Fanning the Flame(s) (Glimpse)

The roads of Blantyre are louder than most I’ve navigated — I’m still learning to tune out the honking, which seems the all-purpose method of communication among vehicles. On Saturday, though, the beep-beeping cars and trucks contributed just one voice to the veritable magnum opus of whistles, songs, claps, yells and yodels. Horns produced cacophonous goose honks and mimicked the wails of very unhappy infants. Passengers leaned out splintered minibus windows and bellowed. It was game time in Malawi.

Commentators heralded this weekend’s World Cup qualifier match versus Ivory Coast as one of Malawi’s biggest games in years. The last time the two countries played, Ivory Coast creamed Malawi five-nil. My friends Thoko and Tawonga told me I had no choice in the matter — I would don red, flutter a flag and lose my voice while cheering for the Flames. They needn’t have worried. Though I’m no diehard soccer devotee, I experienced Euro Cup fever in Germany a year ago, climbing atop the roof of a bakery and boogieing in the street after Germany’s semifinal victory over Turkey. I would be there.

And indeed I was, along with 25,000 others, a good number swathed in Malawian flags and body paint. We arrived a full two hours before the match began, which provided time for a brief excursion into the raucous bleacher section (terrific if you love fervent embraces from strangers, sprays of water and beer, and the occasional airborne rock) and a return to our calmer bench. As the conspicuous white girl, Malawians visited my seat to teach me cheers and songs. One fan specked my face with overzealous spittle as he instructed me in the proper pronunciation of “Malawi yidoda dadada!” This apparently translates to “Malawi is skilled on the ball,” though exactly how that figures I’m still trying to grasp.

For the first half of the game and the beginning of the second, I found the crowd more compelling than the players. Spectators wore screwy masks and costumes (one man had donned a bridal gown and another sported a graduation robe), waved imposing signs (most maligning Drogba, the star Ivory Coast striker), and inflated balloons (we’d wondered why the vendors hawked condoms in addition to lollipops and straw hats). As for the athletes, their footwork was sloppy and slow.

But then, but then! “WAKA! Malawi chinya! Malawi moto!” That’s right — “GOAL! Malawi scores! Malawi is on fire!” Flags thrashed overhead and men threw off their shirts. A friend of mine, a few kilometers away during the match, told me he heard the roars erupt from the stadium after the goal.

The celebration proved short-lived. Ivory Coast scored mere minutes later. The match ended in a draw. Yet the post-game street scene didn’t disappoint. The procession of lorries, their flatbeds heaving with fans, recalled the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade — albeit much lower-tech, much drunker, and much, much louder.