Online Reporter
Kasi Chronicles with Vinch
THE sun would already be climbing over the rooftops as a group of barefoot boys attacked a stubborn patch of bush with hoes and slashers, dust rising with every swing.
There was no WhatsApp group telling anyone where to meet.
No location pin.
No “Are we still on?”
No blue ticks.
Yet somehow, everyone who mattered was there.
This was New Magwegwe.
Later, in Nkulumane, the script remained much the same.
If you wanted to find your friends, you walked down the street and shouted their names or utshaye icode.
If you wanted to organise a football match, you gathered the boys, even on time!
And if the usual football ground was too far away, you found another piece of unused land, unused meaning abadala were not cultivating it, and simply turned it into a football pitch.
Someone would point to a patch of bush and say:
“There’s a good place there.”
Another would confirm:
“Yebo, akulamuntu olimayo.”
Decision made.
That was our Google Maps.
The boys arrived with hoes, slashers and whatever tools could be borrowed from home.
As the clearing started, other teenagers would stop, watch for a while and eventually ask:
“Sengalijoina?”
That was the old-school Join Group.
And, just like WhatsApp today, every group had its characters.
There was the admin, usually the boy who found the land. He was the one that decided where the
pitch should face, where the goalposts should stand and which bushes had to go.
Then there was the talkative comedian.
While everyone else worked, he gave instructions, cracked jokes and provided running commentary. Today, he would be sending voice notes and memes.
The silent member needed no introduction. He picked up a tool and worked. By lunchtime, he had probably cleared half the field.
Then came the latecomer.
He would arrive hours after everyone else, look at the work and ask:
“Selisebenzile magents?”
And, of course, there was the football expert, already selecting teams before the pitch was finished.
“This guy is mine. You can’t take him.”
Then there was the quiet superstar; the reason everyone was clearing the pitch in the first place.
Once the ball started rolling, the weeds, stones and dust disappeared from everyone’s minds.
Two stones became goalposts.
A battered plastic football, with a blown Chimombe packet inside, became a World Cup ball, or
ufrido if amagents had a imbinga ekasi!!!!
And that patch of bush became our Barbourfields.
That was kasi life.
We had no WhatsApp.
No Facebook.
No Instagram.
No TikTok.
No blue ticks.
Yet somehow, we were connected.
The street was our social media.
The corner was our group chat.
The tuckshop was our comment section.
The football pitch was our meeting link.
And knocking on someone’s door was our direct message.
If there was news in the neighbourhood, you did not need a status update. Someone simply told
someone, who told someone else.
If your mother wanted you home, she did not text.
She shouted your name from the gate.
And you knew the game was over.
Even disagreements were different. Nobody could mute you. If you had a problem, you faced each
other, argued and, somehow, the next day you were playing football together again.
Looking back, perhaps we were never disconnected.
We were simply connected differently.
New Magwegwe and Nkulumane had their own social network.
It just did not need a signal.
And when someone shouted, “Siyahlangana eground!”, everybody knew exactly where to go.
