Never challenge a horse to a running match, unless it is for suicide purposes

My brother has just posted the following this morning: ‘Great weather, great jog what more can I ask for...Eh!’ His posting reminds me of something that I should not have done.

One December my Mother sent us to retrieve some dodgy guy who ran away with money even though he had not finished the job he was hired to do on my grandmother’s house.

So my brother and I walked to Saballa, a section of Thaba-Bosiu, in Qwaqwa, just up the hill from where we live. We had agreed that we’d walk until we got to the bridge (which was about 3 kilometers away) and start running all the way up to the end of the steep incline. We got to the bridge, which is right at the foot of the hill. Then we jogged our way up – about 2 kilometers.

I had been thinking that since I am the "groot man", and I have climbed up and down this stretch of road in my teens, I’d teach the kid one thing or two about running. I had forgotten that I stopped playing football, and jogging regularly, much longer than he had been to high school. 

Allow me to to take a detour...

When I was about 6 and older, my older cousin used to get me and my other cousin to jog with him, or to do warm-ups around the yard. He tortured us to his heart’s content. When Matsebetsebe (I call him Tsiba) had had enough, he’d literally stop, or cry quietly or, simply walk away. Because I respected and feared Abuti Tsholo’s strict mannerism, I’d oblige while praying that I do not collapse any minute.

I would hang in there while wishing that... someone, anyone... grandmother, or sister, or my very own mother would appear and order him to give us a break. Whenever something of that sort happened, some lady cousin would appear around the corner, throw dishwater in the air, urge us on, or mutter at the one who was “khekhelezing”, and disappear.

We also ran up and down the very steep hill with the soccer players of Crocodiles (a club founded by the Mokoena family in my neighbourhood). I thought I had gotten used to doing this when, one day, I invited myself to run with a guy called Jappie. He used to run up the hill every morning. We hit the road. Jappie showed me a clean pair of (dirifi) heels.

Realising that my turn to play in the team was a long way off, I joined a newly-formed Arsenal because they had an A, B and C teams. I was drafted into a C team. In between the soccer matches and ball work, which we preferred, our trainer, Bricks, would command us to leave the soccer field, cross the small river to run up the hill towards Makwane. If he was in a mean mood, he’d even instruct us to frog-jump up the hill. In those moments you’d hear young lads like Matela Mthwalo complaining furiously. We would all tell ourselves that we will never return to the team if Bricks carried on like this. But we always came back because playing in a real match, where the two teams used to vie for R20 to R50 prize money, offered us great fun.

So it was against this background that I felt I could take on my then 15 year old brother for a jog to Saballa. I wish I hadn’t done it. Midway through our run I was losing my breath. Not wanting to be outrun by picanin, I pressed on. Bloody laitie just slid up the hill right beside me. I wished he’d left me behind so that I could blame him later for running too hard, or something. No, he just kept right beside me.

I was beginning to see funny stars milling about in front of me – mind you it was in the middle of an overcast sunrise - when I remembered that dude is still an active soccer player. With my chest seeming like a red-hot brazier (paola,) I reached the end of the steep, ready to collapse. By that time the wind sweeping down the mountain from beyond Metsimatso and Qoqolosing was blasting my face. I could not tell whether I was crying or becoming blind.

When we reached the house of Mr Dodgy, I was still fighting for my breath. I could barely speak so I asked my laitie, who was very calm by then, to assist me. Next time you see me take on a fit horse to a running match, kill me!