Experience: I invented the vuvuzela
'At the start of the tournament, I was standing at the top of the arena near the players, listening to the sound and crying tears of joy'
'There has been talk of a ban, but that will never happen while I'm still alive'
I invented the vuvuzela 35 years ago but, of course, it's only since the start of the World Cup that it has become quite so well known globally. Whatever people may say about the sound it makes, it has never been so popular. That makes me proud; I see so many visitors taking vuvuzelas home with them, to Europe, South America and beyond.
I know people have complained in the past. One football squad objected to the noise when they played in South Africa, but I think it's only polite to accept the customs of any country you visit, and this is our culture. Our players expect it and the sound encourages them – it's the sound of our support. Many people say they don't like the noise, but I've been blowing the vuvuzela for decades now and I've never heard of anyone going to hospital or dying because of it.
I know people have complained in the past. One football squad objected to the noise when they played in South Africa, but I think it's only polite to accept the customs of any country you visit, and this is our culture. Our players expect it and the sound encourages them – it's the sound of our support. Many people say they don't like the noise, but I've been blowing the vuvuzela for decades now and I've never heard of anyone going to hospital or dying because of it.
I do recommend some basic rules when it comes to using it, though – you shouldn't blow one directly into anyone's ear, for example, nor should you ever sound a vuvuzela during a country's national anthem. There has been talk of a ban, but that will never happen while I'm still alive – no government will stop it. The vuvuzela is my baby and I'd happily go to jail for it. Actually, I have been locked up already, for 20 minutes – in 1992, I took my vuvuzela to Zimbabwe, but only after falling foul of the authorities at the airport, who initially insisted I couldn't take it on to the plane.
I have been dedicated to popularising the vuvuzela since 1965, when I was 10. My brother bought me a bicycle to ride to school on. It had a big aluminium hooter with a rubber bulb on the end – I realised if I took off the ball and blew into the horn, it made a more exciting noise. I used to take it along to local football matches played on gravel or in the street and play it to encourage my team.
My horn became better known a few years later when the Kaizer Chiefs football club was born – I never missed a game and I'd always take it along. I used to call it a lempororo, after the area in South Africa where I grew up. Other supporters would ask where I'd got it, but because the lempororo was made of metal, it was considered dangerous and I was banned from taking it into the Orlando Stadium where the Chiefs used to play.
I approached someone who ran a manufacturing company and he made the first plastic version – a yellow one very much like those you see today. We called them Boogieblasts and sold them at games. I changed the name to vuvuzela in 1992, after Nelson Mandela was released and South Africa was allowed to compete internationally again – the name means three things in Zulu: "welcome", "unite" and "celebration."
People assume my invention has made me rich – in fact, big companies have taken the idea and the name, and don't give me a penny. I struggle to feed my nine children. Most of my earnings come from selling an album I made in the 90s that features the vuvuzela, and I've been touting the second volume at the World Cup games. Of course I'd be happier if my invention allowed me to support my family more easily, but I'm not bitter that others are benefiting. I still want to encourage others to enjoy them. When South Africa hosted the 1995 Rugby World Cup, I had vuvuzelas made in all the teams' colours and taught people in the crowd how to play.
In my culture, it's hard to gain recognition when you do something good – not while you're alive, anyway. When I do pass away, I want people to blow vuvuzelas at my funeral. It gives me great joy to know that I created an instrument that has been played by everyone from tiny children to Nelson Mandela. Even now I spend a lot of time thinking of ways to improve it; I want everyone to play the vuvuzela, beyond Africa.
At the start of the tournament, I was standing at the top of the arena near the players, listening to the sound and crying tears of joy. People from all over Africa were there, united by the vuvuzela. As for players saying they can't hear on the pitch because they're drowned out by the noise – well, footballers have never been short of excuses when things go wrong, have they? Whatever happens tomorrow, you'll never hear the winning team complaining.
I have been dedicated to popularising the vuvuzela since 1965, when I was 10. My brother bought me a bicycle to ride to school on. It had a big aluminium hooter with a rubber bulb on the end – I realised if I took off the ball and blew into the horn, it made a more exciting noise. I used to take it along to local football matches played on gravel or in the street and play it to encourage my team.
My horn became better known a few years later when the Kaizer Chiefs football club was born – I never missed a game and I'd always take it along. I used to call it a lempororo, after the area in South Africa where I grew up. Other supporters would ask where I'd got it, but because the lempororo was made of metal, it was considered dangerous and I was banned from taking it into the Orlando Stadium where the Chiefs used to play.
I approached someone who ran a manufacturing company and he made the first plastic version – a yellow one very much like those you see today. We called them Boogieblasts and sold them at games. I changed the name to vuvuzela in 1992, after Nelson Mandela was released and South Africa was allowed to compete internationally again – the name means three things in Zulu: "welcome", "unite" and "celebration."
People assume my invention has made me rich – in fact, big companies have taken the idea and the name, and don't give me a penny. I struggle to feed my nine children. Most of my earnings come from selling an album I made in the 90s that features the vuvuzela, and I've been touting the second volume at the World Cup games. Of course I'd be happier if my invention allowed me to support my family more easily, but I'm not bitter that others are benefiting. I still want to encourage others to enjoy them. When South Africa hosted the 1995 Rugby World Cup, I had vuvuzelas made in all the teams' colours and taught people in the crowd how to play.
In my culture, it's hard to gain recognition when you do something good – not while you're alive, anyway. When I do pass away, I want people to blow vuvuzelas at my funeral. It gives me great joy to know that I created an instrument that has been played by everyone from tiny children to Nelson Mandela. Even now I spend a lot of time thinking of ways to improve it; I want everyone to play the vuvuzela, beyond Africa.
At the start of the tournament, I was standing at the top of the arena near the players, listening to the sound and crying tears of joy. People from all over Africa were there, united by the vuvuzela. As for players saying they can't hear on the pitch because they're drowned out by the noise – well, footballers have never been short of excuses when things go wrong, have they? Whatever happens tomorrow, you'll never hear the winning team complaining.
• As told to Chris Broughton.
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