Louder Than Their Chant
They call me that word
like it’s light
like chirping from the sidelines,
like banter after a missed touch,
like it doesn’t hit hard
like a late tackle on a dusty kasi pitch.
But I am a footballer.
I’ve played where the grass gave up years ago,
where goalposts are old tyres and school bags,
where the sun sits heavy on your shoulders
and the ball doesn’t bounce the same twice.
I’ve worn my colours
not always a full kit,
sometimes just a bib,
sometimes just pride.
But that word
they throw it like loose change,
from the pitch, from the taxis,
from people who think they’re funny,
like I’m part of the joke.
They don’t see
how I learn the game my own way,
how I feel the rhythm before I name it,
how the field knows my name
when the world sometimes doesn’t.
They don’t see
my mama on the side of the pitch,
calling out, steady as ever,
telling me I am not that word.
“Ngiyigugu, angiyilona lelo gama,”
(I am precious, I am not that name)
“Ngiyakwazi ukudlala, ngiyakwazi ukuphila.”
(I can play, I can live.)
The whistle goes,sharp.
Now it’s simple:
pass, move, breathe.
I get the ball.
First touch,clean.
I turn past one, then another,
leave them standing, stunned, as if they had the right to measure my ability.
For that moment,
their word can’t catch me
left behind in the dust,
stuck somewhere near the halfway line.
But after
in the change room,
under flickering lights,
it comes back.
Echoing.
A name that isn’t mine
but sticks like sweat after extra time.
Still, I play.
Not to prove them wrong
but to remember myself
without their noise.
I am not that word.
I am rhythm.
I am hustle.
I am ninety minutes of heart
on a field that never promised fairness.
And I keep going
in a country still learning
how to see me.
like it’s light
like chirping from the sidelines,
like banter after a missed touch,
like it doesn’t hit hard
like a late tackle on a dusty kasi pitch.
But I am a footballer.
I’ve played where the grass gave up years ago,
where goalposts are old tyres and school bags,
where the sun sits heavy on your shoulders
and the ball doesn’t bounce the same twice.
I’ve worn my colours
not always a full kit,
sometimes just a bib,
sometimes just pride.
But that word
they throw it like loose change,
from the pitch, from the taxis,
from people who think they’re funny,
like I’m part of the joke.
They don’t see
how I learn the game my own way,
how I feel the rhythm before I name it,
how the field knows my name
when the world sometimes doesn’t.
They don’t see
my mama on the side of the pitch,
calling out, steady as ever,
telling me I am not that word.
“Ngiyigugu, angiyilona lelo gama,”
(I am precious, I am not that name)
“Ngiyakwazi ukudlala, ngiyakwazi ukuphila.”
(I can play, I can live.)
The whistle goes,sharp.
Now it’s simple:
pass, move, breathe.
I get the ball.
First touch,clean.
I turn past one, then another,
leave them standing, stunned, as if they had the right to measure my ability.
For that moment,
their word can’t catch me
left behind in the dust,
stuck somewhere near the halfway line.
But after
in the change room,
under flickering lights,
it comes back.
Echoing.
A name that isn’t mine
but sticks like sweat after extra time.
Still, I play.
Not to prove them wrong
but to remember myself
without their noise.
I am not that word.
I am rhythm.
I am hustle.
I am ninety minutes of heart
on a field that never promised fairness.
And I keep going
in a country still learning
how to see me.