24 Fairlady/September 2019Spirit of a great heart
at the ankle, and my MadDog
sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was a bit
of a splurge but my salary has given
me some financial freedom. It’s
good to be in a happy crowd again.
Something about the atmosphere
reminds me of SA winning the
1995 Rugby World Cup last year.
After watching the match on TV,
we’d chugged through the traffic to
Wanderers sportsgrounds, dodging
pedestrians and policemen waving
flags and blasting hooters. It was a
good night to be South African.
Johnny comes onstage. He is
kicking his legs wildly and waving
his Zulu spear around. We do the
dance too, on the floor of the stadium.
We’re standing quite far from the
stage and it is a bit difficult for me
to see everything. A friend offers to
lift me onto his shoulders for three
songs. I choose carefully – one will
definitely be ‘Great Heart’ and
I save another slot for the finale.
I clamber onto Neil’s shoulders
and sing with gusto: ‘I’m searching
for the spirit of the great heart...’
It’s another good night to be
SouthAfrican.y SouthAfrican
digs-mateTomand
I meettwoZimba-
bweanfriendsat the
Hammersmith[now
Eventim]Apollo,in
London.Myankle-
lengthblackcoatandwinterboots
fromMarks& Spencermakeme
indistinguishablefromthelocals
as I scurryinfromthecoldof the
Tubestation.Thevenueis small
andtheticketsaresoldout.We’ve
justseeninthenewmillennium
andI havebeeninLondonforfour
years.It wassupposedtobeforjustone, for a change of scenery, but my
British passport has allowed me to
experience ‘real life’ here, although
the allure of anonymity is starting
to wear thin. The endless internal
debate around whether to stay in the
UK or go home influences all my
decisions. My position on the fence
is now uncomfortable.
Walking into the arena feels like
walking into a South African venue.
Everybody sounds like me. The four
of us have seats on the balcony.
A few months ago we were part of
a bigger crowd of South African and
Zimbabwean friends who went away
for a bank holiday weekend to
Ramsgate. We’d braaied on the
Friday night and drank New World
wine from Sainsbury’s and Castle
Lager from the South African shop
in Wimbledon. Somebody had
brought CDs and a sound system
and Johnny Clegg was blasting at
top volume. We were all doing our
best Impi impersonations, ululating
and using pot handles as percussion
to boost the performance, when
there was a knock, knock, knock on
thedoor.A pasty-skinnedEnglish
couplegreetedus.Tentatively,they
sharedtheirconcern:theirsmall
childrenweretryingtosleep.They
couldtellwewereenjoyingour-
selvesandtheyhadnoproblemwith
thesinging;it wasthescreaming
theywerefindingdifficult!
Theconcertat Hammersmithis
abouttostartandthecrowdis
buzzing.Johnnycomesontothe
stageandtheaudienceroars.From
ourgreatvantagepoint,wecansee
hishairis thinninga bit.Hejumps
lessvigorouslyandthespearis gone
butheis stillourJohnnyClegg.We
singalong.AtintervalI dashtothe
bathroomandoverheartwomen
withEastRandaccents.‘I swear,M
One man, one
vote. I am getting
the hang of the
chorus but I don’t
want to sing it.
I don’t want any-
body to see mesay those words.