When the golf tournament in Sowetos’ slum started, no one thought it was real. It was a joke, a rumor, and a puff of smoke out of Johannesburg. Nobody believed that neighborhood boy Tiff Elanga could have hopped the fences in the night, run twelve kilometers, entered Constantia Kloof, climbed the walls, jumped the hedges, sneaked past the guards, and somehow gotten into Judge Makemba's estate and stolen his golf clubs. And then run back again, home to the slum. A straight suicide mission. But it was true. The seven iron shone in his hand, and on his return his friends saw not Tiff, but in him, some young lionheart. When they looked at him they believed.
“Where? Where in Soweto? You can’t play golf there! It's impossible!” shouted astonished, frustrated, and disbelieving voices from further away that wanted to believe, but could not seem to. The harsh voices that cut through the roosters' crows belonged to distant neighbors and others who rolled their eyes at the thought of someone in Soweto teeing up. But in secret, more than a few wished that they were Tiff Elanga. And had they actually seen the boys and girls climbing the shantytown metal roofs to play eighteen holes, they would have felt warm inside, regardless of their sour grimaces. But they didn’t see it. Be that as it may, the boys and girls, not caring anymore about yesterday’s social conventions, the chores and the rules of mother and father, jumped the roofs and looked over the course as the sun rose over Jozi, The City of Gold. The smaller children carried the clubs like rifles while the older ones drew up the holes in live debate. Any player from Windsor or anywhere in Berkshire would have declared that the game was butchered in all its aspects. But if you asked the players in Soweto, they were doing alright. When they took the clubs in their hands, they felt strong. The pegs however could not be made to stand up on the roofs so they simply kept them in their pockets, as talismans. Some of those who kept a peg after the tournament would look at it years afterwards, and remember.
The holes were somewhere in the distance. Not actual holes, but doors to smaller shacks. Tiff and the others had never played golf or seen a real golf course, but they knew what to do. Because when enough is enough and the weekend is all work, errands, a lack of money and electricity, the time comes to rouse the troops. Meaning their siblings and friends.
Of course the succession of loud and unruly children with clubs irritated the closest neighbors who awakened with peppery eyes and bad tempers. But even if the slum’s residents’ spouted mean words at the boys and girls that day, they still remained its children in the evening. Mothers and fathers did not punish too harshly. They hugged and kissed them good night as all the nights before. Most people understood that the children had to play. The way themselves one time long ago had to run through Soweto with sticks in their hands, laughing and scaring the chickens. They startled the elders and bolted through the alleys where mother and father and uncle worked, smoked, or cooked. They had to run and kick up dust that lingered in the sunlight as if their futures depended on it. The cursing older generation understood that, too. Because when they were young, they too had snuck out and smashed the bottles and played their own games.
These outbursts when freedom called in a clear voice and was heard by many, came seldom and quickly, lasted briefly, and passed swiftly. It was all a tapestry of the mind and of many generations, but it was not overly dissected. When a game is beyond points and rules and winners and losers, but a manifestation of something bigger, then it is a venture not too frowned upon when it is through. It is borne out of hope in a harsh world.
The Soweto Tournament saw pricey golf balls bounce towards tin walls with loud bangs that made dwellers wake up in shock. But in those bangs the player's frustrations and aspirations were finally delivered, the steel spring was released and a spirit awakened in the young heart. One which had to last a lifetime, or at least a working life. It was the jump over the fire and the starting shot saying that the world was not all old and spent. Not for the one who tried to reach beyond the shell or beyond Soweto, into that cloudy mist of wheels and colors where the world might end. But where it might begin too. That was what the Soweto Tournament became on that early Saturday morning. But since something like it occurred seldom in those parts, it was rumored to have been taken for a joke, ruse, or hearsay by some. That did not matter to Tiff Elanga, who had jumped the hedges, skinned his knees, eluded the guard dogs and picked the lock to get the golf bag. He saw no quarrels with adults' sneers and disbelief in the tournament as he climbed onto the first roof to play the first hole. Because the wind was at his back and the young ones were watching him with hope in their eyes. His people. Tiff dropped the ball on the corrugated metal with a smile. Then he hit it with a clean shot as hard as he could.
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