!”

  That cracks us both up, and we fall down laughing in a heap in the middle of the field.

  On the seventh day after the Us-Them blowup, Salie is waiting for us beside the court. “Follow me,” he says, without any greeting.

  We follow him into one of the conference rooms inside Hartleyvale Stadium, where the chairs have been arranged in a circle.

  “Sit,” says Salie, taking a piece of paper from his folder.

  We don’t dare look at one another. I can’t look at Salie. He means business. Instead, I look at the tiger on his neck.

  “On this piece of paper are the names of the players on this year’s South African Street Soccer World Cup team.”

  This is the moment I’ve been dreading and hoping for.

  “But before I read out the names, there’s one last thing you have to do to get onto this team,” Salie says, folding the paper and putting it in his top pocket. “You guys made me think a lot about what happened last week. I don’t like to fail, but last week I failed you. I couldn’t give you the answers you were looking for. I suppose because it’s a tough subject, and it’s something we don’t like to talk about.

  “I’m talking about xenophobia. You know what that word means? Being frightened of people who come from another country, and hating them because of it.

  “You were right, T-Jay. This is the South African street-soccer side. We are entering the tournament representing South Africa. And you were right too, Deo. It does matter where you come from. It matters a lot.

  “The problem is that I don’t think we all understand what it means to be a South African, or what it means to live in this part of the world. Do any of you know how the person sitting next to you came to be here, in Cape Town?”

  Nobody answers him. I’ve never heard Salie this serious before.

  “For a long time, many people in this country thought apartheid and segregation were the only way. And there were a lot of people who turned a blind eye to people who were suffering. Talk to me, talk to my father and his grandfather. We know about what happened in this country. And now, almost sixteen years after Mandela was president, we are making the same damn mistake again! We’re ignoring the suffering of people who come from other African countries far worse off than our own.”

  He leans back in his chair and slowly scans every face in the room.

  “Well, I’m not going to allow fear and hatred to mess up my team,” he adds, smacking both of his knees and leaning forward.

  “Today I want to hear your stories. You’re going to tell me where you come from and how you got to be in this room today. And I want all of you to listen. Listen hard, and try to understand.”

  People shift uncomfortably in their seats. A few of the boys drop their heads to their chests. My palms go sweaty. The room is silent with tension.

  “Think of this as your last drill,” Salie says, patting his shirt pocket. “Who’s going to go first?”

  I glance around the circle. No one is really looking at anyone else. No one looks at Salie either. The ceiling and the floor have become the most fascinating things in the room, and the silence is like a big, fat balloon waiting to pop. Nobody wants to go first. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Salie folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, simply waiting.

  “I will,” says Keelan suddenly. She bites her bottom lip and thinks for a moment.

  “My father was a social worker, working in Kamukunji, in Kenya. This was where I was born. The town is about two hundred miles from Nairobi.” Keelan stops, drops her head, and grips the sides of her chair.

  “Go on,” says Salie.

  “My father was a community leader. People trusted him. He was in charge of counting the votes for the election. I didn’t know much about the election. I didn’t care in the beginning. At first, everything was peaceful.”

  Keelan looks like she is holding on to Salie with her eyes. Her voice shakes. “My father was a Kikuyu. He believed we should vote for the party that would bring development to the region. He had counted the votes twice, and he knew who had won.

  “Then the people who supported the government came to Kamukunji. They told my father and the community leaders that the outcome of the election must be that the president would win.

  “These outside people did not like what my father said about how the people should vote. That night they started burning houses in Kamukunji. In the morning they came after my father. Luckily, my baby sister and I were with my mother at her family’s house, so we didn’t know what happened. But then my uncle came to tell us that our house had been burned down and that my father was dead.

  “They had chopped off his arms with a machete. The people took him to the community hospital, but it was closed. My father died outside the hospital the next day. I wanted to see his body, but my mother said we had to leave, that it was not safe for us to live in Kamukunji anymore. My sister was too little to travel with us, so we left her with my aunt. My mother and I traveled through Nairobi into Tanzania. We got rides in delivery trucks to Botswana. We came to South Africa and stayed in Upington, but there was no work there. Then we came to Cape Town, where my mother worked at the harbor.” Keelan’s voice becomes very quiet. “Until she got sick and died.”

  No one seems to be breathing. Not even Salie.

  “My father taught me to play soccer. We would watch Manchester United together on television. In Kamukunji, we went to the Methodist church each Sunday. So I went to the Methodists here after my mother died. They told me about the soccer trials, and that’s how I came here.”

  Keelan’s voice goes very small until it breaks. We all think that she is finished, but then she looks around at us all. “South Africa is very hard for me. Everything is different from the way it was in Kenya. I don’t like asking for help, but I need money to go back to Kenya and fetch my sister. I want to bring her here to stay with me.”

  She drops her eyes away from Salie and swings her legs under her chair. She is finished. We all look at Salie.

  “Thank you, Keelan. Who is next?”

  This time it is not long before someone puts up his hand. Now it’s T-Jay.

  “I come from Steinkopf. I know, I know—nobody knows where that is. I call it the hairy armpit of South Africa—it’s a town this side of the Namibian border close to the desert. No, it is the damn desert!

  “My father worked for the old South African Defence Force as a tracker. He lost his job when he stood on a land mine. It blew off his foot.”

  Everyone laughs and T-Jay grins, shaking his head. “Don’t laugh! It sounds like a joke, but it wasn’t funny. He couldn’t work anymore, so he stayed at home. He beat the crap out of me until the social services took him away. My mother says he was an alcoholic. We saw less and less of him until my mother said that he wouldn’t be coming back.

  “She said he had gone to Cape Town. So I ran away. That was pretty stupid. I was only thirteen. I think I wanted to find him. Even though he beat me, I felt sorry for him. He was a damn fine tracker until he lost his foot.

  “I never found him in Cape Town, and when I realized that my old man was probably dead, it was too late to go back. My mother still lives in Steinkopf, but I don’t hear from her much these days. I think it would be nice to have a brother or a sister—some sort of family, you know? You’re lucky, Keelan, even if your sister isn’t he
re.

  “I could go back to Steinkopf, but there’s nothing there for me. I suppose I should have gone to school, but it’s too late for that now. I got into drugs,” says T-Jay, looking quickly at Salie, who is nodding. “That was rough, but I’m through with that now. I never want to go back to that shit.”

  “Thank you, T-Jay,” says Salie. “Who’s next?”

  And so it goes on, story after story, told by every person sitting in the circle. Some have their funny moments, all have their problems, and most of them are sad.

  All of the people in the room have come from somewhere other than Cape Town. We are all strangers to this city, but none is a stranger to sadness and death.

  All of the people in the room want to be somewhere else. None of us wants to live on the streets of Cape Town.

  All of the people in the room want to belong somewhere and be treated as somebody, not something.

  As each person speaks, the stories get easier to tell and easier to listen to. I notice too that as each of the people in the room talks, something changes in their faces. A light goes on in their eyes. It’s like they were gray, but now they have color. No one is nervous anymore, and with the telling of each story, those who have not spoken get more confidence.

  Each story is like the black-and-white patch of a soccer ball. Each one makes the ball whole.

  “Deo? You are the last,” says Salie. “It’s your turn now.”

  I want to add my patch, but I cannot. I need to keep it to myself. I don’t want to share it with anyone. My story is still in my head, buried. I cannot go back to what happened. I have already heard parts of my story in those who spoke before me. My story is all I have.

  “Deo, we’re waiting,” says Salie.

  The tiger on his neck laughs at me. What did Salie say? Hold on tight and don’t let go.

  Keelan smiles at me. “I didn’t want to tell either, Deo. Please. I want to hear how you came here.”

  I look at the faces in the circle, all turned toward me. A part of me wants to get up and run out of the room, but another part wants to make my story real for them.

  “I once had a brother. His name was Innocent. He was a very special person and he was my best friend.”

  And so I’ve begun.

  Gutu, and what happened there. Commander Jesus, Amai, and Grandpa Longdrop. Innocent stretched out on the ground covered in ants and piss.

  Captain Washington and the visit of the Green Bombas. The song I sang for Innocent.

  Short sleeves or long sleeves on the road to Beitbridge. How Innocent saved me from being eaten by the witch. Innocent slipping in the Limpopo River and the water covering his head. Innocent blowing his whistle at the hyena. Innocent packing tomatoes. Innocent disappearing into a hole in a bridge in Jozi. Innocent missing.

  The garbage that was not garbage at all.

  Innocent dead.

  Camp life, without Innocent.

  The train ride through the desert to Cape Town, without Innocent. More camp life at the end of the world, without Innocent. Living on the streets, without Innocent, and finding escape in a glue-tube, where everything is out of focus, light and slow. And then, the worst part of it all: how the memory of Innocent blurs, starts to disappear.

  “I can no longer remember what my brother looked like. It is as if he has gone forever from my mind and I will never, ever see him again….”

  My vision blurs.

  I do not know when the tears start rolling down my cheeks, nor do I know when the sob in my chest makes it impossible for me to continue. And the strangest thing of all is that part of me is so sad, it feels like I will never stop crying, and another part is so happy to be talking about Innocent. I have missed my brother so much. He has been away for so long, and now here he is in this room beside me again. I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt. I can’t believe I am crying in front of all these people, and no one is laughing at me.

  “I’m finished,” I say. “Sorry, it was a bit long.”

  “But never boring,” says T-Jay, and everybody laughs.

  Even me.

  “Thank you, Deo. Thank you, everyone,” says Salie. “You know, as I listened to you, I became more certain than ever that you have the strength to beat any team in the world. Now that you have heard one another’s stories, do you understand more about who your teammates are? Don’t you think you’ve all had too much crap in your life to be dishing it out to one another too?”

  Salie is right. I’m so tired of fighting; so tired of proving that I do belong. Salie takes the paper out of his pocket.

  “There’s only one way I can coach this team and there’s only one way we are going to win the Street Soccer World Cup.

  “We can win only if we play as a team. That means building the strongest damn team spirit in the world! No matter how good a player you are, you will make mistakes, and you will need your fellow players to encourage you and not beat you up!

  “I have watched you very closely during the last seven days, and each of you brings something special to this team. Zimbabwe has brought me guts and determination; from Kenya, I get lightness and speed; from Angola, great defense of the goal area; from Mozambique, superb ball control and agility.”

  Salie stands up and walks around the circle, pinning us back in our seats with eyes as fierce as his tiger tattoo. He prowls behind us, growling with emotion.

  “Don’t you understand? It is because we are not the same that we are stronger than any other team in this competition! All of you have learned to play soccer in different parts of Africa. Our combined playing style is like no other in the world, and it’s difficult to read. I can take the best from where you come from and make you the strongest team in the competition.

  “Each person chosen to join this squad will wear South African colors. But those of you who are not South African will wear a red armband showing the flag of your country. We will show the world that the South African street-soccer side does not ignore our refugees. That we are stronger as a nation because of them!”

  Salie stops speaking and stands at the center of the circle, his hands on his hips.

  “And if anyone doesn’t agree with me or doesn’t want to play under these conditions, they can leave this room right now.”

  Nobody moves. Something shifts inside of me. I never thought I would be able to play for South Africa, but the way Salie explains it, I will be playing for myself, for where I come from, and for my teammates.

  Salie nods once and slowly unfolds the piece of paper. “The people taking part in the Street Soccer World Cup tournament will be…”

  I hold my breath, like everyone else, waiting to hear what his next words will be.

  “… everyone in this room.”

  Our shouting is deafening. We are on our feet, hugging one another, jumping up and down, chanting, “World Cup here we come, here we come, here we come!”

  25

  A MIDNIGHT RUN

  It is after midnight and I am wide awake. In ten hours’ time, we will be playing our first match of the tournament. Tomorrow, no, today, the Street Soccer World Cup begins. I lie on my bunk bed, my hands behind my head, staring into the darkness. I am dressed in my clothes, waiting for the night to be sleep-still.

  The time has come. I imagine I hear the tap-tapping on the window, but when I get up to look out the window, I see that the street below is empty. The others have not come back. When I’m sure that everyone is asleep, I pull the small backpack out from under the bed. I check that it has everything I need, and then, very quietly, I slip out of the room and make my way down the corridor. I start heading down the stairs when a voice from behind stops me.

  “Deo, where are you going?”

  It’s Keelan.

  “What are you doing up so late?” I ask. “I thought everyone was asleep.”

  “I’m too excited to sleep.”

  “Me too. You want to come for a walk?”

  She looks at me, puzzled, but then shrugs. “You know what Sal
ie said, lights out at ten o’clock.”

  “My light was out at ten o’clock,” I say, grinning.

  “Let me get my shoes.”

  In a moment we are both at the front door. I hesitate before turning the handle. “You sure you want to come? I don’t want to make any trouble, but I’ve got to do something, and it’s got to be done tonight.”

  She holds my gaze, then smiles. “Let’s go.”

  The night air falls softly on my skin. The smell of the Liesbeek River is never far away in this part of town, but tonight the air is rich with the taste of sea salt. We walk quickly down the pavement, and I am happy to have Keelan beside me. I start jogging. It feels good to run in the night. Keelan falls in beside me, and our steps become one.

  “I won’t ask where we’re going,” she says after a while, “but I am curious. Why are we running through Salt River in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s not far now. See that highway leading into town?”

  She comes up short. “Deo, why there?”

  “Relax. It’s not what you think. Come on, it will be all right.”

  The shadows darken as I run away from the street onto a narrow pathway leading directly under the highway. I pull out my flashlight from my backpack to check that the others are not camping here for the night. The beam of light doesn’t fall on any surprised faces or shapes of people sleeping under cardboard. It’s a warm evening; they’re probably hanging out around Grand Parade. I count the pillars under the highway, looking for one in particular, checking the graffiti with my flashlight. Finally the beam finds the word KEWL painted in red. I slip off my backpack and take out the small shovel I borrowed from the YMCA gardener’s shed.

  “This won’t take long,” I say. Kneeling down at the base of the pillar, I start digging.

  “Deo, have you gone absolutely crazy?” asks Keelan, looking around anxiously.