‘Mayibuye Afrika?’ Mr Nguni shouted.
‘Mayibuye Afrika! Afrika! Afrika! Come back, Africa! Come back, Africa!’ the crowd thundered back.
Handing the microphone carefully through the ropes, Mr Nguni left the ring and Natkin Patel called us over. He had deep pock marks over his face which was almost precisely the colour of good curry, silly as that comparison sounds. His steel-grey hair was brylcreamed flat across his head, the parting absolutely straight with not a single hair crossing the shiny road of his scalp. He was dressed in a white shirt, cream flannels and white tackies and looked more like a cricketer than a boxing referee. We both looked down at the ground as he spoke.
‘You are listening to me, please. When I am shouting break you must break, at once. When a knockdown is coming I am counting to eight, then I wipe your gloves also and then you continue. No heads, no elbows, you must fight clean or, by golly, I am giving you penalty points. Good luck, boys.’ He patted us both lightly on the shoulders. ‘Shake hands, when the bell is sounding please to come out fighting.’ Our gloves touched lightly though neither of us looked at the other.
I walked back to my corner and sat down. The bell rang. ‘Go get him, Peekay,’ I heard Hymie say as he pulled the stool out of my corner. I jumped up towards a blur of brown coming towards me across the ring.
Mandoma was coming at me fast, throwing everything. His punches landed on my arms and my gloves, he had come at me so quickly that he was able to keep me in my corner and I was forced to pull him into a clinch. The ref called for us to break as I managed to swing him around; the sun was in a perfect position, low and dying fast. He turned right into it, blinded for the split second it took for me to put a hard straight left bang on the nose. It was a good punch and a trickle of blood ran from one nostril. I would be bloody lucky to pull that stunt again, the sun wouldn’t last more than another round and he’d probably wised up already. Mandoma was enormously aggressive, prepared to waste a dozen blows to break through my defence. Towards the end of the first round he caught me under the heart and I thought I was gone. He packed a left hook like a charging rhino. I was keeping him away by jabbing my left at him. They were all scoring shots but none of them were hurting him. The bastard was terribly strong. I spent the first round looking for bad habits, but apart from the fact that he was throwing too much leather it was going to be difficult to fight him on the back foot. The bell went for the end of round one and already I was sweating profusely.
‘Take a look at Mandoma, he’s leaking,’ Hymie said.
‘Christ he hits hard, I’m going to have to keep him moving, keep him off balance.’
‘Only for the first four rounds. Look at him.’ Hymie was right, Mandoma was in a lather of sweat and with the sun so low it seemed even hotter than before.
‘Watch and see if he drinks in round four,’ I said to Solly as the bell went for round two.
‘Just box him, my son, keep him moving, coming to you,’ Solly said quietly.
Mandoma came at me just as hard in the second round, and while I took most of his punches on the gloves and arms, I realised that if he kept it up like this he’d hurt my arms and weaken me that way. I needed to make him miss more but he was fast as blazes and I had all my work cut out staying out of his way. I landed enough good punches to be ahead on points at the end of the second round, but there wasn’t much in it and I was using every bit of ringcraft I knew to stay out of trouble.
We came out for the third and again he came at me with the leading hand and crossed over with a right hook that caught me on the side of the jaw. Quite suddenly I was on the canvas, sprawling on my back. I could see two of Mandoma as he retired to the neutral corner and then the ref began to count. I knew I’d been hit hard but felt nothing, my head was ringing and I was using all my concentration to hear the count. At six my eyes suddenly cleared and at eight I was back on my feet. It had been a beautiful punch and I knew I couldn’t take too many others like it and survive. Patel wiped my gloves and made me count the three fingers he held up to me, and then six. It was all valuable time and my head had stopped ringing. Finally, he told us to box on.
Mandoma was after blood and came in too fast and carelessly. This alone saved me. If he’d waited to get set for another big punch he would have taken me. He wanted the knockout and his eyes were telegraphing his punches. Halfway through the round I was feeling strong again and I began to work to the old plan. Ignoring his head I went for the body, under the heart, in the soft area under the rib cage and into the solar plexus. He’d throw a wild left hook or a right uppercut and I’d follow in with two or three hard blows to the spot. Nothing fancy, but I could feel my knuckles digging deep. If I could stay away from the big punch and if he kept sending me a letter every time he prepared to throw a punch, I’d eventually get him. I’d been in against fighters most of my life, Mandoma had a bigger punch than any I’d been in the ring with before, and he was bloody fast. But I thought he was becoming predictable as most fighters do.
Had it been the usual three round fight the decision may well have gone to Mandoma. By the fourth round he had started to slow down. He’d been chasing me for three rounds and throwing a lot of leather, the heat had to get to him. But he hadn’t taken water, just rinsing and spitting. So I kept going low and hard and toward the end of the fourth round I heard him grunt as I got three solid punches home. It was beginning to go like clockwork. Mandoma pulled me into a clinch and on the break hit me with a beautiful left lead. I thought I’d run into a train. I went down, my arse actually bouncing on the canvas. I couldn’t believe it, I shook my head but it wouldn’t clear. At the count of eight I was only just able to stand. Mandoma had me, one half decent punch and I was history.
The ref asked me if I was all right and when I nodded he wiped my gloves and told me to box on, this time not asking for a concussion count. I knew I had to hang on until the end of the round. Patel wouldn’t stand for more than two knockdowns. That is, if I could have gotten up a third time. ‘Dance, klein baas, your feet, you must dance, only your feet can keep you out of trouble,’ I could hear Geel Piet clear as anything. To my enormous relief the bell went for the end of the fourth.
‘He’s got a huge punch in both hands, lad, but he’s slowing. I want you to box him close so he can’t put a big one in, keep working at his body, he has to be feeling it.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ I panted. But my strength was coming back. I rinsed and spat, the water cool and delicious in my mouth.
‘Christ, he’s taking water!’ Hymie said. ‘The bastard’s taking water!’
The first twenty seconds of the fifth round were the hardest yet. Mandoma threw everything at me, but I wove and ducked, back-pedalled and kept out of the way. He threw a left lead and I crossed over with a right, catching him under the eye and opening it up. His nose was still bleeding and while I hadn’t hit him much in the head, I’d kept the nose bleeding with a regular jab right on the button. Nothing influences a referee more than a liberal splash of blood. Mandoma threw another left hook, telegraphing it from a yard away and I moved in and had him on the ropes with an orthodox straight left followed by a straight right to the head. Two copybook punches which, when timed correctly, carry a lot of zap.