His Gogo

So, the first World Cup flash fiction can be found below, written by myself. For those who wish to know, Gogo is Zulu for Grandmother, and Modise is an awesome footballer…apparently.

His Gogo

His gogo would often talk about how things used to be. She’d talk about apartheid and death and fear, but he didn’t really listen. Words would enter his head, and toss around in there a moment before leaving again. He’d stay listening to her stories for as long as he thought it was right, and then he’d bolt out the door into the street. He had spent hours dyeing his shirt till it was the right colour – green. His friends had all done the same, and they would play in the street with their football, and dream of crowds.

His gogo would sit him down and tell him about when she was younger, and they couldn’t play against other countries. But he doesn’t understand. She tells him about the people who made it all possible for this to happen, but he’s not really listening.

Instead he’s painting Modise in big black letters on the back of his top.

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