Chapter 1
Gaborone Rangers
We would gather around the common room, listening to him talk about his beloved Gaborone Rangers, how they humiliated Desert Cosmos in the Super Cup final back in 2015 and how Killer Kgosidialwa scored a brace on that day. He narrated the mesmerizing performance of Stanley 'Dog Engine' Mosojane and Bobby 'The Great' Motlhala.
Smaller children would listen keenly, but as for us, big girls with pubic hairs, we came to the gathering not for some football mumbo-jumbo, but to get a whiff of testosterone , for wherever Gaborone Rangers was, so were all the boys.
Mrs Halabi insisted that we should call him by his given name, Lebitso, however Gaborone Rangers was on the tip of our tongues. Since he came to the shelter a month ago, Gaborone Rangers was all he talked about, day and night, awake and asleep, literally. In his sleep talk, he would imitate Ray 'Papa Action' Sechele, the legendary sports commentator.
His football fascination once got him in trouble with a bunch of hooligans. Young Stars Football Club they called themselves, but there was nothing young about them, their faces were mountainous with pimples and their calves were hard as rocks. They were not even a club, but a bunch of unemployed jerks that puffed marijuana and drank cheap spirits before they chased the ball in the dusty field near our shelter.
The hooligans had foul mouths.
"It's AIDS that killed your mothers, not us" they would say to us.
Mrs Halabi told us to stay away from them, but that was impractical. Their playing field was on the pathway to both the school and the church. We were on our way from church one Sunday. Smaller children, bewailing of hunger, were walking slowly at the back of the horde, but us, big girls with raised chests, were at the front, trying to keep up with the boys. Not just any boys, but those with deep voices, the ones with broad shoulders, those that got a bulge whenever they saw us in our panties after evening baths. And Gaborone Rangers was one of those.
Just as we passed by the football field, the hooligans' ball went out of play, and came rolling in our direction. We all looked at him, praying he wouldn't do anything stupid. The hooligans did not like it when we touch their ball, but he did not know them as we did, he was a newbie.
We stopped, and so seemed everything else around us, well, except for the ball, and of course, him. He charged towards the ball, and trapped it under his foot. We thought he would pass it back to them, like Kara once did. No, but not Gaborone Rangers, he had to drive the ball back into the field with his left foot, much to the annoyance of the big, dark skinned guy who came to the touchline to collect the ball.
He tried to grab Gaborone Rangers by the t-shirt, but he cleverly ducked away, dribbling around him. Other hooligans ran towards him, but he dribbled easily around them, one after the other, some of them falling to the ground, until he was left with only the goalkeeper. With his finger, he pointed to the top left corner of the posts, and thegoalkeeper followed the finger, diving devotedly in that direction, but Gaborone Rangers kicked the ball softly to the bottom right corner. It was a goal.
He ran to the corner-kick spot in celebration, taking off his t-shirt and spinning in the air two times. It was only on the landing of his second spin that he realised that he was in trouble, the hooligans were already upon him, pinning him to the ground at once. From where we were, we could hear their thumping fists. We thought they were going to kill him, but he was saved by the shrill of a whistle.
"Let him go, you imbeciles" said the pot-bellied man with a whistle in his
hand.
"But coach, he...." they tried to protest, but he blew his whistle
again.
"I SAID LEAVE HIM ALONE!" he yelled, and they did, at once.
Gaborone Rangers did not make any attempt to stand up; he was focused on his bleeding nose. He starred at them one by one, right in their eyes, as if he was recording them in his memory.
"What's your name, son?" asked the man with a whistle, reaching out
his hand to help him up.
But there was no answer, Gaborone Rangers' gaze and concentration were still on his persecutors.
"Gaborone Rangers" we said
"What?" the whistle man turned to us.
"His name is Gaborone Rangers" we said again, in chorus.
The whistle man's gaze went back to Gaborone Rangers, exploring his blue and white football shirt. He grinned at the sight of the emblem.
"He stays in the orphanage too? I haven't seen him before" he said.
"Yes, he's a newbie" we said and the man smiled, again.
"Okay, you can take him home now, tell your matron I'll come by and talk to her later" he said to us, and then turned to Gaborone Rangers
“I am really sorry, son, I'll make sure these idiots pay for what they did to you"
Indeed, the man came to the shelter that evening. He had a lengthy conversation with Mrs Halabi, who seemed not to be agreeing with anything that was being said. After the man had left, we asked Mrs Halabi what he said, but she wouldn't tell us.
The following day, the whistle man came with two other people, a man and a woman. It was another lengthy discussion, in the garden, distant from our eavesdropping. Once again, after they left, we asked Mrs Halabi what the meeting was about, but she wouldn't tell. Instead, she called Gaborone Rangers aside, and they had a chat, in private.
Later that night, in the common room, with bowls of porridge in our hands, we asked Gaborone Rangers what Mrs Halabi had said to him, but he didn't give us straight answers. He just smiled and repeated the word; Trials.
What were Trials? Was it the name of his new family? Whenever a man and a woman came to the shelter, it was for one reason only, and that was adoption. But families seldom adopt fifteen year old Boys.
When we gathered up for breakfast the next morning, we were twenty eight instead of twenty nine, Gaborone Rangers' seat was empty. We made our own conclusions, he was gone.
Later that evening, we heard a big engine sound at the gate, it was a bus, and there he was. He was still wearing the blue and white colors of Gaborone Rangers Football Club, except, these ones were new. On his feet was a modish pair of sneakers, and he was wearing blue track pants. Gaborone Rangers Football Club emblem was embroidered to the upper left corner of his dazzling white t-shirt, and his initials, L.B, were printed to the upper right. A blue sweater was knotted around his waist and he carried a travel bag loosely with his left hand.
He stared at us, one after the other, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape the corners of his eyes. It was done, Gaborone Rangers was now a Gaborone Ranger. As for us, big girls who loved him so much, we would only see him on television, not as Gaborone Rangers, but Lebitso 'Great Thy Name' Butale of Gaborone Rangers.
