Chapter 8 - Nolwazi

"Yoh. My tired is tired," Zanele says, sitting down on the wall where we used to people-watch between lectures. The Great Hall steps hold so many memories and a lot of them were made with Zanele in tow. "This has been a day already and it's not even done."

She's right. So far we've squeezed in the procession, where Céline looked beautiful on Elukhanyisweni's float as Miss Fort Hare. Shisa nyama in the parking before the actual match, where my cameraman and I went from fire to fire, eating enough boerewors and tjops and braaied chicken and russians and pap with chakalaka to feed an army. Once inside the ground, a moving rendition of "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika" to kick off the match — one stanza, four parts, a whole stand of us finding the harmony with nobody conducting — brought me to tears, like it always does. It seemed there were just as many people outside still eating as there were packing the stands.

At halftime the match was level. Nothing much happens at the interval here, so the day's main event was the presentation of the court, and a whole stand of makarapa and vuvuzelas stood up for it. They crowned Mr and Miss Fort Hare on the halfway line and Céline was truly regal. I was on the sidelines grabbing footage and didn't see Luvuyo, but I know he was there somewhere and had to be proud.

"You coming to hear Uncle Mopani at tonight's concert?" Zanele asks, leaning back on her palms.

"That used to be the highlight, but not anymore. Not for a child who calls himself Uncle." I settle beside her on the wall. "I think I'll head over to the Tyhume River Hotel for the old folks' party."