Pieter stared at him. Then, with nothing to lose, he pulled a scuffed Top-Flite from the bag, teed it up, and did what Mapona said. Thwack. The ball flew high, straight, and landed twelve feet from the pin.
The persimmon wood made a sound like a gunshot. The ball rocketed off the face, rising, rising, a white speck against the African sky. It carried 280 yards, splitting the fairway dead center.
He swung.
“He’s with me.”
The first time Mapona saw a golf ball fly perfectly, he thought it was a bird breaking free of a trap. He was ten years old, standing on the wrong side of the wire fence at Serengeti Golf Estate. On his side was the red dirt of the informal settlement, the zinc roofs shimmering like fish scales in the Highveld heat. On the other side was a green so pure it hurt to look at—a rolling, breathing carpet of Kikuyu grass that cost more to water per day than his grandmother made in a month. Mapona South African Amateur Pon Part 1
“This game is kak ,” he snarled.
Pieter turned to Mapona, his bloodshot eyes wide. “Where did you learn that, boy?” Pieter stared at him
“Yes, Meneer.”