The elephant in the room is no longer the size of a herd. It’s the weight of expectation—unearned, unchecked, and utterly suffocating. Jomo Sono, the man who once dazzled in the same league as Pelé and later sculpted Jomo Cosmos into the most influential academy in South African football history, has had enough. After weeks of vitriolic attacks on Pitso Mosimane following Bafana Bafana’s 2-1 win over Guinea, Sono—who knows the game’s true costs better than most—has issued a blunt warning: the council of couch critics must stand down.
Sono’s intervention is not the rant of a disgruntled old guard. It is the measured, decades-hardened perspective of a man who has played, coached, and won at the highest levels. He was Orlando Pirates’ prodigy before becoming a global ambassador for the game, a mentor to stars like Helman Mkhalele and Pitso Mosimane himself. His career arc—from the streets of Johannesburg to the World Cup, from the US to the helm of Cosmos—gives him a credibility that the anonymous armchair analysts now drowning in social media outrage simply lack. When Sono dismisses the idea that 60 million South Africans are qualified to coach the national team, it is not hyperbole. It is a factual reckoning: these voices, he argues, are not offering solutions. They are demanding resignations, heckling tactics, and reducing complex football to soundbites for the algorithm. ‘All 60 million of them are coaches,’ Sono quipped, ‘so with 60 million coaches, South Africa will surely qualify.’ The irony is biting: the same fans who once celebrated the likes of Chippa Masinga and Aubrey Modiba now treat their current players to a daily barrage of abuse, as if the game’s standards have shifted overnight.
Mosimane’s tactical clarity—particularly his insistence that Oswin Appollis adapt to Aubrey Modiba’s left-back role—has become the flashpoint. Critics, many of them Pirates supporters, have fixated on the perceived ‘disruption’ of a proven striker’s game, ignoring the fact that Modiba’s position at Mamelodi Sundowns is not a whim but a tactical necessity. Sono’s defence of Mosimane is not just personal; it is a defence of the very fabric of coaching. ‘You have to feel sad,’ he said, ‘when an esteemed coach who has won three CAF Champions League trophies is questioned by hot-air spewing, couch-potato louts.’ The words cut deeper than the usual post-match rants. They name the problem: a culture where anonymity shields cowards, where the loudest voices are the least qualified, and where the game’s legacy—built by men like Sono—is now at risk of being erased by the noise.
The stakes could not be higher. Bafana Bafana’s qualification for the 2026 World Cup is not a given. It is a fragile, hard-won project, and every tactical decision, every player adjustment, is scrutinised under a microscope. Yet the same fans who once demanded excellence now turn on their coaches when the results don’t align with their expectations. Sono’s plea is not just for respect—it is for space. For the right to experiment, to adapt, to grow without the constant interference of those who have never held a whistle. ‘Can we allow coaches and players some space to do their jobs?’ he asked. The answer, if history is any guide, will determine whether South African football continues to produce legends or merely another cycle of frustration. The elephant, after all, does not stamp out criticism. It simply asks: who is worthy of the right to criticise?
