If there is one certainty in turbulent times in good old Mzansi, then it’s the black male’s fascination with white balls.
For such an oft-studied species, one wonders why the social anthropologists don’t include this crucial racial marker in their monographs.
Yet it’s been there all along — right up there with inyama (and bringing it home), a preference for compliant women, fabled sexual staying power and having natural rhythm.
And so the mantra be forever written in stone: a black man ain’t a true black man unless he loves his balls.
No doubt there will be cries of foul from certain quarters at such a sweeping generalisation. Surely, they will protest in unison, this is hardly race specific.
Not a bad argument: one that can no doubt be reinforced by anyone who’s seen the selfsame bits being clutched, groped and manhandled by men in public places for centuries.
And yet it’s not those kinds of balls we are talking about.
Rather, it’s those of the recreational variety. Those that get kicked around, rather than juggled around in a pair of Y-fronts.
We’re talking football. That hallowed preserve of the real black man.
That definer of African male masculinity that, as the Castle Milk Stout and Status deoderant ads on television remind us, separates the men from, well, the real men. And the (local, at least) white men.
You may be bringing home the bacon, quaff Castle Lager and stuff, but hey, to qualify as a genuine article, the authentic i-skokho, you must put love for other men in baggy shorts kicking a ball around above all — home and hearth included.
According to this sacred truth, all “real” black men are not just soccer fans, but disciples, genuflecting faithfully before the shrine in all their back-slapping, beer-paunchy, square-jawed black manly glory.
Who of the uninitiated has not observed that sight of a circle of middle-aged, middle-age spreading and tie-wearing “brothers” at the coffee machine the Monday after The Game. Or on the balcony on Friday afternoons, after “knock-off”. Otherwise going as the Black Ball Brigade.
Lagers in hand, and all ajest and abanter about “their team” — its joys and misfortunes recounted in detail, sound effects and mimics included. Indeed, who outside of Orania hasn’t observed this? And not without a hint of pity.
Because there is something ever so pseudo about this equation, whereby black masculinity is equated with love for The Game. To be seen to be “keepin’ it reel”, not only must you have been there, done that and/or watched that, you must also have the T-shirt.
Any less and you’re probably queer or have white blood.
And God forbid, goes the addendum to this sacred truth, if you, as a black man, are promiscuous when it comes to your balls. And that your preferences are for, say, cricket. Or even golf.
These are all side dishes, to impress the society pages or maybe the white shareholders of the company: it is never in doubt where the real heart lies.
Until recently, one could have comfortably added another to this list of no-nos on the unofficial Black Ball Brigade list. Involving white balls, yes, only smaller ones.
Ah, rugby. That tainted pastime associated with the swarthy, brush-cut and one-time nemesis of the black man — the Dutchman.
During apartheid’s salad days, things were simpler. Black men weren’t allowed on the pitch, those at home didn’t care to watch, and the Black Ball Brigade couldn’t tell you the difference between a ruck and a maul, let alone care.
Then the black man took over and began laying a firm hand on and over everything, including the Dutchman’s white balls.
With that came a swarm of new experts and pundits who spent their time implying that rugby is hardly a sport at all, but about barbarians running amok around a pitch. And perhaps worst of all, they would sneer, it’s (gasp) “untransformed”.
Those of us sick of hearing about the other balls — and who were enjoying the dramatic tension — were soon dealt a cruel blow. As if it wasn’t bad enough, now the Black Ball Brigade have started to like rugby too.
Who could escape the patriotism running riot in the streets this week, and the week before — and the week before that (yawn) — as a bunch of burly sportsmen brought national glory home with the rugby World Cup win.
Not to mention the numerous other “brothers” in green rugby jerseys being interviewed by the Xhosa news bulletins, to shout their elation at being there and just how much they love their players — names like Os and Schalk notwithstanding.
As we all now know, not only were many of the ululating and toyi-toying masses black and male, but the newest star of boere-sport is … (gasp) black. And he goes by the name of Brian Habana, the swift-footed star of the Springbok team.
As images of this darkie laaitie leaping across the white line were splashed across front pages this week, one got a sinking feeling.
Those who would assume that black manhood was on the cusp of being redefined would do well to hold their horses. It’s more likely just going to be repackaged.
One sees it now, in all its opportunity-to-make-a-buck glory.
Ad creatives rushing back to the drawing board, abrim with ideas for new male-bonding ubuntu booze ads.
“Fong Kong” Springbok rugby shirt knock-offs being packaged as we speak for sale by hawkers far away in the location.
Gangsters teaching each other a new lingo on street corners. (Out with “dribble”, in with “maul”.)
And so, with the goalposts having shifted, as it were, “Boer” becomes the new Black. And with them, the onward march of the indomitable Black Ball Brigade.
Only this time decked in borrowed green-and-gold plumes.