Orlando Pirates
Can you name one thing that South African footballers do better than anyone else? A few years ago, a case could have been made for the no-look pass, as mastered by Isaac “Shakes” Kungoane – but like many of our strongest traditions, it is more a style sta
The entertaining nicknames of past greats
We are a style-obsessed football nation – fans and players alike have traditionally cared a little more about flair, wit and theatricality than the basic tasks of attacking, defending and winning. And an essential part of the bewitching theatre of diski is the nickname. No other country on Planet Football has player nicknames as inventive and beguiling as ours. Perhaps we should qualify that – nobody has nicknames as inventive and beguiling as ours used to be. The art of the ingenious moniker, which reached its peak in the seventies and eighties, has been in decline for several years now. These days, players are given recycled nicknames like “Ace”, “Shakes” and “Scara” – and when really clever new ones are dreamed up by fans, they are not widely adopted by commentators and journalists as they used to be in the golden era. The nicknaming tradition goes way back to the days of Samuel “Baboon Shepherd” Shabangu, who was reputedly so monikered for his precocious hairiness as a youngster, and his habit of climbing trees. Plenty of South African stars of the 1950s and 60s were named after movie characters or jazz legends, but the true golden age of the nickname commenced in the 1970s, and blossomed in the 80s, when the professionalisation of black football began in earnest,
and the pool of popular culture references expanded. The late 1970s was also the era in which multiracial league football began to flicker into life, with the Soweto giants beginning to hire white players, strictly on a loan basis as the Apartheid government refused to countenance the idea that a black operation could have white employees. And crucially, televised football entered South African life, bringing players into the living rooms and shebeens of fans beyond Soweto, for whom many players had previously been the stuff of legend, as they rarely, if ever, saw them play in the flesh. The great Kaizer Chiefs midfielder Vusi Lamola became “Computer” due to his swift and incisive analysis of play. The Orlando Pirates defensive kingpin Johannes Khomane was widely acknowledged to be as hard as an iron crowbar, hence he naturally became “Yster”. Bucs legend Nick Seshweni’s fearsome shot earned him the enviable title of “Bazooka”. And Amos “Heel Extension” Mkhari was thus honoured for his extraordinary knack for accurate back-heels. Moroka Swallows winger Thomas Hlongwane had the ability to doublebluff full-backs with his outrageously tricky footwork: cue his masterful nickname, “Who’s Fooling Who?” And in the 90s, the mighty thighs of Bucs and Bafana Bafana striker Jerry Sikhosana saw him earn the wonderfully hyperbolic description of “Legs of Thunder”. And Ernest “Wire” Chirwali could electrify a game with his quick-passing style. Some of the early white adventurers in the black football arena were bestowed with particularly amusing nicknames. The Welshman Andy Karacinsky, who joined Bucs from Wits University in the late 70s, sported a Bee-Gees-style flowing beard and long hair, reminding The Ghost of a certain Jesus Christ. He was hardly a miracle worker on the pitch; he
“NO OTHER COUNTRY ON PLANET FOOTBALL HAS PLAYER NICKNAMES AS INVENTIVE AND BEGUILING AS OURS.”
was hired largely as a tough-tackling workhorse to complement the creative wizardry of Jomo “The Black Prince” Sono. But he accepted his divine handle with good humour, and is still remembered with great nostalgia by the older brigade Bucs fans. So, too, uncompromising defender Jimmy “Brixton Tower” Joubert, so named because he was very tall and seemingly made of concrete. A few years later, poor old Neil Tovey had to make do with the title “Mokoko” or “Shack” in seSotho – not quite as impressive a structure as the Brixton Tower, but the name somehow captured the affection and trust he had earned from Chiefs and Bafana Bafana fans. “Mokoko” was a home from home – and perhaps slightly more mobile than a house. When Noel Cousins could barely stop scoring goals if he tried for Moroka Swallows in the mid-80s, the Birds faithful duly anointed him “Phinda Mzala”, after a song by Stimela, translatable from isiZulu as “One more time, cousin”. Over the years, several players have had to cheerfully accept some less than manly nicknames – think of Lawrence “Sister Monica” Siyangaphi, or Brandon “Miniskirt” or “Sqebezana” Silent, the Pirates midfielder honoured for his diminutive stature and perhaps also for his dainty, attractive passing game. As for Mamelodi Sundowns midfield legend Harold Legodi, he could only shrug and laugh at his honorific of “Jazzy Queen”. It can’t have been thrilling for Bucs midfielder Sam Nkomo when he became known as “Happy Cow”, particularly given the connotations of clumsiness of the beast in question in the South African football slang lexicon. But for some reason it felt right. Some of the best nicknames were drawn from the imagery of the struggle – apparently Ntsie “Teargas” Maphike won that appellation because of his ability to sneak unseen into the box at corners – as though the opposition’s defence were blinded by teargas. And when indomitable defender G Gavin Lane began to marshal the P Pirates defence with uncompromisin ing authority, The Ghost picked a d deliciously dry nickname for him: “S “Stability Unit”, in reference to the p police units deployed to “calm” the to townships during the low-level civil w war that raged during the years of tr transition to democracy. Politically inspired nicknames w were invented way back in the 70s. J Jomo Sono’s given first name is E Ephraim – he only became “Jomo” as a player, in honour of Jomo Kenyatta, th the liberator and first president of K Kenya. Indeed, Sono was so blisterin ingly talented that one handle wasn’t e enough to capture his qualities, so he w was duly dubbed “The Black Prince”, ““Mjomana” and “Troublemaker”, d depending on the taste of the fan or th the journalist. Jomo deserved to have a selection of nicknames, but these days, the fans and the media tend not to agree on the best one for a given player, so none of them really stick. Another reason why nicknames no longer have the currency they used to is that our football culture has become too commercialised and internationalised. There is no convention of nicknaming in Europe, and we have been too quick to surrender our own way of talking about the game. We lazily recycle old nicknames, or don’t bother at all. There seems to be a general lack of enthusiasm for the nicknaming art in contemporary South African football. In part, we can blame the problem on the departure from the scene of the great creative directors of our football culture, like Zama Masondo, Putco Mafani and Alex Shakoane – men who understood that the theatre of our football needed to be packaged in a unique, imaginative language, full of metaphor and exaggeration and mad humour. Instead we are afflicted with the leaden, uninspiring clichés of the international football media; it seems we have allowed the English Premier League to capture and homogenise our conversation about the PSL.