Nguni turned to me and spoke in Zulu. ‘I will have to explain it in Zulu, this man I think he does not understand the ways of the people.’
‘Mr Nguni’s going to explain the reason to me in Zulu, it’s evidently pretty complicated,’ I said to Hymie.
‘You are Onoshobishobi Ingelosi,’ Nguni began, ‘this is very powerful among the people. The people see you box only against the Boer and always you are winning also. The people think you are a great chief of their tribe, the Sotho think this, the Shangaan think this, the Zulu also, all the people,’ he paused, ‘I think this also. It is witnessed that you can make the stars fall from the heavens.’
‘It is not true, Nguni. I am not a chief of the people,’ I said quickly.
‘Who is to say what is true and what is not true. The people know these things, it is not for you to say, Inkosi.’
‘It’s about the Tadpole Angel, we were right,’ I said to Hymie.
‘There is a woman who has thrown the bones and made a fire to read the smoke,’ Nguni said suddenly. ‘The bones say Onoshobishobi Ingelosi who is a chief must fight him who is also a chief among the people.’
‘A witchdoctor? She said this?’
‘This is so, Inkosi.’
‘This chief. Who is this chief I must fight?’
‘He is the great great grandson of Cetshwayo.’
‘Pssh! Many such Zulus exist. Cetshwayo has surely many, many great great grandsons.’
‘He is the one,’ Nguni said quietly. The Zulus do not inherit titles but it is known who has the blood. ‘One day he will be a chief.’
‘Why is it necessary to fight this person who will one day be a chief?’
‘The people must see if the spirit is still with you. You are a man now, the people knew the spirit of a great chief was in the small one, but now they must know if it is still in the man.’
‘You mean if I lose to him who will be a chief, then I will no longer be Onoshobishobi Ingelosi?’
‘This is so, Inkosi. The woman says this is in the bones and in the smoke.’
‘Then I will lose,’ I said suddenly. ‘That way the legend will be dead.’
Nguni shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is not for me to say, Inkosi. You will only lose if you are not Onoshobishobi Ingelosi.’
‘But if you can arrange the fight it will be good for you as a promoter?’
Nguni looked down at the palms of his open hands which were almost yellow, the colour of Sunlight soap. ‘This is true but it is expected I should do this thing. Have I not led the people to all your fights?’
‘This is true, you are the one,’ I said, ashamed of myself.
‘Then you will fight?’
‘First we must talk to Hymie, he is my brother in this matter.’
‘I understand, it is right that it should be so.’
Hymie was clearly impatient to get a translation and when I told him what had been said he shook his head. ‘Christ, it’s witchcraft, Peekay. This is nineteen forty-nine!’
‘Ja, I know, but it might as well be eighteen forty-nine. Some things don’t change.’
‘So what do we do?’ he asked.
‘We fight, we have no choice.’
‘I don’t understand? Why?’
‘It’s difficult for you, but the people believe in the Tadpole Angel. I’ve never said this before, but it’s a symbol, a symbol of hope. There is a story amongst all the tribes that a chief will rise who is not of them but who will unite them against the oppressors.’
‘It is so, Mr Levy,’ Nguni said.
‘And this is the test to see if you’re kosher?’
I laughed despite myself. ‘Hymie, I didn’t start this, it just happened. I don’t want it any more than you. If the young Zulu chief Mandoma gives me a hiding, it’s all over. But I can’t walk away without the fight, that would make a fool of the people all these years. I couldn’t do that.’
‘What a shit of a possie to be in, but it’s not a good enough reason to throw the fight.’
‘You know me better than that, Hymie.’ I turned to Nguni and offered him my hand, ‘Mr Nguni, tell the people I will fight this one who will be a chief.’
‘I will tell the people,’ he said.
I set about preparing for the fight with Mandoma the Zulu bantamweight with all the vigour and purpose I could command. While I longed to be rid of the concept involving the Tadpole Angel it was quite impossible for me to bring myself to the point where I would throw the fight. I had settled myself to win so often that, in my mind, a single loss in the ring would have meant that I would not become the welterweight champion of the world. A childish concept perhaps, but nonetheless one which was bound with steel wire through my resolve. I had even taught myself never to consider the consequences of losing a fight. Too much cross-referencing of consequence robs the will of its single-minded concentration to win. While this fanatical resolve never to be beaten may have been a sign of immaturity, the sophistication I brought to the task of winning I was to see adopted by sports psychiatrists throughout the world in later years. The mental exercises adopted, first behind the Iron Curtain and then worldwide, in an attempt to win that endless cold war called the Olympic Games or any of the other master race events, were all familiar to me.
The greatest difficulty confronting me with the Mandoma fight was information. We knew nothing about the Zulu bantamweight. I always felt awkward going into a fight with an unknown opponent. It was like entering a dark room having been told to beware of the trap doors. If you know everything there is to know about an opponent your mind will do the fighting for you, triggering the body mechanism to do the things it needs to do a fraction faster. It is this fraction that makes for a winner.
The power of one is above all things the power to believe in yourself, often well beyond any latent ability you may have previously demonstrated. The mind is the athlete; the body is simply the means it uses to run faster or longer, jump higher, shoot straighter, kick better, swim harder, hit further or box better. Hoppie’s dictum to me: ‘First with the head and then with heart’ was more than simply mixing brains with guts. It meant thinking well beyond the powers of normal concentration and then daring your courage to follow your thoughts.
Saturday arrived. The fight was to take place in a ring set up in an African school soccer field in Sophiatown. We arrived about four-thirty on the outskirts where Mr Nguni was waiting for us.
The roads were dusty and it had been a hot day. Dust clung to the whitewashed walls of shanties and shops and everywhere there were advertising signs, for Gold Seal Cooking Lard, Blue Light Paraffin, Primus Stoves, Drum Tobacco and Sunlight Soap. There were a few trucks on the road and we saw one native taxi and several buses crowded to the point of bulging, though hundreds of people were on bicycles. The chauffeur kept an almost constant hand on the horn, which only seemed to add to the sense of excitement. As we drew closer to the school, people were lining the dusty narrow streets which seemed to weave haphazardly in among shanties built from every conceivable kind of material. Mr Nguni requested I turn my window down so the people could see me. Blushing, I complied. ‘You are very famous in this place, Peekay. The people have come for many, many miles to see you.’
‘Why are they all women and children?’ Hymie asked.
‘It is the men who will see the fight. The women they have come to see the Onoshobishobi Ingelosi.’
‘Christ, I had no idea. You’re more famous than Johnny Ralph, Peekay.’ Johnny Ralph was the reigning heavyweight champion of South Africa and a household name among whites.
Mr Nguni laughed. ‘Johnny Ralph, they do not know who is this boxer in Sophiatown.’
‘Mr Nguni,’ I said, ‘you must tell the people I am not a chief. I have no power. You must tell them that the Onoshobishobi Ingelosi is only a name, a name I was given at the prison in Barberton. It was for nothing.’