Kayamandi: My African Family

Some things in life are beautiful. Some things in life are too good to be true. Some things in life are beyond explanation. Some things in life are all of those things combined. I say it in this way for I do not know the word to describe the actual feeling. I'm not sure how many feelings of this combination are available to one in a lifetime, but I hope I have more to come, because this weekend was most certainly that indescribable something feeling.

Let's call it, this feeling "Kayamandi". It is isiXhosa, the language of the Xhosa people, the native Africans of the Western Cape. Let it not be confused with the place, Kayamandi, of which it gains inspiration. Rather it is a completely independent term, used to describe the feeling while in that place, for there is no other word.

This past Saturday, May 9 2009, was the day of the Kayamandi Klassic Basketball Tournament. It was the day of determination. It was the day of realization. It was the day of family, of friends, of neighbors, of teammates, of collision. Collision of the sport of basketball with the culture of native Africa. Oh! was it a sight, if there ever has been a sight to see.

The Kayamandi Outdoor Stadium was the battleground of four teams from around the greater Stellenbosch area. The beauty, the weathered look of Xhosa boy-men as they handled this round ball, passing it back from one to another, exchanging smiles, withholding pride, is a look that I have never seen from someone with a basketball. There was something different about it, that same indescribable quality mentioned earlier. The nets hung from the baskets with masking tape, the tables and chairs sat between concrete and unkempt African grass. The white board used for a scoreboard seemed so strange sitting there, the Xhosa children gathered round it, fighting over the marker to keep the score of their elder athletes. Teams wore their colors proudly, rest against their dark skin the boldness was more pronounced, the strength apparent in their bodies. Their eyes held a fierceness, yet a relaxed and friendly quality all at the same time. They were all there to compete, but most of all to enjoy their brotherhood, their bond. The competition began.

My team lost the first game to Mbqweni, their toughest rival in the tournament, a poor basketball performance overall, but they were just getting warmed up. We were lucky enough to have a ghetto-certified, 1980s boombox in our presence at the match, which proved quite a successful experience for all. Now the experience would not have been complete without the proper music, but lucky for me I happend to bring along the Space Jam soundtrack-it was legendary. "Everybody get up, it's time to jam now..." It's unbelievable what happend next. "...welcome to the Space Jam". Awkward solo dances by myself and the players turned into a perfect circle in a matter of seconds, and it was lights out after that. Player after player hit the middle of the circle, to a chorus of "whoomps" and "ohs" and "aaaaah snaps". Break dances, pimp dances, Kayamandi dances, American dances, the whole circle was filled with an energy that is hard to describe. Kayamandi. It was like something out of a dream. I have been listening to this soundtrack since I was eleven years old. I have danced to this exact song thousands of times in my backyard as a boy mowing yards, in my car driving across San Antonio, TX. I have rehearsed the dance moves so many times in the mirror it truly is not even funny. And now here I was, surrounded by African boys and African men and African girls and African women, breaking it down to my favorite pump up jam of all time. Only in Kayamandi.

The next two games were critical, as they determined if our time would reach the championship game. So, essentially, to become champions they had to win the next three games. Of course we just took it one game at a time. Game one, won, but barely. Game two, won, healthily. It was that time. Game three.

Emotion scattered across the court like the pieces of a puzzle; seperate they mean nothing, but together they form the picture perfect. This 8 piece jigsaw came together in the emotion of Kayamandi. They came together in the spirit of Kayamandi. They came together with a mission-not to win, not to lose, but to play the game of basketball the way it was meant to be played. There is a moment in the midst of human interaction when nothing can be said with words. It is the eyes. Each of the players pupils, dark abysses of vigor, strength held in their irises, brows furrowed as if "champion" is something not to attain, just to wait for with arms wide open. My job as their coach was done.

I have played basketball my entire life. But this day was perhaps the first day I truly watched basketball. The Kayamandi players have participated in tossing a ball through a hoop for several months now, but never have they played basketball. Nor had they on this day until now. No scattered interaction, no flailing of bodies back and forth across the court, no lacking of experience was evidenced by the players on the court. The harmony of hands, the strength of the arms that passed this ball, were one. The communication was silent but so loud between the individuals, now one. A battallion of soldiers in baby blue jerseys, marching down court, I may dare call myself Leonidus for they were Spartans.

One minute. So much can happen in sixty seconds. The emotions again scatter for all those playing, all those watching. Yet for those waiting, knowing the moment is but seconds away, the picture remains clear. I was one of the scattered, running up and down the sideline as if I were a reserve, waiting for my chance to fight alongside my men. The air brimmed with excitement. The game was all tied up. Basket good, Kayamandi is up by two with thirty seconds to go. Rarely were my feet touching the earth as I was bouncing like a rabbit for that last half minute. Mbqweni marched down, and on any other day it was the march of a champion. They got a chance for a three. I closed my eyes and heard the clanking of rim. They still had the ball. The last 10 seconds seemed to last a lifetime, as the final battle took place around the rim for the ball. Each man leapt with all the energy left in his body for that rebound, as if the ball contained a elusive remedy. The ball, gravity appearing to have chosen a side, would not go in the hoop, and the baby blue jersey came down with the ball. 3...2...1...

The ball rose in the air as the whistle blew and a sea of Kayamandians charged the court fists pumnped in the air. One would have thought they were world champions by the looks on their faces. I certainly felt like one. The emotion that followed is that of the indescribable once more. Kayamandi. A meager 12 inch trophy was presented to the team, yet they held it high, as if to say "this is bigger than anything than you have earned". And in a way they were right. This was a moment that truly had been earned, with all the energies and emotions fit for only a champion to have. I embraced as many as I could and we smiled for the camera. Kayamandi children of all shapes and sizes were present for the photo, and it took some effort to have a frame filled with only baby blue jerseys and a white face with a whiter smile, bigger than I have seen in a long time. This is the best we could do.

Whoever said a "picture lasts a thousands words" is a fool. It lasts beyond words.