DIEGO MARADONA – the film

DIEGO MARADONA – the film

By Omoseye Bolaji

For millions of people around the world, Diego Amando Maradona will always be the greatest-ever footballer the world has ever seen. After all, Maradona was more than irresistible and magical during the 1986 World Cup finals, especially when he scored unforgettable goals against England (quarter final) and Belgium (semi final) whilst propelling his country Argentina, to the final which they ultimately won.

It also helps that by the time Maradona was at his peak, international live transmissions of football on TV etc was already commonplace, which was not the case for Pele - Edson Arantes de Nascimento- (of Brazil) when he was in his pomp from around 1958 to 1970. Most of the world would have been too young to see Pele in action anyway; which further adds to the allure of Maradona. The latest footballing genius, Lionel Messi, unfortunately has not been able to perform wonders at World Cup finals level, the highest accolade.

Hence for me personally Diego Maradona has an impeccable allure even till date; I was thus delighted to be able to watch a full-length film (93 minutes) on the soccer genius. The film is orchestrated by Emir Kusturica, something of a maverick himself! This is apparent in the way this particular film unravels.

Those expecting a feast of football, details of the great matches Maradona played in, to be redolent in this film, might well be disappointed. Such glimpses do exist intermittently throughout the film, but the emphasis is actually on Maradona himself, the man regarded as something of a god by his fellow men, and millions around the world. Maradona has never been afraid to present himself as vulnerable and this is painfully obvious in this film.

The film, in rather higgledy-piggledy fashion focuses on Maradona’s rise to the top, his early great promise as a footballer, travelling and playing around the world, and his “political” beliefs. Maradona has always believed that he has taken controversial stands against “imperialist” countries, and even the FIFA juggernaut itself. His love for Fidel Castro and Cuba is also palpable from this film.

For me though, the part I enjoyed most in the film is when Maradona himself demonstrates that he is a successful Musician to boot! Belting out a most stirring song with participants in the Hall actively involved, we are treated to vignettes of Maradona’s personal life over the years, his “long-suffering” wife Claudia, and two daughters - from the time they were born. Even as babies, his daughters apparently “sing along” with adult papa! (the voices of both babies no doubt dubbed during the music) Now fairly grown up, the two daughters join their father side by side and sing along with him.

The melodious song is of course in Spanish, and whilst belting it out on stage Maradona explains how he had dreams of being the best since he was a youngster, how he brought great joy to his country with “the hand of God” (his famous and infamous first goal against England), how he met his “mysterious white” wife, how he made serious mistakes, and was far from imperfect; but despite all his travails he would soldier on and succeed! Ole, Ole, Ole, Ole… 

Then there is the “The Church of Maradona” – such a church actually exists, with many members who swear allegiance to Maradona - including newly-weds who kick football and shoot at goalposts as they kick-start their own marital lives.

At the end of the film, a rueful Maradona says: “Emir, do you know what we (the world) lost? What a great player we lost, how good I’d have been if I had not dabbled with cocaine?” (paraphrased here). There is a tinge of gargantuan irony here, even as a rueful Maradona goes on to say the whole thing is like a “bitter after-taste; I realize the mistakes I made…”

It IS ironic because despite all his misdemeanours, allowing cocaine to ruin his life and career, Maradona is still regarded as the greatest footballer by most of the world! In the 1986 World Cup he was at his very peak with unforgettable goals, helping his country to win the World Cup. Four years later, despite being half-fit he helped Argentina to reach the very final of the World Cup again. If we also consider the fact that Maradona played – and scored – in the 1982 and 1994 World Cup finals, it means he played in FOUR World Cup finals and in the very final TWICE. For his Italian club, Napoli, he performed wonders for such an unfashionable side too…

The film in its own zany, comprehensive way, is a wonderful tribute to the legend called Diego Amando Maradona.

MARADONA (the film)

A film by Emir Kusturica

Sound: Raul Martinez

Original music: Stribor Kusturica

Film editor: Svetolic Zajc

Produced by Jose Ibanez

A PLETHORA OF NEOS

By Omoseye Bolaji

The fact was now ineluctable – winter was more or less here in South Africa! Yet despite the withering cold, life still continued; in my own case newspaper work, orchestrating documents for literary clubs, contributing to books etc. Now here I was as darkness beckoned prematurely having supper near my office – at an eatery.

I was all alone or so I thought; there was a couple of perfunctory greetings with acquaintances, and feeling the worse for the wear, I suddenly became aware that a certain lady was staring at me fixedly; a lady who had been sitting alone enjoying a meal and drink too. Or perhaps it was my imagination?

No. Presently she stood up and came to me, smiling along the way. She was taller than I had imagined she was. She was perhaps around 30 years of age, slender with a small cleavage. She was well dressed, as South Africans often are (hurray to them!)  She was not unattractive.

By now it was clear she was making a beeline for me, arm outstretched for a hand shake. Wearily but gallantly (hopefully!) I managed to stand up and shake hands with her, regretting the fact that I could not remember her despite her friendly overtures. But as she stood right beside me I knew 100 percent that I had never seen her in my life. I invited her to sit down.

“Hi Mr Bolaji,” she said. “You might not have met me formally, but I have seen you at the library a few times – you write books. I don’t want you to think I am angry with you, or am fighting you, but I am well aware that you even wrote about me in one of your books. It’s clear that I am the ‘Neo’ you write about in your book, Tebogo and the epithalamion. And my name is actually NEO too!”

I winced. I knew only too well that the character ‘Neo’ in my work of fiction was - is - complete imagination; not modelled after anybody in real life. Certainly not after this woman, or anybody else. A “femme fatale” of sorts; which some critics insist I love writing about. But in this case I knew I was completely innocent, no matter what this woman might think.

I found out that I was stammering. “Ma’am –“ How could I defend myself? I felt like a fool. Now she said: “Oh I know your book is fiction and you changed things here and there, but it is clear it was still me you were thinking about, Neo; tall, allegedly dangerous to men. I can assure you that you must not believe everything you hear. Thabo lied to you of course,”

“Thabo?” I stared at her, completely baffled.

She said: “Oh, when I read your book I confronted Thabo, my former boyfriend – the one working at waterfront; he said he knows you quite well and he talks to you. I knew he must have talked about me to you and described me. I don’t blame you.’ (The fact is I did not know this Thabo! Maybe I needed to register at an asylum!) He said bad things about me just because I left him, always calling me evil, heart-breaker etc. So you used the portrait he gave you to produce Neo in the book, Tebogo and the epithalamion,”

At this stage I did not know who was crazier; the lady or I; it was clear that the woman was fixated with the idea that ‘Neo’ in the book was based on her. Actually looking at her now, she was in no way the ‘Neo’ I had imagined in the book (eg the fictional Neo in my mind was some years younger than her, and much lighter in complexion); but what could I say now? Again, I knew I must have used the name Neo in other fiction books of mine.

“My friend, don’t look so scared,” the lady went on, “I have said I am not angry with you. If I would blame anybody at all, it would be Thabo. He gives the impression everywhere as if I am some sort of seductive bad woman destroying men all over the place. You are an intelligent man, Ntate. I just want you to know that there are always two sides to a coin,”

I capitulated. ‘Thanks…allow me to just say I am sorry then,” I managed to say.

“I am not angry; actually I enjoyed your book,” the lady said. “Well I must go now,” she moved towards me for what seemed to be a hug and my reluctance must have been obvious. She laughed. “So even in real life you are scared of ‘me’; the Neo, eh? Just like at the end of your book where the detective (Tebogo) confesses he’s scared of the so called seductive powers of Neo…” She laughed. “Anyway, nice to have met you…sala hantle…”

I was still stumped for quite some time afterwards.

Pix above: the work of fiction, Tebogo and the epithalamion 

THE PUGNACIOUS PRESSMAN

By Omoseye Bolaji

It appeared that winter had come exceedingly early in South Africa. The ambience was prematurely chilly and nippy, and already many people were huddled together, some making bonfires to stave away the cold. Everybody was in coats or leatherjackets, shivering. Yet, quintessential winter was still a number of weeks away!

I was seated on a sort of terrace watching people milling around hither and thither in the toropo (city) appreciating – as usual – the general trendy apparel and fashion savvy of South Africans in general; and for those who are wondering, I am referring quite narrow-mindedly now to the blacks. After all they are the majority here! Then a meretriciously disemboweled voice seemed to bawl at me: “Hi Chief! Long time no see,”

I swiveled around and saw Khaya (not his real name) a South African journalist, a long time acquaintance of mine. Perhaps I should actually call him a friend? Here was someone who for years used to drive me around the city intermittently; and I particularly relished our visits to Naval Hill, a picturesque spot where in the past we had enjoyed what amounted to “picnics” there. We exchanged pleasantries now.

“Ag!” he said. “Where have you been hiding? I got a copy of your new book – the one with the red cover. I am reading it hanyane hanyane (little by little). But I want to relax. Do you mind a quick drink?” He grinned and added: “I know you can never refuse a drink. Let me show you to a spot which you might not know; I have never seen you there before, leastways,” 

I followed him to a rather cavernous “watering hole” and Khaya ordered two drinks – he already knew my poison, as it were!

It was nice to catch up with this amiable, generous gentleman. We talked about the “good old days” and as is usually the norm, deprecated our current situations. After some time Khaya told me that he wanted to obey the call of nature. “I’ll just hop over to their loo,” he said.

I watched him as he sauntered towards the left, ready to turn into a corridor which apparently led to the loo. But a slender looking guy wearing a green cap suddenly materialized beside him and said: “Ntate, if you are going to the toilet you must pay two rand,”

“Rubbish,” I heard Khaya say, his voice hardening. “I have been coming here for a long time and I never saw anybody ask for ‘piss money’”

“I’m sorry,” the slender guy said. “That is the new rule here now. Two rand to go to the loo…pay up…”

The camaraderie and amiability Khaya always exuded exploded into smithereens. “This is crazy!” he shouted. “How can I spend money on drinks here, and then pay extra two rand to go to the toilet! Nkapa ka shau! (over my dead body). Never!”

A gentleman (later I learnt he was Portuguese and the owner of this place) came and tried to remonstrate with Khaya. “My friend, it’s a new directive from me,” he said. “Don’t let us make a scene…I know you are a journalist…since you are just knowing about the fee today, you can go free of charge to the loo now,”

I could not believe my eyes. I had never seen Khaya like this before, losing it in incandescent fashion! In fact I was now rather embarrassed as he seemed ready to exchange blows with not only the slender guy who had asked him for two rand, but also the proprietor too. At last, to my relief, Khaya managed to take a deep breath, then go to the loo…

But the whole atmosphere had been fouled by this incident. I could see Khaya was still upset. We finished our drinks and as we left the place, he muttered: “This is my last time here! How can I pay to use a loo after buying THEIR drinks with my money?”

Stop press: I understand the two rand fee for you-know-what has now been stopped at this particular spot!

FRISSON OF INTELLECTUALS

By Omoseye Bolaji

It was serendipitous as the two suave intellectuals found themselves meeting each other for the first time ever – thanks to nna (me!)

There I was sauntering past the main library in toropo (the city) first sharing a hug with the white female traffic officer who seems to have entered the circle of my proliferating acquaintances! It was a Saturday and the library was about to close; so I could only spend a very short time there; in fact my desire to borrow even just one book was truncated.

Whilst sitting down on one of the adjacent terraces just outside the building who should I see but my old buddy Mr Lefuo; educationalist extraordinaire, dignified, humble yet self-assured in his own way. We had been friends for over a decade. He sat down beside me and we talked; on my own part marvelling at his erudition always interspersed with gallows humour!

After some time I noticed the shadow of another gentleman just near us, sort of hanging around, as if waiting for either Mr Lefuo or myself to finish talking. I now stared at the face of the gentleman and it was Mr Soqaga, the pan Africanist, essayist, critic, and author!

I hastened to beckon to him to join us, though in his calm polite manner Soqaga was rather reluctant. On my own part I was happy to introduce both of them to each other.

“Ntate Soqaga?” Lefuo said, “Isn’t he the gentleman who published a book on you, a study, critique of your works?”

“The very self-same one; the man who panned me prodigiously!” I joked. I found it exhilarating for two such intellectuals to meet for the first time; exchange ideas in their sophisticated, yet diffident fashion. I encouraged them to even chat in their mother tongues; and not mind me!

But both gentlemen were too polite to do this, because of my presence; courteous, affable never effusive. It struck me that both of them had a lot in common though Mr Lefuo is older; the same grave, civilised demeanour, intellectual clout, conviction of their beliefs, though always giving the impression of being diffident. After some time Soqaga and I insisted on escorting Mr Lefuo to the post office; and the latter seemed almost embarrassed that we were doing so.

At last I was left all alone with Soqaga who kept on chuckling and shaking his head. This was unlike him so I was moved to say: “What’s going on? Why are you chuckling like this?”

“Chief! Chief!” he said at last. “I’ve got you today!”

“What egregious crime have I committed?” I asked.

“Mr Lefuo,” Soqaga said. “So this is Mr Lefuo. You said he was one of your first friends here in South Africa. Remember your character John Lefuo, in your novel, People of the Townships...so this is the man you named your own character after!”

I was speechless. It took me some minutes to realise that critic Soqaga’s assumption was right...

Above pix: Mr Soqaga

Bonnie and Clyde!

By Omoseye Bolaji

The numinous concatenation of the skies was impressive enough that night for any normal being – but alas I was far from feeling normal. I was languid, desultory and tired. All I could think of was my bed! Yes here I was pausing outside a ‘watering hole’ at one of the townships. I had not been here for a long time.

Talk about serendipity! A young man I used to know his parents in the old days swept up beside me with glee. “Ntate Bolaji!” he enthused. “Where have you been? I now work here, inside this place serving the drinks. You care for a drink? You certainly look like it!”

I grinned. I felt like something the cat had dragged in. It had been a long long day, no thanks to publishers’ deadlines. My new book had to be ready by this particular weekend and nna (myself) a somewhat leisurely person if given the chance had to over-stretch myself to prod a new manuscript into something approaching being publishable. 

But that is how the cookie crumbles. It had been an arduous day. And I needed a drink!

So I followed Andy inside and told him I needed a VERY cold drink. Which he soon provided. I sat down alone in a corner savouring the drink, feeling a bit human now. 

Suke!

I hardly cared about other people around male and female relaxing drinking here. I was enjoying my own world; certainly far from “A brave new world” – Aldous Huxley!

Then I saw a young lady walking towards me; tall, confident, quite pretty though rather shop-soiled – but who was I to critique? I was “finished” too! She moved close to me and sat down beside me. “I hope you don’t mind being disturbed by me” she said. She told me her name; or pseudo-name!

I smiled. “Pleased to meet you,” I said. But I did not tell her my name. I had an idea that she wanted a drink, and feeling much better now I was ready to buy it for her. I hoped she would not pretend to like me or whatever; but she went on to do so… she began to flirt with me outrageously.

“Oh I love your skin, your hands, fingers,” she said. “I wish you could like me too. You are so sexy!”

I grinned, genuinely amused. “Don’t you think I am too old to be described in such a way?” I said.

“No…unless you don’t like me,” she said.  She added: “You’ll buy me a drink?”

I concealed a grin; I knew this was where we were going anyway. “Yes I’ll buy you a drink,” I said. “OK I’ll be back now; just give me a few minutes,” she said.

I stood up going to Andy who was looking very worried. I asked him why he looked so sad; whilst telling him to get a drink for the lady. Meanwhile the lady was not around.

Andy said: “Ntate pls be careful! That woman is dangerous! She pretends to like men every now and then, but she and her mean boyfriend go on to take the men for a ride. Both of them are crooks,”

“You mean like Bonnie and Clyde?” I said.

“Who’s Bonnie and Clyde?”

“Famous overseas American criminals long ago,” I said. “Partners. Male and female. Responsible for quite a number of deaths in their time. Both of them were gruesomely killed by the powers that be in the end though,”

Andy grimaced. I”I don’t know whether this girl and her man will be killed but they are dangerous enough. She lures men to her place and the guy turns up a bit later playing the incensed boyfriend and they take the man to the cleaners,” For me it was old hat, but still unsavoury enough. “I’ll handle her; just give her the drink I promised her,” I told Andy.

I went back to quickly finish my drink and the lady “Bonnie” snuggled closer to me, happy that I had bought her a drink. I knew I had to be tactical as I stood up now. “I’ll be coming back,” I said, “I just want to go to a bank ATM” her face brightened up. “I wanna give you a good time tonight!” There was no need to say I was on my way out, never to come back.

“Hantle (good)” she said. “Then later on tonight, we can go and relax at my place,” She smiled sexily. “Will you like that? You’ll like to come to my place?”

“I might at that,” I grinned…then I disappeared from “Bonnie” for good!!

THE FRUITY DEBACLE

By Omoseye Bolaji

I still do not know his name – though we have been good acquaintances for a few years now; the man who I always refer to as “the fruits’ man” in my mind. How simplistic. Though he is well known near my area for selling a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables – oranges, apples, pears, onions, pumpkins and the like...

An amiable man indeed – one who always had time to joke, hold hands, discuss the latest goings-on. Meretriciously, many might dub him as “semi-literate” but few could read like him! Recently I had been giving him lots of material to read, newspapers and magazines. He always greets me by shouting, no matter how busy he is: “Friend of mine!”

I suddenly noticed that he could no longer be seen, the site he used to sell his wares patently deserted. I thought he had just travelled or something; but then after ten days of absence I realised something was probably wrong. The guy never played with business, his business! I had an idea where he lived but I had never entered his house. Luckily enough, I met one of his closest pals...I asked about...hmmm...ah well, the fruits’ man!

His friend stared at me. “So you have not heard? You did not hear what befell him, Mr Bolaji?”

I gulped, having a presentiment of tragedy. “Softie”, that some think I am, my eyes were almost misting already. Such a nice man could not be...gone?

With incredible speed my mind went back to how startled, yet pleased I had been to realise the “fruits’ man” was something of an avid reader. I was almost ashamed when he told me in great detail about some of the books I had published which he had got from the library. He particularly liked Impossible Love, and The ghostly adversary. Of the latter, he often said: “It was almost like watching a fast-paced movie based right here on our own people in the townships; the first time I read it I could not put it down for hours, and my woman was quite angry with me,”

“I see now why she has always disliked me,” I had joked then. But now -

It came as a great relief to me when his friend told me:: “He has been very sick. Horrific flu. He could not stand up for many days. Quite frightening. But he managed to stand up maobane (yesterday) and is hopefully on the mend. Why don’t you visit him?” He gave me even more specific details to the “fruits’ man’s place

And that is exactly what I did. With one’s background, one could not just go there without any “gifts” to the sick man, so I bought some fresh milk and fried chicken pieces – thus armed, I went to his place. No sooner had I got to the gate of his house than his son – who looks exactly like him – began to shout: “Friend of mine! Friend of mine! You heard papa was sick and you came to visit him?”

“Good boy,” I said, patting him, “If he’s sleeping I’ll just leave this for him,”

“He’s much better now,” the youngster said, running to a sort of boys’ quarters; presently he came back and said: “Let me take you to him! I told him you are here,”

The “fruits’ man” seemed very happy to see me. Though rather emaciated, he did not look as bad as I feared he might. Whilst I was seated he said slowly: “You know how serious sickness is, friend of mine. I have been to hell and back...” I was happy he was living up to his reputation as a “talkative”, but I did not think he should over-exert himself. I told him I was delighted he was much better now, and had to go.

He gripped my hand. He said: “You know the disease which kills our people here regularly (he meant hiv/aids). Some people were even saying maybe I had it, but that can never happen. I have always been faithful to my woman and so has she. We are not like all those young men and women who throw their lives away irresponsibly...”

“And thanks for the things you bought for me,” he finally said. “I’m not complaining, but I was hoping you’ll bring some papers or magazines like you used to do! But that will soon be the case when I am up and running again, with my shop open. Thanks, friend of mine!”

ADIEU, PA ACHEBE....

By Omoseye Bolaji

Alas, nobody lives forever and the exceedingly revered African writer, Chinua Achebe (82) “has gone the way of all flesh”. But as the Americans would say: What a way to go!

The iconic author of Things fall apart (1958) has already made his mark as probably Africa’s most powerful novelist. Immediately after news of his death was confirmed, tributes and articles on his life and work began to be churned out. And this is only the beginning!

Indeed, it has been exhilarating to see how the demise of Achebe has been lamented all over the world, including South Africa where ample news items, bulletins, magazines kept on paying tribute to the loss of the great man.

And South African writers on the ground too are also feeling the loss. Indeed many of these writers, even the very young, continue to insist how much they enjoyed; were shaped by Achebe’s work from a very young age.

Among such writers is Teboho Masakala, still in his mid twenties but already the author of four books! He has always stressed how much he enjoyed reading Achebe’s books (from his local library) from a very young age. He said:

"It' s such a tragedy to lose a legend and icon, I grew up reading his books and No longer at ease thrilled and enticed me so much, Achebe is my literary giant and really we lost a giant and hope to follow in his giant footprints he left behind. Yes things just fell apart as he is no more on earth but he is at ease and at peace..."

Pule Lechesa, a well known South African literary critic also paid tribute to Achebe, saying inter alia: “We knew it was inevitable, but this loss is poignant and quite shattering. Achebe was more than a literary teacher and pioneer. He made Blacks to be respected world-wide. His imaginative works were among the best in the world – novels like Things fall apart, Arrow of God, and Anthills of the savannah”

Again, it was touching this week whilst at a Book launch in South Africa (involving female writer Charmaine Kolwane) speaker after speaker gravely kept on lamenting and praising Chinua Achebe. A formal minute’s silence was also observed in his honour.

Achebe was very much his own man and was not afraid to ruffle feathers, even the western world and pertinent canon. Hence his so-called controversial essay on the acclaimed Joseph Conrad which shocked many; where he referred to Conrad as “a thoroughgoing racist” It is a polemical essay now ensconced world-wide.

Achebe was extraordinarily versatile, despite the fact that he is known to most mainly as a novelist. But as we just noted, he produced many superb literary essays (quite a number of books in this wise); as well as poetry, books for children – and general essays in which he deprecated the goings-on not only in Nigeria but in the “developing” world.

I am happy that as an editor myself (in South Africa) I have been able to publish several articles celebrating the passing of Achebe. Yes, he has departed this world – but what indelible patent footprints he has left around the world!

·      *  Other tributes (essays) written by Bolaji touching on the passing of Achebe are available on other websites/blogs