How do you show pain?
Do you cry, do you jump in joy, what do you do when the moment finally arrives? Your moment?
Because they said he didn’t belong here, right?
That he was a misfit, a quota pick. They called him names, questioned his worth.
And yet, there he sat with heavy eyes, unmoved, letting it all sink in, while the rest jumped, clapped, and screamed. Because for Bavuma, every single day has been a fight, something bigger than cricket.
From a township in Langa to the balcony at Lord’s, it’s not just distance, it’s defiance. Others may have travelled far, but Bavuma broke through walls. And in doing so, he showed kids who looked like him what was possible.
He didn’t just lift the mace later; he lifted something heavier, every limitation people put on him.
***
On a Saturday at Lord’s, it ended.
Kyle Verreynne drove through the covers to close off the match and opened up the celebrations. But South Africa didn’t get there easily.
Australia made sure of that. They made South Africa earn every single run. Even with just a few runs left, they didn’t give anything away.
When Aiden Markram got out, just a few minutes before the end, tension returned. Of course, that’s hard to shake when your past is full of heartbreak. One wicket, a few dot balls, and your mind drifts back to every ghost you never buried.
Graeme Smith would know a thing or two about that. He stood on the boundary now as a commentator, more nervous than he ever was as a captain. He had seen too much to celebrate early.
In those final moments, Aiden Markram’s innings may have gone slightly blurry, but make no mistake, Markram knew. You could tell in the way he walked off. The way Australians nodded at him.
Like they knew they weren’t just beaten by a hundred, but by the man who held them down, one pull, one square drive at a time.
He didn’t finish it, but he dragged them to the door and kicked it open.
Bavuma’s fight was different. Markram’s was too.
Since Under-19, expectations and doubts followed him like shadows.
And maybe that’s why he stopped running from them and started running towards something. At some point, it gets to you. Even to the best. After all, he is human.
But when he walked back into that Lord’s dressing room that day, he probably knew. He didn’t just meet expectations, he went beyond them.
Markram didn’t break the door down alone.
It was Bavuma who believed he could. Who led the way, not just through speeches, but in limps and lunges. In that half-century made on one good leg and nothing but hope.
The team told him not to go back out after tea. But how do you stop a man who once dreamt of Lord’s from street corners in Langa?
You don’t. You just watch him walk out again and inspire.
He didn’t finish the match, but he built the bridge.
For Markram to run. For South Africa to believe.
Maybe Markram also understood how much this meant to the man beside him. And maybe that’s why that embrace, after the hundred, after the match, said more than words ever could.
***
One team was holding back the celebration. The other was praying for a crack.
In between sat Kagiso Rabada with his legs tight, eyes fixed on Starc, who was running into bowl, and his fists clenched like he could still feel the seam in his palm.
He wasn’t speaking. Ashwell Prince was next to him with one hand on Rabada’s shoulder. It was not a hug, not a pat, but just enough to say, breathe.
Because who knows what Rabada was carrying?
Nine wickets in a Test final. Five in the first innings. Four in the second. But more than that, it was about the grind. The rage. The refusal to let this slip.
He kept turning up, bowled, walked back, and bowled again. Like he was chasing something only he could see.
There was nothing extraordinary. Just ball after ball angled in, jagging away, smashing into pads, kissing edges, leaving batters half a second too late. He kept them quiet. Kept them in control. Kept South Africa alive.
Bavuma might’ve built the bridge.
Markram might’ve run across it.
But it was Rabada who held the whole damn thing up.
***
Ngidi wasn’t the main man who built it. He didn’t paint it either.
But when the bridge began to creak under pressure, Ngidi ran in and shouldered it forward.
They had to get Smith and Webster. Australia’s best readers of South Africa’s bowling. The ones who had stood tall like stone walls in the first innings, pushing the match away inch by inch.
If they stayed again, the fourth innings wouldn’t be a chase; it would be a climb.
And so Ngidi came in. On a body that hadn’t played Test cricket in ten months. After a first day that asked questions. After whispers of whether he should’ve played at all.
But on that second morning, something clicked. He swapped ends. He found rhythm. And then, he just kept going. Ball after ball, till his legs began to slow. But by then, he had taken Smith. He had taken Webster. He had yorked Cummins.
***
Jansen stood at the mouth of the bridge. Twice, Labuschagne tried to slip through. Twice, Jansen shut the gate. Didn’t even let him cross 30. That alone tilted the Test.
And somewhere under the arch, Maharaj pulled out a miracle to take down Carey, when it looked like Australia might squeeze through.
Mulder, on the other hand, held the bat for 94 balls, just faced ball after ball like he was built for a time-lapse, every second adding up to South Africa breathing a little easier.
Everyone remembers the four that sealed it. But someone had to stay long enough for that moment to arrive. Bedingham didn’t run across the bridge. He sat there, waited and made sure the pieces were still in place. He saw South Africa wobble. He didn’t. That’s what made the win possible.
Kyle Verreynne didn’t want to bat. And honestly, who would?
The whole country was staring at him. The whole world, too. Who wants that kind of pressure?
But when the time came, he walked out. Thirteen balls later, he hit a four and took South Africa across the bridge. He did what had to be done, though he didn’t like being there at the moment.
On a Saturday at Lord’s, it ended.
And yet, it is only just beginning.
