Rustenburg: where were the Ghanaian Ghanaians?

After my trip to Polokwane, I entered an Ayoba-free zone, one of the parts of South Africa that the World Cup does not reach—and believe me, those zones are out there. In this case, it was an evening with my South African relatives in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg. My grandfather, of Latvian Jewish stock, was born in Stellenbosch and raised in Joburg. He left just as soon as he could and never went back. The rest of the family stayed. For the older generation, like my great aunt, the World Cup might as well as not be happening, and from her husband Frankie there was active, if unfocused, opposition. Not because of the money that could have been spent on social projects, but because he’s 80 and the last two decades of change have been simply incomprehensible to him. As he says: “...and this they want to celebrate.”

I asked my cousin Grant how much notice his circle, who are all rugby mad, take of the football. He had to think about it. Apart from the crazy Serb who manages one of his bakeries, hardly any of them is engaged at any level.

It makes one reflect on the now familiar narrative of the 1995 Rugby World Cup, which South Africa hosted and won, and where Nelson Mandela put on a Springboks shirt and, in the spirit of reconciliation, asked all of South Africa’s peoples to get behind them. While there was an element of reciprocation by some white South Africans in 1996, when they hosted and won the Africa Cup of Nations, it was, as with so many things in this country, an unequal exchange.

Grant, however, is another matter. He is twice the size of me and utterly dedicated to rugby, the Blue Bulls franchise and the Springboks. He really doesn’t get football, and he has never been to a game in South Africa, but he's up for anything. We went with him and his wife to Soweto to watch a game, and in the backroom of the shabeen he was loving it. Today, we had a pass from the Ayoba-free zone and drove to Rustenberg for Ghana v Australia.

The scrub of the Northwestern Province is dotted with gigantic platinum mines, huge advertising boards for unfeasibly speculative real estate projects and tiny ramshackle tin shack settlements. Grant, as with the rest of the white South African sporting public, is not only militantly anti-Australian, but also profoundly attached to the idea that he is African. So it was settled: we were supporting Ghana.

I didn't expect there to be many others: official ticket sales in Ghana have totalled less than 1,000 for the entire tournament. When we arrived at the park and ride to the north of the city, my suspicions were confirmed; it was a sea of Australians. Inside the stadium, it was clear that Australians outnumbered Ghanaians by at least five to one, though the considerable South African presence were all rooting for Ghana. In fact, as I wandered through the crowds it felt like there were many ways of being Ghanaian. I chatted to Ghanaians from the US, even one who lived in Rustenburg. I met up with Jerome, a Ghanaian friend from Kumasi who is staying with his uncle in Pretoria. Then there was a group of Ethiopian lads all the way form Addis Ababa, all supporting Ghana, as were a smattering of Zimbabweans. Quite who the Scots, Argentines and Swiss who hung their banners in the stadium were backing I’m not sure, but I suspected they too were Ghanaian. But where were the Ghanaians from Ghana?

Most of the crowd assembled for the game an hour before kick-off and during the warm-up it became clear that the Ghanaian Ghanaians were either in the cheap seats at the two ends, or in various blocks in the expensive seats. The Ghanaian government decided a few months ago to invest in a thousand tickets for each Ghana game, and a flights/accommodation/food package for those lucky enough to get their hands on one.

I asked Jerome how the goodies were divvied up. In a reflection of Ghana's fragile but functioning democracy, the answer is pleasingly pluralistic. Of course the governing party and ministers got some, but then so too did leading figures from the opposition party, senior civil servants, and most surprising of all, regular football fans who through various associations devote themselves to the national team. For example, some of the members of the Hearts of Oak supporters club, based in the poorest slum in Accra, were here, and during the match I could see (if not always hear) their drumming and singing.

In fact, for most of the early part of the match all we could hear were the Australians, who scored an early goal and whose replica shirts filled at least third of the stadium. But when the black stars—or perhaps that should be the lucky stars—got a penalty and equalised, Ghanaians of all descriptions made their presence felt. At 1-1, and with Australia down to 10 men, you could feel the crowd willing Ghana to take them apart. On the pitch, though, the Ghanaians played conservatively, persisting in going down the middle when all the space was on the wings.

At half time an enormous flag was unfurled in the stand across from me. It was around 30-by-40m in size, had the flags of 100 nations on it and said, in huge letters, “JESUS KING OF NATIONS - ALL TONGUES SHALL CONFESS”: a quote from Revelation, telling us that this was the work of evangelicals or pentecostals. The crowd moved the flag around half of the entire stadium before it ran out of places to go. It will be interesting to see if the same sharp and brutal justice that Fifa meted out to other ambush protesters and marketers is coming to this lot. Signs more to my taste included the handmade cardboard one held by the man in the row in front of me which read–“Ghana will wipe away the tears of Africa,” and on the reverse: "Africa fight for the cup and against malaria." On the other side of the pitch a huge Ghanaian banner, which first appeared at their game with Serbia, read “Sex Machine”—a reference to the 2009 hit song from Ghanaian pop stars Ruff N Smooth, who are big fans of both the funky president and the black stars.

The match ended in stalemate. Grant has had a ball, even though he spent most of the second half checking the rugby scores. But as the game ended, and the sky rapidly shifted through a chromatic range stretching from ethereal pink and gold to deep and sombre purples and blacks, he was swelling with pride. “This is a real African view, a real African moment, and an African world cup.” Ayoba to that.