Ebony & Ivory

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Epilogue

Prologue

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Royal St George’s Golf Club, Sandwich, July 2011

A Roman amphitheatre could not have staged a gladiatorial production better. Fifteen thousand spectators were crammed in, waiting for the last two gladiators to make their final thrusts at glory in the 2011 British Open Golf Championship.

The 140th edition of this famous tournament was in its death throes on the eighteenth green of the Royal St George’s Golf Club in Sandwich, with the tension palpable while the crowd waited for the final putts to be completed by the remaining two combatants.

Duduma Madikezela had confounded the golfing pundits the whole week by remaining in contention for what was considered the Holy Grail of Major golfing events. Playing two glorious shots, one splitting the narrow fairway, then one arching its way into the eighteenth green, Duduma set himself up with a birdie attempt that could quite possibly propel him into instant folklore. Dudu, as his golfing compatriots knew him, was stalking his ten-foot putt, just like he did when he was trailing a buck for the family pot in his home village of Impisi in the old South African state of the Transkei.

It had been exactly like the weather forecasters predicted: two days of breathtaking sunshine with hardly a breeze, followed by two more days of persistent rain and a strong swirling wind that had blown away the hopes of many of the world’s top ranked players.

Royal St George’s was well renowned for its unforgiving nature, having utterly confused the world’s greatest golfers since its inception in 1887. Situated on a large tract of land that fronted the English Channel on the East Kent coastline, the course wound its way through hundreds of sand dunes and bunkers that some said made it the greatest test in golf. This Links course, without a tree in sight, had so many blind shots off the tee and into the greens, that one golfing wag had dubbed it a course to take a canine retriever with, so as not to continually lose your ball. It was that scary!

Stiaan Stoltz, another alumni of the South African golfing production line that had given the world Bobby Locke, Gary Player, Ernie Els, Retief Goosen, Trevor Immelmann, Louis Oosthuizen and Charles Schwartzel, was on tenterhooks while he observed the final play of his archrival Duduma Madikezela. Watching on one of the many wide-screen televisions in the clubhouse, Stiaan knew that if Duduma made his putt he would walk off with the prized Claret Jug that would be awarded to the Champion Golfer of that year’s Open.

Both players were locked together at 5 under par for the tournament, with Stiaan posting his score thirty minutes earlier with a scintillating 3 under par 67 that had the world’s television commentators purring with delight. Two South Africans fighting out the final stages of a golfing major was a rarity in itself, let alone with it being the British Open.

Duduma had been three shots clear of the field going into the last round, hence his playing in the final pairing of the afternoon. He had somehow managed to stay on par for the last round even though he had dropped shots at the first three holes in a row. Clawing back birdies on the fourteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth had brought him back on course for a nerve jangling finish at the famous eighteenth hole.

The most defining moment of Duduma’s fourth round came at the par three sixteenth. Standing on the tee, Duduma was eying his tee shot and thinking of what had happened to Thomas Bjorn the last time the Open was played at Royal St George’s.

Bjorn had proceeded to blow his chances of immortality by sending his tee shot into the right hand greenside bunker, and had then watched agonisingly while his first two attempts to extricate the ball ended up with it returning to the same bunker not far from where he was standing. He finally ended with a triple bogey 6 to extinguish his hopes of golfing glory.

Duduma had these negative thoughts coursing through his mind when he placed his tee into the ground and put his Nike ball on top. He was not prepared to go the same route as Thomas Bjorn had done, and that was for damn sure. Casting his mind back to what his local sangoma had told him, Duduma cleared his thoughts and concentrated on the Nike swish that was pointing the way towards his target.

Letting loose with the 5 Iron his caddie had given him, Duduma swatted the ball to within two feet of the pin. It was a shot that would be replayed repeatedly by the television stations covering the tournament, because Duduma’s ball caught the pin slightly off centre and finished agonisingly two feet away. Nevertheless, he would convert the putt and finally banish all thoughts of Thomas Bjorn’s legacy.

Gary Drummond, Duduma’s first and only caddie for the last five years of his professional career, was standing behind him sizing up the make or break ten-foot putt on the eighteenth green. A short man with craggy features and a typical shock of carrot-coloured hair, which was tucked away under his favourite tartan cap, he had a deep Scottish brogue that left no one in doubt where he hailed from.

Gary had been a journeyman professional plying his trade on the lesser tours of the world circuit, when he chanced upon Duduma playing his maiden Sunshine Tour event in the 2006 Nashua Masters at the Sunrise Coast Casino and Golf Course Resort. Accompanying Duduma as his playing partner in the first two rounds of this event, Gary caught a glimpse of the raw talent waiting to burst onto the international stage.

It was not the way Duduma outscored him in those first two rounds, but the nature in which it was conducted. Gary had two of the best rounds he could muster, but was still four shots behind the young man from Impisi come the thirty-six hole cut. Finally ending up with a top ten finish, Gary knew his days were numbered while he watched Duduma finish second to a rampant old veteran in the form of Mark McNulty.

Deciding it was time to hang up his clubs, Gary managed to persuade Duduma that pastures anew awaited him on the European Tour. Five years later, after a very successful partnership, both of them were on the cusp of fulfilling their dreams of possibly winning the Open, one as a player and the other as caddie.

It sounds like Sunday at the local prayer meeting in Impisi, Duduma muttered, while they hovered over the putt that could be life-changing for both of them. It was so quiet that Gary had to stifle a laugh at Duduma’s wicked sense of humour, but he still managed a dry Scottish retort.

Miss this putt and there will be more groans than the Scottish supporters can muster after an ignominious loss to the English at Murryfield! Gary’s rabid support of the Scottish rugby side had been an ongoing thorn in both their sides, while Duduma’s support for the Springboks and his ardent baiting of Gary every time they lost to the men in the green and gold would attest.

Two inches outside the right hand side of the cup should do it laddie! Gary respectively said, sizing up the break.

Yes Baas! Dudu replied, with a chuckle in his voice. If we miss this, we’re looking at a playoff with you know who, so let’s finish it now!

Gary could not agree more as he went off to the edge of the green and watched, while Duduma sealed his date with destiny. Duduma was still in awe of the silence of the awaiting masses as he addressed his putt, and then put into motion a golf ball that would traverse the ten feet needed and maybe, just maybe, change both their lives.

Chapter 1

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Eastern Transkei, South Africa, 1984

Impisi village, situated in the easternmost corner of the Transkei, was so insignificant in the scheme of things that very few people had ever heard of it before. Twenty-five kilometres from Port Edward as the crow flies, it would take any ardent traveller two hours to make the trip by car, because the only access to the village was by road from Bizana, which was a good hour from the last town on the Natal South Coast, Port Edward.

The rolling hills of the Transkei still looked exactly the same like they had over the last few hundred years. Civilisation had simply passed by this area known as the Wild Coast. With little to interest the greedy hands of prospective developers, it had lain dormant for so long that the only people who lived there were the descendents of the hardy Xhosa tribe.

Bongani Madikezela had been brought up in Impisi and only left the family homestead when he had to make a trip to Bizana to sell his wares. At five feet, ten inches in height, Bongani was well muscled due to the long hard days he put in tilling his land. Sindile, his adoring wife, had always teased him that he had a vague resemblance to Nelson Mandela, the jailed icon of the African National Congress.

Sindile Pumile had married Bongani five years previously in a pre-arranged wedding decided on by both their families. She had been, and still was, a rare beauty that many a suitors’ family had tried to buy off in the form of Lobola, an old Xhosa custom of offering cattle and other forms of material value to the family of the potential bride for their daughter’s hand in marriage.

Bongani’s family had finally promised enough Lobola to ensure that Sindile would be his future wife. It was fortunate that they instantly liked each other at first sight, since many other marriages conducted in this manner failed miserably.

Sindile had borne Bongani two baby girls in the first years of their marriage and, with her once again pregnant and about to bear another child, Bongani was hoping beyond hope that he would finally have a boy to carry on the family legacy.

The family farm, in a small fertile valley just outside of Impisi, had been in his family’s name for more years than he could remember. The family kraal consisting of six round structures with thatched roofs, known as rondavels, was perched halfway up a large hillside overlooking a stunning view that could just about embrace the start of the Indian Ocean twenty kilometres away.

The weather in March 1984 had been so unsettled that Bongani feared the worst. He had spent the last week with members of his family and other willing helpers, harvesting his sugar cane and other small crops that were on the verge of ripening. The last time he had come across this type of persistent rain, which had dogged Impisi for the last two weeks, it was followed by a vicious cyclone that had inflicted untold damage on the small communities surrounding him.

Bongani’s foresight in gathering his crops paid dividends, because two days later on a bleak Wednesday night, Cyclone Demonia rumbled down from the Mozambique Channel in a mad frenzy of rip roaring winds and saturating rain. The cyclone tore through the Natal South Coast and the Transkei with a vengeance, leaving road bridges in shattered pieces and flooding on a scale that had not been seen for decades.

While Bongani made his way back up the winding pathway that led to his kraal, he was more than thankful that his great, great grandfather had had the wisdom to build the Madikezela homestead on the western side of the hill on which it lay. Returning from checking that his storage huts were dry and intact, Bongani was being doused in wave upon wave of horizontal rain that was swirling over the top of the hill above him. The wind was also conjuring up some eerie sounds while it whistled down the valley, finding only Bongani’s thatched rondavels as minor obstacles in its ongoing surge.

Approaching his hut, Bongani could have sworn he heard a loud and piercing scream being carried down to him by the unforgiving winds. Fearing that local lore had been correct when it was said that a storm like this would carry away all the evil spirits on the wings of its tumult, Bongani crossed himself as any good Christian would and sank lower into his now soaked blanket that was giving him scant relief from the elements.

Reaching the door of his home, Bongani saw a dull orange light that was seeping through the cracks in the frame and the small windows either side. Gugulethu, the local sangoma (traditional healer)-come-midwife, had been with Sindile since lunchtime, because Sindile’s contractions, which had commenced at dawn, were now coming at a constantly quickening pace.

Unhinging the wooden door latch to his home, Bongani entered to the raucous sounds of a baby’s cries. Sindile was sitting up on the communal bed holding a blanketed bundle in her hands, with the old wizened face of Gugulethu keeping a watchful eye by her side. Bongani’s other two young daughters, Lindiwe and Pumzile, were sitting on the end of the bed looking on in awe, while the new addition to the family exercised his vocal chords.

The look of delight on Bongani’s face was a picture, as he came over and gave his wife a very big hug. He was even more delighted when Sindile removed the bottom flap of the blanket to reveal a tiny penis protruding from between the baby’s legs.

Looking at Gugulethu, he asked her if she knew of a name for a boy born in the eye of a storm. Bringing her old craggy hand to her mouth in thought, Gugulethu pondered for a few moments before a smile slowly crossed her worn-out, seventy-year-old face.

Duduma, she quietly mumbled, while everybody else listened with an air of expectancy. Then realising not everybody had heard, including Bongani, she held out her hands theatrically and said in a loud Xhosa dialect: Let him be known as Duduma, Son of the Storm!

Duduma Madikezela had entered the world during a maelstrom that not many would forget for a long, long time. It would also be a momentous occasion for the inhabitants of Impisi, as the Son of the Storm would go on to be a living legend in the rolling hills of the Transkei.

Chapter 2

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The first few years of Duduma’s life were solely centred on the kraal where he lived. From the age of three, Duduma would trail after his father while he completed his daily chores of nurturing the crops and cattle on his small farm.

It was on the day of the summer solstice in mid December 1988, that Duduma would get his first taste of what he would later learn was the game of golf. It would be a turning point in young Duduma’s life, just like it had been for Sandy Lyle earlier in the year when he annexed the United States Masters title, with an all-defining second shot from a bunker on the last hole that would set him up for a dramatic birdie and an even more famous win.

Duduma had been wandering around the valley, which was home to his father’s farm, after completing his daily chores. Chancing on a broken tree branch, which looked like a crooked walking stick that bore some resemblance to the one his grandfather Bebe constantly used, Duduma picked it up, deciding it would make an ideal present for him.

Walking back up to his home as the sun slowly descended below the northern-most hills of the Transkei, Duduma was lazily swinging the stick in his right hand when he scuffed the ground with the handle and launched a medium sized pebble into the air that came to rest ten metres in front of him.

Duduma was intrigued at the way the stone had shot off on a curving arc that reached slightly more than his own height at its zenith, returning to the ground as gravity took its toll. Walking up to the offending pebble, Duduma first looked at the stick and then the pebble before thinking about what to do next.

It must have been natural instinct or whatever, as he clasped the bottom of the stick in both his hands and took an exaggerated swing at the same offending pebble. Connecting it perfectly on the sweet spot of the handle, Duduma now doubled the distance he had sent it the first time. All thoughts of giving this stick to his grandfather were now left behind as Duduma gazed at his newfound friend with interest.

For the next five years, Nonti, as he dubbed his sticklike companion, never left Duduma’s side while he made the daily five-kilometre walk that would take him to and from his primary school in Impisi. If anyone of his school friends tried to relieve him of his companion, there would be a ferocious fight that would leave nobody in doubt who the owner of the stick was.

Duduma was also a very bright student, who excelled in all the subjects Impisi Primary School had to offer. If ever Duduma came second in a school test, he would redouble his efforts to make sure that it did not happen again.

By the time Duduma was ready to go to high school, his teachers were quietly pleased to see him leave. Not because he was the cleverest boy in the school, but because at the age of ten he was close to exceeding the mindsets of nearly all the teachers at Impisi.

His skills with Nonti had improved immensely over the last five years; so much so that he could do almost anything with an offending pebble that caught his eye on his daily two-hour walks to school and back. The only thing that would be held against him in future years by the golfing purists was his grip of a club, which resembled that of a baseball grip. There was nothing anyone could do or say to get Duduma to hold a club conventionally; it was just something he had taught himself and nobody was going to tell him any otherwise.

Duduma’s time at Bizana High School was a lot different to what he had experienced at Impisi. The daily trip in itself was a mission, because Duduma would leave home at five o’clock in the morning, only to be back by six o’clock the next evening if he was lucky. His two-hour walk to Impisi was now compounded by another hour on the bus that took him to Bizana.

It was in April 1996, after Duduma had watched Nick Faldo win the United States Masters for a third time and Greg Norman implode after going into the last round five shots clear, that he heard talk for the first time of the Sunrise Coast Casino and Resort close to Port Edward. Situated just inside the border of the Transkei, Sunrise Coast had had one of South Africa’s top ranked golf courses since its inception in 1983.

Just past his twelfth birthday, Duduma was very tall for his age, with Gugulethu, predicting that he would easily surpass six feet in height. Gugulethu was still going strong in her early eighties, with every passing year clearly etched on her leathery old face.

What had piqued Duduma’s interest in the Sunrise Coast was the mention of players such as Seve Ballesteros, Bernhard Langer, Nick Faldo and Fred Couples having played there over the years in the annual Skins tournament. After hearing the stories, Duduma had decided immediately that he wanted to go there and caddie on the course over weekends. It took