Ibhora Leskwakweni – The Dusty Roads of Lobengula

Somewhere, in the dusty streets of Lobengula, the memory of boys chasing a ball still lingers. No grass. No kits. No referees. Just a scuffed plastic ball, raw energy, and pure joy. It was football stripped to the bone. Loud. Gritty. Real.

𝐺𝑜𝑎𝑙𝑠 𝑀𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠

Proper goals were a myth. We used whatever we had — an old shoe on one side, a big rock on the other. If it was at a junction, even better. There were those metal bars at the ends of the water tunnels running beneath the roads. Playing emaphowulini felt like our own Camp Nou — the goalposts were perfect. And that open tunnel below? It was both a dream and a trap. The ball would drop in and sometimes roll all the way to the middle of the tunnel. And we all knew what came next.

The smallest kid, usually tinny little Jabu, had to crawl in. He would slide in on his tummy, scoop the ball into the back of his shirt, and crawl back out like a soldier under fire. You had to time it right. Throw it out too early and the other team would boot it into the net while you were still halfway in the mud. That was a skwakweni tactic.

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝐷𝑎𝑦 𝐹𝑜𝑜𝑡𝑏𝑎𝑙𝑙

We played all day. Morning to sunset. Food breaks were rare unless it was umbejo. The winners would choose one among them, usually the fastest, to run to the shops at Number Six, koAmangwe, for a loaf. We preferred the type with the oily crust that made your fingers shiny. It was the yummiest. We ripped it apart with dirty hands, dry lips, and hungry mouths. No plates. No margarine. Just crumbs, dust, and the taste of winning.

Every now and then, someone’s mother would shout from a house nearby. We always knew who the voice belonged to. And we would laugh a lot. Especially if the beckoning came just before the bread arrived.

“Thabani, come here!”

It was a moment of frustration and relief. Especially frustrating if it happened in the middle of a game. Relief because their team had just lost a player. Thabani would rush home, only to be told to pass her a cup of water that was right next to her. This was just a power trick by the grown-ups. We knew that game. Pass the cup, nod respectfully, don’t argue, then sprint back to the pitch before your spot was gone or — worse — before you were yoked into sweeping the yard.

𝑆𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑆𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑠

We fought often.

“That was in!”

“No it wasn’t!”

“Handball!”

“Offside!”

We didn’t even know what offside meant, but it sounded like the best argument. Tempers flared, sometimes a punch flew, maybe a kick. But ten minutes later we were chasing the same ball again, shoulder to shoulder like nothing had happened.

Scraped knees, bruised egos, maybe a bleeding nose here and there. Big toenails had a way of snapping off, followed by a lot of blood and some pain. Nobody ever screamed. We patched ourselves up with a handful of dust and moved on. Nobody went home unless something was broken. And that almost never happened.

𝑇𝑉 𝑊𝑎𝑠 𝐺𝑜𝑙𝑑

As the sun dropped, the owner of the ball would grab it and we would make our way to the one house with a working television. Just like that, power shifted from the ball owner to the guy whose home had the easiest TV to access. Colour TV was added power. Knight Rider. WWF. MacGyver. But before you went in, you had to wash up — a splash of water from the outside tap, maybe a quick rub with your shirt. Not clean, but that was a good enough pass.

Mlungisi’s house was the holy grail. They had the colour TV. That’s where most of us first saw that the sea was blue not grey. If he let you in, you got a seat on the floor. Nobody touched the sofas. If you were unlucky, you peered in from the window like a lost puppy hoping to be let in. The room was thick with the smell of sweat and dust, but nobody cared. It was magic. Our cinema. Our theatre. Our clubhouse — at least until his parents returned from work.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑇𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒

Those dusty roads were more than just streets. They were our stadiums, our training grounds, our classrooms. They taught us how to lead, to lose, to fight, to forgive. We had nothing fancy, but we had enough — a ball, a gang of loud friends, and the rhythm of the township around us.

To the boys of Lobs, Mpoyez, and every corner of the townships — from eSphakeni to eSveveni, eNkuest to eMzet and everyone in-between — this one is for you. The township life was real. It was rough. So were we. And it was full of soul. It made us. It raised us.

Got a story of your own? Drop it in the comments. Let us remember the dust, the laughter, and the magic of emalokitshini together.