FESTIVAL B UNPLUGGED

…With Umgcilati Magama

BELOVED reader, Hugo Broos has done it! Halala Bafana Bafana!

You can pinch me now, if you’d like. No, wait, don’t. I’m enjoying this dream far too much. South Africa, the land that once hosted the world, will again walk onto football’s grandest stage.

And leading the parade? Hugo Broos, maybe it should be Hugo Boss, because after this, “coach” just sounds too humble a name for the man who’s turned a sceptical nation into a symphony of song and belief.

Bafana Bafana sealed their spot at the 2026 FIFA World Cup after a resounding 3-0 victory against Rwanda in Mbombela, coupled with Nigeria’s 4-0 thrashing of Benin.

Down the memory lane, who still remembers 2017, when South Africa nursed a painful hangover, undone not by opponents on the field, but by a costly misreading of the rules that shattered their Africa Cup of Nations qualification hopes. They apparently celebrated for nothing.

Back to the main story, I’m not exaggerating when I say Mbombela Stadium might have tilted a little on Tuesday night, not from an earthquake, but from the sheer weight of euphoria that erupted when Thalente Mbatha’s thunderbolt shook the net.

It was one of those goals that deserve their own soundtrack, violins, drums, fireworks, and maybe even a choir singing Nkosi Sikelel’i-Afrika in double tempo.

That first goal, five minutes in, wasn’t just a strike; it was a prophecy fulfilled, a decade-long drought breaking open. South Africa went back in it. Back in the World Cup. Back in the conversation. Back in the dreams of every little boy, juggling a flat football on dusty township soil. And oh, how sweet it was.

For years, Bafana Bafana’s story read like a Shakespearean tragedy: a promising hero, undone by fate, bad management, and too many short passes that went nowhere. After 2010, the story faded, the heroes retired, and hope became an endangered species.

But this is the plot twist nobody saw coming. South Africa 3, Rwanda 0, a scoreline that reads like redemption poetry. And in one of football’s delicious ironies, it was Nigeria, the eternal giant of African football, that handed Bafana the final piece of the puzzle by dismantling Benin 4-0. Some call it luck. I call it divine football intervention, the beautiful game’s way of saying, “Your time has come again, Mzansi.”

Let’s be honest. When Hugo Broos arrived, most fans met him with the same enthusiasm they reserve for load-shedding schedules, uncertain, cautious, mildly suspicious. He was Belgian, unfamiliar, blunt to a fault, and not shy about calling out mediocrity when he saw it.

But slowly, like a sculptor chiselling through marble, Hugo Broos began shaping something magnificent. Out went the comfort-zone veterans, in came the fresh legs, fearless hearts, and hungry souls. “Age doesn’t matter,” he reminded us. “It’s the talent. It’s the mentality.”

And oh, what mentality this team showed!

Ronwen Williams became a fortress in gloves. Teboho Mokoena orchestrated the midfield like a jazz maestro. Oswin Appollis rediscovered his magic touch. And then there’s Mohau Nkota, a 20-year-old lightning bolt who plays with the arrogance of youth and the maturity of experience. Watching him dance down the flank is like watching electricity flirt with the wind.

Broos didn’t just coach footballers; he rebuilt belief. Who thought Sipho Mbule could still cook on an international stage? The “drunken master chef,” as social media trolls call him, still has a way with the kitchen.

The Bafana Bafana coach stitched a team that flinches at pressure, no longer trembles before giants. Instead, they look their opponents in the eye and say, “We belong here.” And for that, Hugo Broos, take a bow. Or better yet, take the entire runway.

South African sport has been a never-ending fireworks display lately. The Springboks lifted the Webb Ellis Cup (again), Wayde van Niekerk rewrote sprinting history, Tatjana Smith turned swimming pools into gold mines, and Dricus du Plessis punched his way into UFC legend.

Even the Proteas, their eternal heartbreakers, found redemption at Lord’s. But amid all that glory, football, the people’s sport, sat quietly in the corner, nursing its old wounds. Until now.

This qualification isn’t just a ticket to the FIFA World Cup. It’s an awakening. It’s that loud knock at destiny’s door that says, “Open up, the Boys are back.” And in truth, Bafana Bafana didn’t just qualify, they resurrected the romance of the game.

For too long, football fans in Mzansi have worn hope like an old jersey: tattered, faded, but impossible to throw away. This qualification has stitched it new again, in bright gold and green.

The World Cup 2026 will be co-hosted by the United States, Canada, and Mexico, three nations with stadiums large enough to swallow small towns. For Bafana Bafana, it’s more than a trip to a tournament.

It’s a pilgrimage, a return to relevance, a mission to make history. Let’s not forget, South Africa’s past performances weren’t shabby at all.

In 1998, Philippe Troussier’s squad, starring national treasures like Mark Fish, Lucas Radebe, Quinton Fortune, John Moshoeu, Shaun Bartlett, and Benni McCarthy, bravely stared down Peter Schmeichel, the Laudrup brothers, and Denmark.

The result? Two glorious points and a nation bursting with pride, because who needs victories when you have “valiant draws,” right?

Fast forward to 2002, and under Jomo Sono, they did it again, masterfully exiting the tournament on goals scored. Yes, goals scored! Not points, not losses, but that obscure mathematical heartbreak that only FIFA could invent.

Still, there were moments of brilliance: rallying from two down to hold Paraguay, teaching Slovenia a footballing lesson, and giving Raul and Spain a mild panic attack before bowing out 3-2.

And then came 2010, the grand homecoming. The vuvuzelas, the flags, the euphoria. Siphiwe Tshabalala’s thunderbolt against Mexico practically registered on the Richter scale and turned Soccer City into a concert of cosmic celebration.

Later, Aaron Mokoena, Steven Pienaar, and the gang gave France the humiliation of their lives in Bloemfontein, a gift we still bring up at every braai. But alas, they still packed their bags on goal difference. Because why do you make it easy when you can leave dramatically?

This time, though, the target isn’t just participation. It’s progression. Knockout phase or nothing. And with Broos steering the ship, I’d bet on the former. This is a man who’s been to football’s mountain before, as a player in Mexico 1986, he faced Maradona himself.

And now, nearly four decades later, he has managed to guide a new generation into their own legend.

“There are no words,” he said after qualification, his voice trembling with a veteran’s gratitude. “I had a World Cup at the end of my playing career, and now I’ll have one at the end of my coaching career. What could be more fantastic?” Nothing, Hugo. Absolutely nothing.

Back to that final whistle in Mbombela on Tuesday. It was a release of years of frustration, memes, missed chances, and “what ifs.” People cried, hugged strangers, and danced with reckless joy.

The stadium became a living heartbeat, echoing through the valleys and the taverns, through WhatsApp statuses and TikTok feeds.

That reminded me that football isn’t just a sport, it’s our shared language, our therapy, our Saturday sermon. When Bafana Bafana wins, even the sun seems to shine with extra confidence. Taxis hoot with rhythm. Gogo’s smile widened at the spaza shop.

Kids kick bottles with new ambition. And somewhere, in the dusty grounds of Soweto, a little boy looks at Ronwen Williams and whispers, “One day, that’ll be me.”

It’s funny, isn’t it? For a nation that sometimes struggles to agree on anything, from politics to pap recipes, football has this magical ability to unite them. One goal from Thalente Mbatha, and suddenly the country forgets its potholes, its power cuts, its petrol prices. That’s the power of Bafana Bafana.

Now comes the next chapter. The AFCON in December is a perfect dress rehearsal. And after that, the grand journey to North America. Of course, challenges will come. Critics will crawl out from under their keyboards. The pressure will mount. But the foundation is strong.

The spirit is unbreakable. And I, for one, am daring to dream again.

To those who said Hugo Broos was too old, too foreign, too stubborn, congratulations, you’re now part of the highlight reel of how wrong people can be. To those who said Bafana was finished, welcome back to the fanbase; they saved you a seat.

Football has a way of humbling and healing in equal measure. Today, it heals.

I’ll say it again, Halala Bafana Bafana!

With those words, I rest my case.

…Until my ink paints the next edition. I am Festival B, umgcilati magama since day one. See you in the next print!