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...

ZAMBIANS CRUISE TO EXQUISITE VICTORY

(above) Unbridled glee for Zambia

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI

The latest edition of the Africa Nations Cup (Afcon) has of course
ended, with the form book being turned on its head in devastating
fashion. Surely not even one “pundit” predicted that Zambia would cart
away the prized Cup?

It was a rather “strange” competition from the beginning.
Extraordinarily, big guns like Nigeria, Cameroon, Egypt and South
Africa did not even qualify for the tournament. There was the fear
that millions of fans in countries like Nigeria and South Africa would
hardly be interested in the finals itself.

But largely, this did not happen for a number of reasons which we need
not go into here. Suffice it to say that as genuine, authentic
football-loving countries, by the time the tournament proper started
the usual interest began to fulminate. After all African giants (in
soccer) like Ivory Coast, Ghana, Senegal, even Tunisia – the first
African country to cause upsets at the World Cup – were there.

Other countries who were strong enough to give the best in the
continent a run for their money were also present; eg Zambia
(incredibly undermined by most), Angola, co-hosts Gabon (often tricky
opponents), Mali, even Guinea. Nobody expected Equatorial Guinea to
pull up any trees but this is exactly what they did by winning the
opening game of the tournament against Libya (1-0).Equatorial Guinea
did magnificently to get to the quarter finals.

But very unexpectedly, Senegal disappointed not only their own home
fans, but millions around the continent. They lost all their matches
with none of their star names shining; not least the celebrated Demba
Ba (of Newcastle in England) who made no mark whatsoever on the
tournament. But at least the two “firm favourites”, Ghana and Ivory
Coast made it to the semi finals.

Earlier, in South Africa the interest of most of the fans was on any
progress made by any of the Southern African teams: Angola, Zambia and
Botswana. Zambia impressively made it to the semi finals and many
South Africans were delighted about with this. Naturally most of them
wanted Zambia to win against Ghana in the semi finals but they did not
believe it would happen.

As for many Nigerians and other west Africans staying in South Africa,
though they wanted to support fellow west Africans Ghana in the semi
finals, it appeared that the “arrogant” stance of many Ghanaians in SA
put so many off. I know as a matter of fact that when I wished
Ghanaians “good luck” ahead of their semi final match (with Zambia)
the retort was: “Don’t wish us luck. We have already won! The only
thing is how many goals are we are gonna score against hapless
Zambians,”

Alas, Ghana lost the crucial semi final match with marksman Asamoah
Gyan missing another crucial penalty award that could have made a big
difference to the eventual result. It was a victory that many South
Africans celebrated to the rafters: apart from Zambia being a southern
African country, many of the players in the squad plied their trade in
the South African league. Their much respected captain, Chris Katongo
although no longer playing in South Africa had been a household name
whilst playing for Jomo Cosmos (in SA).

The Zambians, the pundits pointed out, played like a cohesive unit; a
veritable team. But would this be enough to pull off an upset against
the star-studded Ivorian team in the final? Nigerians and other west
Africans based in South Africa of course wanted Ivory Coast to win –
including this columnist! On my own part I genuinely believed that
aging Ivorian players like Drogba, Zokora, the Toure brothers etc more
than deserved to win something major after so many years of falling by
the wayside

For Zambia the final was a date with destiny, as it were. Here they
were playing in the same area where they had lost virtually a whole
team in an aeroplane accident almost 20 years ago. And the “gods”
favoured Zambia in the final as dreaded Ivorian marksman Didier Drogba
could not convert a penalty...and in the ensuing penalty shoot-out the
Zambians carried the day. It was a victory celebrated luridly in
Southern African countries. Congratulations to them!

THE DISTRAUGHT YOUNG MAN

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI

He was/ is one of the many young South African male friends I have. But upon seeing him this day my heart sank – the gentleman looked exceedingly crestfallen, melancholy and distraught. Even his voice was different! He indicated we should go to a private place to talk about something “very important.”

I took him to a quite decent place where drinks and food were sold. We sat down, and the young man suddenly said, steel in his voice: “Ntate Bolaji, I did not want you to be shocked when you hear the news. It’s sad, but I have little choice. I can’t take the pain again. I have decided to kill myself.”

I winced. I stared at the strong, fine-looking gentleman. Could it be that he had a killer disease of some sort? Why would the boy want to kill himself whilst in his mid 20’s? “I am sure that won’t be necessary,” I said. “If I won’t think of killing myself with all my health problems, why would you?”

He said: “You don’t understand. I am not sick, not that way. It’s that girlfriend of mine – the one I loved so much...the one I showed you before the last festive season. She has betrayed me! I loved her with all my heart. I made extraordinary sacrifices for her. Day and night I dreamed about her, cherished her; thought we’ll grow old together. I thought we were both religious and would only sleep together when we got married. But she has betrayed me.”

I must confess I felt relieved. So it was about a woman! I said softly: “Yes I know you worshipped the girl more or less, but surely if she has betrayed you that is no reason for even considering suicide. You are young; you have eons of good things to look forward too in future. Yes, I understand the terrible pain you are going through, but to consider suicide is not only cowardly, but childish. A man must go through these types of horrific disappointments in life; but not ever consider suicide.” I made my voice deliberately harsh because I knew he respected me a lot, and I wanted him to take his mind completely away from “suicide.”

I added: “Anyway, how did you know she betrayed you?”

The young man spoke up; excruciating anguish in his voice: “The whore not only confessed that she had been sleeping with this other guy...but she is now carrying his baby.”

I flinched. I remembered that just weeks ago he was boasting that his girlfriend was “a virgin like me” Although having met her I never believed this at the time, yet for her to be pregnant by another man was a terrible blow. But I tried not to show my shock; still looking stern as if it was “nothing much.”

But he was still talking, almost in a soliloquy now: “You know, many people warned me, Ntate. They said I was fool loving her so much, not sleeping with her, trusting her. They said so many of these modern girls are just prostitutes, just out for money. But I thought (he named her) was different! How can women be so evil and dishonest and greedy? I learnt the man she is pregnant for is quite comfortable...he already has two kids from two different women...now a third is on the way. Why do these girls worship money like this? Why are they so useless? So my pure love for her was worth nothing because I am still young and not loaded with money...”

His pain was palpable. It was now up to me to advise him. This I did, first giving him examples of two, three older people he knew who had suffered more or less the same fate in the past from their women. The boy seemed relieved that he was not the only one who had suffered emotionally etc like this. I told him, still sternly, that it was part of life to suffer debilitating blows every now and then; despite being the innocent party, or “victim. I told him he must work through the pain till after sometime nature “healed” him.

“I assure you one way or the other the woman will be punished for what she did to you by the almighty. She will be visited by great pain too in due course. It’s a law of nature. Also, it might not seem so now, but you will meet another woman you will love again, and maybe things will work out this time,” I added.

“Even though I will struggle on with life, I will never love, or trust a woman again,” he said.

I smiled. “Let us just take it step by step eh? No more thoughts of foolish suicide, eh?”

He tried a wan grin and shook hands with me. “Ntate, the world can be evil, but we must struggle on. To be honest, I never really wanted to kill myself... despite the great pain....”

THE EFFICACY OF YOU TUBE

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI

Many of my “detractors” dub me ‘old-fashioned, reluctant to enjoy the
fruits of latest technology, etc – actually all this is false. My
perspective has always been that we should not be slaves to
technology. Common sense, integrity, empathy must always have primacy.

After all our ancestors (even those in the western world) some hundred
years ago never had access to all these marvels we enjoy today; yet
they lived full lives! However, I was reminded of how wonderful modern
technology is the other day. I was in Pretoria city in South Africa,
briefly, meeting some young writers. One of them, who loves football a
lot, told me that he had read a book of mine (of essays). He said: “I
particularly enjoyed the few chapters there dealing with soccer. It
was wonderful the way you were praising a former great Nigerian
footballer…” he struggled to remember the name.

“You mean Segun Odegbami?”

He smiled. “Yes. The former winger, striker, for Nigeria – decades
ago. You praised him so much, even calling him the best player you
have ever seen in your whole life! Despite the likes of Pele,
Maradona, Messi,” The youngster grinned. “Surely sir,” he went on.
“That praise was too much. You were very young then, hence your
exaggerated worship of Odegbami,”

It was my turn to grin. “Is that so? Well let me tell you – I stand by
what I have written in that book – a personal opinion, yes, but one I
still believe; having published countless articles on world football
around the world,”

He said: “Such a pity it can’t be proved. That was over 30 years ago;
and where would we get old reels of the player in action? You said he
played in the late 70s and 80s, mainly in black Africa...”

“It can be proved, to a certain extent,” I said. “Even if it’s just a
few clips. I know as a matter of fact we can see him in action on
YouTube on the Internet”

“YouTube?” the young writer looked incredulous. “Isn’t that for music?”

I grinned again. “More or less everything is on YouTube,” I said.
“Movies. Sitcoms. Music. Sports. You the young ones should know that!”

So we went to YouTube on the Internet. I went straight to “Nigeria
winning the 1980 Nations Cup” section. As luck would have it, the very
first few seconds of the reel showed Segun Odegbami on a typical
fantastic run down the right flank, with his uncanny speed, feints,
and curling crosses. A few minutes later, the focus was on Odegbami
scoring his two cracking goals against Algeria in the 1980 Nations Cup
Final.

Afterwards, the young writer stared at me with some disbelief. “I
don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that before,” he vouchsafed.
“What dribbles! And such incredible speed for such an omotelele (very
tall man)”

“That’s nothing,” I said. “You saw only a few minutes of him in
action. People like me watched him for 90 minutes in many games for
club and country,”

“A great player indeed,” the young man re-iterated, squeezing my hand.

THE BEGUILING OUTING

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI

Early January. Vestiges of New Year Celebrations. I was in the South African toropo (city) of Bloemfontein in somewhat desultory fashion, when a female acquaintance saw me, came to me. We talked, “catching up”, as they say. Then my phone rang.

It was Sibusiso, a friend/acquaintance of mine; also a poet of sorts. “Mr Bolaji,” he thundered into the phone. “Right now I have so much extra money and I have not seen you for a long time. Let’s have lunch and drinks unlimited at the Waterfront NOW. Please! I am already at the Ocean Basket. You can bring anybody with you, male or female; but preferably female! Meet me there soonest if possible, and it’s jabulane (enjoyment) time,”

I sighed. The lady beside me asked what was going on and I told her. Like many black women she was excited about “enjoying at the Waterfront” – a famed place where people (mostly comfortable whites) can let their hair down, enjoy near the waters, luxuriate in the salubrious breeze, impressive edifices etc. “Are you crazy?” said she. “You say the guy said you can even bring a companion along…let’s go there now and enjoy!” So we went to the Waterfront.

Sibusiso was already there at the “Ocean Basket” section, enjoying a few ice-cold drinks. It was incongruous to see him seated alone, at a table meant for four people. “Doesn’t he have any friends; any woman?” my lady companion asked. But before I could reply, we were already beside Sibusiso who greeted us fulsomely.

“Hantle! (fine)” he said. He stared at the lady with me “Ah, it’s so nice having feminine company too!” He exchanged pleasantries with her. Sibusiso was around 40 years old, charming and always smiling. “Please don’t be shy or stingy. Order anything you want! It’s all on me!” he beamed. “I have not seen Ntate Bolaji for months; we only see him in the papers!”

It was a wonderful time had by all as exotic meals and drinks flowed. The lady enjoyed herself a lot. She became quite cosy with Sibusiso. He spoke frankly, even intermittently referring to the time he had spent behind bars, in jail (without his going into details). This did not faze our lady companion as she cuddled close to him (the power of money?) happily gave him her cell number, and talking liberally about herself. When it was all over (in the evening), with all of us sated at his expense, she threw her arms around him and gave him an almighty hug. “Call me,” she said, a seductive smile on her face.

My female companion was delectably drunk. As she kept on repeating, she could not remember the last time she had had such a wonderful time. I escorted her to her place (also in the city). “Well thanks for your company,” I said, preparing to leave.

“By the way,” she said, suddenly focusing. “Apparently, Sibusiso was in jail for some time. Such a nice man. What did he do? Some sort of fraud? Or don’t you know what his offence was?”

Rather indignantly, I retorted that of course I knew what Sibusiso had done that had landed him in jail for years. I told her that he had killed his wife, stabbed her viciously many times whilst putting an end to her life. The lady flinched.

“A murderer! A wife killer!” she shouted. “And you let us go to him for drinks and food! How can you do this to me?”

“Come on,” I said peaceably. “You persuaded me, us, to go to him. You remember? You enjoyed yourself a lot there. You insisted on giving him your phone number. You hugged him. You said he’s a good man. The man has served his time in jail; doesn’t he deserve to be treated decently now that he’s out?”

But the woman was still angry. She shouted epithets at me and said I had “disappointed” her. How could I do this? I sighed. Women! What could I do?