Many moons ago, as a Grade 10 learner at my alma mater, Tsakane Secondary, a mischievous classmate with a flair for comedy got himself into serious trouble.

His target was a newly appointed teacher, Oscar Chompamba, a Nigerian mathematics wizard brought in to improve the matric pass rate.

He was brilliant with numbers, but his thick Pidgin-English accent made him a difficult man to follow in conversation.

On one fateful day, with our English teacher absent, we did what schoolkids do best – turned the classroom into a noise factory.

Chompamba, whose class was next door, rushed in to restore order.

What should have been a simple reprimand turned into unforgettable comedy. Trying to settle us, he assigned an essay on “the day we will never forget.”

But his pronunciation – “the day we will never forgedo” – sent the class into barely contained laughter.
One brave soul repeated it aloud. That was it. He was marched straight to the principal’s office.

While that drama unfolded, I cracked on with my essay, a football match from a year earlier I wish I could erase from memory.

We lost 11-0 to a slick Inter Milan outfit in the Nigel Local Football Association U17 league. A hiding of note. And I was at the centre of it.

Playing left back, former Jomo Cosmos winger Thomas Kgope, a dribbling wizard, twisted me inside out near the corner flag so badly that the boot was still tied to my foot, but the sole was missing. He left me sole-less.

But looking back, the problem wasn’t a lack of talent. We were fit, capable, even promising.
We were just ill-disciplined.

We didn’t only play football with our feet. We played it with our mouths – arguing, shouting, and fighting among ourselves. In doing so, we handed our opponents the very weapon they needed to destroy us.

That’s why, on Saturday, watching Benoni Northerns unravel against Luso Africa felt like déjà vu.

The signs were all there. Ludick Mamale throws his hands in frustration, exchanging words with a teammate nowhere near him, then turning his back instead of offering a passing option. It was a painful reminder of how quickly a team can beat itself.

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I know, because I lived it.

I was that player – talented, yes, but combustible. I couldn’t get through a match without clashing with teammates. The result? Relegation and the worst record in the league that season.

That’s why I say this with conviction: Northerns are flirting with the same fate.

The talent is undeniable. For long spells, you had Luso Africa on the ropes, questioning itself. But your ill-discipline let them off the hook.

A young supporter standing nearby said it best: “Coach Calvin, stop talking and play some ball.”
There’s a lesson there.

Look across to your neighbours, Old Bens. You rarely see them quarrel over mistakes. They acknowledge, regroup, and move on. That’s maturity. That’s winning behaviour.

What Northerns are doing right now is self-sabotage. When you bicker and break shape, you show your opponents that you’re not united. And the moment they see that, they know they’ve got you.

A club official said it best in a conversation with this columnist after the 2-0 loss that this is a team with tremendous talent, but far from a finished product.

You can become a finished product if you shut your mouth and let your feet do the talking.

Because in this game, discipline is everything.

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