A year ago, I had made up my mind that the 2010 Fifa World Cup would be such a nuisance — Johannesburg would be so full of people, there would be terrible chaos — that it would be better to go away.
But a good friend convinced me to stay, painting a glorious picture of how much fun it would be. I half-listened to her and so didn’t get myself organised to go away. Am I glad I stayed!
I have discovered in the past two weeks that people in the service industry can smile. Surly doormen at various establishments whom I always thought had no teeth, I now find, do have mouths full of pearly whites. Whereas before they mostly treated me as a nuisance, now they treat me with wide smiles, opening their doors and inviting me in.
Given how regularly I shop, I should have been on first-name terms with Pinky, Palesa and Futhi at the Woolies, Pick n Pay and Clicks till points long before the first ball was kicked at the Cup. But I was always treated like that pesky coconut or foreigner because I don’t speak Sesotho and Setswana.
The most I ever got was to be “mummified”, coupled with a scowl. A little explanation: “Mummy! Mama!” is what women of my age and race and weight and perceived economic bracket get called by pert little girls and boys in establishments. This is not a term of respect but rather a form of condescension and dismissal.
Now Pinky, Palesa and Futhi have discovered that I’m a paying customer. I get greeted and given a nice “thank you!” when the transaction is done. Respect at last — but only if you are carrying a foreign credit card.
The most remarkable revolution has been among owners of establishments, mostly white, who, pre-Cup, as soon as I walked in summoned Mamosebi, the black cleaner from the back, to ask me who (not what) I wanted. Poor Mamosebi would follow me around, at Mrs Snyman’s behest, loudly calling the prices of every item I touched: “One thousand rand! Oh, that is very new stock, too much expensive, nê?”
I was worn down by this hounding and sometimes left empty handed. These days Mrs Snyman shows me her best stock. I am cajoled. She chats to me, mistaking me for a foreigner when I produce my unfamiliar-looking credit card (or because I speak good English).
And these days waitrons fight one another to seat and serve me in restaurants. I used to be invisible.
I have bumped into members of the police force who normally see us black foreigners as moving ATMs. But not once have I been asked for my ID. The men in blue have twice sauntered past with a smile.
“Enjoy the World Cup, ma’am,” said one, doffing his cap and waving me along with yet more smiles after giving me directions to where I needed to go.
“Ma’am?” Me? I am loving it!
As a black African there has never been a time when I’ve felt as welcome here as in the past three weeks. For the first time I have seen with my own eyes and heard South Africa publicly embracing its own Africanness. I and many other Africans living here have been folded into that embrace — sometimes physically: I was hugged by complete strangers when Ghana beat the United States, and a guy I met at a public viewing place, Thulani, asked me so many questions about Ghana — what languages they speak, what food they eat, their culture. We connected.
In Nelspruit, white and black South Africans turned their Dutch orange jerseys inside out because they could not find Ivorian ones. I saw South Africans of all races waving Nigerian flags. Nigerian? That bogey country responsible for all the terrible things that have befallen this country?
Africa, in turn, has embraced South Africa. We had wanted to do this for so long but were always kept at arm’s length. Everyone I know across the continent was rooting for Bafana Bafana. We hoisted the flag. I polished up my knowledge of the Sotho stanza of the South African national anthem (I know the first bit), but drew the line at the last bit, sorry.
The diski dance will definitely replace the wedding shuffle at many a party across the Limpopo.
I dread July 12. I hear rumblings of xenophobic attacks being planned. Some of my relatives have been told to leave the townships before the end of the World Cup. I am creating space in my flat. I will make a copy of my passport and always move around with it.
The Mrs Snymans and their BEE cohorts will count their windfalls and take long holidays in Mauritius. Lerato the bank teller and Moses the doorman will go back to their surly ways. For now, I shall enjoy this mirage of a rainbow continent for as long as it lasts.
Everjoice J Win is a Zimbabwean feminist currently based in Johannesburg