Tribute to former boxer Francis Hwesa

Lenin Ndebele

Growing up in the hood, you had to be tough or risk being called “masalu” or “mother.”
Those titles usually went to the chubby kids or “ama-salad ekasi” kids like some of us who had Nintendos, and Sega (Genesis) games. Even a BMX during our era earned you that tag. That was before the mountain bike days.

I didn’t take nonsense because I was one of those kids who had to stand up for themselves. I was short and thin but with a gangster attitude, at one point someone nicknamed me “sgebenga” because I refused to be bullied during football money games “imbeji” with guys older than us.
I could do wonders with “umphepha,” at least in my neighbourhood. But there were meaner and bigger guys in the next neighbourhood.

One of them, a feared cocky guy named Francis, wanted to be called “FUUURA,” so we called him “Bhud FUUURA” whenever we saw him.
We loved playing “slug” or table football by the shops. One day FUUURA and his friends from another hood watched us play, and when one scored, they would place their hands deep into the goal to collect the ball.

So, after our game, they had collected six balls. So the rule in the hood was that they would take charge and play their games with those balls.
I refused to give in because the “slug” was at a shop owned by my father’s friend. I even went inside to tell a guy by the till. That day I behaved like a “masalu” and FUUURA marked me. I was on notice.

What it meant was that I shouldn’t go to the shops alone, or else I would be given a thorough hiding.
I knew how to deal with the issue. All I had to do was stay low for a week, and whenever I went to the shops later, it would be a story to laugh about and buy sweets to share with guys from FUUURA’s hood.
Eish, later that day, mum dispatched me to the shops to buy sour milk “i-sour”.
At 10 AM, I was giving FUUURA the middle finger, and suddenly, at 4PM, I was off to the shops and likely to come across him.

I had no choice. But my strategy was to run to the shops, buy milk, and sprint back home.
I had no idea FUUURA was in the market buying tomatoes for his family. He saw me first, I saw his wide smile, and I knew what that meant.

He walked towards me with a 15M Eversharp pen. He took it out, wagwaza uchago lwami.
No, you don’t do that! Going home without milk was worse. My mum was a master of the ibhanti (belt). I had to fight for my honour or die there.
I threw the first punch, it was light, he responded with twice the force, and I fell down. I stood up like Rocky Balboa and threw another weak punch. He came back and hit me. I bounced like a round ball.

Then my senses kicked in, and I had to teach FUUURA a lesson.
On the next swing, I ducked. I was a Mike Tyson fan, way before Roy Jones Jnr and my speciality was that, if I got your nose with a punch, you would bleed, and that was game over for you. It was a skill I developed, similar to how David Beckham took free kicks.

I even told my victims to go wash and come back. Yes, trash-talking like Michael Jordan was effective.
I was about to do that to FUUURA, oh boy, I missed his nose and landed a punch on his chest. The dude just went Tatanka on me “li li li li” like a red Indian.
There was no stopping him now, there was a crowd to witness my getting beaten up, hahahahaha! He threw a punch, and I ducked. Another duck similar to Mayweather’s, and the next swing from him, I blocked, instead of punching him, I sunk my teeth into his biceps.

I wasn’t gonna let go. In less than a minute, he was begging me and crying.
When I eventually let go, there were people in between us.
I went home with a torn Chicago White Sox T-shirt, no milk, and red eyes. The minute I saw my mum, the emotions were so heavy that I struggled to cry and breathe at the same time. It was as if I were a returning soldier from Vietnam.

I was just happy that she didn’t take out the belt. I stood up to “FUUURA.”
Later, as we grew older, we started appreciating each other for who we were and what we were about. I became a cub journalist, and he became a professional boxer.
Hungry for success, he was a hard worker, and whenever he had a boxing bout, he made sure I knew and attended, as well as told my colleagues to cover his fights.

He was a talented boxer. Upon retirement a few years ago, he teased that we had a pending match.
Francis Hwesa later became a nightclub bouncer. A good one, at that, never used violence to put a point across. He would reason with the drunkest even if it was going to undermine him, for he knew he could easily kill a man with a punch.

Just in December, as usual, I gatecrashed a music show, and when he saw me, he just laughed and ushered me to the VVIP without paying a cent.
He was like, “My young brother, you like things too much.”
Sadly, you’re gone now, FUUURA, without saying goodbye. Goodnight Champ. I will miss you big time. Many more people miss you.
l Lenin Ndebele is News24’s Africa desk editor. Follow him on Twitter @CdeLENIN