I had dinner last night with an old varsity friend I haven’t seen for years. I am always amazed at how nice it is to do that, forgetting in the wide spaces of time between meetings, how well we get on. Years of, well, just getting on with motions of life melt away in moments, and we are suddenly back, sharing secrets, talking as if we saw each other yesterday.
We went to a restaurant in my hood – a small, cosy place with terrible acoustics so that, as soon as there is more than one table, you have to shout. The food is good, though, and the shouting is friendly. We discovered that, strangely, our lives are running in parallel, with some weird coincidental similarities. It’s nice to know it’s not just me.
And then, the thing on the tip of everyone’s tongues, flying from their cars, hooting from their vuvuzelas – it’s one more sleep until the opening match. Just one. Yesterday, at 12 noon, the entire country erupted in a cacophony of vuvuzela blowing and cars hooting, in support of our boys, Bafana Bafana. My heart swelled, and my eyes welled. I love it. The spirit is palpable and it’s just that that makes me overflow with pride for being a citizen of this country on the tip of Africa. We love a celebration, and, boy, are we going to celebrate!
Can you feel it too?