HORROR ON THE TURF

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI

The rather posh club teemed with frenetic people in the heart of the South African suburbs. I was one of the people there, relaxing, watching live on TV the FA Cup football match between Spurs and Bolton.

I winced with many others when the game was abandoned late in the second half, no thanks to a Bolton player collapsing in horrific fashion on the pitch. It was Fabrice Muamba, who was apparently having a heart seizure!

The paramedics got in on the act, rushing to help Patrice on the turf.
Players were shocked; some like Spurs’ Jermaine Defoe were in tears. TV shots showed some people among the crowd, mainly women crying too.

A horrible, constricting feeling gripped me. Déjà vu! I have gone through this before! Of course - as my mind reeled - it was that terrible day in August 1989 when Nigerian player, Sam Okwaraji had collapsed and died in Lagos during a football match!

How well I remember that ill-starred, repugnant match back in 1989! In those days I used to shuttle between Ibadan and Lagos mainly, and like other young football enthusiasts, I wanted to be at the then National Stadium in Surulere (Sports City) to watch the World Cup game between Nigeria and Angola live.

But that day, my friends and I were having too much fun, procrastinating, and although we were already in Lagos, we did not exactly make it to the stadium. We were ensconced at a joint at Palm Grove, eating and drinking. We decided to watch the game live on TV - like many others who thronged the joint.

I recall, even now, that although Nigeria won the game 1 - 0 it was a difficult match. Etim Esin, one of my favourite players in those days, lit up the game with some scintillating runs, but when Sam Okwaraji went down and was carried off, very few people could have imagined that the fit, young man would soon be giving up the ghost.

Yet by early next morning the whole nation was horrified to learn that Okwaraji was dead! The melancholic news was splashed all over front pages of national dailies then! Some might recollect that a certain national newspaper then got tough with its editor for missing out on this story, but that is neither here nor there.

Sam Okwaraji, the fine player and patriot, dead! Yet years later (2003) Cameroon’s Marc Vivien Foe would suffer the same fate, and die, whilst playing for his country at the FIFA Confederations Cup. And experts say about 40 players worldwide have suffered this fate in the new millennium alone!

So the whole world prayed for young Fabrice Muamba of Bolton as he fought for his life in a London hospital. By press time it seemed he was somewhat on the way to recovery. Good luck to him....
Above image/photo...Sam Okwaraji in full flight

THE MALEFICENT WORLD OF CURSES

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI


I could not believe that time had passed with such disarming, nigh-frightening pace. We were at a workshop on writing and were now hopefully rounding things off. I was startled to see the ineluctable signs of darkness approaching outside.

But Pule Lechesa, poet and literary essayist, was still in his element discussing literary subjects with some enthusiastic young aficionados of literature. “Come, Chief,” he beckoned to me. “These guys are so much interested in (William) Shakespeare’s life, and I was telling them just now about his death and his final wishes, specifically, his curse.”

I stared at him. “His curse?” I said.

Lechesa unleashed his munificent grin. “Yes. Remember that when Shakespeare died, he made it clear he did not want his final resting place disturbed.”

Lechesa, always one for intriguing quotations, went
on to quote Shakespeare’s curse with relish: (By the way the epitaph carved into the stone slab covering Shakespeare’s grave includes a curse against moving his bones): “Blessed be the man that spares these stones and curse be he that moves my bones.”

Suddenly, I found myself reeling, my hand clutching my forehead. One of my shortcomings, alas, is that I am many times over-sensitive and I have to struggle to pull myself together, even in public. This was one of those occasions! This talk of curses had set this particular reaction off.

My mind went back to my childhood; a youngster in school profoundly affected by a certain curse familiar to every Yoruba man and woman. It was the famed curse of Oba (king) Awole of Oyo well over 200 years ago, which we had studied in school and is still engraved in my memory. At the time the curse used to frighten me, keeping me awake at night as I pondered it both in Yoruba and in English language.

For those unfamiliar with the curse, we might recall briefly that in those days the Oyo (Yoruba) empire was very powerful with well organised arms of government, including the military. History has it that Afonja, the then Are Ona kakanfo (Generalissimo of the army, from Ilorin) spearheaded the removal of Oba Awole. This revolt led to secession of Ilorin (a Yoruba state) that would play a key role in the destruction of the erstwhile powerful Oyo. Oba Awole committed suicide, but first cursed the empire after firing arrows in all directions.

His horrific curse went thus:

“My curse be on you and your disloyalty and your disobedience, so let your children disobey you. If you send them on an errand let them never return to bring you word again. To all points I shot my arrows, you will be carried as slaves. My curse will carry you to the sea and beyond the seas. Slaves will rule over you, and you their masters will become slaves. Broken calabash can be mended but not a broken dish; so let my words be irrevocable…”

But I was in South Africa now, as all this unfolded in my mind quickly. I sat down, still trying to pull myself together. “Are you okay, Mr. Bolaji?” the concerned participants asked. One went to get a glass of water for me.

I tried to joke about it. “It’s just old age,” I said. “I’ll be fine now.” Meanwhile I was thinking about curses generally, which always imply a wish that some sort of adversity or misfortune should befall someone or a group. Certainly, not the most positive of thoughts!

Yet even in the Bible, God cursed the serpent, the earth and Cain. Noah also cursed Canaan. Come to think of it, even Christ cursed the barren fig-tree…

Enough of curses!

THE LAMBENT SOUND

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI

I had attended the formal burial ceremonies in the South African
Church. Of course I had to. My good friend, a prominent, elderly South
African Black author had lost one of his daughters who had succumbed
to serious illness. My plan was to go straight to his house whilst the
funeral procession made its way to the graveyard.

But my friend came to me outside the Church and said in his direct
manner: “Enter the car. We’ll go to the graveyard together. I’ll
drive,” I thought there would be other people inside his car, but this
was not so. We made our way to the burial ground some fifteen minutes
away.

“You know this graveyard of course,” he said. I nodded gravely. It was
not an admission one would be enamoured to go into details over. He
parked the car, whilst the hordes – in many other vehicles – arrived
at the graveyard.

“This way, Bolaji,” my friend, the writer said. “Follow me.” We made
our way past a plethora of graves arranged lineally. He went on, as we
arrived near a sizeable heap of sand near an open grave...“Just stand
beside me. It’s not easy, but all the arrangements have been made over
the week, and this is the finale...” I admired his extraordinary
fortitude and usual painstaking eye for detail. Why, it was his
daughter being buried!

As we positioned ourselves near the pertinent grave, the lambent,
melancholy, sombre music reached a peak against the backdrop of a
litany of priests making speeches and praying. It was haunting,
piercing music and I felt the tears coming to my eyes.

Yet the patriarch himself, the bereaved father (my writer friend)
stood strong beside me on the left as the final rites of his
daughter’s burial intensified. He gave me a small bottle of cold water
which I did not touch; just placed in my lower jacket pocket. I looked
at the nearby tent and those close to the bereaved were there, many of
them crying.

The other surviving sister of the deceased – daughter of my friend,
the writer - broke down temporarily and cried, together with her own
young daughter. What it was to lose a sibling; a sister! And my mind
uncontrollably went to when I lost my own brother who died so
prematurely too!

And I could no longer contain myself, and the tears flowed. The
melancholy music augmented my grief and I felt a bit embarrassed
crying in public. But I could hardly help it, and nobody was concerned
about me anyway.

Oh, my own brother, Omotayo! Barrister at law, humanist, and
intellectual! What a blow to hear that he had died after a brief
illness years ago too! How right the likes of Shakespeare were to
refer to life as: “Out! Out brief candle...”

But now the rest of the burial rites were taking place here in South
Africa...the coffin being lowered, the frenetic, comprehensive sounds
of spades and shovels as sundry people poured sand onto the coffin.
Flowers. Tombstone unveiled, a few other short speeches. Earth to
earth. Dust to dust...lambent music...threnody...