I won’t repeat all that has been said about the historic significance of Africa’s first World Cup. It’s a big deal, obviously. While South Africa is still the continent’s most economically advanced (and) politically stable nation, and even though the ways in which Africa will financially and diplomatically benefit from the tournament are severely limited, the fact that a global sports event of such importance is on African soil is an idea that was unimaginable to many not so long ago.
And for this World Cup at least, there’s no better place to watch it than on the continent. The opening game was during my first weekend in Uganda, and I couldn’t have ignored it even if I tried (I didn’t). The local supermarket played a radio station that announced players’ every move in the Luganda language, dimly lit bars nearby blasted the game on small boxy televisions and the city even erected a giant screen in the middle of town that lets commuters precariously drive and watch the game at the same time. It is more than World Cup fever, it’s World Cup malaria. It slowly built for months and has now taken over our bodies and minds, and it refuses to let go until it is finished. The malaria doesn’t discriminate by nationality. We’re not just cheering for South Africa or Nigeria or the Ivory Coast — we’re cheering for Africa, for her present, for her future.
Photo via Row One Magazine