It’s Sunday and it’s cold, wet and rainy. You can see the mist mingling at the tops of the minature mountains that hover behind the village of Morija. The drizzle clatters against the tin roofs held down by a mish-mash of rocks and nails announcing to residents: stay inside.
The weather, however, is no barrier to Lijabatou (pronouced Dijabatou), Morija’s local soccer team. They gather by the roadside about to launch their campaign in Lesotho’s second division. There’s a throng of young boys toting vuvu zelas; the obtuse African horn that you will become familiar with at World Cup. Undoubtedly, they are the Lijabatou entourage. Slowly the crowd grows into a swarm. A red Toyota pick-up arrives with two players and blasts accordion laced Lesotho hip-hop. The vuvu zelas can be heard in the background like feroucious bumble bees.
The full team arrives and pile into a 15 passenger mini-bus. Fifteen more members of the entourage squish in after the team to make the glorified van’s passenger count 32. The rest of the entourage attempt to hop into the bed of the red pick-up. After careful deliberation and hurried looks to see what kind of clearance he had, the driver said he could only take 17 passengers in the truck bed. A thirteen-year-old boy just loses it and starts punching his friends who were fortunate enough to be a pair of the 17. He, of course, wasn’t. The two-vehicle convey sets off on the half-hour journey leaving over 20 dissapointed fans.
It’s evident upon arrival this pitch is no Wembley Stadium. There is a 10-degree slope from one end to the other, the penalty areas are thick with mud and the nets are two-times too small. Plus houses surround two-thirds of the ground. Never-the-less, the Lijibatou players prep while the other team comes streaming out of the village. The game finally starts. Dijabtou in a black and white and Mazenod in Green. The Morija side has the misfortune of being at the bottom of the 10-degree slope and is bombarded for most of the first half. The entourage sits along the touch line beside Dijabotou’s goal. There is nothing to cheer about except for several dubious off-side calls by the Morija-based referee to help ensure Dijabatou only trails 1-0 at halftime.
Several more fans show-up at halftime with a case of Carling Black Label. It seems although they have already polished of their first case as they stagger around the sidelines. The ringleader is wearing a shirt that reads “11 expereince.” He sits on the case of Carling Black Label and swigs. When he sees the bottom of his bottle he reaches underneath his but to grab the next round. A white Toyota pick-up comes zooming across the field. The driver is sucking back the last of his Castle Light like a calf does to the teet of its mother. The windows are down and he is blasting Paul Simon’s graceland.
“A man walks down the street it is street in a strange world maybe it’s the third world. Maybe it’s his first time around. Doesn’t speak the language. Holds no currency he is a foreign man he is surrounded by the sound sounds of cattle”
The second-half is underway now. Dijabatou is dominating with the slant in their favour and quickly notches an equalizer. The entourage sprints the length of sidelines in ecstasy blowing the vuvu-zelas mid-stride. The driver of the white pick-up interrupts his embrace with the bottle long-enough to lean on his horn for two straight minutes. The players look relatively somber as the incessant noise slowly dissapates.
There is a delay. The crowd is confused and restless. It seems the game-ball has entered a yard that is guarded by the much-feared Doberman. The goalie is seen conferencing with the ref and the coach. He decides to try and walk slowly towards the ball. The Doberman charges towards him and nearly bites his head-off. Two more minutes of restless waiting as the referee and the players seem utterly confused. Finally, a member of the entourage with a fresh batch of Dutch courage makes a run for it while another member slings rocks at the dog. Somehow this combination of events discombobulates the Doberman enough and the ball is truimphantly returned to the pitch.
Lijabatou promptly scores. The opposing goalie lies face down in the mud. He should have had it. The entourage exalt in joy. The driver of the white truck is singing with his arms outstretched like a patron at a praise concert. Every once in a while he stops, siddles over to his truck, honks the horn for a little while and then returns to singing.
The Morija boys begin to blatantly waste time. Tying shoes, pretending to be injured and taking a minute to take a throw-in. The entourage take the cue. The ball comes to the sidelines and is uncermonously booted further away from the field of play. A drunken supporter sprints off to fetch it. He grabs the ball and boots it half-way across the field to further aggrevate the opposition.
“I am invincible,” he says with a laugh upon return. Blood starts to pour from the palm of his right-hand like a dirty Shiraz. It seems the barb-wire fence has punctured that invincibility. People attend to him. The game ends. 2-1 Lijibatou. I can’t even remember a single play.
Simon Says 