Fifty years ago, in a corner of white South Africa, Muhammad Ali already seemed a miracle-maker. Deep in our strictly regimented and divided country, Ali danced rings around apartheid. I had first heard about the inspirational boxer from a black man, Cassius, who sold bottles of beer from the illegal shebeen he and his friends ran across the road from our house.
Cassius and his crew kept their illicit stash hidden in the drains outside the corner shop owned by an irritable Greek man. Whenever my football was booted over the garden wall, Cassius chased after it. After a dazzling display of slightly drunken footwork he would return the ball with a cackle. One day, while showcasing his trickery, he sang a strange song: “Ali, Ali, float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, Ali, Ali, Muhammad Ali.”
