What were you doing on 24 June, 1995?

24 June 1995. I was 13 – in Standard 6, at high school in Joburg. Life was all about friends, crushes, hot guys, Johnny Depp and Jared Leto, The Bold and the Beautiful, homework, trying not to leave my Geography book at home two days in a row, Steers or Milky Lane at Eastgate on a Friday night, Bruma flea market on a Saturday, keeping the front door locked, mixtapes, 5FM and oversized T-shirts. Plus the Rugby World Cup.

My mom, who knew nothing about rugby (she shouted for Australia in the opening game until we told her that South Africa wore GREEN not GOLD #facepalm), was an absolute legend; scouring Shell garages for World Cup collectors’ memorabilia. Rugby cards, tazzos, themed Coke cans – she’d have driven to Timbuktu for that golden springbok disk. Mom even braved the fans at a ‘meet the players’ event, and my brothers and I walked away with five Springbok signatures – Hennie Le Roux, Joost Van der Westhuizen, James Small, James Dalton and Kobus Wiese. (Plus five All Black autographs although I can only make out Andrew Mehrtens’ name.) We were stoked.

Remember when Jonah Lomu steamrolled Mike Catt and then those tackles in the final… Joost and James Small? On that Saturday, I was watching the game at home with my family. Remember the haka that ended with the players all up in each other’s faces; the “good luck bokke” jumbo jet flying centimetres above the top of Ellis Park Stadium, extra-extra time, Joel Stransky’s drop goal (the photo that sits proudly on the wall in home bars across the country), Madiba in 6 (Siya’s number – oh poetry!), the trophy, the joy. But especially the absolute mania after the game – hooters, hugging, tears, dancing, parties. Pure lekkerness.

I am not sure about you guys but to this day I cannot hear “World in Union” without home welling up in my eyes. Forever ’95.

In the moment, I didn’t realise the huge thing that the win was. Only later, when life became less about boys, slap chips and pushing record when my favourite song played on the radio, did I click.

Whilst my brain might have taken a while to catch up, my heart was forever impacted. No matter where we are in the world, the Springboks are vivid in the soul of South Africans – a metaphor for survival – because of that day.

The grit. The gees.

Rugby is not just about rugby: it’s about that elusive rainbow that South Africa is forever chasing. It’s about a fighting hope that will not die because we won’t let it.

How, though, do we pass the spirit of that day on to our children? As an expat, I think about this a lot.

I have chosen somewhere else, and yet South Africa is me, my family, my heart and, yes, my home. I want my children to know her. And so, I tell them… about orange sunsets and purple jacaranda flowers in spring, about parktown prawns, lions and thunderstorms; I tell them about racism and apathy, about big hearts and friends lost, about courage and beauty, about a broken nation; a broken people, who love their home and their country, who don’t always get it right but never give up. I tell them about winning the Rugby World Cup in 1995.

Often, I have to fight the feeling that I am passing on to my children a mere whisper of something that shaped me, that is important to me, that lives in me but is old and faded – something that, maybe, I imagined. Then RG Snyman scores a try and Pollard clocks a penalty in the ultimate second, and I know that home is real.

For more lekker rugby vibes, read Why I love the Springboks, The Springboks at Twickenham and Not just rugby.

If you have a story you’d like to share about South Africa please send it to Andrea via admin@sapeople.com; and visit Andrea’s OurFiresideStories.com