I’ll be honest. I didn’t grow up loving cricket. It always felt like the sport you watched when you couldn’t afford DStv Premium, and there was nothing else on.
I thought cricket was something rich kids in white sweaters played at private schools, while the rest of us dodged potholes and played street soccer with a plastic ball. Cricket felt… foreign. Not like rugby, which we learned to embrace slowly. And definitely not like football, which has always been ours. But this week, that changed.
South Africa won the ICC World Test Championship, beating Australia of all teams, and for the first time, cricket belonged to all of us.
And the man holding that beautiful golden mace at Lord’s? None other than Temba Bavuma—a black man from Langa township in Cape Town. A quiet man. A man who has been insulted, dismissed, mocked, and labelled as a quota player, all while representing this country with a kind of grace that few could match.
Let’s not act brand new. We know the story. We’ve seen it before. For years, Temba Bavuma has been the subject of criticism that goes far beyond the sport. People didn’t just question his batting stats; they questioned his presence. His very existence in the squad was framed as political.
The way they spoke about him, you’d swear he bribed his way in through transformation policy. They picked apart everything—his size, his runs, his leadership—and not once did they stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, the problem wasn’t him. Maybe the problem was that this country still struggles to see black excellence in spaces that used to be white and white only.
Cricket and rugby in South Africa have long been seen as white sports. Their roots go back to colonial traditions, schoolboy leagues built in elite institutions, and stadiums filled with mostly white supporters. During apartheid, black South Africans were excluded—deliberately and systematically—from meaningful participation in these sporting codes.
And even after 1994, the transformation of these sports was slow, painful, and often met with resistance.
Which is why Temba Bavuma standing at Lord’s—as the captain of a world champion Test team—is not just a sporting victory. It is a political moment. A spiritual moment. A moment that spits in the face of every racist who said he didn’t deserve to be there.
This isn’t just about cricket. It’s about reclaiming the spaces that were stolen from us, and saying, “We’re not visitors. We belong here.”
And let’s not forget the pattern. It’s the same thing that happened to Siya Kolisi. When he was named Springbok captain, there was an uproar. Suddenly, people who had never even watched a game were convinced he was chosen to tick a box.
He was too black, too inexperienced, too “transformed.” But the moment he lifted that Webb Ellis Cup in Japan in 2019, suddenly it was all rainbow flags and fake tears of unity. Suddenly, everyone loved him. The same ones who doubted his leadership were now claiming him as their son.
It’s funny how black captains are treated in this country. When the team is struggling, it’s their fault. When the team wins, they’re allowed to smile for the photos but not claim the leadership. But what Temba Bavuma did this week was undeniable.
He took a team written off by many, walked into Lord’s—one of the whitest institutions in cricket history—and came back with gold. Not just for himself, not just for the squad, but for every township child who’s ever been told that cricket isn’t for them.
Temba comes from Langa. Siya comes from a rural village in the Eastern Cape. These are not suburbs with fancy gyms and cricket academies. These are places where dreaming is dangerous and succeeding feels like a miracle. They didn’t grow up with five coaches and custom cricket kits. They had community, grit, and someone who believed in them. And look at them now.
That’s the part that matters most to me. It’s not just about winning the trophy. It’s about what this win means. It means that if we invest in young black people, not with handouts but with belief and resources, we will win more than trophies. We will win dignity. We will win representation. We will win the future.
And to those who still don’t believe in transformation—those who think that black leadership is charity work or some grand experiment—I hope this moment makes you uncomfortable. Because it should. You can’t keep shouting about “merit” when black players keep showing up, showing out, and winning gold. Black leadership is not a compromise.
It is excellence that has been denied a seat at the table for too long.
So let’s laugh. Let’s meme. Let’s dance. Let’s celebrate. But let us also reflect. Because this win is not just a sporting story. It’s a South African story. It’s a reminder that we are capable of greatness when we stop gatekeeping opportunity.
When we stop judging potential by the colour of someone’s skin or the location of their birth certificate. When we start believing that our people—all our people—deserve to lead.
Temba Bavuma, thank you for reminding us what quiet power looks like. Thank you for standing tall when they tried to make you feel small. Thank you for representing the black child who refuses to be defined by a history that was never kind to us.
You didn’t just win the ICC World Test Championship—you rewrote a whole chapter of our sporting history.
And if you’re ever tired of cricket, we know a few government positions that could use a leader like you.
Danko Mthimbane!!!!!!!!!!
