I challenged two Zambian immigration officers to a game of pool the other day. After a thorough trouncing, I was accorded a welcome invitation to their country anytime I should happen to passing through their border post. Just ask for Matthew, I was assured, and rubber stamps would fly with a zeal unseen on this side of the Sahara. They were in town for the big match, Malawi vs Zambia in the semi finals of the Castle Cup. There had been much talk of this in the last few days and I had enjoyed watching the Zimbabwe friendly a month earlier and so anticipated another lazy afternoon, sipping beers in the sun and idly absorbing the serene atmosphere of Blantyre’s Chichiri stadium. Two foreign girls from the office, Micol and Julie, were also keen to come and so we planned a joint venture.
On local advice, we got to the stadium an hour and a half before kick-off to find the place heaving with arriving people, most clinging onto the backs of pick up trucks, crammed into mini buses or simply strolling along the road. Hawkers were in abundance, selling everything from samosas to sugary drinks, buns and tiny shot sized sachets of the fearsome local moonshine. Advised to bypass the queues with a small bribe, we were soon streaming through the rusty turnstiles and up the open concrete steps until we had a lofty view of the empty pitch and surrounding architectural curiosities of Blantyre’s suburbs. To describe the mood as buoyant would be an understatement. People streamed in until the stands were at capacity and the standing areas were mobbed. Friends arrived and clasped hands in extended and ululating welcomes. Women braided each other’s hair while gangs of drunken young men swaggered around, shirts off and playing macho theatrics. An inflated condom that had caught the wind and was floating across the pitch sent ripples of laughter through the crowds. I soon found myself at the centre of this humour when a man handed me a packet for inflation. Imagining it must be like a balloon, my first attempt resulted only in the rubber sagging back down in a gasp of escaped air. It was a flimsy impression of good humour and, as thousands had wheeled around in an air of amused and vocal expectation, it seemed that success in this prank had taken on an importance far greater than its intrinsic wit. When I finally found myself with an expanding condom growing out of my mouth, the crowd erupted into uproarious laughter and we were at once welcomed into the bosom of the event.
Later, a drunken youth hurled a water bomb into the crowds below giving rise to angry accusations and finger pointing. It wasn’t long before guilt was determined and a fight broke out. We had become aware of one of these earlier in one of the neighbouring stands. The mass of neatly seated figures had instantaneously rearranged themselves into a vortex at the centre of which the thumping and scrapping figures had been given a narrow berth. Now the action was only a few steps down and we were soon swept up and pressed in on the scene amidst shouting of violent encouragement. All applauded when an enormous man strolled into the middle of the action and delivered one punishing blow to the chastened youth. Hastily grabbing his shirt, he scuttled off in a hail of booing, as the big man, seeming bigger, strode back down over people’s heads to his seat below.
When the match finally began, the crowd responded to its developments with considerably greater energy than on the previous occasion and we were enthusiastically informed of the history of the tournament, the key players and the relative chances of victory. We also learnt important Chichewa footballing expressions such as mpira chinyani meaning ‘go for goal’. During tense moments, the crowds rose to their feet in noisy excitement or alarm. The action on the pitch was impressive, although the occasional clumsy or aggressive encounter sent stretcher-bearers loping onto the pitch whilst the crowds demanded ‘reddie reddie’ at the referee. Other cries of support and discouragement were banded about as both sides had a succession of near misses, finally meeting half time with no score.
Micol and Julie had been attracting some unwanted attentions, with one of my more drunken neighbours confiding in me that in his long years on earth, he had never had sex with a white woman, and would dearly like it if I could sort something out for him. When asked if Micol was my wife, I hastily concurred and put an affectionate arm around her shoulder to suggest a contented couple in blissful wedlock. Sadly, not having given mormon as my denomination (a frequent inquiry in Malawi), I was unable to make the same claims for Julie who later told me how she had had her hand licked at one point by an admiring suitor. Micol was thankful for the deception and was given a respectful space whilst I was showered with compliments at my good fortune in having procured such an attractive wife. When the match ended, so did the marriage. It had been sweet, socially prestigious and free of any alimonious attachments.
By the second half, most of the people in the stadium were drunk or stoned and were falling over one another in the endless succession of standing up and sitting down. Some even fell to their feet when there was nothing in particular happening on the pitch, prompting those behind to make noisy complaints about the obstruction to their view. Whilst warnings were not always well heeded, there was no more fighting and all increasingly turned their attention to the drama on the pitch. A Malawian winger escaped from the pack and made a skilful run into the penalty area only to be fiendishly tripped up by a desperate Zambian defender. The crowd was furious and then instantaneously overjoyed as a penalty was awarded. All were on their feet now and exploded into mob ecstasy when the ball hit the back of the net. Now, thousands of fans, ourselves of course included, jumped in the air and slapped and clasped one another’s hands in a display of mass jubilation. Within moments, the singing began, with elaborate clapping and harmony bursting around the arena. At one point the joy was so great that people leapt up and down in unison so that the precariously balanced concrete shook and swayed with the force. It was quite incredible and made all the buzz of before seem like a crowd on mere simmering form. By this stage the match was moving to a close and the singing and dancing and hand slapping continued with steady enthusiasm; only the braiding of hair was at an end. In expectation of the end, the police slowly manoeuvred their armoured vehicle onto the edge of the pitch and distributed their forces around the turf. Their presence was seen as decidedly misanthropic and they were booed from all around. A couple of Zambian near misses threatened to make our celebration premature, but the whistle blew to renewed displays of delight as one or two daredevil fans managed to scale the fence and get through the police cordon to run across the pitch. These nifty escapees were cheered by thousands as bulkily clad policeman lumbered after them in the chase. None were caught. In the midst of the running policemen, the dancing players and the cheeky fans, stood the police chief with his peaked cap, military stick and immaculately shining shoes, a solitary figure surveying his territory of control and marvelling at his display of authority.
Soon we were picked up with the drunken crowds and poured out of the arena, bottlenecking at the stairways and exits until we were finally out on the dry muddy ground. Celebration continued as the roads teemed with people, clinging even more precariously to their beer bottles than to the backs of pick up trucks. It took some time to get home, a place which, for the rest of the short day, seemed bizarre and peripheral.