Going where no South African has been before

The South African fans in the Grand Stand had not stopped cheering or singing from the moment Kyle Verreynne had scored the winning run. They broke into the loudest rendition of their most popular number for the day, "Ohhhhh Temmbaaa Bavvuuuumaaa", echoing around Lord's. Temba Bavuma, the subject of the song, stood there staring blankly at his adoring fans, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Bavuma's reaction to the singing was symptomatic of his reactions generally on Saturday till that point. After spending a chunk of the slow and steady trek towards the target buried inside the dressing-room, the captain had taken a seat front and centre on the balcony for the final dozen or so runs.

As the camera continued to zoom into Bavuma's face, his batters ticked off the runs, mostly in singles with a boundary thrown in the mix. While others around him were already beginning to sense the moment, along with the imminent elation, their inspirational leader sat nonplussed, his face covered in his hands.

There was no smile. There was no twitch. There was no show of emotion. There was no emotion.

Bavuma was not prepared to let his guard down. He was not ready to budge, keeping his face covered partly in his hands. Not even once was the target of 282 three runs away. Or when Verreynne attempted the hero shot by trying to ramp Mitchell Starc.

"I mean, the belief was obviously there, but it was hard to kind of accept the fact that we were close to doing something that's never been done before," he'd reveal later.

It was Bavuma's immediate response to Verreynne slashing Starc past the point fielder to clinch the mace though that summed up his sentiments entirely. There he sat in the middle, amidst the very predictable outburst of euphoria around him, with his head now buried in his hands.

In Bavuma's own admission, he was also in that moment running through a range of experiences and memories in his own head, those consisting of heartbreak and disappointment and agony. About the challenge of being a South African captain. Moments where it would have been easier to give up along the way, but how he had chosen to battle on.

It was only a bit later, once some of the reserve players had already stormed Lord's, that Bavuma would punch the air in delight on the balcony and finally break into a smile.

A smile that would then be parked again for the next half hour or so before he got his hands on the mace. For, after he was done hugging every teammate and support staff member repeatedly, Bavuma slipped back into a state of deep reflection.

Starting with the captain standing by himself near the podium for a few minutes, staring at the ground, and then looking around Lord's. Just around the time, the Grand Stand erupted in a show of collective love for their hero.

Though the eventual result was rather comprehensive, Bavuma's very evident sense of pleasant surprise was either contagious or it was epidemic. Aiden Markram, the centurion, seemed equally in a daze as he went around high-fiving former captain Graeme Smith, who had ridden every wave of emotion throughout the day around the commentary box, and his teammates.

But when you've waited as long as South Africa have for their date with destiny, it's perhaps only fair that those who orchestrated it would have taken a while to soak it all in.

That process was kicked off from the moment Bavuma charged towards the Champions podium to collect and raise the WTC Champions' mace. The guard had finally been dropped. This was officially party time. Bavuma was going to lead the way.

From the time the mace was in South African hands, they never put it down. Except for the time when Temba Bavuma carefully and gently placed it in front of him before his press conference. It was otherwise being passed around for pictures, selfies and other forms of acclimatisation with their prized possession.

Hours later, Bavuma was back on the same balcony from where he'd quietly witnessed history. This time, he sat in the corner, leaning against the railing with a beer in his hand and cracking jokes with Kagiso Rabada and Dane Paterson. He wasn't just smiling, he was laughing. Out loudly without a care in the world. Firstly, with his teammates and then while on a video call on his phone.

This was unhinged and it was unbridled while Rabada sat there doing a Shane Warne, smoking away his cigarettes while holding court along with his skipper.

Bavuma kept returning to the balcony. Like he couldn't get enough of staring out at the outfield at Lord's where his team had stemmed the mightiest tide known in cricket history of South Africa's inability to win a world title – which wasn't the 1998 ICC Knockouts or the Commonwealth Games that same year.

As the evening wore on further, now five hours after the final ball had been bowled, the entire South African contingent stormed out of the long room and made its way to the centre of Lord's with their own song list in tow. There they stood in a huddle. This time with their champions' medals around their necks. With a bottle or two of beer in their hands. There they danced and they sang and they jumped and they screamed. Like caged birds who'd been set free.