Oh, Phillip! Where are you? We need you more than ever
DEAR Phillip:
You were introduced to the world as Feel It, It’s Here! by our friends at the SABC.
But that reference didn’t quickly resonate with our collective creative self. True to our South African spirit, we felt in order for you to get street cred you needed a catchy, vibey tag, one that would reverberate from Cape to Cairo and well, the Diaspora.
And so it was that we renamed you Phillip Is Here.
Feel you we did and for one good month between June 11 and July 11 2010, this country was on orgasmic party with you Phillip, the pulse of our nation.
Before we knew it, we were enveloped in your euphoria and ate from the palm of your hand.
We danced to your music as young and old hips shook to Shakira’s Waka Waka and smooth and wrinkled hands clapped to R Kelly’s Sign Of A Victory. Indeed, it was time for Africa as the rallying call Ke Nako commanded.
Your presence was felt in maternity wards too — Bafana Bafana and Mexico are twins the Venter family named after the two national teams that kicked off the only World Cup on African soil.
You brought along your family. Jabulani didn’t scream when Siphiwe Tshabalala rifled a rasping screamer that was the opening goal of the showpiece. It raised the roof at the Calabash, setting off a cacophony of vuvuzelas across the length and breadth of our country, continent and, well, the Diaspora.
Corporate garb made way for Football Friday as we rocked up at work wearing soccer shirts, real McCoys, genuine fongkongs and fake fong-kongs.
Flags adorned cars. Rivers of beer, if Budweiser qualifies as beer, flowed. Mountains of McCyril’s burgers were munched. And ruse became a reality.
Racism relocated to Australia. Crime moved to America.
Load shedding was a swear word. Every party has a pooper and the rabid hyenas posing as the British media still made mention of machete-wielding men waiting to pounce on women upon touchdown at OR Tambo International Airport.
Things went into overdrive with a scare tactic from a British company marketing stab-proof vests for fans who feared being stabbed during their stay here.
But you, Phillip, took it all in your stride, swept the abominable claims aside and continued to be a stage for a full-blast party.
Fast forward to 2015 and some guys called corruption and bribe are claiming to be your brethren.
The FBI says they are your flesh and blood who are related to co-conspirator #15 and #16. The family tree is complicated as it has DNA traces of Jack Daniels, oops Warner, and Chuck Norris, I mean Blazer.
Things are so bad Phillip, your cousin Zakumi has gone into hiding. He has it on good authority that the FBI says it was he who took the briefcase stuffed with stacks of $10 000 to a hotel in Paris, France.
The Hawks are searching for Zakumi high and low. They are following rumours that the fluffy green fugitive has taken refuge in an unused mine where armed-to-the-teeth illegal miners from the Diaspora are prepared to kill for him.
From their $10-million donation-cum-bribe, the Diaspora militia have built a firepool and an amphitheatre to protect Zakumi. They haven’t minced their words in stating their preparedness to kill for him.
On the field, Bafana were the 11 blind mice. On Ghana’s shoulders rested Africa’s hopes for a semifinal spot until one Luis Suárez happened.
Playing in their third World Cup final on the land “discovered” by their Jan van Riebeeck — hello Zelda Mandela — Holland had a chance to clinch it.
Arjen Robben could have sealed it with two one-on-ones with Iker Casillas.
Howard Webb issued 14 yellow cards plus a red to John Heitinga, who planted a kung-fu kick on the chest of Xabi Alonso. Andrés Iniesta’s extra-time goal was the solitary strike that sealed La Furia Roja’s maiden World Cup win.
Tata Nelson Mandela came out on a golf cart to wave to the crowd, his last public appearance.
And that was the last time we saw you, Phillip. We miss you, Phillip, where on earth are you?