Words that grate

Nigerians are world leaders when it comes to mutilating the English langauge. Yesterday, I watched a Nollywood film (under duress), and it was littered with the misuse of too many words.

I cannot, I repeat cannot stand "waterproof". Waterproof what? Waterproof basket? Waterproof shirt? Waterproof is an adjective, not a noun. You can't just say waterproof and expect me to know that you mean plastic bag.

Flit. This is slightly more forgivable, because it's an example of how Nigeria has adapted the language to its own needs. Flit, which used to be a brand of insecticide, is now the catch-all noun for any kind of insecticide, and is also the verb for spraying the insecticide in a room e.g. "I've just finished flitting the room" or, "Go and buy flit." Except that "Flit" isn't even sold in Nigeria anymore. I have never seen a can of Flit in my life. What is sold instead is Raid, Mobil, and sundry other stuff. The English also do it - with hoover. No, hoover is not a verb, it was the make of the original vacuum cleaner.

The one which made me pull out my hair, leaving clumps across my scalp, is "ice block." You want ice block? Oh really? Well, excuse me while I go to the north pole and carve out a block of ice for you so that you can have a cool glass of coke. Sorry? Oh, no need to go through all that trouble? But you want a block of ice, don't you? Or did you mean ice cubes? There's a difference you know?

"Ghana must go". To where? In fact, I think it's more Nigerians who are going to Ghana than Ghanaians going to Ghana. What was a Ghana-must-go bag called before 1983, when more than a million Ghanaians were evicted from Nigeria for doing what immigrants do best - working hard? They had a name then, and since Ghanaians are not going anymore, we should revert to that name. I understand that the names of the bags are an intriguing piece of Nigeria's (and Ghana's) history, but is there no better term to use? "Ghana must go" is just tacky. I believe they are called laundry bags. So we should call them that.

Non-conforming conformists

There are two types of "cool". (To be honest, if you have to use the word "cool" to describe cool, then you're probably not cool). There’s the “I do popular things, so I’m cool,” and also the “I’m cool because I don’t do popular things.” These are known in the au-fait circles as the conformists, and the non-conforming conformists (NCCs) respectively. And the latter despise the former; no marks for guessing to which camp I like to deceive myself that I belong.

The NCCs occupy the moral high ground, especially in typical scenarios such as when a conformist confesses to being a fan of OutKast (note the expertly capitalised k) and their single “Hey Ya!” Depending on the level of bile building up in the NCC’s stomach, the reply would likely be, “oh really? So where the bloody hell were you in 1994 when I was smuggling Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik out of Our Price?”

The NCCs are cool because they know the specialist fringe non-consumer consumer products, made cool by fringe people that hardly anyone knows about. People's reaction to my taste in music ranges from, "is that even music?" to my favourite, "are you promoting your German cousin's album?" And when these unpopular things become popular by way of mainstream appropriation, they have to find another kind of cool. Nothing grates an NCC like when one of their own cool bunch becomes, well, cool in the popular sense. This anger lies in the fact that an effort has to be made to be an NCC, because the mainstream does not cater for them. And to see their hard work splattered on billboards, television and in ipods is anathema to them. These things belong in their raffia pouches and smoked out basement gigs for their own personal consumption.

Recently, there have been some prime examples of conformist appropriation of non-conformist cool. Converse trainers. When I graduated from university a few years ago, I bought a pair of red low-top Converse All Stars for £30. Incredibly versatile and classic shoes for next to no money, style on the cheap. We all know who the arbiters of taste are in today's world, the 16 to 34 age group. I wore the trainers to my aunt's house, a house full of fashion concsious teenagers. They weren't at that age bracket yet, but they aspired, and felt they could pass judgment on my choice of footwear.

When children mock, they mock as pack. They're like piranhas to an isolated catfish - they eat you alive. The first one called his brother and sister, and they all started pointing and laughing at my ol' skool shoes. Ha ha, very funny, I thought. Fast forward to late last year. "Nkem, can you please buy me a pair of Converse trainers, they're only £30," cried the little bratlings. At that point, I wanted to see how far I could stretch the law of "reasonable chastisement", but somehow I was sure I'd end up stretching the laws of GBH instead. As if my little cousins wasn't bad enough, David Cameron now wears them. Should we keep wearing them?, the masses ask.

The conformists see the NCCs as an obscure cult who are odd precisely because they don’t fit into the mainstream of things. Sadly, they both need each other to survive. The conformists always eventually have to steal their cool from the NCCs, while the NCCs define themselves against the conformists. A perfect but grudging example of symbiosis if ever there was one.

ps. How cool is that guy's back? Men should applaud him for even going through the pain of getting that figure etched on his back. And women should be happy he attempted some form of grooming, albeit stylish. Rock on, dude!

Military brutality

At the risk of seeming like the Biafran ambassador to New Cross, there's been some Massob news. They accuse the army, at the behest of OBJ, of extra-judicial killings. Interestingly, Narto, which stands for National Association of Road Transport Owners, is the co-accuser. It is probably the Igbo people who run the not-so-luxurious national coach service who have joined their tribesmen in solidarity.

This is not just a Massob issue, though. In the Niger Delta, the army has been accused of carrying out attacks, razing villages to the ground. Foremost is the Odi massacre. A democratically elected president using the army against his own people as a tool of fear?

Slavery and Lagos slums

OBJ is working hard to be Africa's foremost statesman. Yesterday in Abuja, for Emancipation Day, he commented on how slavery and colonialism are to blame for Africa's current deplorable state. A president is only as good as his advisers. I'm desperate to meet the people who have moulded him into the statesman he has become. And now that he will leave without "tenure extension", he leaves bathed in even more glorious sunlight. How did it come to this?

On financial remittances, Lagos has received a loan of $200m to fix up the slums, make them look sharp. However, Ghana, the West African neighbours Nigeria loves to bully, gets a grant of $547m. For good governance. Nigeria gets the money with strict conditions, USA dashes* Ghana the money. All fingers are not equal.

*dashes is Nigerian slang for a gift.

Crime, politics, and books

Some brilliant radio links today. The BBC World Service broadcast part one of Inter-continental Cops yesterday.

On the Today programme, the last two items were wonderful. In the first, research has shown that people who have a particular political position zone out anything anithetical to that position. So a Democrat would automatically shut out George Dubya, while a Republican would shut out John "flip-flop" Kerry.

The second item was about books acting as a badge and what they say about the person carrying them. I know someone who has carried Tolstoy's War and Peace, not just because it was a good read, but the kind of man it could attract. Apparently newspapers and magazines don't count, because they don't require the same commitment books do. Rules out a voracious magazine and newspaper reader like me.

Man spots ancient Greek classic poking out of handbag of woman.

Man: Oooo, The Iliad. I like a bit of ancient Greek myself

Woman: Really? Well this is nothing, you haven't seen my Aristophanes yet

Man: If you show me your Aristophanes, I'll show you my Sword of Damocles

Woman: Grrr!

Man: Grrr!

Man and Woman interlock arms and run off.

Nigeria to go nuclear

I almost choked on my ogbono last night when I heard Obasanjo say Nigeria was going nuclear. He was giving a speech where he said that the country had major energy needs, and he intended that Nigeria would be supplied by nuclear energy by 2010. In four years time. The problem with Nigeria has never been a shortage of ideas and grand projects, but the maintenance of those projects. Ajaokuta Steel Plant, National Theatre, and this blue waste disposal plant I used to see from Eko Bridge.

National Theatre barely functions, and the others became wastelands. I believe the OBJ has tried to rescue Ajaokuta, which was left in a state of disrepair for many years. Imagine a nuclear wasteland in Nigeria. I'm not one of those who believe we should walk before we fly. I've argued before that it is possible to have great technological advancement, even when some of the basics haven't been met. Nuclear energy, though, is a grand plan too far.

None of the regulatory bodies work well enough in Nigeria. NAFDAC may have been dominated by Dora Akunyili, but the aviation industry has no such doyen, hence last year's crashes. With certain industries, a slight lapse may be acceptable. In the nuclear industry, one cannot afford to lapse, even once. The Chernobyl disaster happened in Ukraine, but affected sheep in Wales (which are still being monitored, 20 years later).

One of the main issues in nuclear energy is disposal of nuclear waste - how do you get rid of it? These are some of the questions the governments of the developed nations ask. Nigerian cannot get rid of its domestic waste, how will it manage nuclear? Any error and the whole of Nigeria would be rendered inhabitable. I don't trust the Nigerian government to keep the country safe.

There are some things that Nigeria's is not just ready for. I'd have to wait and see how they propose to regulate the industry, but for now, my instinct is to say no.

Shame, to feel or not to feel

Some of the Africans stranded in Lebanon have given their various reasons for not wanting to return to their countries. Their reasons can be summed up in one word - shame. They don't want to go back without anything to show for their time in Lebanon. It seems to have escaped them that given the circumstances, they should be forgiven for not taking anything back. Unless I'm mistaken and Africans are a cold callous bunch lacking in human compassion for their war ravaged countrymen.

After all, the news about Middle East crisis is dominating news headlines the world over. There was a representative of Hamas (I think), on Nigerian current affairs programme 120 minutes discussing the conflict. Nobody in the world could fail to know, or at least have heard of what is happening. But Africans still feel that a war is not enough to excuse them for not bringing back a fortune from the neighbours of the original land of milk and honey they left their countries for. Or at least a cow and a beehive. Something. Anything.

This happens all too often, and I can mainly speak for Nigerians. Nigerians abroad sometimes stay in menial jobs which they'd rather not do (often looking over their shoulder for immigration officials), because they're too ashamed to go back home. "What do I have to show for my time here?", they ask. It isn't that they can't reestablish themselves back home in whatever capacity they left originally, because quite often, they can. But they won't go before they've built a house back home, or at least bring back some gold from Dick Whittington's London. Nobody wants to return a loser, which is fair enough. Sadly, it reinforces the notion that "abroad" is heaven, and that it is impossible to fail once one leaves Nigeria's borders.

People end up putting their lives on hold because nobody wants to return in so-called shame. Take the woman who says she left Nigeria when she was 10-years-old. Why on earth should she have to prove anything to anybody in Nigeria? The woman who even says that she doesn't feel like Liberia is home anymore says, "if I arrived back after 37 years - just me and my handbag - everyone will laugh at me." And this isn't even her home. The Ghanaian also refuses to return empty-handed. The people back home are so used to Western Union Money Transfer, that when the source of that cash comes back they're expected to bring the bank with them.

It's an indication of the state of Africa that people would rather stay in a warzone, than return home with just the clothes on their backs.

Whereas some have too much shame, others have very little. The body of Funso Williams has barely gone cold, but the Yahoo boys have assumed his wife's identity and are firing off emails across the globe. The BBC World Service is broadcasting a programme on Monday morning on combating the crime associated with such emails, featuring interviews with Scotland Yard, and EFCC "tzar", Nuhu Ribadu. I'll put a better link up when the World Service schedules website is fixed.

I tried to make some capital out of Funso Williams's death, but failed. (Don't give me that look, I'm a journalist, and we peddle stories). Israel and Hezbollah had taken up all the pages on the Sundays, so a political murder in one of the world's largest democracies disappears into the news ether. During a google trawl for Funso Williams news, I came across his campaign website. Unsurprisingly, it hasn't been updated to display news of his murder. The campaign slogan "Keep Faith Alive" is even more poignant after his death. People's faith Nigerian democracy is precisely the thing that may have died with him.

Child trafficking

An 11-year-old boy Aloysius Abacha has ben found stranded at the international airport in Dhaka, Bangladesh. There are very few details about how Aloysius ended up 6000 miles and 5 time zones away from his home country. But it wouldn't be presumptious of me to say that someone has tried to smuggle him to Europe, and something has gone wrong somewhere.

The person he came with probably has one of two intentions, which would be to

1. smuggle him to be used as a household serf, or
2. smuggle him to be with family of some sort. (In some instances this hardly differs to the first reason).
   

It appears like a circuitous route to take to get to Europe, but as Fortress Europe strengthens its borders and direct links to Africa, going via Asia doesn't seem so daunting. That said, Bangladesh could also have been an intended destination. Why? I don't know, but Nigerians appear to want to go anywhere but Nigeria. Whatever the intentions of the smuggler, an innocent child is being trafficked across international borders, and being left stranded in a strange land.

Who knows if the boy is really 11, or if the name given is real. He might just be giving a pre-planned spiel. Either way, the boy is a victim in this, and we need to stop treating our children like Dickensian pieces of property.

Starting guns

If there was any doubt that Nigeria is having elections next year, the murder of Funso Williams has dispelled those doubts. Welcome to elections, Nigeria-style.

National purge

Poland is facing a potential national purge. Basically, people who aided and abetted the communist-era secret police could be prevented from public service. This is an acknowledgement of the evils of the communist regimes, and the culpability of those who helped sustain the regime. The measures being undertaken will by no means be fair, but it does two things: it looks at its past, and lets people who made the lives of their fellow citizens miserable know that their actions have not been forgotten.

Nigeria needs a similar purge. When General Abubakar constructed the constitution of 1999, and initiated the birth of political parties for Nigeria's nascent democracy, my heart gladdened. But when I saw the people who were running, my heart sunk. Take the 2003 presidential elections. The three frontrunners had all been disastrous military dictators. Ojukwu had led a secession then bailed at the eleventh hour, leaving Philip Effiong to stew in the juices he had left behind. Obasanjo gave us a toothless and corrupt civilian government in Shagari, not forgetting his soldiers tossing Fela's mother from the second floor of a building in Kalakuta Republic. And of course Buhari, the man who thought that flogging civil servants in public was a good way to instil discipline in Nigerians (check out this ridiculous toe curling panegyric).

In 2007, people who claim to have grey matter between their ears are actively considering voting for Babangida. Babangida has never explained why he annuled the June 12 elections, thrusting Nigeria into five years of a dark marriage with Abacha, spawn of the devil. Why oh why? In any civilised democracy, such people would be too ashamed to run for public office. But in Nigeria, they even get elected. A solution would be to bar these people from running for office. Anyone who has held office in a previous Nigerian government should be barred from being given a second chance at pillaging the country.

This is obviously unworkable, as there would have been some good eggs in past corrupt governments. But these sham governments were ipso facto corrupt, and anyone who served in them, is tainted by association. With these vetting criteria, many talented people would left out. But there are many talented people amongst the multitude that is the Nigerian population, we would barely notice the loss in personnel.

The Guardian has taken a typically leftist view, defending Communism past, and flagging possible McCarthyite witch-hunts. If only they understood how it feels to have the people who violated one's rights in the past, purport to suddenly be the guardians of those same rights. It is undemocratic to bar someone from running for public office, especially when they haven't been convicted of a crime which bars them automatically. However, if we're not smart enough to stop them running, we should be smart enough not to vote them in...

Superman Returns - he needn't have

**Spoiler warning**

A disappointing summer blockbuster. The film itself is the answer to Lois Lane's Pullitzer winning article, "Why the world doesn't need Superman." When the lights dimmed for the start of the film, the mainly adult audience applauded. This was their chance to relive their childhood, but a more effects laden childhood.

Superman is just as geeky as Clark Kent, and the choice of James Marsden (who plays Cyclops in the X-Men series) as Lois Lane common law husband is a bad one. You half expect him exhibit some superhuman strength and save Lois in times of trouble. The silly hairdresser's nightmare S-curl is ever-present. Superman goes underwater, comes back out, curl remains the same. Surely the filmmakers know a 12A audience are old enought not to buy that guff. Besides, no hair spray is that good.

Brandon Routh looks like Superman should, and Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor is about the best thing in the film, constantly stealing scenes. The relationship between Clark and Lois is as exciting as a wet, bacteria-infested kitchen rag. Lois now has a little sprog, Jason, who is Superman's seed. So they say. There aren't enough clues as to whether Superman and Lois Lane had a proverbial post-coital cigarette, shortly after they supposedly made little Jason. They were in love, they spent a night together, but did they do the dirty? Who knows.

There are also some Christian allusions drawn in the film. Superman is his father's only son, who's been sent to save the world. After his last heroic act of the film, he falls into a deep coma, possibly even dead. He spends some time there. Three days? When the nurse goes back into the room, he's not there. Has his body been stolen? Nah. He is risen. Superman is always there, omnipotent and omnipresent.

My main beef with Superman though, is his costume. In his five year trawl through space, he must have discovered starch. His leather cape always looks starched. It still flutters, but remains solid nonetheless. The shoes look like they could have come from "Shoefayre", the ones where the shop has had a closing down sale for as long as one can remember, and where everything is BOGOF. Underpants on top of tights are a fashion no-no in the noughties, and should be left in the 20th century. Apologies, but no concessions should even be made for the Man of Steel. Above all, where is his crotch? What kind of man wears briefs and his "bits" don't have a bulge. Not even slightly. Where did it all go? Very worrying.

Superman, go back to Krypton.

Yellow Sun

Thanks for all the kind words, I'm recuperating slowly. At least my keyboard is no longer gets covered in nose "water" whenever I hover over it. Typing this, my nose is the driest it's been in a few days. CM, I wouldn't have picked you out as a Michael Jackson back cataloguer! Akin, what can I say, what can I say? Ayoke, isi ewu (more Igbo vocab), thank you very much.

Speaking of Igbo, I went for a New Stateman summer shindig last night. As a former serf, sorry intern (easily mixed up), I was humbly invited by the man who organised it, the good Sam. The party had the great and the good of journalism and politics, Maitlis, Buerk, Hilsum, Hoon, MacShane, and Marshall-Andrews. Couldn't move for hacks and politerati. I met someone who has quite possibly written the first review of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's new book, Half of a Yellow Sun. The title comes from a short story she wrote. And, probably refers to the Biafran flag, which had a half yellow glowing sun jutting out of the middle black band (see flag) - the Biafran anthem was Land of the Rising Sun. It should appear in the Literary Review soon. I wanted to strangle him, as I'd kill to read the book. Perhaps I should have strangled him.

"The best book I've read all year", he said. Apparently, apart from the merits of the book in literary terms, it doesn't shy away from the politics. This is music to my ears. People don't want to talk about Biafra, the pink elephant in the cubicle. How on earth can Nigeria avoid it? But we trundle on, as if the fissures of 1966-70 have been mended. I also spoke to someone else who helped her with the book, and is acknowledged in it. "In twenty years time, she'll be talked about in the same breath as Chinua Achebe." Not my words. People don't make such comparisons lightly. So if this book is as successful as is anticipated, the whole world will be asking about Biafra. While we look at the pink elephant and hope it shrinks and disappears.

Sniff, sniff

Blasted summer flu...

International Diplomacy for Dummies

No doubt you guys may have heard about Bush and Blair discussing international affairs, and the poor fellas didn't realise that a live microphone was picking up their words. The language with which Bush spoke about the Middle East crisis was fruity to say the least. One would have thought that both men were school prefects presiding over a petulant playground spat. The classic line is of course, "...to get Syria, to get Hizbullah to stop this shit and it's over." It almost equates to "tell Johnny to to tell Bobby to stop throwing stones, and no windows will be broken anymore." And "yo, Blair"? Is that Ali G underneath a Bush mask? International Diplomacy for Dummies:

Bush: Yo, Blair. How are you doing?

Blair: I'm just...

Bush: You're leaving?

Blair: No, no, no not yet. On this trade thingy ...[inaudible]

Bush: Yeah, I told that to the man.

Blair: Are you planning to say that here or not?

Bush: If you want me to.

Blair: Well, it's just that if the discussion arises ...

Bush: I just want some movement.

Blair: Yeah.

Bush: Yesterday we didn't see much movement.

Blair: No, no, it may be that it's not, it may be that it's impossible.

Bush: I am prepared to say it.

Blair: But it's just I think what we need to be an opposition...

Bush: Who is introducing the trade?

Blair: Angela [Merkel, the German chancellor].

Bush: Tell her to call 'em.

Blair: Yes.

Bush: Tell her to put him on, them on the spot. Thanks for [inaudible] it's awfully thoughtful of you.

Blair: It's a pleasure.

Bush: I know you picked it out yourself.

Blair: Oh, absolutely, in fact [inaudible].

Bush: What about Kofi? [inaudible] His attitude to ceasefire and everything else ... happens.

Blair: Yeah, no I think the [inaudible] is really difficult. We can't stop this unless you get this international business agreed.

Bush: Yeah.

Blair: I don't know what you guys have talked about, but as I say I am perfectly happy to try and see what the lie of the land is, but you need that done quickly because otherwise it will spiral.

Bush: I think Condi is going to go pretty soon.

Blair: But that's, that's, that's all that matters. But if you ... you see it will take some time to get that together.

Bush: Yeah, yeah.

Blair: But at least it gives people ...

Bush: It's a process, I agree. I told her your offer to ...

Blair: Well ... it's only if I mean ... you know. If she's got a ... or if she needs the ground prepared as it were ... Because obviously if she goes out, she's got to succeed, if it were, whereas I can go out and just talk.

Bush: You see, the ... thing is what they need to do is to get Syria, to get Hizbullah to stop doing this shit and it's over.

Blair: Syria.

Bush: Why?

Blair: Because I think this is all part of the same thing.

Bush: Yeah.

Blair: What does he think? He thinks if Lebanon turns out fine, if we get a solution in Israel and Palestine, Iraq goes in the right way ...

Bush: Yeah, yeah, he is sweet.

Blair: He is honey. And that's what the whole thing is about. It's the same with Iraq.

Bush: I felt like telling Kofi to call, to get on the phone to Assad and make something happen.

Blair: Yeah.

Bush: We are not blaming the Lebanese government.

Blair: Is this...? (at this point Blair taps the microphone in front of him and the sound is cut.)

Thanks to the Guardian for the transcript.

Why do they do it?

The phone rings, I don't recognise the number. Maybe it's an incredible job opportunity, perhaps Larry King has retired. But no, it's long lost family. My dad's cousin to be precise. Apparently it's amazing to know that my father has a manchild lurking in some corner of the earth. So after all, little ADC's loins were not solely for weeing by the huge iroko tree in the village square at night when nobody was watching. The ultimate act of rebellion in a pre-independence Nigerian village. Pee on the iroko tree, and the gods will make certain body parts fall off. You can see the attraction for a young rebel.

Little ADC's loins brought forth a child, many in fact, of which African Shirts is one. She was incredulous. She didn't tell me any of the weeing story, but she might as well have. I'd have blushed, and chuckled, and smiled, without uttering a word. Maybe the occasional "really!" Long lost family know how to make a grown man feel like sucking his thumb, and assuming the foetal position. You feel yea high.

A few years ago, on holiday in Washington DC, I had one such encounter. Nigerian wedding party setting, you know the type: abuse of dollars, abuse of gold, abuse of rims, abuse to make P Diddy skulk in inferiority. Who's the handsome (allow me artistic licence) young man with the funny accent? ADC's son. You don't mean it! So this woman asked me, sorry, told me, to dance with her. She'd known my dad since when men had lots of inches of hair and lots of inches on their shoe soles, the collars were large, and the trousers were tight. Except for the excess left-over material they added to the feet. Flares, they called it.

She was also emotional at seeing me, staring at me funny. Too many thoughts were in my head. "Dad, I hope you dumped her in the politest way possible," I thought. I wasn't ready for the sins of my father to be visited upon me with a handbag to the head. She had given no indication of any liaison with my dad whatsoever, but my doubly inflated ego (one ego for me, the other for Dad) was working overtime. As I boogie to whatever was playing, the deejay decides to go all highlife on us. My dad likes highlife, and I vicariously put on a few moves. Deadly moves, you're talking blood on the dancefloor moves. Suddenly she stops dancing. This is after she's been staring at me curiously throughout the dancing. "I can't believe it," she quips. "You even dance like your father."

Apples falling. Tree standing. Distance between them. None. So Daddy Was a Good Dancer. Song title of the year. Someone record it.

As a brief aside. I have an uncle in Nigeria who tells this one story every single time. "Nkem, you don big now o! I fit remember that time wey you piss for my hotel bed for London." When I have children, I will not be taking them to visit that particular uncle lest he embarrass me to death. No siree, I ain't having that.*

The thing that always makes me want to curl up and hide under a shrub is the frightful, "Ina nu kwa Igbo?" Do you understand Igbo? Strictly speaking, the answer is no. But because I know five Igbo phrases, I say "obele, obele." Small, small. I know "je waru" - go and bath, "je chi eze" - go and brush your teeth, "ina nu nte" - your ears don't hear (or something like that). Basically, issues of bedtime discipline. Quite how this is useful in adult conversation, I don't know. I'll brush my teeth when I damn well please. In fact, I won't brush 'em. Cane me if you dare. Yes that's three phrases, and in case you're wondering what the other two are, well, each "obele" counts as one individual phrase. Sue me.

However, the fact that you even say "obele, obele" is cue enough to start rattling away in Olumo Rock solid Igbo. Once they've started, that's the end. How do I tell them I haven't got a clue what they're on about? I listen in, trying to pick out words. It's like playing linguistic Su Doku on zen master level.

So my dad's cousin has insisted on speaking to me in Igbo. I should be visiting her soon. It will be an interesting conversation, as I have all my (English) responses worked out. No, Yes, I don't know. And for variation in Igbo, Mba, Ee (can't spell it), Amarom. Six responses in two different languages which mean just three things, for just one conversation. Chomsky, eat your heart out.

*caveat. I was a baby when this hotel bed thing happened...

Man with urges

Emmanuel Milingo has absconded again. Why doesn't he just confess that he has urges, and he can't deal with them?

Seven Eleven

Conspiracy theories are the stuff of cranks, bored geeks, and the Daily Express (which prints Diana conspiracy theories till this day). But some things are too obvious to overlook. Yesterday, July 11, 2006, the Indian city of Mumbai had to deal with a simultaneous bombing of its municipal rail network.

The first thing I noticed was the date, which was similar to three previous Al-Qaeda related bombings. First, the New York and Washington attacks took place on September 11, 2001. When the trains in Madrid were attacked on March 11, 2004, it was noted that it had happened exactly two and a half years after the Twin Towers went down.

And then came London, July 7, 2005. After July 7, I wondered what Al-Qaeda's obsession was with dates ending in "en". There was 9/11, 3/11, 7/7, and now, in Mumbai, a perfect date of 11/7. Or to use non-US date writing style, 7/11, cornershop par excellence Stateside. What does this all mean? Absolutely nothing. There have been other bombings on drab and ordinary dates, so these aren't necessarily part of an overarching pattern. If they were, I'm sure the authorities would have sussed it by now, and Al-Qaeda would be looking for different bombing patterns. On the first of the month, every third Tuesday, or some such pattern.

However, I also noticed that the first time Al-Qaeda came to wider world attention was on August 7, 1998. I was back in Nigeria for a long and memorable summer holiday when the US embassies in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam were gutted by truck bombs. That was the first time I heard of Osama bin Laden and his not-so-merry band of followers. The Lewinsky scandalised Clinton reacted with cruise missile strikes on a possible dual use factory in Sudan, a factory the Sudanese said was a pharmaceutical plant. These strikes caused Mr bin Laden to up sticks from Sudan and move to Afghanistan, where he probably remains to this day. Or does he?

My theory is that Osama bin Laden is in Nigeria. He's in a Shari'ah state somewhere in the north of the country, probably in Jigawa or Yobe. Nigeria does have its Taliban, self-styled on the resurgent former regime in Afghanistan. People in a country like Nigeria (land of many names) choosing to call their children Osama, should also count for something. Bin Laden also cites Nigeria as one of those countries that are "most qualified for liberation". Any sensible person really should agree with bin Laden, with a caveat of course. We pray "deliver us from evil", but we don't presume that we'd be delivered into a different kind of evil. Mr bin Laden, if you want a chance for a rebuttal stating that you won't deliver us into evil, drop me an email. I'm sure we can work something out.

The feeling that Nigeria is on the brink of Islamist implosion is shared by some think tanks and journalists. Jeffrey Tayler, writing in April's Atlantic magazine, implies that Nigeria is potentially worse than Iraq... I know. I felt disdain after reading the article, and I won't respond to it until I've got the disdain out of my system.

Back to Mumbai. I've been to Mumbai before, and it is a poverty stricken city. It might be India's financial hub, but the world's largest democracy still has a long way to go. One of the sadder elements of these attacks on countries like India and the US embassies in East Africa, is that these are the very countries that do not have the resources to deal with terrorism. But they are the countries constantly being attacked. A country needs sophisticaed technology, human intelligence gathering, man hours to prevent such attacks. But when (rather than if) an attack takes place, one at least needs an emergency operation system to swing into action. Once people have been treated and bodies have been removed from the wreckage, you now need to catch the culprits. Nigh on impossible.

Even though the West is in a perpetual state of panic over terrorist attacks, most of them occur in the developing world. The Indonesian resort of Bali has been bombed twice in three years, in Egypt, Sharm el-Sheikh was bombed in 2005 (shortly after July 7 in London), Dahab was bombed this year, and Sinai was bombed in 2004 (October 7). These are just countries that have had to deal with multiple attacks, but there's still Istanbul, Lebanon, and Iraq. Compare this to the three attacks in the West (New York, Madrid, and London), and compare the responses of the emergency services to these tragedies.

In Mumbai, the scenes were of utter chaos, meanwhile in July last year, I distinctly remember a police squad car being filmed by BBC News 24. The car was arriving at one of the bomb scenes; it looked for a space to park, and then reverse parked into a space it found. Parallel parking? You'd be hard pressed to find any calmer, mundane, and organised behaviour under such circumstances anywhere in the world.

Islamist terrorism has its roots in the developing world, and anyone who's serious about tackling it needs to look to these regions. The bombers of July 7 may have been "homegrown", but Mohammed Siddique Khan and Shehzad Tanweer both went to Pakistan, possibly for training. The Hamburg cell of September 11, had its roots in the Middle East, the Madrid bombers had ties to the Casablanca bombers. How do we solve this problem? I have no idea. But we know where to look.

Back in Blight-y

Back in Blight-y. What a low-tech country... Access to plantain though, top class.

Zidane ruined the World Cup

This was supposed to be his swansong, his sign-off, his final defining moment. It started off being his defining moment, but the reasons changed after the headbutt. He had scored an audacious penalty, threatened a repeat of the 1998 final when Buffon saved his header from point black range in extra time. He bestrode the pitch like a colossus, along with Henry, and Malouda, who played his best game of the tournament. The previously impenetrable Italian defence kept being carved open Christmas turkey style by France, and Zidane looked like doing it again.

And then the red mist descended. What did Materazzi say to him? One hopes that he insulted his mother, father, children, spat on the tricolour, and called him an Algerian camel to boot. But hold on a second, even that isn't enough. When you hear the phrase "unprovoked attack", you automatically think of a street thug assaulting an innocent person going about their daily business. Today, Zidane was that thug, and his attack on Materazzi was an arrestable offence. If that incident had happened anywhere other than on that pitch, he'd have been clapped in the stocks by the German Polizei.

On the day, France deserved to win, but in the grand scheme of the World Cup, Italy deserved victory. But what was shaping up to be the best World Cup final since 1986, ended as a ruined final, and probably ruined the World Cup for me. The most anticlimactic day of my life. More than a billion people were watching that madness on television. If he wasn't already retiring, he'd have been banned for a long long time. I was kicking myself for not making it to the match in Berlin because of a paucity of media tickets, but afterwards, I was glad not to have been there. I'd have been too downcast.

The World Cup was incredible, but I fear Zidane's behaviour might have ruined it for me. Zidane has showed his madness in the past - suspended for a stamping incident in 1998, suspended for the final group game against Togo this year, after picking up two yellows. Jean Marie Le Pen must be thinking, "I told them not to let that Algerian racaille play for Les Bleus". But Zidane is fallible. Zidane is a mere mortal. If he wasn't fallible, he wouldn't be human - he'd be God. Alas, no man is God. Congratulations to Italy, but what happened on that pitch?

Thabo Mbeki fancies me

Forgive the in-your-face red-top tabloid headline, but a sensational story requires a sensationalist telling. Like I said in my previous post, the unveiling ceremony was heaving with football glitterati, but if you look at the picture, you’ll see that the African politerati were there. (Do you like the “-rati” theme?) Alpha Oumar Konare, Chariman of the AU Commision, Kofi Annan, UN Secretary General, and Thabo Mbeki, President of South Africa.

The event was organised by the South African LOC, and it’s obvious that they were trying to stress that SA 2010 will be a decidedly African affair. Hence they trotted out the who’s who of African politics today. There should have been a concert later in the evening which would have been graced by Madiba (via satellite link), but the concert was called off due to a freak storm. Wyclef Jean, Youssou N’Dour, Sean Paul and a few others would have performed. I was gutted personally, because it would have been my one opportunity to be starstruck. I would have grabbed Wyclef by the leg, and not let go, until some burly bodyguards shot me with a taser gun. Good thing the heavens opened up and saved him.

Sepp Blatter. The Twit. Blatter’s introduction/speech was first. Blatter is a twit. I used to think that FIFA was the guardsman of football’s conscience, but after this World Cup, I’m forced to think again. During his speech he looked directly at Thabo Mbeki and said, “the market trusts Africa”. How does the market trust Africa? Well according to Blatter, “the contracts we have already signed are higher than the contracts for 2006 in Germany by about 25%”.

The BBC has done some calculations on the figures, and this puts SA already on £443m, while Germany secured contracts worth just £376m. I don’t have an MBA, and I’m not sure how he’s pulled this off. Several things don’t tally. The majority of the expenditure will be on transport, stadiums, and security. My worry is of personal safety and security in SA, but four years is a long time, so we'll see. South Africa has 4 times the area of Germany, but has half as many railway lines, and the same goes for paved roads. The GDP per capita of Germany is £18,409 while that of South Africa is £2,768. This automatically means that South Africans don’t have as much spending power as Germans. It isn’t cheaper to buy steel in South Africa than it is in other parts of the world. Labour costs for building railways and roads might be cheaper, but by no means cheap enough to compensate for the expense of commodities. How will the investors recoup their money? Surely they don’t expect to get everything back within the one month of the World Cup. Mbeki rejects the notion that his countrymen are too poor to make the World Cup in SA a success.

Blatter has also admitted that this World Cup was too commercial, evidenced by the truckloads of corporate spectators coming into the stadiums to watch games. FIFA will regain control of ticket allocation from 2010, as this year's was dealt with by the German LOC. Sponsors were allocated 16%, while corporate hospitality got 12%. Compare that to the mere 8% given to the teams playing. Teams such as England would have appreciated extra tickets when you consider that when England played Trinidad in Nuremberg, there were 70,000 fans in the city, and 70,000 in Frankfurt. FIFA will apparently reduce its corporate partnerships from 15 to 5 for 2010. Since the 5 partners for 2010 have coughed up more money than they did before, they will surely demand more power. In that case, one might as well give them the keys to Union Buildings in Pretoria. See what happened when Bavaria breweries tried ambush marketing. If Coke is one of the remaining partners, you’ll be looking at a situation where Pepsi would be banned from the airport as you land.

The condescending Blatter then went on about how the World Cup in Africa will be about “the drums” and “the music” in his annoying Swiss accent, shimmying for emphasis. And he kept referring to the dignitaries wives as “his woman”. “Kofi Annan and his woman”. His chauvinism is nothing new - in 2004, he said women footballers should play in "more feminine clothes." Imagine. I felt like getting up on stage and slapping his bald pate, but I wasn’t brave enough to withstand a potential Peter Tatchell from his minders.

Kofi Annan. The Diplomat. He delivered what was effectively his article in the International Herald Tribune of 9 June. Not terribly exciting, which might explain why he’s a diplomat. Unduly exciting a warring faction during disarmament talks couldn’t possibly be a good idea.

Issa Hayatou. The Disappointment. Like the embodiment of the disorganised CAF that he heads, didn’t have a speech ready. And this is the man, who’s about to oversee the greatest show on earth. He did okay winging it (in French), but on such an occasion, one cannot afford to slack. And he slack he did. Blatter even managed a sly dig at him, saying he had been CAF President since forever (1988).

Alpha Oumar Konare. The Orator. He was the most impressive of all. It is easy to see how this former president of Mali became AU Commision Chairman. Remove all negative connotations associated with demagoguery and you have Konare. His speech in French was buoyant, rousing, and emotive, all at once – a layered gateau of a speech.

Thabo Mbeki. The Statesman. The president promised that SA would host the best World Cup ever. This is no faint promise, but there were many journalists there, so he knows he’ll be quoted. However, in 2010, it’s likely that Jacob Zuma will be in his seat, taking all the heat. He was calm and assuring, and for me, possibly the clincher in convincing me that SA can do it.

On to the reason for the title of this post, if you’re still reading. After they gave their speeches, they was a question and answer session with journalists. The grandees were on stage answering questions, while the World Cup ambassadors (former players) were doing up close and personal interviews with cameras and mics shoved in their faces. The type of which I’ve become expert in the past month.

At this point a journalist has to choose what to do. Does he get a proper interview with the lesser mortals, such as the players? Or does he ignore the former players, raise his hand to ask the grandees a question which will have them quaking in their kaftans? Also considering that there might be too many hacks trying to ask questions, their turn may never come.

Here’s what we did. We talked to the players first. Since we’re doing television, exclusivity is important. One player talking to our camera is worth more than a public sit-down chinwag, where one can’t even tell where the questions are coming from because of the great media junket. After the grandees finished their an audience with, it was time for them to leave. At this point we stand in front of the stage, trying to get Mr Mbeki’s attention. Hopefully, he’ll thrown some words towards our way. But as he headed for the exit, his bodyguards set up suited, mobile ear-pieced rugby scrum around him. Nobody would touch Mr President. We kept getting shoved along as he walked, stopping to shake the odd hand. I tried to shout, “Mr President, Mr President”. “You’ve had your chance”, the bodyguard would bark.

We’d almost been squished like little moths, when I made a final attempt to get his attention. “Mr President, for Nigerian tv!” At which point he turned towards me, and I blurted out a question. For the life of me, I cannot remember what I asked him. It was all a blur. Thabo Mbeki then came to me, shook my hand, and gave me a lengthy answer (while still holding my hand). I said, “Thank you, Mr President.” “Thank you, my brother”, he smiled. And the scrum continued.

I felt like a billion rand. Still do. In that moment, when he stopped to grant me a few words, it felt like I was floating on something. The next time a mother faints when Bill Clinton kisses her baby, I’ll understand what she’s experienced. Thabo is no Bill, but power is an aphrodisiac, and when harnessed right, it could create supernovas. Afterwards, someone asked if I was related to Thabo Mbeki, because he'd given me so much attention. Well, we did go to the same university. But that wasn't it - he fancied me. That brief moment was a flirtation of sorts, and I was tooken.

The emblem. I like the emblem. It’s better than the one for this year. It is very organic, represents South Africa, Africa, football, and even more specifically, the vibrancy of African football. I spoke to a German woman at the launch who didn’t like the man, saying it was a default clichéd symbol used to depict Africa all the time. As far as she was concerned, if there was any time to avoid stereotypes, this was it. But the image transcends clichés. Rock art is as old as art itself, and South African heritage is connected to those early depictions of man. If the world didn’t already know that, now is their chance to learn. South Africa in 2010? It can happen.

South Africa 2010

The circus moves on. I went to the unveiling of the South Africa 2010 emblem in Berlin yesterday. You couldn't move for football glitterati: Hadji, Abedi Pele, Roger Milla. If you haven't seen the emblem yet, that's what it looks like (right). I'll write down my thoughts on the event later today, but my initial reaction (after much scepticism) is that South Africa can pull it off.

Theo's Diary

Woke up this afternoon after getting an overnight train from France v Portugal in Munich, and saw this in my inbox. A tad harsh on Sol Campbell perhaps, but such is the nature of satire.

What I did on my summer holiday
By Theo Walcott Esq aged 8 1/2

I went to a place called Germany with my Uncle Sven and some other grown ups. It is a country in Europe where a bad man called Adolf used to live with his nazties, he does not live there anymore, Uncle Owen does live there, and the grown up's say I can't talk about the bad man as it will make Uncle Owen cry if I do. In Germany there are lots of castles and some mountains. We are staying in a place called Baden Baden that's a silly name, Uncle Frank has the same name as his dad, that's silly too, his mum must get their underpants mixed up all the time.

On the airplane Uncle Sol sat next to me, he got me some toffee and wants to be my friend, he works at the place where I do my YTS, so does Uncle Freddy but him and Uncle Sol are not best friends anymore.

Uncle Owen met us at the airport, he talks foreign, Uncle Wayne, Uncle Steven and Uncle David also talk funny, my mum says Uncle David talks like Orville, he is a duck, Uncle Sol say's uncle David wears dresses and knickers, and asked me if I had ever worn them. Uncle Sol got me some pop.

In Germany the grown ups are going to play football, my granddad says we beat them in the olden days before my mum was born. That is a long time ago.

While the grown up's went to play football so I went shopping with Auntie Vicky and some other girls she bought me a big ice cream and got herself a little one but she said she was full before she had eaten any and threw it away. She bought lots of shoes and handbags and let me play with Brooklyn. She say's she used to be in a pop band and sang me one of her songs, I think she was telling fibs.

I told Uncle Sol about my day out with Vicky and he sulked, then he bought me an even bigger ice cream with lots of hundred's & thousands on it.

All the other grown up's have a girlfriend except Uncle Sol so he plays with me while they go out. Uncle Sven says I must keep Uncle Sol happy, that's why I got taken on holiday.

The grown up's went to play Football against somebody called Sweden, Uncle Sol was crying as Uncle Freddy played for them and would not talk to him. Uncle Sol bought me lots of toffee today and some crisps. Uncle Sven is from Sweden and I heard him on the phone to their boss last night. Uncle Michael hurt his knee and had to go home to his mum for a plaster. Uncle Peter is a giant, a proper giant like you see in books, he is rubbish at football though.

Uncle Wayne had a sore toe at the start of out holiday but it got better so they let him play football. Uncle Sol got me a present but I do not like it. He says all Germans wear leather underpants and I should while we are here, they are too tight for me.

All the grown up's started to call Uncle Wayne a potato head who stood on somebody’s spuds. He got shouted at by the referee. They are all saying that we have to go home now. Uncle Sol was crying again and I had to sit on his knee to make him stop. He had his mobile phone in his pocket, I think.

Soccer-punch

Before France played Brazil, I told my mum that France would win. I was proved right. And before Germany played Italy, I told her that Italy would win. Why did I think a scandalised Italian team would beat an invigorated Germany? Because the Italians are the kings of the soccer punch, pun intended. The Italians are the most ruthless in world football, and if any team would beat Germany in Dortmund where the German team had never lost before, it would be Italy. They might not have the Ronaldinhos or the Zidanes of this world, but boy they can make an opponent cry.

In Dortmund, the Azzuris sang the national anthem like no other team at this competition. To them, the words weren't just sweet nothings about how they love their country, but a battle cry to smother the Teutons to the north. It was difficult to believe the vast majority of the 65,000 capacity crowd were supporting the other team. They were so brazen. Cannavaro did what he's done all tournament, defended like his life depended on it. He organised the defence like Caesar would have organised onslaughts on the rest of Europe. His tackling and presence must have been intimidating for the German team.

And then there was Pirlo. Pirlo ran. And ran. And ran. The man was a dynamo with the Energizer Bunny cranking his internal wheels. We had to leave the stadium before the final whistle, so we didn't see anyof the goals. But we could feel the sigh when Germany lost. 2-0. 119th and 120th minute. Ouch. "Shaizer Italien" replaced "Fahre nach Berlin" (going to Berlin), which has become the chanson du jour. Instead, they fahre nach Stuttgart for the third place play-off match. A bit of despondence, but nevertheless a proud nation. The flags kept flying and a song was never far from their lips. And after a four weeks of the German Woodstock, the clichés trickle in. It's only football. You can't win them all. We'll be back. All good things must come to an end.

World United...

In 1969, during the Nigerian Civil War in Nigeria, the secessionist Biafra and the Nigerian government sides signed a temporary ceasefire so that people could watch the legendary Brazilian, Pelé, as he toured with his club side Cosmos. Today in 2006, football still has the ability to mend bridges, bring peace to warring factions, and unite divided nations. Despite their first round exits, the Ivory Coast and Angola are two nations who will be offering thanks to the gods for their unlikely qualification for this year’s competition.

As Ivory Coast won admirers for their tenacity and attacking verve, Angola have now become a byword for the never-say-die attitude characterised by the lesser teams in Germany. While the rest of Africa watched in solidarity with their continent’s representatives, the Ivorians and Angolans watched as one nation, a feat which has eluded both nations in the recent past.

Ivory Coast, formerly the proverbial light on a hill in West Africa, descended into a civil war which cut the country in half. South fought against north, indigenes pitted against so-called étrangers. The civil war was fuelled by the matter of identity and the concept of Ivoirité, i.e. who is a true Ivorian. It was sparked when the electoral authorities barred Alassane Outtara - who had previously served as Prime Minister – from running for president, on account of him being a “foreigner”.

Fans here in Germany all had much the same thing to say, “there isn’t a single Ivorian without foreign blood”. The football team is made up of Christians, Muslims, animists, northern, southern, indigenous, and of Malian, Burkinabe, and Guinean immigrant stock. Les Éléphants (as the team is known) represent a true quilt patchwork of what Ivory Coast is, and their unity on the pitch is the ultimate aspiration of Ivorians as they try to mend their country.

Angola on the other hand, has only just emerged from a 27-year civil war. The war, which was fuelled by Cold War allegiances, ended in 2002, more than ten years after the rest of the world parked their mutual destruction weapons. Their first round match with Portugal should have been a chance to give a black eye to their former colonial masters, but Angolans were more preoccupied with their being part of a “lusophone brotherhood” at the World Cup, along with Portugal and Brazil.

“Ten years ago, we were in the middle of a civil war, and now we’re at the World Cup. We are very proud, this is a good enough for us”, noted an Angolan woman who lives in Portugal. Part of the legacy of the civil war is anti-personnel landmines, a cause which became popular after the late Princess Diana visited Angola in 1997 (see picture): there are estimated to be between half a million and one million landmines in Angola. As de-miners risk their lives by day, and watch the Palancas Negras (Black Impalas) by night, they can take succour from knowing that the Black Impalas will soon be able to gallop free on the savannahs of Angola, just as they do on the verdant football pitches of Germany.

Murder Kemi wrote

Saw this story in yesterday's Guardian. Kemi Adeyoola, was clearly intelligent, and privileged - so why she ended up commiting such a heinous crime, we'll never know. It raises the usual questions of whether people are born evil, or if it's their surroundings which matter more.

I question the father saying that she had been obsessed with money from an early age. He lost contact with her when she was 11, an age at which a father should still be able to instill discipline and values in a child. If she had any obsessions with mammon from before then, he would have had the responsiblity of curbing that desire. Alas, he wasn't there in her formative years, and now, without an ounce of guilt, he says the signs were always there.

The fact that he is a rich man, can't possibly help his argument. If anyone could tell her about love, money, roots, and evil, he would be that person. But once again, he wasn't there. Is he to blame for how she turned out? No. She's responsible for her own actions. Do his comments betray a certain culpability in the path that led to her actions. Perhaps.

In my youth I used to think all people were born good, and that society made them evil. But when I feel more cynical, I tend to think that all people are born evil, and goodness needs to beaten into them - the rod speaketh. Neither position is true, and the reality is probably somewhere in between. This case raises those questions. A close look at the case shows shows not an obsession with money, but a thirst for the acclaim which leads to getting money. A desire to be an author, being an escort with a friend shadowing her, James Bond-like, a plotted murder. All the actions of a thrill seeker. Like I always say, it's a thin line between insanity and genius.

We're still Ghanaian (and partly Brazilian)

The Black Stars acquitted themselves well, but they suffered from the perennial African disease of non-scoring-itis. Brazil, on the other hand were clinical, and 3-0 was a flattering score. Fat Ronaldo scored after being written off by the media, and he has now scored the most World Cup goals ever. Ghana missed Michael Essien desperately, because he would have been the one to check Brazil's marauding midfielders. He must have been bitterly disappointed.

I should be sad and depressed at Ghana's loss, but I'm not - for several reasons. When you follow Nigeria's progress at international competitions, you get used to heartbreak. And over time you build up resistance to crushing defeats and upsets. Ghana's loss was nothing compared to being hammered 4-1 by Denmark in 1998, or losing to Cameroun on penalties in the 2000 African Cup of Nations. In Nigeria, we live in hope. All. The. Time.

I was able to conduct four interviews with Marcel Desailly (born in Ghana), Leonardo (World Cup winner in 1994), Frank Lebeouf (former Chelsea and France defender), and Patrick Barclay, who writes fot the Sunday Telegraph. Missed out on Mick McCarthy and Graham Taylor due to stretched resources. One camera can't be in two places at one. But we live and learn. So on a personal front, a good outing.


The German public were fiercely partisan in favour of Ghana (see picture above). Brazil even got booed, and constant shouts of "Ghana" echoed through the stadium. Ghana might have been underdogs going into the game, but it didn't feel that way. Ghana is now firmly on the football map, but I'm sure their World Cup perfomance will lead to even greater tourist awareness. Ghana Tourism should expect an influx.

And finally, after leaving the stadium, we bumped into some Brazilian fans sashaying to some samba rhythms from Rio (below). How could I stay upset? I said to myself, "Thank goodness women are not one of my vices". Then I thought, "actually, that could easily be fixed".

Africa - still second class

Ghana play Brazil in Dortmund today. This has got to be the most anticipated game on the African continent since Turkey beat Senegal in the 2002 quarter-final. In preparation for the game, yesterday we went to Bergisch Gladbach, just outside Cologne, to a Brazilian press conference and open training session. How many African media representatives were present? One. Us. As the only black man there who wasn't obviously Brazilian, they kept asking me if I was Ghanaian so that they could conduct an interview. They had to make do with a Nigerian television substitute.

After leaving Bergisch Gladbach, we went to watch Switzerland vs Ukraine. At the Rheinenergie Stadion in Cologne, I saw Jean Pierre Kongue-Esso, who I first met at the African Cup of Nations in January. He had been at the Brazilian training ground the day before, writing a report for Camfoot, (which you should check out). And guess what? He was the only African there. The day before Ghana play their biggest football game ever, and there's no African representative nobody to ask the opponents about how they plan to deal with Stephen Appiah (which I asked BTW), or if Ghana's reputation as the roughest team (most fouls commited) at the tournament is justified. Our resources are overstretched, but we still sent out a crew 75 kilometres away to do Ghana's camp, which was running at the same time as Brazil's.

This is something I've seen time and again at this competition. African media have been barely visible, and moreso in broadcast. A country as football obsessed as Nigeria should be covering the World Cup to the hilt. But they have to make do with us, a six man crew working round the clock to produce a daily 15 minute show. The simple fact is that Africa can't compete in the global media market.

To do justice to a tournament like the World Cup, you need to have broadcasting rights. Very few African media houses have the loot to buy the rights. FIFA might be a money sucking monolith, but even they can predict much more than a riot if they prevent Nigerians from watching the World Cup. So they have the LiM Group, which oversees distribution of media rights to the empty chest broadcasters in Africa. Infront Sports and Media, deal with FIFA's media rights, and you can see the World Cup rights allocation in this pdf. If you look at the African broadcasters, you'll see that almost every country's free-to-air station is affiliated to LiM. The national carriers can't afford it.

LiM is no television charity which drops broadcasting rights from the sky into football starved homes of Africans - they have control of advertising. After all, they've got to eat, right? LiM give the carriers the right to broadcast, but can only give them the barest minimum package, any extras are at the IBC arbitrators discretion. In all honesty, this package doesn't require the national carrier to even have anyone in Germany. The package allows NTA, say, to show the football, and then the official press conference, (there's a general media one after the FIFA one). This package doesn't allow the "money shot" of a studio presenter at the stadium, on the pitch, or in the mixed zone (where media and players mix). What viewers get is bland, identity-less coverage. Imagine the BBC doing football without Motty and Lawro being in the stadium to commentate.

The BBC World Service has a package which allows them to broadcast only 90 seconds of material from inside the stadium. After the match, you find reporters rushing for the gates so that they can file their reports outside the stadium gates. The World Service still had to pay for its measly 90 seconds. When Ghana beat USA, there was us, SABC, and Ghana's Metro TV, as the few African representatives. Metro TV have a similar package to ours, but do have priority for matches involving Ghana. SABC have a tiny crew here, but not nearly enough for a broadcaster that will probably be one of the host carriers in 2010.

That said, much can be done without being in the stadium, and that's what we've done. Globo TV of Brazil built a studio at the Brazil training ground. But Globo is the world's largest maker of Portuguese language programming, with 80 million daily viewers. NTA could be an African equivalent, but alas...

I understand that not every country can have a representative at every match, but the paucity of African media representatives is worrying. There would have been some matches with no African television media in attendance. Paying for the rights would be a great expense for any television station willing to take on the task, but having people on ground in the host country would be even more daunting. To make it work, you need immense television broadcast expertise. Outside broadcasts are the most complicated and expensive things in broadcast media, and very few African national carriers have the resources to do it justice.

Africa has had very little to shout about by way of qualification for the second round. Off the pitch, behind the cameras, Africa hardly exists. Here's to hoping that Ghana deal a blow for the millions of people watching soulless football coverage from their television sets in the shebeens, beer parlours, and shisha bars of the continent.

New Age Ghana

One of the brilliant things about being abroad, but still being in Europe, is that I can still read British newspapers. A little kiosk down the road sells all the broadsheets, and the main train station has everything including the tabloids. In the mornings I walk down to the kiosk, get a bottle of apple juice, of the "freshly pressed apples" variety, not the "from concentrate" diabetes-inducing type - and I pick up a Guardian, or an Observer.

Yesterday, there was a double page spread on the Black Stars in the Observer's sports pages:

Senegal, January 1992. At the end of Ghana's seventh African Nations Cup final Abedi Pele's emotions are scrambled. The captain and three times African Player of the Year had been pivotal in Ghana's efforts, scoring against Nigeria in the semi-finals and being voted player of the tournament. read on...

Scandal on Leopoldstrasse and other tales

So there I am in the middle of Leopoldstrasse in Munich, doing a "piece-to-camera", when two girls plant simultaneous kisses on my cheeks, and then disappear as quickly as they appeared. I giggle like a little girl whose teacher has just asked her to sit beside a boy she fancies. I'm busy trying to make an honest living, but meanwhile, there are German frauleins involving me in a lip smacking plot. How is a man to survive, I ask? Whenever there's a match, Leopoldstrasse (a major thoroughfare) becomes a street carnival of song, dance, beer, and of course, kisses. There's no better place to be than in the city that has just witnessed their Mannschaft qualify for the quarterfinals of the World Cup.

The Allianz Arena, otherwise known as the Schlauchboot (German for "inflatable boat"), is truly breath-taking. It looks like some kind of space wheel which has fallen off The Michelin Man. It was daylight when Germany beat Sweden so I didn't see it in its nighttime glory, which sees it change colours (see picture). I sat on the very first row, which doesn't have a very good view of the pitch because of the sideways, rather than overhead view. But if you ever want to grab Miroslav Klose's bottom, or tell Freddie Ljunberg face-to-face that he's a prissy pretty boy, it's as close to the action as a spectator can get. In fact, the ball once came to where I was sitting, and I artfully punched it towards the ball boy. I could spy Klinsmann from the corner of my eye - the poor fella had an envious "if only he were a Deutschlander" look.

Today, we take it easy. England play, but we have no guaranteed tickets for the match. There is more media following England than following the host nation. As Nigeria aren't in the competition, so NTA is way down the pecking order. If England loose, the fans will get drunk and smash up Stuttgart, and if they win, they'll probably get drunk and smash up Stuttgart. I shall look for a church, seek peace from the madness of multi-city travelling, and give thanks for tiny mercies. Then Italy and Brazil training sessions beckon. Azzuri, or the Boys from Brazil? Only one is possible, as they are both held several kilometres apart at pretty much the same time. Might do Brazil. Might do Italy. Dunno. Choices, choices...

On the day Ghana beat USA, we went to a Ghanaian joint in Frankfurt called "Heart of Africa - Kenkey House". I had eaten plantain there last week, and needed another fix, so I ordered fish and plantain - I drooled throughout the meal. Eating it brought back the most improbably memories. It reminded me of school dinners. And in the split second that I recognised the taste, I realised how privileged I was at school. Most people think of school dinners with puke inducing disgust, but I was eating at a home-from-home bar/restaurant, and I thought of Mr Prosper's cooking. It now seems obvious that our diet was predominantly Ghanaian. The kenkey, the rice and beans, the way the plantain was fried, the fufu, the okra - all Ghana.

Witnessing the Ghanaian community here has made me respect immigrants even more than I already did. The Ghanaians here are among the most prominent of the black communities in Germany, with two members of the German World Cup squad (Gerald Asamoah and David Odonkor) of Ghanaian origin. It is a sign of bravery that they would chose to emigrate to an alien German language and culture, rather than an Anglophone one readily available in Britain. The quest to make a better life for oneself has no limits, and I applaud those who put in the hard work. More power to your elbow.


Swathes of yellow-clad Swedish fans in the corner.



The stadium after the final whistle, look at all the flags. Oliver Bierhoff walking past.


All team coaches have mottos on them. Team USA coach, United they lose. But United nonetheless.

Ghana coach, with motto in Twi. Translation would be appreciated.

Yay, Ghana oh, Yay, Ghana oh, Yay'yay!

This is now the familiar cry of victorious Ghanaians the world over. They occupied just a small part of the grounds, but the rhythms sent shockwaves through the ground, into the distance. Vesuvius has nothing on Ghanaian fans. Ambrosia dancing, gyration of the gods, trance-like response to a spherical leather thing crossing a white painted line. Who needs syringes of adrenalin when you have goals. "Bring on Brazil, bring on Brazil", they chanted fearlessly.

The Americans had just the one unimaginative cry, "USA, USA". And when the referee gave Ghana the penalty, "bullshit" they bellowed. The Black Stars of Ghana shone bright. The star spangled USA were Black Star struck. This was a historic win for Ghana, like when David's sling and rock felled the mighty Goliath. I heard that Lagos was in a frenzy, imagine what Accra, Kumasi, and Cape Coast would have been like - ablaze with ecstasy.

In retrospect, I'm slightly ashamed of my behaviour. I couldn't cage my glee at Ghana's victory. Impartiality was defenestrated. People kept coming up to me and congratulating me. Kofi might be a name given to me by an over-enthusiastic father, I might know Kokrobite, and might have once had a haircut in Kumasi, but I'm still not Ghanaian. The top I had on certainly didn't help. The day after the Twin Towers tragedy, Le Monde ran a piece with the header: "We are all Americans". That solidarity was in a time of tragedy, but today our solidarity is held in unfettered joy. Today, we are all Ghanaians.

The usually shy Michael Essien even had time to talk to us. The self belief was palpable, one could almost touch it. Ransford Abbey, an eloquent spokesman of the Ghanaian FA was proud of the GFA's achievement. Simple formulae: people who understand the modern game, long-term planning, reducing reliance on the sports ministry. Nigeria, are you listening?

"You'’re working for Nigerian television? But Nigeria isn'’t here, what happened to you guys? You should be here!" If I had a euro for every time someone said this to me, I'd be dining with Gates and Branson, having tea with Her Majesty, turning left when boarding a plane rather than right. In other words, I'd be rich - I've heard it too many times for comfort.

The experts here will tell you that Nigeria should have learned her lesson, and will surely qualify next time. My greatest and most plausible fear is that she hasn'’t. Right now, the country has no FA. Nigeria will sleepwalk into qualification for the major tournaments before South Africa in 2010. As usual, they'll be favourites, and and as usual they'’ll come third (which many feel should be patented to Nigeria). When they should have been giving the players practice (like Cameroon and Senegal) by playing pre-World Cup friendlies, the FA and Sports ministry were squabbling.

Saidu Sambawa is a twit, and I'd like to be quoted on that. He had to leave his post as Sports Minister earlier this month, and it'’s because of his interference that FIFA threatened to suspend NFA. Good riddance. I only hope his sucessor doesn'’t continue the nonsense tradition of bribing journalists. Okay, it'’s not blatantly a bribe, but stop giving journos money. And journos, stop taking money, broke though you are.

But on to more pleasant thoughts. In the 1920s and 1930s, Hitler held rallies in Nuremberg, a clarion call for the National Socialist cause. In 2006, about a mile from where the original rallies were held, a Black nation triumphs against the odds. Hitler must be turning in his grave. Let's hope he keeps turning. We are all Ghanaian now.



Above, Ghana fans after scoring: Highlife/hiplife and any other life versus Samba and Joga Bonito.

How would Jesus surf?

And I don't mean of the Waikiki variety surfers for Jesus. If Jesus were here today and he didn't nick unlocked wireless broadband, then he'd do the next best thing and encourage the needy of internet to be fed. Out of the blue popped up this open wireless internet connection in Frankfurt. So I'll probably post more often. Herr Schmidt, I'm sorry, but I'm sure you have one of those unlimited downloads at 10 terrabytes per second for €2 a month packages. Ta.

Have a look at some of these pictures.

Below is Ronaldinho's uncle, complete with teeth.

Remember the screen on the River Main? People sitting to the right, Frankfurt skyline in the background.


I'll put some up as and when. Must dash, the sun rises.

No rest

Sunday. A day of rest. Not on your nelly. 4-hour train journey to Munich, where Oz face Brazil. I'm tired... but will I stop? Will I heck. I'll need a holiday after this.

Football and identity

Football is a religion, the stadium is the temple, and the fans are the worshippers. There is no other way to explain what happens when people gather in one place in the name of football. I’m gradually building a catalogue of cultural stereotypes: the Trinis are party animals, the Aussies are crazy party animals, and the South Koreans are good natured crazy party animals (see video).

Frankfurt was painted a sea of red as South Korea defeated Togo 2-1. The city rang out to sounds of “Daehan Minguk” followed by a rhythmic clap. The South Korean song has been by the far the catchiest, due to it simplicity. If you shout “Daehan Minguk” (which is traditional name of the country) to anybody in Frankfurt, they are sure to respond automatically with the now familiar clap.

When the Aussies beat Japan a few days ago in Kaiserslautern, some Japanese fans were crying. That was how much a first round game in the World Cup meant to them. I’m having to reassess my views on nationalism and pride for one’s country. I tend to question pride for one’s country, especially as nobody chooses where they are born.

CNN showed images of Seoul, the people drunk with delirium over the win. It means a lot to people for their country to win in football. Are there any psychologists out there who can explain this? The excitement is contagious, but I’m having to experience it second hand, vicariously through the people we film and interview. If Nigeria were here, it would have become a personal obsession.

In the past, I’ve found it difficult to refer to Nigeria in the first person plural “we”, plumping instead for the dispassionate third person: “Nigerians tend to be…” as opposed to, “we tend to be...” I am passionate about Nigerian football, and this could be the medium through which I learn to appreciate my Nigerian roots and culture all over again. Should football be the catalyst for this? I don’t know.

Germany is filled with people from all over the world, here to support their teams. Mexican American Angelinos are here to support USA, and cheer for Mexico on behalf of their parents. Ecuadoreans from Oz fly more than half way across the world to watch Oz and Ecuador. Germans who once lived in Togo scream, “Allez Togo”. The world, as far as football fans are concerned, is jumbled up in a blend of nationalities, allegiances both false and true, and despite the (harmless) nationalism, it becomes an acknowledgement of our oneness as human beings.

I’m not exactly sure what I’m trying to say, because it’s a nebulous one. I haven’t pinned it down to some grand narrative which encompasses all that’s in my head. How does one combine football, nationalism, humour, culture, heritage, passion into a single thought process – it’s a difficult one. Do you know what I mean?

Aussies are mental (and fairly chiselled)

I haven't got much time to post. But below is a video which shows that the Aussies are mental, and rather chiselled. Never seen so many bare chested men who didn't induce vomiting as soon as you saw them shirtless. Yesterday, we were in Kaiserslautern, where Australia had just beaten Japan, in what was one of the more insignificant games of the tournament. Not for these guys. If Guus Hiddink works his magic as he did with South Korea in 2002, parts of Australia will disappear after being drowned in beer. Look out for the guy in his underpants immitating Mil Mascaras - jumping from the top rope. Stay chiselled.

I'm moving to Trinidad

My Nigerian tv debut had to be delayed because of a technical problem. I think the problem has the technical term, "NTA", but enough sniping. I'm not sure when we'll start properly, but hopefully from Monday, we'll be on everyday. We still haven't got internet at the flat, so I have to make the daily trip to the internet cafe to post these. Very frustrating. Thanks for the advice, I shall be giving my mum advance warning.

Trinidad and Tobago (above) might be the smallest country to ever qualify for the World Cup, but to compensate for being a small country, they brought the biggest party machine ever. After their 0-0 draw against Sweden, one could be forgiven for thinking that they had won the World Cup. The Caribbean rum company Angustora has organised a few free events centred around Trinidad games. And after the Sweden match, fans of all hues and colours converged on downtown Dortmund, and threw possibly the biggest party since Borussia Dortmund won the Champions League.

The Trini fans held a mini-carnival. Actually, they held a proper carnival. The stage had massive sound systems and booming speakers, along with customary toaster shouting “jump, jump, jump, jump, jump”. The women and girls where doing some escandaloso dances which surely cannot be legal before dusk. Blonde Swedes and a kilted contingent from Scotland joined the Trini fans in the partying, downing rum and gyrating to the alien but seductive rhythms of the Caribbean. So as not leave out any carnival detail, a costumed temptress performed a dance of such move-your-body-like-a-snake-ma-ishness, that jaws were being scraped of the floor. If I was Catholic, I'd be looking for the nearest confession booth (below).

Even though I was supposed to be working, interviewing fans and some of the stars they brought to perform – Dekstra and Maximus Dan – I couldn’t help but down tools and do a jig every chance I got. The mixture of people was astounding, a colour palette of jet blacks, royal whites, fuschia pinks, wooded maroons, verdy greens, all with the same finish, same accent. Dulux has nothing on Trinidad. It reminded me of my Trinidadian friend from school, who was always talking about his friend back home, whose name was "Rastaman Clint". Would you believe that Rastaman Clint was Chinese? Exactly.

We got back to Frankfurt at 2am, but didn't go to sleep until about 5am. I'm posting this at 9.30, all dressed up and ready to go to Cologne for the day. This job ain't easy, but someone's got to do it, right?:-)