‘Mama, Papa, ke kopa chelete
Ke ya go bona Jomo Sono ko Orlando Stadium’
Children on dusty playgrounds in this part of the world used to sing this little ditty as they fantasized and dreamt their impossible dreams. Back then there was no television. We went to the local stadium where you followed either Copper Chiefs or Nico United. They were the big teams in Phikwe, the town of our childhood.
If neither appealed to you, there were around twenty or so teams plying their trade in the lower kick and rush divisions. Phikwe being a mining town populated mainly by hard men, the plethora of football teams was not altogether surprising. On any given day of the weekend, a casual stroll would take you to more football matches than you could take in. We also had institutional teams because the mine had to be supported by government and allied services.
We also had a big army presence due to our location close to the eastern border, as the war for the liberation of Zimbabwe drew to a close. I think Phikwe had more football teams per capita than any town of comparable size. Though on derby day, the town was split between Nico United and Copper Copper Chiefs, every fan also had a South African team. That was the culture back then. Whereas today people support a local team with their loyalty spread to one of the glamour teams in the English Premier League or the Spanish La Liga, in our day it was your local and your South African team. Infact globalization has given rise to a culture of infidelity in so far as football loyalties are concerned. It is now common to support a local team, plus a favourite in South Africa, another in England and increasingly one of the big two in Spain.
On average a local fan roots for four teams. And this is not counting your village Christmas eleven.
The advent of television has introduced us to other worlds and more football teams, hence we suffer an embarrassment of riches. I know a chap who follows Township Rollers as his local, Kaizer Chiefs as his South African pick, Manchester United being his EPL team, Barcelona his Spanish treat, along with Boca Juniors in Argentina and Bayern Munich in Germany. The man is literally a full time fan. This is how prolific our promiscuity has become in the world of football; all because of satellite television.
As a boy, I followed Nico United and considered them one of the best teams in the whole world. Realistically, how else could I not when I had never seen teams from all those faraway countries? About twice a season, the big guns from Gaborone would arrive in town to honour league fixtures against our local idols.
The glamour team then was Township Rollers, and behind came Gaborone United and Notwane. Rollers was exceptional in that it had fans all over the country. My father was one and even owned an official team blazer in the colours.
Notwane had in their line up a player called William Dennison, affectionately known as Paymaster and widely regarded as the best exponent of the pigskin in the country. For some odd reason many Nico fans had a liking for Rollers, whilst Copper Chiefs, them of the arrogant fans who claimed to be more educated than the miners of my team, were partial to Gaborone United.
Frankly I had no time for the teams from the capital city. They did not impress me. My allegiance I owed to Nico United. My South African team was Orlando Pirates who captured my imagination through soccer publications as well as picture spreads in Drum and Pace popular magazines.
Alongside checking out Marcia Turner bathing with Lux and Millicent Mseleku showing off the latest fashions, I kept my mythical eye on the soccer pages. Why I fell for Pirates as opposed to their bitter rivals, Iwisa Kaizer Chiefs, as it was known back then, was on account of a certain Jomo Sono. The most common name I heard in football was that of Jomo. We used to gather after our barefooted match ups and swap tall tales about the prowess of this mythical figure. Many a local player christened themselves Jomo. After that they would walk with swagger, imagining greatness.
I doubt there was a team in this country that didn’t have a Jomo in its lineup. When we attended games, self styled pundits discussing South African football would wax lyrical about Jomo. In our street kick games, invariably a little Jomo would be dribbling us dizzy. There was even a song on radio by John Moriri which celebrated the legend of this player. Next to our mentor, Papi Senatle, one of the people who first brought Jomo and Orlando Pirates into my life was something of a local dandy. Sporting a huge afro, talk a good football game he did.
On a Saturday morning, if he was not talking football in the main mall, he would be perched on one of the hills in the town’s recreational park, catching live commentary of South African matches on the then Radio Tswana broadcasting all the way from Orlando Stadium. He would be surrounded by a group of awe struck listeners, following the action.
Truth be told, on that hill, listening to the commentary from Soweto we could actually visualize the ebb and flow of the game as it unfolded. Many a listener would in frustration even admonish a striker for missing a sitter. There were fans who, unimpressed would yell for the substitution of a certain player while they were hunched over a Sanyo transistor radio in Phikwe. And that’s how it was for some time before television made its way into ordinary homes.
When we wanted to attend a South African game, we would go to the hill where the reception was better and catch it on the short wave radio owned by the man with the big afro. His opinions were respected and hardly disputed; after all without his radio, there would be no game; unless you moved to nearby hill tops where others were also gathered around shortwave radios. Phikwe also boasted two cinemas. The most popular was Area 1 which was an open air arena, where we would bring blankets to lay on the floor whenever there was a double feature which you could watch for 75 thebe. It was on the big screen at Area 1 where icons such as Terence Hill, Bud Spencer, Bruce Lee, Clint Eastwood, Jim Kelly, Steve McQueen, Lee Van Cleef and James Bond thrilled us. To us they were known as starrings.
Unlike today’s pretentiously boring cinemas which don’t allow the audience to be expressive, back then we could whistle and cheer the starrings whilst jeering the villains with abandon. We didn’t care a hoot about on screen dialogue. Anyway the majority of us couldn’t understand English, let alone Chinese.
At month end when it was pay day, the movie would be followed by a live music show, known as a function, featuring bands from down south, including, among others, The Black Five, Soul Brothers, Juluka, Mahothela Queens, Izintombi Zesi Manjemanje , John Moriri and others. On a few occasions, local acts such as Demote, Melody and Mass Media Construction would, on the back of an open van, arrive on tour. At the end of the screening, all movie goers would vacate the cinema hall, and the adults attending the function would part with two bucks for a ticket.
On a Saturday month end, a Phikwean could start his day watching a local game; catch a South African radio commentary; watch the starrings in the evening at Area 1 and wrap up his night with a live function. It was at Area 1 where I first saw Jomo in full flight, on the big screen in kaleidoscopic colour.
The most popular cup tournament in the football calendar was the Mainstay Cup. This was the cup of champions and one day the promoters of the cane whisky treated the town to a free show of the 1980 final between Orlando Pirates and Moroka Swallows. Area 1 was packed to the rafters as the locals came to see the heroes they had only ever marveled at in the eye of their minds. I think the screening was shown a year or so after the actual match.
Though we knew the outcome that fact did little to dampen the magic of the evening. Played to the soundtrack of the then super group Harari, the film, The Way Of Life showed how the two teams reached the final. Swallows had dispatched Kaizer Chiefs in the semis while we had taken the scalp of a white team called Hellenic. That game was unlike anything we had seen before. The sights, sounds and personalities of Soweto on cup final day came to Phikwe. Strutting like a peacock in full splendour, Jomo who was home from North America toyed with his opponents. Because of the sports boycott due to apartheid, South African players weren’t welcome to showcase their skills on the world stage. But in the North American Soccer League they had a rare opportunity to earn a living overseas.
In the off season they would return to bolster their home teams. When Pirates were not playing well, many a fan would count down the days, longing for the return of Jomo from Toronto Blizzards. At Chiefs, when Ace Ntsoelengoe returned from Minnesota Kicks, the faithful knew the good times were back. On the day of the final, the ramshackle Orlando Stadium was bursting at the seams. Up to this day I remember the Pirates line up almost to a man. The Beautiful Birds, or Limited, as Swallows are known had some household names as well. That balladeer of football men, John Moriri had already immortalized the likes of Andries ‘Six’ Mabone Maseko and Joel ‘Ace’ Mnini in a popular song that played on Radio Botswana.
The remarkable thing about Pirates on that day was that they had a coach who also doubled up as the central defender. Elegant and blessed with fine features, he was a regal figure of poise and authority. Everything about Phil Setshedi oozed class in bucket loads. It was hardly surprising that in a football fraternity that could conjure up some of the most colourful praise names, his was the aristocratic sounding Mr Jones. Mr Jones was simply Mr Jones. He exuded refined aristocracy. On that November day in 1980, with Jomo on song, Mr Jones as captain led The Bucs to a 3-2 victory which lives on in the memories of those from that era.
So what led to the fall of Mr Jones? Everyone has their theory as to why this happened. Mine is that the lure of money is the cause. For as long as I remember, South Africa has always run the most lucrative league on the continent. Due to the economic strength of the country, the league has attracted the attention of big corporate sponsors keen to associate their products with the masses who worship the beautiful game.
The biggest, richest, and best run outfit in that country is Kaizer Chiefs, formed as a breakaway faction from Pirates by a player with a nose for entrepreneurship. Himself a veteran of the NASL with Atlanta Chiefs, Kaizer Motaung is of the same football generation, if only older than the likes of Jomo and Mr Jones.
When Kaizer broke away he named his new ensemble after the American team where he achieved his fame and fortune. As for Jomo, he was a far much better wizard on the pitch than as a coach. Upon his return from America he bought the franchise of a white team called Dion Highlands Park, promptly changing the name to Jomo Cosmos; in tribute to the mighty New York Cosmos where he had a brief stint.
Clearly the plan was to emulate the Motaung template. Sadly Jomo who insists on coaching his team has failed to turn his project into an exciting brand and they play in the bundus. Jomo however has a knack for sporting talent and has made lots of money by selling players overseas.
The perennial archrivals to Chiefs is Pirates. The team is owned by Irvin Khoza who is a power broker in the game, even at international level. Mr Jones knows all these men, infact when he was manning the backline in 1980 against Swallows, Jomo was doing things with the ball that would pop Maradona’s eyeballs out of the sockets. As for Khoza who never played professionally, he is there in the movie, seated on pitchside in his capacity as secretary of Pirates. Today the South African pro league is rated seventh most valuable in the world due to large sums of money from television rights. My theory is that Mr Jones, the most elegant of them all looked at Jomo and Irvin and thought why can’t I also become a household name off the pitch by having a successful team, and getting rich, to boot.
Ace Ntsoelengoe also suffered from peer envy and at some point quit Chiefs to establish Ace Kicks, named for himself and his American team. The project floundered, and chastened, he retraced his steps to Kaizer Chiefs. Not that he was doing badly our Mr Jones. Upon retirement he did some coaching jobs, at some point becoming assistant with Bafana Bafana and then coaching Pirates; still looking suave and polished.
At various points he ran a clothing boutique and other businesses. When Mr Jones was arrested in June 2011 for trying to bribe a referee for the measly sum of two thousand rand to swing a match, he had a stake in a nondescript team called Sivutsa Stars. Playing in the lower league but vying for promotion to the next level, the team was far, but within touching distance of the big television money on offer in the elite league. Convicted a fortnight ago, Mr Jones was handed an eight year sentence of which he will serve three long ones if his pending appeal is unsuccessful.
But on the other hand could Mr Jones be one of the fall guys in a dubious practice that is increasingly coming to the fore? Just recently, investigators revealed that 380 matches across Europe, Asia, South America and Africa had been fixed since 2008 by powerful betting syndicates. In Zimbabwe, the national team has been disbanded and some fifteen players and officials banned after an extensive fixing scandal dating from 2007 was unearthed. In South Africa itself some big wigs at the helm of the game are implicated in a report which reveals some Bafana Bafana warm up matches for the 2010 World Cup were fixed. Could Mr Jones be the small fry they hanging out to dry as the big boys try to save their skins?
For those of us who used to listen to live commentary on the hill in Phikwe; who were at Area 1 to watch the epic encounter between The Sea Robbers and The Beautiful Birds, the fall of Mr Jones is a sad and tragic metaphor of the greed in a professional game awash with money.
Postscript: the writer now supports Kaizer Chiefs and Nico United. He is also tracking the ongoing revival of ‘70s glamour team, New York Cosmos.
