What Celebrity Big Brother taught me

In Oxford on Saturday, a group called the Research Defence Society, took part in a march organised by Laurie Pycroft, 16. What struck me was, that finally, a group of people were standing up to the animal liberating, human annihilating Animal Liberation Front (ALF). It is good news that people are making their voices heard, coming out in support of animal testing. But despite their sometimes murderous intent, I still find myself on the side of the ALF’s arguments against carving up fluffy little bunnies for the advancement of science.

For the record, I am not a vegetarian, I am a carnivore, bloody fangs and all. No meal is complete without some kind of proper meat. I am not an animal-lover, I have killed chickens in the past, and own no pets. The only animals I have responsibility for are the rodents and cockroaches that sometimes invade my pantry, and trust me, I don’t treat them with an ounce of mercy. It’s just that I’m yet to hear a compelling reason as to why we should tolerate animal testing.

The biblical argument (see Genesis 1:28) about going out and having dominion over the "fowl of the air", and "every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth" is a lazy argument. If we took everything the Good Book said at face value, then women would be forbidden from going to church between days 1 and 7 on the menstrual cycle. Then who’d look after the sprogs in the crèche? The argument is not just one of animal testing, but also of eating meat, and the general coercion of animals for human benefit. What right do we have to make a horse carry us through desert sands on its back?

The diet argument isn’t good enough either. I’m sure if roles were reversed, we wouldn’t like to be born and bred just to be slaughtered for someone’s full English breakfast. Is that the argument of a child? “Why did you kill that ant? Imagine if you were the ant and somebody stepped on you, would you like it?” Childish, yes. But it’s simply a “walk a mile in an ant’s shoe” argument, designed to make people empathetic to the struggle of the lowly ant.

If you subscribe to the premise that humans are glorified monkeys, just lucky to be better evolved, then we shouldn’t be treating fellow animals in this way. We treat fellow human beings with respect, surely we should do the same to animals. If you think that humans are not glorified monkeys, but a higher species, we still shouldn’t treat animals badly. If we’re more intelligent, and better philosophically evolved, it is our duty to protect lesser species.

The key to being human is apparently having a sense of self. I think, therefore, I am. Do animals have this? Who knows. Animals have shown themselves to be very intelligent, from politically scheming wild monkeys to tool making crows. It has also been suggested that animals might feel pain, but cannot anticipate it. Not true. When I lived in Nigeria, there were some stray dogs that would roam the street, doing nothing in particular. I was a paranoid (read scaredy cat) little boy, and I soon learnt that to get rid of the dogs, all one had to do was bend down, as if to pick up something. The dogs would run as if my doing that conjured up some kind of apparition. What the dogs knew was that human being bending down, usually meant stones and sand, which in turn meant pain in eyes and body.

However, there is the survival argument. During a very brief period watching the recent Celebrity Big Brother, I learnt a very important moral story. Don’t judge people who wear fur. The British audience were reliably informed by Gorgeous George Galloway, MP for Gallivanting East, that the Inuits in Greenland had to kill bear for their fur to keep warm. As simple as this sounds, it was an earth shattering moment for me in the animal welfare argument. What is one supposed to do when there is no other way of keeping warm? I suppose they could just buy a fleece from Gap or something.

It is unlikely that I'll ever be fully convinced either way, but in the meantime, arm yourselves with your arguments.

The beautiful ones are not yet born

"The beautiful ones are not yet born" is the name of an email thread I participated in (passively) with friends today. People recounted their experiences of racism, some silly, some sad, some disgusting. I'll tell of my own experiences and then I'll do a cut and paste job of the emails in the thread.

Lancaster.
I did my A-levels at the Royal Grammar School in Lancaster, something which I'm strangely proud of. As someone who spent his early years in Nigerian schools, I know that where you're educated has much to do with the depth of your parents' pockets, the weight of contacts in the address book, or the smile of the gods. It seems almost pointless to be proud of where you were educated, it isn't necessarily of your own doing, even if it's a selective school . If you gained a scholarship, gloating might be slightly tolerated, but even the tutoring of children for entrance examinations also sometimes depends on the pockets of parents.

Anyway before swirling forces distracted me from the topic at hand (quote from Boris Johnson), I'm proud I went to LRGS. I went to a grammar, but got the standard of education of an independent school. It is a grant maintained school, so I only paid for boarding, and nothing for tuition. LRGS consistently ranks highly in the league tables, something I contributed nothing to (I didn't get all As, or all Bs, or all - you get the picture). It felt like I was making full use of the system, not being fleeced for my right - the right to be properly educated. But of course education is a privilege rather than a right, just go to the global south, or the geopolitical south, or the Third World, or the developing world, or (my personal favourite) the neo-colonial states and see what I mean.

I'm still digressing. Lancaster was a small town, no faces of colour, just history, bridges, rivers, a castle, and a university. Whenever I saw another black person, we'd hug like old friends, such was the excitement. My white friends who I'd abandoned for a quick platonic fumble with another "darkie" would ask, "so who was that?". And I'd reply with glee, "that guy? I've never seen him in my life." Clubbing was always fun, Born Slippy and Oasis. I was sixteen, and thanks to my puritanical Nigerian past, always sober. The bouncers would always gimme a "sup bruv?" look when I stepped to the door, while my mate Al would be stopped and asked for ID. I'd stand behind the bouncer and make faces at Al. We were both illegal (pre-eighteen), but I would get through by virtue of being a potentially "double 'ard" black man, while Al could never be as 'ard as me, the poor white fella (well three-quarters white, if you can quantify these things) would have to brandish his "Brighton University Student's Union" ID.

In school, I had no problems. I was one of four black boys at the school of over a thousand boys. Actually, I lie. At our peek, we were five. Oddly enough, we were all of Nigerian origin, only the sixth formers being "fresh from yard". Some silly little boys would do mock Jamaican accents when talking to me. And I'd just shrug, "that's Jamaican, I'm Nigerian. Get it right..." Some people thought that because I was black, I was stud muffin. They were right, I was a stud muffin. But at the time I didn't show it, and sadly the restraint was involuntary. My mojo was a little dead (like being half pregnant) for those two years. The bottom line is I didn't experience any racism while I was there. I did have a ginger-haired friend who got teased a lot, and of course like the true lad that I am, I joined in. One day he called me "nigger". "That's racist", I said. "Well you called me 'ginga'". I didn't think he had a point, but I couldn't really argue with him. So I stopped calling him "ginga".


Sunderland
When I lived in Sunderland, my experiences of racial discrimination were real, but also fed my vanity. I tried out for the university football team, I didn't get in. Not even the 3rd XI reserves. This was before the my defining feature became my paunch, and when I was young and sprightly. I wanted to go with the Nigerian team to the Sydney Olympics, so I figured university football would help my chances. Don't laugh, I was serious. I was a defender, and anyone who knows anything about football knows that Nigeria do not have defenders. I was a cinch for Taribo West's jersey. It really upset me that I didn't get into the team, especially when I played very well at the trials. But, hey, c'est la vie.

Apart from being a failed footballer, I'm a retired wannabe actor. Oscars, Baftas, Césars, and maybe even Razzies, I would accept them all. I went for auditions at the local theatre when it was panto season. I put on an Oscar winning display, the Don Cheadle of Wearside. The best people would be given parts, and the others would be called back. Yours truly was called back, and I shouldn't have been. People I saw at the callback were surprised to see me. In the end I don't remember if I was offered the non-speaking part of "hind legs of cow" and turned it down, or if I was offered the role at all. Had to be racism.

Brum
I've only ever had proper racial abuse once. It was Birmingham, summer 2000. The summer of Big Brother 1, summer of two-step garage and the song "Summer of Love", the summer of Wyclef Jean at Notting Hill carnival. I was "summering" with my uncle in Mosley, Birmingham. Mosley is an upmarket area of Brum, down the road from Edgbaston, a village strewn with parks, lakes, detached houses.

One evening, I was on my way home, skipping gaily with a beautiful summer sunset behind me, when I heard the words "nigger" shouted out of a moving vehicle. A group of lads in a small car speeding past me. In the distance, the car started to slow down. The car pulled over, and one of the boys came down and the car sped off again. Wonderful, I thought. He didn't look that big, I could probably take him one-on-one. My steps quickened so that I could get to him. Adrenalin began to swirl in my bloodstream, fight or flight had come to the surface. I wasn't flying anywhere, I would stand fight. I probably thought, "he's white, I'm black. How strong could he be?" But I was too slow, he had already gone in. I saw the house and paused for a bit. I could either report the stupid kid to his mother, or I could firebomb the place as soon I'd done an internet search for instructions. In the end, I did nothing. I very much regret doing nothing about it, at least I could made sure the cars parked outside had suspiciously failing brakes. But that is the sum of my racism experience.

If you're not yet bored, read the thread stuff below. I haven't got permission so I should steel my lawyer for the writs. The first story is poignant, poignant because of the extremity of the action, and the age of the perpetrators. They haven't been edited, only names have been removed, and some spelling.

Number 1

ok, i wish i could start your day on a lighter discussion but during dinner with my aunt and uncle last night i heard the most disturbing story.

their son had gotten into a couple of fights because he was being teased in school about being black, so we started discussing the racism issue here. my aunt works in the british school and said that what her son went through was nothing and recounted an incident that took place during break time in her school:

a boy had used a skipping rope to tie up one of the black girls in the school (by tie up i mean he wound the rope around her upper body), and was screaming at her "this is what we do to slaves, my daddy told me you are my slave and so you have to do whatever i say, you're a dirty slave...". (please bear in mind that these kids are like 6year olds) he kept saying it over and over. when my aunt saw what was happening she went over and asked him what he was doing. the kid then says "i'm not wrong, my daddy told me she's my slave, he showed me on the video and i read it as well. so she has to do what i say". my aunt at this point tried to talk sense into him but of course she couldnt get anywhere. so she gave up and told him to go and apologise to the girl as he had hurt her feelings. she reported the incident to the head teacher. the school called the parents and spoke with them and that was it.

imagine, i was disgusted to say the least when i heard this story. perhaps i have been naive in thinking that things were getting better. but then what am i saying? when i stayed with my sister in cambridge and was taking my nephew to school (he is the only black kid there), i couldnt help noticing that the only kid that really ever wanted to play with him had a mixed father.

one thing is for sure - kids can be cruel - if it isnt your colour, it's your glasses, it's that you're fat, or you're skinny etc etc. they have too much to deal with already without having the added burden of dealing with racism at such a young age dont they? i am even more convinced that i'm right in wanting my kids to spend their early life in Naija.

Number 2

Racist at 6 and fully armed with such surety because the very people who are
supposed to lead him right are the very ones miseducating him.

I went to high school and A Levels outside London. I was one of two black kids in the
entire school and bar the silly bint who asked if we lived in trees in Africa and do we have cereal in Naija, I cant think of anything totally bad that happened.

In that little town of Surrey, it was actually cool to be black, the Asians loved you and the oyinbo's let you be. I guess that in itself is rather racist considering they didn't bother me coz they figured I knew some black gangster who would take them out. This was in the days of 2Pac and early years of cable tv and widespread mtv nation fever. People would constantly ask me for a dealer and I wasnt bullied either- so what if it's coz they thought my drug supplier would come with his Brixton massives and take them out.

Oh and I was always put on track field even though I cant run to save my life. But
hey! Number 2 is black, she MUST be a fantastic runner. I think they got the message eventually when I lost a major inter school relay.

Besides all that randomness, I was never really bothered, people just thought it was "cool" to be friends with a black kid and to be black, so I'd have people come up to me and say stupid things like "yo" , wassup "dawg" and whatever else it is they picked up from last night's re-run of Seinfeld.

The real talk of racism actually came when I moved into London. My nephew who was about 6 at the time, had to move schools because he was constantly being picked on by teacher as well as pupils. If anything went wrong, it had to be the black kid. He started doing badly at school too because he wasnt participating, started to feel really withdrawn and even his usual happy go lucky attitude.

Number 3

Racism sucks. Makes me wanna cry sometimes. Used to think I could just shrug it off and just charge it to ignorance, but when it hits you out of the blue, then the sh*t hurts.

My Story:
Was walking friend's house in Marble Arch (DJ "Air Miles") a couple of months back, just to say hello to his peeps as they were leaving for Naija for soon. Now Mr. and Mrs. Ignoramus had just come back from shopping and were off-loading their the goods into the house. As I was walking into the Mews that same faithful night (see exhibit A) (due to technical difficulties exhibit could not be uploaded), Mrs. Ignoramus, noticed her husband had left the door open behind him and beckoned to him to close the door. As he turned round to do so, he saw me and I kid you not, dude looked like he had just seen a ghost. Old and frail as he was, he ran down the hallway, damn near fell on his wrinkly a** to quickly slam the door. He was terrified and I couldnt understand it. Who would be terrified of lil 'ol me. I cried that day!! Well not really, but I was pained, cause I didnt expect it.

Number 4

welcome to the north of the equator.........i worked in the admissions office last yr to make some extra quid while finishing my masters o...and everytime a black person with good grades who lookedlike aa prospective admit came in ..my oga introduced them to me with a bright smile........i no kuku get why....until she told me that its good that they see that "people like you can excel"!........not only that they wanted me to give a talk to underachieving high school students.....and i told them i knew nothing of childpsychologyy...they told me..its okay..what they did not say of cos is that .."its okay..you are black..most underachievers are black..so they need to hear you talk"..Of cos there are only like 10 black law students in the entire University
of Toronto......

Number 5

yesterday i was trying to cross the road on my daily walk to school. i had crossed the first half of the road when the light changed, so i stood at the divider. this woman was driving an suv was filtering into the road from my left, and so she had to drive right past me. as she she approached me, i noticed her fidgeting in her seat, and i thought it was a tad curious until i noticed that she was locking her door as she drove past me. she couldnt speed, because it was a corner, but she slowed down just so that she could be sure her door was locked as she drove past me. it made me feel really bad, standing there, over-educated lawyer on his way to school where he's working on a phd. im not even big, and all she saw was black man on the road. i thought i had put it behind me until i read Number 3's email. its brought back all the pain i felt yesterday.

i cant imagine how that would affect that little girl as she grows older.

What does the title of the thread mean anyway?

Ignore Nigeria at your peril

I wrote an article a couple of years ago titled, "Ignore Nigeria at your peril". It was meant to be an alarmist cry to the West to forget not Nigeria simply because she now had a civilian government, or at least one that didn't wear military garb. Fears had been raised over Nigeria having a Pakistan assisted nuclear programme of some sort, and also talking to Axis of Evil state North Korea about nuclear weapons. I thought it was a very well written article, one which would have sat beautifully on the pages of the Daily Telegraph, the Economist, or some such highbrow publication. The Economist wouldn't print it because they said the nuclear programme accusations were unfounded and far-fetched. So I qualified it with a sort of "rumour has it", but that wasn't enough. They were obviously fobbing me off, but that's not why I'm writing this.

Over the weekend, Nigeria hit the international headlines for all the wrong reasons. Mend militants kidnapped more oil workers and attacked oil infrastructure, just as cartoons protests turned sour in Maiduguri, killing up to sixteen people. These stories are making headlines here in Britain, but not for any altruistic reasons. Lord Palmerston was the one who said that a country has no permanent friends or permanent enemies, only permanent interests. And right now, the interests and fortunes of Nigeria are as intertwined with the West's as Hansel's fate is tied to Gretel's. In the nineties, when Abacha was raping the country, the West couldn't give two hoots. Nigeria was just another failed state, known for advance fee fraud, Hakeem Olajuwon, and Daniel Amokachi. But one man changed all that. Nope, not OBJ, but the mighty Osama bin Laden.

In the years BO (before Osama), House of Saud and House of Bush were cosy, oil was guaranteed. House of Saud could sponsor Wahhabism in Kano or Aden, so long as the black stuff kept flowing and, nobody attacked US interests. When the mulitnational (though mainly Saudi) nineteen brought down the Twin Towers*, the US figured out two crucial things: 1) the US cannot rely on Saudi Arabia for strategic partnership in the Middle East, especially oil, 2) the US has to fight Islamist terrorism wherever it may or may not rear its head.

These two positions forced the US to invade Iraq. You couldn't have some of the world's largest oil reserves being sat on by a despot like Saddam Hussein, especially when Iraq's neighbour Saudi Arabia wasn't such a great partner anymore. The US's objective has been to reduce reliance on Middle East oil, and this is where Nigeria comes in. Why rely on the mad mullahs of Iraq, Iran, and Saudi Arabia, when you have pliant Nigeria, and Venezuela? Except that even Nostradamus couldn't have forseen the impact of Hugo Chavez, and Mend, leaving the US State department up a Delta state creek without a paddle.

When the Twin Towers went down*, there was a spike in the number of children named Osama in northern Nigeria. I have thought since then that Osama bin Laden is hiding somewhere in Kano state, but people laugh. Yesterday, someone who was in Jos around 2001, told me that motorcycles (okadas) had pictures of Osama on them. Some riders would say, "he's a good man, he helps us". Potential Islamist bombers don't just come from the Middle East, they come from Morocco, Indonesia, Leeds, Nigeria, and so the US has taken a special interest in Nigeria, and the Sahel region.

Mend attacks Shell facilities, and world oil prices spike. People protest against Danish cartoons (a few weeks after everyone else) in Maiduguri, and people die - potential recruting ground for terrorists. The West can't ignore Nigeria anymore, because Nigeria will bite them in the arse, hard. I only wish I could find that article.

ps. There's also bird flu, but I reckon Nigerians will eat all the chickens before any WHO or Minsitry of Health official dares knock on their door.

*I hate using the term "9/11", it turns the event into a brand. Not cool.

Players and followers: followers.

In the world of football journalism, there are two categories of people: footballers and the rest. This categories are even more defined in African football where some of the players earn in one month what the whole press corps earn collectively in one year. In Egypt, there was a siege mentality among the players, a feeling that everyone who spoke to them was trying to suck them dry, literally and figuratively. Granted, I was always trying to get something from them, but it was merely a story I wanted, not coppers falling out of their wallets. The Nigerian press corps were "looked after" by the Nigeria FA, which meant they received sports jackets (which shielded against the cold), jerseys, shorts, etc.

Some of the items were perfectly harmless, souvenirs picked up like one would pens and pencils at a trade fair. However towards the end of the competition, a list of Nigerian journalists was drawn up for the Minister of Sport, Saidu Sambawa (the same one with bird flu on his farm). The lucky hacks on the list would get one thousand Egyptian pounds (LE1000), which is about £100. The journalists would have picked up this money on or about the 7th/8th of February, a couple of days before the final. I have no idea what services were performed by the journos to receive this money, but it seemed inappropriate to me.

I'm not part of the "old guard", nor was did anybody really know me, so my name wasn't on the list. I was the one who was constantly mistaken for being Ghanaian, prompting cries of, "oh, you're Nigerian sef. I thought you were one of the charley boys." The money was seen as a "gift" from the ministry, probably some excess left over after win bonuses weren't given out for Nigeria's loss to Cote d'Ivoire. There were some journalists who refused to accept the money, saying it was only journalists who had "sold their souls" that accepted such. I told the story of Jack McConnell's holiday in Kirsty Wark's Spanish villa, and how that had caused such a furore. But apparently, the rules for sports journalism are different.

Small Man spoke about how he had accepted gifts of money from some Ghanaian players, some of whom he's been friends with since childhood when they played keepy uppy with eaten oranges. He said there was no shame in it and when he interviewed them, they'd complain, "look at the relationship we have, and yet you were asking me those kinds of questions." This, Small Man felt, was a sign of his impartiality, maintaining his ability to do the job regardless of personal friendships.

In a country like Nigeria where all lines of propriety are blurred, it can be difficult to determine what is an actual taboo, and what isn't. One could argue that the journalists are underpaid and undervalued, financial help (a subsidy perhaps) from the ministry shouldn't be judged harshly. The question though is whether the Sports Minitry's records will show that money was given to certain journalists. I doubt that it will, and that is the big problem for me. Hiding that kind of information undermines the journalists, and could hamper their ability to write articles that are critical of the ministry. The Sports Minister apparently has a habit of summoning reporters whenever he choses a platform from which to spin his yarn. How can a journalist resist a minister's overtures when he is seemingly in the minister's pocket?

Tales of love, or something.

Since it's St. Valentine's Day, I'd thought it'd be good to tell a romantic story, romantic of sorts. I had a telephone stalker in Egypt. She was calling me all the way from Italy to talk to me. On the first night she called, I told her that I had no idea who she was. It seemed a bit odd that someone would be calling a wrong number all the way from Itay, and what's more, she was Nigerian. Very often in London, whenever my phone rings on a wrong number, the person turns out to be Nigerian. But the chances of a random Nigerian in Italy calling another Nigerian who is temporarily in Egypt?

Someone had given her my number, and I could just about guess who gave it to her. Even though we'd never met, she knew sketchy details about why I was in Egypt. The next time she call, I realised she was mistaken. She had this misconstrued idea that I was a Nigerian footballer. "I just finished watching your match. How come I didn't see you?" Erm, I'm a journalist. I'm here covering the Nigerian team, not playing with them. "But you're with them sha?" Maybe what I said didn't make sense. I was tempted to say, "well you see this coach guy, he's jealous of me, so he doesn't want to pick me to play." But I thought the better option was to hold my tongue, literally, feign choking and spluttering. Which I did. "You'll call me sometime, won't you? This is my number." In my haste to leave, I think I might have said "yes, I'll call."

Never tell anybody you have no intention of calling that you'll call them back. She called again the next day, complaining that I hadn't called her. I came up with the "it's been hectic around here" cliché. For the sake of common courtesy I stupidly said again that I'd call her. The next day, the phone rang. I recognised the number, so I passed the phone to Small Man, who was only too happy to entertain her. She and Small Man had a long conversation about goodness knows what. I think in the end Small Man even gave her his telephone number in Ghana. Now that is what I call industry. I think she called again once before I left, but as usual, Small Man was on hand to entertain her with cartwheels and juggling miniature pyramids. I'm back in London now, surely this is too far for her.

So it's still winter.

London... I land at Heathrow. Luggage doesn't arrive (first time ever). Terminal 2 still as drab as three weeks ago. Get on the tube to go home, same British accents. Same groups of girls with cans of larger going clubbing. In Egypt, the women are more or less covered head to toe. In London, the women look naked. Should the winter air be blowing those bits? Saturday night perhaps. The Sikh man asks someone who looks Asian something in an Indian langauge, "only English, only English" the man replies, heavily accented, evidently upset. Why don't you immigrants leave the mother language behind.

Got to Green Park, the interchange between the lines still as long as ever. This time I stroll, I'm not rushing anywhere. No friends to meet up with. No urgent meetings that I'm running late for. People walk past me. No questions about where I'm from. Nobody curious as to which football team I'm in London to watch. At my destination, music blaring. Suspicious-looking man standing at the entrance. I clutch my laptop harder. Strap the buckles on my jacket. Brace myself for the cold, then cring as I step into the open. As usual, my ears freeze. Nothing changed, dustbin still in the same place. Pavement works progressed. Plantain shop closed. Saturday, can't miss the Guardian on Saturday. Missed British newspapers and current affairs while I was away. Look at the magazine shelf. Zoo: Chantelle with nipples on display. Some other magazine, Preston dumps Chantelle, goes back to... whoever.

Walk home. Streets are quiet. Car is still there. Council sticker on about it being an abandoned vehicle. Must sort out road tax, or move it into the garage. The letters have piled up. No red letters yet, but they'll come soon I'm sure. Room is a mess. Always is. Broadband works like a dream, I gush. I check bank account online, I stop gushing. Have barely slept for two days, body clock is two hours ahead. Need sleep. Stare at the ceiling in darkness. I ask philosophical questions. What's it all about? Why am I here? Why is it all so ordinary? These questions didn't crop up once over the last three weeks. Had no time for thinking about life, was living life. Perhaps pause for thought is good.

I go back online. Where will I go next? Where is the next adventure? I see the prices, reality bites. I bookmark the pages. I'll come back to them. I promise I will.

Apologies accepted?

It seems the byline/credit story is relatively dead. Fair enough.

One of them wrote in an email he sent:

"I don't know - it may be that it was in the paper; I'll ask. If they haven't put it in, I'll be complaining - it would be the second time they've done this, and it's really annoying. I don't think they realise how it can damage the relationship between a journalist and a colleague or a contact: just some idiot sub decides they haven't got room or something. My apologies - did ***** get you a credit in the *****?"

And this is what the other person said:

"Hi Nkem,

May have been a misunderstanding on our part, to do with newspaper jargon. A credit means dosh,a payment, which you'll get for research. Sorry if you thought otherwise. It would in any case have been a no-go for my paper to have the same by-line on a story that was in the ***** the same day.

Thanks for the help, and chase it up if you haven't had money in three weeks or so, which I'm
afraid tends to be how long it takes."

Be not afraid brethren

Be not afraid, o ye brethren, for I am in the land of the pharoahs. The lord hath taketh me to Cairo where access of the wide web of the world is but a commodity scarce and injurious of pocket. But lo, I am alive.

Who's the mug?

I've just looked online at the Sindy and Sunday Times, no credits for yours truly. I'll say nothing about it until I find out more, because if let rip, I'll do much more than cause offence. I'm too pissed off to blog.

Only clichés will do.

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. The tension was palpable. We were on tenterhooks. We had our hearts in our mouths. We held our breaths for minutes. Then we breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was sweet revenge after 2004. "Nigeria advance to semifinals after tense penalty shoot-out."

I've run out of clichés. The Tunisian fans threatened to replicate their behaviour in 2004, when they pelted us (Nigeria fans) with plastic bottles. This was Port Said, not Tunis. We were the home team here, and wouldn't be intimidated. The Tunisia team had huge travelling support here, easily drowning out our trumpets and "he's a miracle working God" chants. But the Tunisians aren't liked in Egypt, everyone we bumped into over the last couple of days asked us to shaft Tunisia. Though not in such polite terms.

As usual, the "independent" press corps led the singing after Enyeama saved Bouazizi's penalty. I cringed (again), but also smiled because I was pleased we had won. Nigeria winning on penalties is a rare thing. We lost to Tunisia on penalties in the 2004 semifinals, and also in the 2000 final against Cameroun. I was also pleased to see Kanu score a penalty. The man of the match was Mikel, but Enyeama comes a very close second. The man has saved Nigeria time and again in this competition, and the defenders owe him half of their match winning bonus.

Sitting in front of me was a spy, sent by the Cote d'Ivoire coach, Henri Michel. If they beat Cameroun, he'd have notes to consult for our semifinal clash. As soon as Tunisia scored, he turned and said to me, "problem of concentration". The man also reckons that Mikel is a more defensive option than Jay Jay or Oruma. He shouldn't be deceived. That perception is probably due to the differing styles. Oruma and Jay Jay dribble past players, Mikel doesn't need to that. He takes players out of the game with his passes, rather than by dribbling.

Cote d'Ivoire have just won 12-11 on penalties, beating the Ghana v Cote'Ivoire 1992 final of 10-11. See you in Alexandria.

Reeling

I am kicking myself for being very slow in jumping on the ferry disaster story. It is heartless, no doubt, but it's journalistic instinct. I didn't realise that there had been an accident until Alaye Scoro told me online, at 5pm local time. It was pointless going to the dailies, because they'd be going to print in a matter of hours, and I definitely woudln't be able get to Safaga (the destination of the ferry) before they went to print. The next best thing was to get in touch with the Sunday papers, but even that was pushing it for time.

I did get in touch with the Sundays, but I suspect it was too late. Before coming on the trip, I wanted to buy a shortwave radio, but I'm the king of procrastination and last minutism. If I had one, I'd have been listening to the BBC World Service, and heard about it as soon as it came off the wires. I grew up listening to the clipped tones of the World Service. I remember during the Gideon Orkar coup d'etat of 1989 the local radio stations had bene shut down, but if you tuned into the BBC, you could hear the gunshots rifling around Dodan Barracks.

I haven't given up yet, but right now, there's the small matter of revenge against Tunisia.

Egypt ferry disaster

No doubt most you have heard that nearly 1,400 people are feared dead, after a ferry sank in the Red Sea. Call me heartless but my first thoughts were that I should be out there covering the story. Such stories are a wonderful opportunity for journalists like me to work. When the London bombings happened last summer, my first instinct was that I shouldn't be here in my house, I should be close to the action. This time, I am close to the action, not necessarily physically, but in the sense that it could take a while before news organisations get people on the groud.

Right now, all my efforts are being put into seeing if I can make any journalistic capital out of this tragedy.

Quiet days - Sindy, Sunday Times

The days since getting back to Port Said have been quiet. There was Nigeria's victory over Senegal, and Ghana dumped out of the competition in a 2-1 loss to lowly Zimbabwe. The Nigerian press corps displayed the most blatantly biased behaviour ever seen at football match. It is understandable for Nigerian press to cheer when their country score a goal, but to sing victory songs at the end of the match? I bet the players were confused as to who were the real supporters' club, those in the stands or in the press box. They were openly cheering for the Nigerian team without an ounce of reticence. I was slightly ashamed to be among them, but what can I do? My name is Nkem Ifejika, there's no anglicised version to duck beneath.

Small Man was depressed, irate, despondent, and any other adjective you can find to describe the feeling of the hopeful Black Stars loss. He threatened to write a story accusing the football officials going shopping and frolicking with a harem of pliant Egyptian women. There's apparently photographic evidence of the shopping trips, but the harem might have been a slight fabrication of Small Man's. A couple of days before the game, Small Man was talking about how Duya (the Ghana coach's nickname) was the Second Coming. But after the game, even Duya's head on a silver platter and entrails on a skewer wouldn't have assuaged Small Man. He wanted the man axed, and not axed as a euphemism, but literally axed. Such was his rage.

The next day, the Ghanaian players were holed up in their hotel rooms. That was when they were at their most inconspicuous. No hobnobbing with fans, no strolls to the convenience store, just avoiding the gaze of a media baying for Black Star blood. Small Man Big Brain had a bit more hustling to do, he wouldn't let the players leave without paying for their mess up. Truth be told, they'd have paid for their success as well, had they won.

Helnan Hotel, where the team is staying, is packed with members of the supporters club. Some of them are regulars who I met for the first time in Tunisia in 2004. They are basically Alaye boys registered as members of the supporters club, entitled to go wherever the Eagles dare. The players do well and get match bonuses, the Alaye boys do well and get some spending money. Extortion would be a strong word to use, but the players "see" them in the Nigerian sense. "Seeing" someone is not just a Nigerian phenomenon, but it's difficult to describe, because it isn't bribery, and it isn't extortion either. It's probably somewhere in between. My nickname with the supporters club is "London Based". I'm sure Nigerians reading this know exactly what I mean.

Port Said is on the Mediterranean coast, on the mouth of the Suez Canal. I had seen some ship masts passing by in the distance, but hadn't actually seen the water on which they were floating. I convinced Small Man to come with me for a seaside walk. After the walk, I went to the players hotel, and stumbled upon Jonathan Wilson (freelancer here with the FT and Sindy), and Ian Hawkey (Sunday Times's European football man). I had met Jonathan after the first Nigeria game, and I met Ian at the Nigeria v Senegal game. They were in the hunt for world famous John Shittu, John Obi Mikel's agent. Not very much is known about Mikel's background, so they were keen to find out about the boy wonder, and who better than the man who brought him to Europe.

I knew a fair bit about the Mikel story background, so I helped things churn along while John Shittu was saying his bit. I was in the middle of a good story, but as a relatively new freelancer I don't have an express outlet. If I was to sell the story before Sunday, it might have messed up Jonathan, who was selling his to the Sindy, and it would also have messed up Ian, with the Sunday Times. So Ian said we could share credits on the Sunday Times piece, and he'd organise payment for me. Yay! Sold my first story.

On Sunday morning, run to your local newsagent and get a copy of the Sunday Times and Sindy, or if you feel like an El Cheapo, check it out online...

It's been a few days..., part 2

Now, where was I. I forgot a tiny detail about the Ghana v Senegal game. There was a fight among the Ghanaian fans. In that small microcosm of Africa, I could see why there are so many pointless civil wars on the continent. The reason for the fight was simple. Some spectators were standing, so the people sitting behind them couldn't see the game. This all started because the Ghanaian supporters' club at the front of the stands were singing and dancing, which meant that the subsequent rows behind them had to stand so that they could see. Some people told the supporters club to sit down and watch the game, so that those behind could sit and watch. They refused. A man pointed to the Senegalese section, they were singing and dancing. The Ghanaian supporters weren't about to be outdone, so they were going to sing and dance as well.
Someone very annoyed, sitting near where I was splashed water from a plastic bottle on those in front, and then someone threw a bottle back in retaliation. Then another bottle flew back to the front. This time, someone from the front charged through the crowd to attack one of the men next to me. If you look at the picture above, you can see the man standing to the right has water marks on his cap and denim jacket. The man second from the right is being restrained, and most of the people in the background are looking back to watch the drama. People eventually calmed down, but not before the intervention of riot police (whose main job is separating rival fans).

The main cause of the fight was that nobody agreed to back down. It was trivial, yet it seemed the stakes were high - like diamonds in Sierra Leone, or banana plantations in Somalia. On a purely superficial level, that is the problem in many African conflicts, nobody wants to be the mug to back down.

29/01 - Kasr El Nile
The day after the night before, the Trooper, Small Man and I went walking around Tahrir Square. The aim of the walk was to find food pronto, but it ended up being a two hour sightseeing trek. I had an emotional moment when I realised that I was on Kasr El Nile, a street which had the hotel where my mum and I had stayed when I was eleven. That summer was one of my most memorable. I started that summer in Cote d'Ivoire, and then flew to India from Cairo. The summer ended with a road trip from Nigeria to Ghana, where I was a young delegate for a conference my mum was attending. Kofi, they called me.

I hadn't used my Ghanaian name before, nor have I since. I'd love to say the story about how I have a Ghanaian name is a long and convoluted one. But it isn't. Nigerians love giving names, everyone has to name the child. The paternal grandmother has to give one, the parents have to give several each, even an estranged aunt, whom you've never seen, but had a word of "prophesy" about your birth gets to give you a name. Most names don't appear on birth certificates, but all the different individuals call you by the different names. In my case, Kofi made it onto the birth certificate. My dad went to school in Ghana, and had an affinity for Ghana, kenkey, and highlife music. So he gave me a Ghanaian name.

My mum figured that at age eleven, it was the last chance to take advantage of half price air fares for children under twelve. No half price fares on this trip though, but prices have been quite good. After walking around for two hours, we found a most wonderful restaurant, Felfela. The interior was very kitsch, but this didn't detract from the quality of the food. The menu had autographs of Jimmy Carter, and other ambassadors to Egypt. The man serving us was superb. The people sitting down to dine were the most cosmopolitan group I'd seen in Egypt. Copts, Muslims in traditional wear, Muslims in not so traditional wear, foreigners (like us).

While eating I set up a meeting with Video Cairo Sat. Luckily they were only a few minutes walk from Felfela, on a main road called Corniche El Nile, right by the Nile. They helped me with details about a story I'm chasing, and I also got a chance to talk to some producers and directors about potential collaboration and story ideas in Egypt. All in all, a very fruitful meeting.

After Video Cairo Sat, it was off to the Angola v Togo game. The Trooper had told me there were some rather attractive Angolan women dancing seductively to some Salsa type music at the last Angola game. But wasn't why I was going. I was going to watch football, and it was only because the Trooper forced me to that I sat among the Angolan fans.

30/01 - Back to Bur Said
Bur Said is obviously Port Said in Arabic. We left in the afternoon, but not before having a long conversation with a football scout. What does it take to be a football scout? "Well, speaking ten languages might help a little," said the Dutchman. Cheeky bugger. He was looking for African footballing talent, something he'd done for years. During the course of the tournament, he had become an official scout for Anderlecht. The Trooper seemed slightly envious. Here was a man who made a living out of the beautiful game, searching the globe for the next Ronaldinho or Rooney. The Trooper, on the other hand, has to deal with a desk job as a chemist in the concrete jungle that is Holborn, and make do with the fantasy of football biographies and autobiographies.

The people at my hotel were wondering where I had absconded to over the past two nights. They didn't think I was in trouble though, they only assumed I was shacked up with an Egyptian woman. Way off the mark?

It's been a few days...

My last post was on the 26th of January, a whole four days ago. Did you worry that I had been kidnapped by a militant Islamist group? Had I swam across the Red Sea, when it refused to part for me, Moses-style, after prodding it with a random stick I found in the desert? Had I run off to the Egyptian Gretna Green (if one exists) and married a local woman, my very own Fathia Nkrumah? The excitement was on par with all these, adrenalin hasn't been in short supply in the past few days.

27/01 - Guerilla Commentary
I've met some characters on this trip, but one of the most colourful is a twenty-two year old fella from Ghana. We've nicknamed him "Small Man, Big Brain", sometimes I also add "Big Belly". The reasons are obvious, imagine a tiny man whose brain power is a combination of Shylock and Iago, but for better ends. He is good people. As media men, we have access to all spectator parts of the stadium, but most journalists like to sit in the press box. I knew Small Man was here representing Kyzz FM in Takoradi, Ghana, but I only knew he did daily reports about the progress of the team. For some reason Small Man insisted that I watch the Ghana v Senegal game with him along with the Ghanaian supporters. I obliged.

When we got there, he said his station was going to flash his mobile phone five minutes before kick-off. And then they'd call for real just before kick off so that he could start his commentary of the match. Kyzz FM doesn't have broadcasting rights, but the people of Takoradi want to have a local feel to the tournament. This was risqué, but exciting. Small Man (above) started his commentary in Twi, the local language spoken in his part of Ghana. He read out the names of the Ghanaian team, and then the names of the Senegalese team, even telling the radio listeners what colour the players' jerseys were. (Reminded me of the famous John Motson quote, "for those of you watching in black and white, Spurs are in the all yellow strip.")

Then about five minutes into the game, I heard the words, Nkem, Nigeria, and London, after which Small Man thrust the mobile phone into my face, "so Nkem, what do you think about the game so far?" I think I spouted some football cliché about Ghana having started out strongly, maintain the performance for 90 minutes, etcetera etcetera. Then I heard the words again, Nkem, Nigeria, London.

Amidst the din of the Ghanaian supporters, I soon realised there were a couple of other "guerilla commentators" broadcasting live and direct to their hometowns in Ghana. One of the other commentators soon asked for my name and where I was from, and then I did my duty, and gave a thoroughly unbiased journalist's view of the game. It seems I was pundit du jour on the Ghanaian airwaves. In some cities in Ghana on the 27th of January, 2006, bemused listeners heard their Twi and Ga Nations Cup commentary interspersed with a British Nigerian take on how their beloved Black Stars were faring. My Ghanaian radio debut was... the words escape me.

Nigeria played against Zimbabwe after the Ghana v Senegal game, which unless you've been on the Moon (or don't care about football), Nigeria won. John Mikel Obi, who scored and made an assist, is a genuine wunderkind. I've seen him in training with the Nigerian team, and he has the potential to dominate the Nigerian game for the next ten years. He's the only one on the Nigerian team that isn't talking to any media whatsoever, because of his transfer saga. I'm here till the 11th, a scoop would be nice. Mikel, if you're reading... Holler!

28/01 - Sahaafi!
The plan for Saturday morning was to go to the Nigeria press conference, and then head to Cairo for the Egypt v Cote d'Ivoire game. The format of the press conference was: first ten minutes, questions to the manager, Eguavoen, and then mingle with the players. From the press conference I can see why relationships between national teams and the press can be fraught, especially in Nigeria's case. The bulk of the questions were centred around Obafemi Martins not scoring. Was the manager worried? Shouldn't he drop Martins? And more annoying questions. All the players except Obi were there, and they looked sullen faced. I can imagine that if they were fortunate enough to catch some of the journalists in a dark alley, teeth might go missing, and bones might get crushed. The most annoying question was one about "rumours" that players had to have Nigerian food sneaked into the hotel because they didn't enjoy the food. "Do they eat eba and egusi in Bolton, Milan and Kiev", I hear you shout. This man obviously didn't consider this before opening his gob.

I felt sorry for poor Obafemi, he tried to run away after the first part of the press conference, but didn't make it even far as the lifts. I liken journalists interviewing footballers to rape. It seems like a frivolous analogy, but consider this. The players are chased after by men desperate for a story, they're assaulted with camera lights, mics, and recorders thrust in their faces. Their backs are always to the wall, with little room for escape. The questions aren't always well meaning either. The interactions between players and journalists are hardly ever pleasant. It's a shame to use such an analogy, but I can't think of any other with which to express it.

Small Man and I got to the bus station just after 3pm. We had just missed the 3 o'clock bus to Cairo, and the next one was at 4pm. We'd never have made it in time for the Egypt v Cote d'Ivoire game, so it was pointless to go to Cairo. So we hopped into a taxi to take us back to the hotel, and while explaining the situation the taxi driver, he told us that we could get a minibus-taxi to Cairo instead. We got to the stadium at 5.30pm, kick-off was at 7pm, and figured we could eat something before the match. Bad idea.

We got to the stadium gates at 6.30pm and met with fully geared up riot police (above) to stop people from going in. The gates had apparently been shut at 6pm to prevent overcrowding. Even we journalists weren't being allowed to go through, so I started shouting "sahaafi, sahaafi!" "Sahaafi" is Arabic for journalist. This didn't work. There were rumours that the main gates were open and that we might be able to go through those gates, the stadium press centre was on that side. Just as we were told this, everyone started to run. This wasn't the time for me and Small Man to slack, so we started running as well. Never run immediately after a meal. Seriously.

There was even more riot police at the other end. People with tickets were gesticulating and shouting furiously, police dogs were barking, the riot police wouldn't budge. The people realised that if they put enough pressure one part of the police's human shield, it would give way. It did give way. The chain was broken and people rushed past unobstructed. Small Man wanted to be civilised about the whole thing and wait for an "official" to take us through. I felt I knew better, this was Africa still, proximity of skin colour and geography to Europe doesn't make this Europe. So we ran like ordinary Egyptian citizens. If only we could get to the final barrier, then we might be accorded some dignity and let through.

I went to all possible entry points shouting, "sahaafi, sahaafi" threatening to print a scathing attack on the organisation of the tournament on Africanshirts the next morning. Nothing. (I wonder what that says about Africanshirts as a blog of great repute). Just at the very last barrier there some people looking like tourists, separate from the chaos around them. Lo and behold, it was "the Trooper", and some new friends he'd just made. I first met him in 2004 in Tunisia at the African Cup of Nations. We call him the Trooper because he's always travelling to football tournaments - Euro 2000, France '98, Euro 2004, Tunisia '04. We had lost touch since Tunisia, but we were reunited after the Nigeria v Ghana game. It was like seeing an old friend, and the fact that in 2004 when we first met, we both lived in East London was a bonus. The Trooper had come to watch Nigeria and Ghana's games of the 27th, but had gone back to Cairo the next morning. We were supposed to meet in Cairo, but hadn't made any arrangements. Small Man and I assumed he was in the stadium watching the game. Fancy see you here!

He was with people I assumed to be American tourists itching to see what this "soccer" business was all about. They turned out to be students at the American University in Cairo, studying Middle Eastern politics, Arabic, and most curiously, Egyptology. Naturally we gravitated towards the Trooper and his entourage. I had been a little hooligan, and now I was being tempered by a Ghanaian East Londoner and some Americans. It didn't seem as if we were going to get in, so did what any normal person would do after such an ordeal. We went in search of alcohol in the largest Islamic capital in the world. I don't drink, so jus d'orange was good enough for me.

The evening finished off on enough of a high to compensate for missing the game. Good conversation, good food, good music, good city. To be continued...

The Angle

As a starving artist, I pick up my guitar or my harmonica, and I walk the railroads of the world. I'm not being held down by a 9-to-5, bills, or any other responsibilities. My demeanour is zen calm, my pockets are empty, but I'm free. This is what I wish life was like. The problem is that there's a thin line between starvation, and an involuntary hunger strike. I chose not to let hunger strike me, so I try to be slightly above the level of starving artist. Self-referential claptrap, I know. But it is true claptrap.

So as not to starve, I have to sell stories, ideas, concepts. I see stories everywhere, I have to. The difficult bit is convincing commissioning editors and producers that there actually is a story. Here I am in Egypt, hoping to sell some stories. I have found "angles" where I wouldn't have dreamt there was one. In the Port Said where I am, there is a Russian angle, an American angle, a Society Guardian angle.

The Russian angle.
Why should Moscovites care about the African Cup of Nations?. Perhaps they shouldn't, but it might interest them to know that apart from having players from the Russian leagues here, one of their sons is representing Nigeria. Peter Osaze Odemwingie has a Russian mother, and a Nigerian father, was born in Tashkent. Is he a symbol of the new cosmopolitan Russia? Including the one that murders Africans... It might seem like a tentative link somehow, but there's an angle in there somewhere. One for English language Russian dailies, Moscow Times, and St. Petersburg Times perhaps?

The American angle.
The US angle should be an easier one. Ghana plays USA in the last group game of the World Cup, thus, the US media should be interested in the competition. Oh, it's a soccer tournament in a faraway land, so who cares? Fair enough. But any newspaper worth its sporting salt should be out here. The USA team's new beau du jour is Freddy Adu, born in Ghana, but moved to the US after winning the American visa lottery. He made his debut this month for USA national team at age 16 years and 234 days, the youngest ever.

The Society Guardian angle.
Some of the football players here are heavily involved in charitable foundations. Nigeria's Nwankwo Kanu, has his heart foundation, DR Congo's Lomana Lua Lua has a charitable foundation which has built a sports and education drop-in centre in Kinshasa. I already have an interview with Kanu, another with Lua Lua would a story make. Football players being heavily involved in charities, when they're so often portrayed as greedy and overpaid. I'm offering them free PR!!

There are more angles. They're simmering, they are.

Groupies

Today was the day of the groupie. My hotel room was stormed by hundreds of fully clad Egyptian woman asking me to sign their hijabs. Okay, I lie, it didn't really happen. I was sitting down and stealing some wireless internet from the hotel lobby, when Sammy Kuffour (his father's Nigerian, he tells me), asked if he could check his email on my laptop. I turned him down with some excuse about me being a serious journalist and him being a frivolous overpaid (they all are) footballer, and that I wouldn't share my tools with him. I thought I had said those words, but it seems no sound came out of my mouth. So maybe I didn't say them. However, I do recollect telling him he could check his email, and I think I asked if I could lick his toes while he surfed. Again, I don't remember if I said that last bit, cos all my teeth are still intact.

Anyhoo, he gave me the log in details, and up popped some relatively suggestive pictures. It wasn't like late night Channel Five softcore, but by African standards, it was fairly escandaloso. Mr Kuffour claims he's never met this woman before, and that his number was given to her by someone he knows in Ghana. She's proceeded to send him racy text messages and email him pictures, the kind that cause African mothers to disown their children. So even though I didn't have to escape my hotel via the back door in a blacked out limo, I experienced groupieness vicariously through Sammy Kuffour.

The press pack are invited to watch most training sessions, just like this evening's. The players are such a joy to watch. Seeing Nigerians playing two-touch football is as rare as fried dodo's eggs. Maye because the injured Jay-jay wasn't there to hog the ball - he was the referee. After the training session, the coach, Eguavoen, asked us to mingle and get our soundbites. There were no restrictions whatsoever, and this was when I felt like a groupie. I pranced around the players, grinning, fluttering my eyes, and flicking my hair from my face. Then suddenly it hit me! I'm a serious journalist, what the hell was I doing? So I tried to get an interview with someone, anyone, but they'd all run away from me back onto the coach. Like the quick thinking south Londoner/Nigerian that I am, I hitched a ride on the team ambulance. I'd never been in the back of an ambulance before, and believe me, I was pleased with the circumstances. Because quite frankly, I wasn't sure if I even had any underwear on. Got to the hotel and managed to secure an interview with Kanu about his heart foundation. Whew...

ps. many thanks to all the kind comments. Much much appreciated.

Battles of old

Nigeria vs Ghana is one of the premier grudge matches of world football. The games always promise fireworks whenever they play, like Nigeria’s 3-0 humiliation if Ghana the last time the met at this competition. Ghana, the past masters of the 50s and 60s trying to reassert their authority over the new princes of the modern era, Nigeria. So it was a wonder when both West African teams succumbed to a most European of diseases, assertive defences. The Ghanaian defence wouldn't budge and at a point in time, all the players except the Nigerian goalie were in Ghana's half. Chances mainly came from long distance shots, and the only clear cut chance was saved by Enyeama. Taiye Taiwo, Taiye Taiwo - I say it twice, just in case you deign to forget it.

We interrupt this announcement for an important newsreel. As I was writing the Taiwo sentence, two men from the local organising committee told a South African journalist beside me to cover up his builder's bum! There are corruptible young women in hijabs in the press centre, and the last thing the need some white South African man's bum crack staring at them. I suppose the men represent some kind of CVPVP of the Egyptian government. To be honest I'm not a big fan of builder's bums, but having the exposure of buttocks policed? If people in Egypt want to see a builder's bum and all the Egyptian builders' bums are strapped in chasitty belts, they can go online and visit Africanshirts. I hope I don't get kicked out of the ocuntry for this... So what right am I fighting for exactly? I dunno, you guys should suggest some.

Back to the game. I'm distracted now, and can't be bothered to talk about the game. I'll say this though, Nigeria deserved to win, just. I was chatting with Efan Ekoku, who's here with the Beeb. Funny thing is, as I was talking to him, I was reading a report on Footballunlimited which said he was a rubbish pundit (in jest, I think). I was very tempted to show it to him and say, "look, they say you're rubbish. Ha ha!" But I wasn't sure if he'd have seen the funny side of it.

Accreditation & sundry

Whenever I go to an African country, it’s inevitable that I make comparisons with Nigeria. In Egypt though, I’m comparing it to Nigeria and Tunisia, where I was a couple of years ago. The similarities between Tunisia and Egypt are obvious, architecture of residential buildings, the boulevards. What Egypt doesn’t seem to do is straddle various worlds as Tunisia does. Tunisia was a place that balanced on a point where Europe, Arabia, and Africa converge. Egypt is more Arab than anything else, and this might perhaps be rooted in its history in Middle East politics. More on Egypt later.

Black people here are a bit of novelty, so the black African press corps walk around waving their hands like they would on the red carpet in Leicester Square. As usual, I arrived without a proper plan, because these things are best done spontaneously. I knew I needed to go to Port Said, since Nigeria is based there, and all the initial groups games will played here. When I landed, I was a approached by a man who turned out to be a friend of Obafemi Martins, and was going in the same direction. So we saddle up together and got a taxi to Port Said. Two hours on the road. Not one pothole, abrasions every once in a while, but nothing a modern car suspension couldn’t handle.

Martins paid for the taxi (he’s apparently very generous), and we pitched up in the hotel – Helnan Port Said Hotel. Since being here, I’ve seen Martins, Jay-jay, and Samson Siasia. The boys have been cocooned, and access to them isn’t easy. Nigerians teams in the past have self-destructed when there’s been a lack of discipline. My first impressions are good.

I’m posting this from the press centre which is packed, but they’ve got wireless internet and sockets for me to power my laptop. I’m ready to rumble.

Port Said

I'm in Port Said right now. I don't have nearly enough time to type my thoughts - internet cafe clock ticking. I'm in a hotel called Helnan Port Said Hotel, which is where I think all the group D teams are staying (at least Nigerian and Ghana are). I've met some people from Gazzetta dello Sport and French Eurosport. The Eurosport people were kind enough to give me a lift to the stadium to get my media accrediation. I have it now, but the picture on it is ridiculous. The girl taking the picture said my hair was "sticky-uppy" or something like that. Except that she contradicted nearly everyone I know by saying it was cool. But what does a muslim girl from an Egyptian Mediterranean coastal town know about afro hair. Given her comment, lots.

The place is teeming with security and we even had to have our baggage x-rayed before checking into the hotel. I don't know if this is standard practice at such events, but it opened my eyes to the potential terrorist threat events like this face. The Nigerian camp appears to be calm, I haven't seen any of the players yet. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's grudge match against Ghana. I'm sure we'll cane them like little babies - we always do.

الحمد لله

الحمد لله is an Arabic word that transliterates into "Alhamdulillah", which means "praise be to God", kind of like "Halel luyah" in Hebrew. This will come in handy as I jet off to Egypt in a few hours for the African Cup of Nations. I was in Tunisia a couple of years ago for the same tournament, and this was the phrase I heard (and began to use) the most. This will be my second trip to Egypt, I went with my mum when I was a mere sapling at eleven years old. The pyramids were the most terrific things I'd ever seen, and I haven't seen anything as wonderous since. Despite the fun I had, one of my most enduring memories was of the camels smelling of wee. There's something about certain smells that never leave you, sometimes nostalgia kicks in, and other times it's just nausea.

It'll be a working holiday, so lots of lazing around and doing nothing, followed by a frenzy of activity to meet deadlines. It'll also be a chance to chase some stories I've been thinking about recently. If I get enough remuneration to cover the costs of my trip, I'd have done very well. I'm not sure how often I'll be able to update my blog, but any chance I get, I will holla. If anybody has any sense at all, they'll put £100 on Nigeria to win. It's a sure banker. I know I say this everytime, and I'm wrong everytime. But this time, I'm convinced I'm right. Trust me on this one.

It wasn't me

I know I claimed credit for Mark Oaten's withdrawal from the Lib Dem leadership race. However, I can categorically state that I am NOT responsible for him stepping down from the frontbench. The News of the Screws took care of that. It appears that Mr Oaten was cavorting (and then some) with a twenty-three year old rent boy. He talked about an "error of judgement", a phrase which is strewn over any apology for illicit gay sex since Ron Davies's moment of madness in Clapham Common in 1998. I almost feel sorry for the man, but, that's the risk politicians take when they put themselves up for public office. The scrutiny of people in public office in this country is extreme. If you have so much as passed wind as a toddler in the playpen, you can be sure that when you become MP for Obscure Town East, the country will know. There are certain things that politicians can leave in their past, but sexual deviance is not one of them. The scandal sheets like the Screws will either dig them up, or an ancient encounter who's fallen on hard times will sell the story. Twenty-three year old rent boy. He's either lovesick that Oaty's rejected him for a wife and 2.4 children, or he just needs to pay off his student loan. Hell hath no fury like a rent boy spurned.

ps Hope you like the picture.

Soothsayer

Yesterday, Mark Oaten dropped out of the Lib Dem leadership race. I like to think I had something to do with it. When I was on Question Time last week (January 12) I said these words, "Mark Oaten for Prime Minister? I don't think so." Obviously, the Lib Dems won't form a government, but that's the premise on which they have any argument these days - they want to be the party of government, which means having a PM. By saying what I did, I sounded the death knell for Mark Oaten. So I expect a cheque in the post from Lib Dem MPs and supporters for pointing out to them that their Orange Book Oaten wouldn't make a good PM, or good leader.

Youth Service

The Chancellor’s Fabian Society speech at the weekend echoed a similar speech David Cameron gave in August. Since July 7, the idea of how to give young people a sense of belonging and civic duty has been high on the national agenda. Muslims from Beeston who feel British will not blow up tube trains, so goes the argument. Feral youth from Brixton, Toxteth, and Moss Side who have a sense of civic duty will not happy slap the bus driver, is the thinking.

Community service is seen as one way to foster national cohesion. Such schemes are used in various countries, which include both voluntary and involuntary participation. The unifying factor, however, is that community service is introduced in times of great national upheaval. The US Peace Corps, which Gordon Brown mentioned, was a Cold War creation of President Kennedy to evangelise for democracy against the communist missionaries from China and the Soviet Union. The Third World was the ideological battleground, and the volunteers were the foot soldiers.

In Germany, where military conscription still exists for men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three, “civilian service” is used as an alternative to military training. Instead of running around the Black Forest wielding weapons of war, young Germans can opt to drive ambulances or read bedtime stories in old people’s homes. The German army has relied on conscription since the Allies allowed the newly sovereign country to have an army in 1955. As the country seeks to end conscription, community service is also under threat. Charitable organisations fear the loss of up to 90,000 men, which civilian service has provided since the Cold War.

The Nigerian youth service corps was introduced after an ethnicity charged civil war had killed more than one million people. The military president at the time said it was established “with a view to the proper encouragement and development of common ties among the youths of Nigeria and the promotion of national unity.”

Young people from the mainly Christian urban south are thrust into village life in rural Muslim north, vice versa, and everything in between. It is the Atticus Finch philosophy of walking a mile in another’s shoes writ on a national scale. A northern “youth corper” on being sent south said, “I thought they were cannibals in that part of the country, and they thought we were cannibals in my part of the country. It turns out none of us eat people.” This might appear as a piece of trivia among noble savages, but breaking myths is an important way of nurturing understanding between estranged people.

David Cameron and Gordon Brown must believe that British society is facing an identity crisis similar to a country recovering from war. And perhaps the bombings on July 7 was the tipping point. Where both men might learn from Nigeria is the relationship between youth service and political office. One is barred from political office if they haven’t done youth service. Where would that leave both men?

Money laundering in Nigeria

Michael Buchanan goes to Nigeria for the BBC World Service in Dirty Money. He talks money laundering to Finance Minister Ngozi Okonji-Iweala, Nuhu Ribadu, and briefly to Alamieyeseigha. Nigeria's go to intellectual, Pat Utomi (taking a break from his drab television show) is also there.

Respect

I listened to Tony Blair’s speech on Respect, with a grin on my face and laughter in my belly. It was funny, not because most of the measures are amusingly unworkable (which they are), but because it has parallels to the Nigerian military regime of the early 1980s. The Prime Minister has been accused of being many things, being presidential, and even being a Tory, but one suspects he’s never been likened to a military dictator.

When Generals Buhari and Idiagbon seized power in a coup d’etat in 1983, they set to rooting out corruption and indiscipline from Nigerian civil society. Civil servants were lazy, members of the public were disorderly, and so the military government thought up a military solution to the problem. In similar rhetoric and fervour to the war on terror, and the war on drugs, they coined the phrase War Against Indiscipline (WAI).

During the days of WAI, mobile courts dispensed summary justice on the streets of Nigeria. Commuters who’d ordinarily rush for the few buses available had to mimic their former colonial masters, the British, and queue. If you didn’t queue, there was a policeman toting a whip itching for the chance to use it. If you dropped litter on the streets, you were pulled aside, and given a lot more than just a fine. Civil servants who turned up late for work (a very Nigerian disease), were forced to do frog-jumps. For those not public school educated, Sandhurst trained, or bullied by the PE teacher, frog-jumps entail grabbing your ears, squatting, and jumping repeatedly. Painful. Imagine Whitehall mandarins frog-jumping down the Mall for being delayed by the Northern line tube.

In a country where “reasonable chastisement”, and the “spare the rod” mentality is not just legal but encouraged, WAI was essentially corporal punishment for errant adults. People are born naughty and rude, and politeness and courtesy have to be beaten into them was the mantra. People died of heart attacks when made to do frog-jumps, and the well meaning discipline agenda eventually descended into detaining journalists and the serious curtailing of civil rights. Despite this, some Nigerians today look upon those days as the golden age of discipline in their society, much like Blair looks to Victorian England for his cue on etiquette and manners. In fact, some measures enacted then still exist.

Flogging people and making them do frog jumps would never be allowed here. This is a civilised liberal democracy, apparently, but something tells me the Prime Minister hankers after the kind of power military men have. A few years ago, President Obasanjo (former general, but now in civvies and democratically elected) took a cane from a policeman and began to whip him with it. The policeman’s offence? Caning members of the public while trying to restore order, after the president’s arrival had caused chaos. What wouldn’t Blair give to be able to do that? If only he could avoid getting an ASBO…

Prison works

One of my most enduring memories of the former Tory leader Michael Howard when he was Home Secretary in John Major's government. His mantra was "prison works." It's an understandably right-wing position to take. If criminals encroach on a citizen's right to peaceful existence, the state secludes those criminals from society using punitive measures. The commission of the crime means that the criminal forfeits the right to be in civilised society and is held responsible for their actions. None of that lefty pinko liberal "blame it on society" claptrap.

Interesting then that Nigeria apparently has a smaller prison population than those incarcerated at Her Majesty's pleasure. The Nigerian government is set to release more than half of its prison population. The report says that Nigeria has 40,444 inmates in 227 prisons. This tallies closely with Home Office's World Prison figures of 2003 which put it at 39,368. The Home Office report of July 2005 put the UK's prison population at 76,266. This works out at 34 inmates per 100,000 of national population, with the UK on a whopping 139 per 100,000.

Call me biased against Nigeria, but I'd never have expected this to be the case. I still think of Nigeria as a country where people get arrested and subsequently disappear forever, like Houdini gone wrong. The figures also allude that Nigerians are more law abiding and less prone to commit crimes for which one can be imprisoned. This is rubbish. Lagos is probably the most crime-ridden and unsafe place in the world, except for Baghdad (which is in a war zone, so it doesn't count). Given the amount of crime in Lagos, its prison population alone should be 40,000. I suspect that Nigeria ranks lower than the UK because the Nigerian justice system grinds slowly, if at all.

People can bribe their way out of jail sentences, law enforcement are reluctant to do their jobs, and the courts don't have the desire to rule on cases where they won't earn much money. I'm encouraged by the move as most of the inmates appear to have been held in violation of the number one right of the imprisoned - habeas corpus. This shows that the Nigerian government is, shock horror, interested in the rights of its citizens. When OBJ came into power, I remember there was a suspension of the death sentence pending review. They planned to have a national consultation about it, presumably with the government leaning towards abolition. The government should not consult the people on this issue. It will be the one thing along with football that Nigerians will unite for.

The prison population in the UK has risen under Labour, not what one would expect of a centre-left party. I'm sure David Cameron's policy wonks are thinking of a novel addition to their list of new voter-friendly policies. "Prison works, in the Scilly Isles. Holiday with your fellow purse borrowers (bag snatchers), life deprivers (murderers), and unwanted inseminators (rapists). A compassionately conseravtive Euro Disney/Butlins fusion island. Voyagers should voluntarily report to their local police station. No handcuffs will be used."

ps. The Guardian has a special report on prisons.

Nigeria in 2006

It would be downright stupid to say that this is going to be an interesting year for Nigeria. Every year in a country's life is interesting on some level. Besides, as former British PM Harold Macmillan said when asked about the most difficult thing in politics, "events dear boy, events". Events govern everything. Events such as the Nigerian Congress introducing same-sex civil partnerships, or Babangida explicitly saying he isn't running for president. These are events which would render any possible predictions obsolete. If any country had three tragic plane crashes and the death of a first lady in one year, it would be their annus horribilis, but not in Nigeria. The potential for dramatic events never dissipates.

Some things to look out for:

Politics
This could be a wonderful year for Nigerian politics. Since elections at all tiers of government are due in April 2007, politicians will set out their stalls early. The overarching question is if OBJ will run for a third term. The constitution doesn't allow it - unless two-thirds of Congress vote to change it. One never knows how the lawmakers are thinking. their position on the matter sways as the wind blows. One thing is for certain, there are enough people against it to cause the PDP to split. This would be a wonderful thing, not because I have something against the PDP, but because they have too much power.

When one party in a "nascent democracy" (I couldn't resist) like Nigeria has so much power, it ends up consolidating its power, and the country sleepwalks into a de facto one-party state and president-for-life ethos. It's happened all over Africa before, Kenya being the most recent country to break out of it with Mwai Kibaki, and Yoweri Museveni is hoping to sustain it in Uganda's March elections. If the party has too much power, it can afford not to deliver reforms for the electorate because there's little threat of being swept from power.

If OBJ doesn't want to become a president for life but wants to see his work continued, then he should endorse a successor á la Clinton/Gore (which succeeded if you really count the votes), or Arap Moi/Kenyatta (which failed) in Kenya. The successor will most likely be judged on the performance of the predecessor, and if the people like what OBJ has done, they will trust his judgement as to who should continue his good work.

There is a slight threat that if the PDP breaks up, it will fractionalise into tribal groups. Most of OBJ's opponents want him to stand down because they want the presidency to go to their geopolitical zones - North North, South South, South West etc. This may well be true but the nature of the constitution means that any party that wins the election has to be truly national on some level. To win, the president must have, and I quote from the constitution "not less than one-quarter of the votes cast at the election each of at least two-thirds of all the States in the Federation,"* in addition to having the most votes cast for them. Any party that wants to put forward a winning president has to be fairly national, as former secessionist warlord Ojukwu and his APGA found to their cost, in 2003. Any party with serious aspirations has to be national.

A weakened PDP will mean government by coalition which might seem like diluted government to some, but will definitely mean a better spread of power.

Security and Unity
How will Nigeria treat its militants? MASSOB's Ralph Uwazurike is to stand trial for treason, and so is Mujahid Dokubo Asari of the IYC. Secession/militancy is not just an eastern or South South region preoccupation, Frederick Fasehun and Gani Adams of OPC are in court as well. While there is some evidence that some of these people have committed treasonable offences, their grievances are genuinely held.

Talk of Biafra is laughed at outside the east, but the last time I went to Nigeria (Christmas 2004) there were Biafra flags flying all over Awka, capital of Anambra state. Within a few minutes of talking to a young Igbo man, he said to me, "the youth are agitating for a Biafran state". People feel genuinely let down by the Nigerian government and feel that only self-determination will solve their various problems. What becomes of these groups depends on how their leaders' trials go, and crucially what the government does to address their grievances. The powder keg is there, all it needs is for a bumbling politican to light it.

Health
The December announcement that the government is to offer free treatment a boon to Nigeria's four milion AIDS sufferers. Add the revitalsed polio eradication drive and you have a government showing a genuine desire to improve healthcare in Nigeria.

Culture
Nigeria is set to join the world's pantheon of voyeurs as Endemol Nigeria produces Big Brother Nigeria. I wonder what the house will say about modern Nigeria. Will the contestants spend their days in the house praying and fasting? Or will they just use dodgy slang like "bons" and "sturves".

MTV Europe Award winner Tuface Idibia has signed with big four record label EMI in South Africa. How far will his star rise?

Another multiplex cinema is set to open in Lekki. What impact will this have on Nollywood?


*Nigerian 1999 Constitution Chapter VI, Part 1A.

Only in South London

The 453 bus between Deptford and Marylebone has got to be the most eventful bus route in London. The last time I was on it, a woman had her mobile phone snatched as she was sending a text message, or playing snake, who knows. The hooded fellow grabbed the phone and ran out, just when the bus was at a stop and had its doors open. In a true display of London community spirit, nobody as much as yelled, "stop, thief", or gave chase, or gave succour to the damsel in distress. Everyone kept listening to their ipods, playing Su Doku, or just plain staring blankly at the poor woman. I was tempted to get up and go after him, and recreate Clint Eastwood's "Do I feel lucky, punk"* scene. Alas, I don't own a gun, and the damsel in so-called distress chuckled at the fact that someone had just robbed her. Somehow I didn't see the need to chase down a mugger who was brave enough to mug someone on a crowded bus, especially if the victim herself thought the event was funny. Besides, I was too chicken.

Today on the 453, a man walked onto the bus shouting and spewing forth obscenities. I'll show you a smidgen of what he said. The language is not for the faint of heart, and I merely paraphrase - "What's up to all my niggas, fuck all white people. White people tried to kill me. They put me in jail. I've been to New York, white people put me in jail in Rikers Island. I don't give a fuck. I'm a Christian, but fuck it I know I'm swearing. But God will forgive me. I'm not a church nigga. Fuck white people, I hate white people. I'm gonna be rich." I'm sure you get the message. This went on for the duration of the fifteen minute bus journey. In any other part of London, or civilised British society, passengers would have gotten off the bus with discomfiture and waited for another. Not in south London. Encouragingly or alarmingly (depending on your viewpoint) the people on the bus began to talk to him and engage with him. They were obviously laughing at him rather than with him, but nonetheless they were talking to the man, and probably helping him loosen a few more screws.

Another south London incident. I was waiting in the queue at a petrol station in Peckham, when a man suddenly ran out carrying three crates of Coca Cola. He didn't get very far, dropping it just outside the sliding doors. The attendant looked up and told us that he had seen him hanging around the station all morning and had been a bit suspicious. What got me though, was his motives for stealing. Was he hungry? Thirsty perhaps? What kind of thief who steals out of necessity steals Coca Cola? He didn't steal the sandwiches (which he'd have gotten away with), or the loose bottles of drinks in the fridge. Maybe he wasn't particularly hungry but had invited a few too many people to a dinner party at his house that evening, and thought he'd pop out for emergency supplies.

The petrol station incident reminds me of a joke by east London (via Ghana) comedian Kojo. Whenever a beggar says to him, "I haven't eaten all day, bruv. I need 50p to get some food." Kojo tells them, "What? You know a place where you can eat for 50p? I'm coming with you, bruv. You've got to take me there!"

*In Dirty Harry, Clint Eastwood plays cop Harry Callahan. He's pointing a gun at a baddie after a shoot out, not sure if he's run out of bullets, or if there's one more left:
I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

Predictions for Her Majesty's Realm in 2006

I shall gaze into my crystal ball, and give free advice to those who want to make a killing at Ladbrokes, or some illegal betting ring. These are the tips for 2006:

1. Tony Blair steps down as PM, but Labour skip a generation, leaving Brown as the greatest nearly man since Roy Jenkins. Douglas Alexander is crowned leader.

2. Tony Blair confesses to really being a Tory and crosses the floor.

3. Heterosexual partnerships are made illegal. All people must find same sex partners or face being forced to use the Northern Line for all their travels. Robbie Williams and Gary Barlow are the first to pair up.

4. The Queen abdicates, but Charles and William are passed over. Harry becomes king. The coronation takes place in a Walkabout pub, and the new King's Guards wear Nazi Stormtrooper uniforms.

5. Lord Lucan is revealed to be alive. His true identity is revealed to be _____ (fill in the blank)

6. Beagle 2 is found in a Tesco trolley in a rubbish tip outside Slough. It apparently never left the Earth's atmosphere.

7. Super reality show is invented - Celebrity wife swapping with pop idols faking it who want to be the weakest millionaire in the Big Brother house invaders.

8. Nobody watches super reality show. Sold to North Korea, where the show pacifies Kim Jong-il. The maximum leader allows Mcdonalds and Starbucks into Pyongyang. "Make chicken nuggets, not war", is his message to mankind.

9. England win the World Cup. They play Germany in the final, and the fans don't riot. Or mention the War. Or mention 1966. Or sing the theme tune from the Great Escape.

10. Following the events mentioned in 9, hell starts to freeze as pigs are seen flying over Loch Ness.

Go forth and conquer. You have no excuse not to bet your house on all these things happening. If they happen and you haven't bet your soon-to-disappear pension on it, you'll be kicking yourself.