THE FOOTBALL MATCH
Donald Woods, the editor of The Daily Dispatch in South Africa is a white liberal who is known to
criticize apartheid and the government’s abuses. He believes whites and blacks must cooperate to
build a new South Africa. He has already been to court several times because of the articles his paper
published on this subject. He won every time. His new friendship with Steve Biko, a black activist who
advocates Black Consciousness, has allowed him to know about black people’s lifestyle and about
their real living-conditions better than any other white man in the country. Although Steve Biko has
been banned by the government, he manages to continue his action among blacks. Now, Woods and
Ken, a journalist from his newspaper, are taken to a football match by some of Biko’s firends.
It was two weeks after Mapetla and Tenjy had started working on the paper [...] Woods had
told [Ken] not to make plans on the Sunday, then had him come to a rendezvous off a side-road, way
out in the country. When he arrived, Woods signalled him to pull his car off the road, next to his. Five
minutes later a black taxi arrived. Mapetla and Dyani were in it. They squeezed Woods and Ken into
the back seat between them. Ken was baffled and a little bit apprehensive.
“Where the hell are we going?” he demanded. “Should I have let my next of kin know that I
might not be back?”
“You’re going to a native football game,” Mapetla answered.
[...] Both Ken and Woods knew there was a whole world of black sport in South Africa and
that loyalties ran high. Though you would never read about it in the papers or see it on television, they
had their own football leagues, and cricket leagues, and rugby leagues, but because the pass and
residency laws stifled the easy movement of blacks to any part of the country, there were no great
national black teams. A star might evolve in one area and even gain enough fame for whites to have
heard about him, but because there was no way for a black sportsman to get training time or first-rate
coaching, their sports remained very much “amateur”. The sides were always local, and everyone in
the black crowds knew the players as members of the community, so there was fierce loyalty and lots
of fun at the matches ... as well as occasional fights.
Mapetla had timed it so they got to the grounds after most of the fans were already in the
stands. [...]
They could hear someone talking on a loudspeaker as they neared the entry-way. John hurried
them on. [...]
They’d entered the grounds and Woods and Ken could hear the speaker clearly now: “... and
sure, sure as hell, he’s paying some of our people to stir up trouble between us!” Woods didn’t
recognize the man as he stood in a flowing gold and brown robe on a platform right in the middle of
the crowded stands, but he would have recognized his name if he’d seen it written. For this was
Mzimbi, a black leader sought by the security police because he was an open advocate of violent
revolution.
The two teams were already on the field, warming up as he spoke, and some of the crowd
were watching them, but they were all listening to Mzimbi.
“And why does the white man pay them,” Mzimbi continued. “Because when we fight among
ourselves, when we get one tribe going for another, he can say, ‘See! They aren’t fit to run their own
lives!’”. There were some cheers. John was leading Woods and Ken up the steps of the stands to a
place near the top. With Mzimbi across the field and the teams out on the field, their movement only
caught the eyes of a few, but those few looked at them with alarm and suspicion.
“And once he gets us fighting among ourselves and our friends overseas see it,” Mzimbi went
on, “why then, he can convince them that he should go right on telling us where to live and how to
live!” Again there was a kind of angry assent in the round of applause. Woods and Ken took the seats
John had saved for them and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible.
“He can go on keeping us out of the best jobs,” Mzimbi continued. “He can go on paying us
less for doing the same job as a white man. And he can go on passing his laws without listening to one
word we say!”
Again, the angry applause. Ken glanced at Woods, his expression seemed to say, “What the
hell have you got me into!” Woods smiled. He was listening attentively. “And you remember,”
Mzimbi demanded, “that they killed over four hundred black students last year!” Now it was not
applause, but a roar of anger that greeted his words. “So we’ve got to stick together!” he shouted. “As
one people we’ve got to make the white man know his free ride on the back of black labour is over!”
People were standing in the stadium now to applaud him. Ken glanced at Woods again and
shook his head in wonder.
Mzimbi kept the cadence of his speech going right over the applause. “And if the only way we
can get the message to him is to make him know he can never sleep in his big white bed in his big
white house and know he’s safe - then so be it!”
It was his climax and the crowd roared.[ ...] Woods looked about him. He knew that Biko
advocated non-violent change, so he wondered how he would deal with this crowd, inflamed as they
were. [...] Finally Mzimbi signalled the crowd to silence and people began to sit back down. “Now,
we’ve got a surprise for you,” he said. “he’s a little modest - but you listen to what he has to say!”.
Then with one wave of farewell, he turned and disappeared into the crowd. [...]
For a moment there was silence, then a disembodied voice came over the loudspeaker. “This is
the biggest illegal gathering I have ever seen!” the voice pronounced. It drew a surge of approval and
laughter. Woods recognized Biko’s voice immediately but he couldn’t find him in the crowd. [...]
“I heard what the last speaker had to say and I agree - we’re going to change South Africa!”
There was a shout of approval. [...] “All we’ve got to decide is the best way to do that! Believe me the
white man is not invincible!”
The words drew another roar of approval. Woods and Ken were still looking for him. “I’m
glad you brought me,” Ken muttered under his breath. Knowing Biko’s beliefs, Woods was not
worried He saw that with humour and an appeal to the new South Africa, Biko had skilfully taken
over the crowd. [...]
“One thing we can do,”the loudspeaker blared, “is attack him where he’s strong. We can do
that - it is in our power - and he knows it.”
“There!” Ken exclaimed, pointing off to a section of the stands to the right. And Woods saw
him - Biko on the very top step - John Qumza and Mapetla on either side of him, others crowded
around.
“But angry as we have the right to be,” Biko continued, “let’s remember we’re in this struggle
not to kill someone but to kill the idea that one kind of man is superior to another kind of man!” His
genuineness, the personal one-to-one tone of delivery had sobered the crowd altogether. Even the
players on the field were beginning to stop their warm-up and were sitting or standing, some sprawled
on the ground, listening.
“And killing that idea is not dependent on the white man. We’ve got to stop looking for him to
give us anything.” There was a ripple of applause, the crowd with him, but not really knowing yet
where he was taking them.
“We’ve got to fill the black community with our own pride,” Biko went on. “Not something he
gives us, but something we make out of our own lives!” Woods glanced at Ken now - forcing an
acknowledgement that he was getting something other than he expected. Ken shrugged noncommittally.
But if he didn’t have Ken, Biko had the rest of the crowd. He wasn’t speaking in the old
shibboleths that could get automatic response, he wasn’t appealing to vengeance or bitterness, he was
saying something they hadn’t heard before and they were listening in a way that let Biko leave large
silences between each thought, letting them sink in.
“We’ve got to teach our children black history,” he continued, “tell them of our black heroes,
our black culture, so they don’t face the white man believing they’re inferior.”
And now the crowd did react, applause ringing around the stadium. Not cheers and shouts, but
steady, purposeful affirmation.
“Then,” Biko declared forcefully, “then we will stand up to him in any way he chooses.
Conflict if he likes ... But an open hand too - to say that we can both build a South Africa worth living
in. A South Africa for equal men - black or white. A South Africa as beautiful as this land is, as
beautiful as we are!”
There was a second of silence and then an overwhelming response - cheering, applause,
whistles, a stamping of feet - that would not stop. Woods was standing and applauding with everyone
else. Ken stared at him in amazement, but finally stood, and with a perfunctory handclap put himself
with the rest of the crowd.
Abridged from Cry Freedom by John Briley