What Okwepena (dodgeball) taught me about life

This evening as I was walking, I passed a group of girls returning home from school. Instead of heading straight home, they had stopped on a patch of grass in someone’s compound and turned it into a playground.

The girls were playing kwepena - dodgeball.  Two girls stood at either end. The rest were in the middle. The mission was simple: aim, throw, eliminate. In the middle, the goal was survival... dodge or go home.

They were laughing loudly, having such a good time, I remembered my own days playing kwepena. I was never good at it. 

The different styles of dodging were almost an art form. Sometimes we would go low, almost folding ourselves in half. Other times we jumped with such dramatic flair, legs wide, skirts flying. Some preferred the side-step which was a subtle, economical, like you barely moved but somehow escaped. The best players were not necessarily the fastest. They were observant and watched the thrower’s hands, the direction of the eyes (I remember kalisoliso), even the slight shift in weight before the ball left the hand. 

It was not just about speed. It was about reading the moment. Anticipation was everything.

I stood there a while, watching those girls with nostalgia and had to pull myself away from them to finish my walk. It was then that I realised dodgeball is such an accurate metaphor for life.

Life stations itself at both ends and starts throwing.

There are some things that we see coming, like the exam you didn’t prepare for, the deadline you ignored, the tension building in a relationship. You can spot the arm lifting, and then prepare your jump, or bend your knees. Those are the balls that you have a fair chance of dodging.

Then there are the unexpected throws. The ones that come from your blind side. Illness, loss, disappointment, betrayal. The ball leaves someone’s hand before you even know they were aiming at you. Those are harder and sometimes they hit.

In the game, once the ball hits you, you are out. In life, being "hit" doesn’t always mean you are out. It could just mean you have been shaken, you fall, sit out for a while, you reassess, and step back into another round.

What struck me most watching those girls was not just how fast they moved, but how they kept moving even when they were tired. The throwers did not slow down out of mercy. The balls kept coming, sometimes in quick succession. The girls determined to stay in the game kept adjusting. Duck. Jump. Side-step. Laugh. Reset. Repeat.

Life does not pause because you are exhausted. I asked myself, how do you keep dodging when you are tired?

I suppose dodging in adulthood is not so much about big leaps and more about small, consistent shifts. Could it also be about changing direction? Or about saying no earlier? Maybe preparing better? Watching patterns? Learning the rhythm of the throwers in your life like the habits, the triggers, the cycles?

In life, like kwepena, one needs to know not to stand in the most exposed spot. Among the school kids, the winner was the girl who stayed in the middle the longest. She may not have necessarily been the fastest, but the one who endured.

There is something humbling about that.

We spend so much of life trying to control the throwers, to negotiate or plead with the ones at the ends, whereas we should be strengthening our own reflexes, building awareness. We need to accept that the balls will keep coming, and some we will dodge beautifully, others will brush our sleeves, and some will knock us flat.

From where my feet are, that was the lesson... to stay light on your feet, watch closely, move wisely, laugh when you can, and when you get hit, do not assume it is the end of the story.

Sometimes it's just the end of that round.