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What
is wrong with the shape of my cap, and does it determine why any streak
of good is a freak, and any strand of evil civil? Why am damned for
being from the land of Wrong Caps, unable to stand up among the best?
Show a converse competence or do something bad, nobody shows any
surprise, since, again, I am from that part of the realm that wears the
wrong kind of cap.

When my black ink
pours on people who just happen to come from the part of the country
where they wear, by right, the right kind of cap, I am attacked,
vilified and thrown into the dungeons of other useless cretins who just
happen to be wearing the wrong kinds of caps.

What is so wrong
with my cap that when I try to live by the norms, I am labeled
conformist, or try something else and earn the tag radical? When I try
to be both, I am called unstable. What is wrong with my cap that when I
try to articulate my thoughts, I am slammed as misleading, and when I
insist on explaining, stamped controversial?

Is the shape of my
cap so bereft of beauty that for opting to do what I believe in, I am
branded fundamentalist, and because I get somewhat confused, branded
intolerant? For slowing down to figure the conundrum I am declared
un-ambitious. When I try to catch up, it is with a determination that
is too aggressive. Fighting the injustice of blanket stereotypes, I am
an insurgent. But from the prism of so many prisons, I dismiss all as
unacceptable.

To condemn me, they
say there is something wrong with the shape of my cap. So I ask: Did
the bunker-busters bury the bonds of brotherhood, interring all in
hellholes of hatred? Is the quest for liberty blinded and chained to
the anchors of a brooding bay? So why can my views not be mine, and my
voice not heard?

What is so badly
wrong with the shape of my cap that I cannot not simply be me, without
the tags of labels, or does my complexion cloud the color of my
character? Does my location limit the length of my liberty? Does the
spirit of my conviction shackle my soul? Does my maleness maim the mine
of my mind? Then why bury me for the shape of my cap?

What has the shape
of my cap got to do with the fact that today the honest are wretched
and thieving knaves knighted? Why is it that eyes are not for seeing
and ears not for hearing? Does that explain why water is everywhere yet
people thirst, or when it comes to leadership, it is ‘me’ first?

How is my cap to
blame that we live in an age where misery is carried in sacks; that our
democracy is stunted like snails on speed tracks; that worries burrow
foreheads into cracks; that tongues wag without talking; that eyes are
bright, yet unseeing, ears sharp, but unhearing or that everything is
abundant, yet life’s hardly worth living?

What has my cap got
to do with the fact that the thin wish to be obese and the obese aspire
to be thin as reeds; or that enlightenment is at a peak but ignorance
makes the horizon bleak? Is it my fault that truth flees in the face of
lies and facts are fanned by farce? Or why we live in today and yet run
from it, or hope for tomorrow and yet fear it?

All I want is a bit
of sun, and a bit of life’s sum. It is not my fault that I come from
the land of Wrong Caps. It is not my burden when brothers from grey
lands – child, woman and man and become victims in a wave of mindless,
violent death. That wave kills and crushes all within its breath –
nature’s own death. It does not speak the language of children, nor
does it understand the words of men. It only reverberates with the
tongue of death, echoing from a deep depth; yet again nature’s moment
of madness.

When blind hatred
reigns, lives, homes, all become fodder for nature’s own mass murder.
And there will be no convict because nature’s crime has no precinct. So
force a spot of humanity from within to humble the haughty and the
naughty. Even knotty, toughened hearts can be melted by malleable
murmur.

And really, there is nothing wrong with the shape of my cap.

I was away for too long, cocooned in a country where football is
aberrantly called soccer. I got sucked in to one of the local games they refer
to as World Tournaments. How can Boston Celtics or LA Lakers be described as
World Champions when they never stepped out of the United States of America (not
even to Puerto Rico) to play another country? Same with the Indianapolis Colts
or the New Orleans Saint’s who were dubbed, world champions after winning the
Super Bowl in 2007 and 2009 respectively.

With balls freezing under my thermo-pants (trousers please)
every Super Bowl Sunday, I would go to Uncle Sunny Oboh’s house, a fellow
immigrant and lifelong supporter of the Washington Redskins and men who wear
women’s terelin, throw oblong cocoa pod-like leather with fat hands and call it
football. And none of us would have the balls to call a spade a spade, and
declare what Americans call football is known to the rest of the world as
handball. But that is America for you, they are the world and the rest of us
are the children.

Instead of screaming foul play, we’d fake excitement because how
else could we defrost the snow that had formed icicles in our homeland
memories?

When I first came back to Nigeria, I mistakenly called real
football soccer and a co-worker gave me an evil eye full of, “this is not
America, stupid”. I had forgotten that football was sacrosanct in Nigeria, like
religion, like opium; the people get so high on it and many get killed because
of a game of kicking a spherical piece of leather around for ninety minutes.
Before America’s myopia got me killed, I learned to correct my tongue,
repeating to myself many times, it’s not soccer, it’s football, sucker! And now
the World Cup fever has seized me like a New England winter, I wonder how I
could have forgotten football, something that had been woven so tightly into my
cultural upbringing?

To forget football is to forget my late father who would find
time despite his hectic schedule to watch me and friends play football with
oranges under my grandfather’s huge pear tree, and mediate when fights broke
out because football, whether by kids or adults, is a highly competitive game.
Or to forget my mother who was my doctor and physical therapist who nursed me
back to the next bruising game.

To forget football is to forget my senior brother, Osajele, who
bought me my first Felele out of his very first salary in life. I don’t
remember telling him thank you because I bolted out the door as soon as he
handed me the light weight ball and started screaming down the street like a
Holy Ghost possessed Pentecostal. I soon became the Pele and the king of boys
in my quarter and every one of them wanted to be my friend.

To forget football is to forget my PT teacher in primary school,
who gave me a long look on the field one day and said “Oyinbo you are too thin,
go and blacken the board for the next lesson”. Till today I still hate him more
than BODMAS. That Odemwingie guy could have been me, though my senior brother
would probably kill me first before allowing me to plait my hair. He would say,
“best footballer my foot – are you a woman? ” To forget football is to forget
my good friend, Okwy Okeke, who is so passionate about the game that he talks
about it like a first kiss, good wine or that very first love making that
lingers in one’s memory like a lick of honey in a bee-less country.

To forget football is to forget the one unifying universal
language, the hope that holds the world together as one. The single pot from
which we all drink without locking horns, where you do not hear expressions
like “geopolitical zone”, where Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba, Esan etc, has one heart
beating inside their Nigerian body.

To forget football is to forget our dictator, late Sani Abacha
and the days he had us on his killing noose. For a brief moment, the country
breathed peace during the 1994 World Cup until the Italians sent us packing, a
situation that was more painful than the hell Abacha was meting on Nigerians.
And hell broke loose again; such was the dictator’s negative vibe.

To forget football is to forget the recent history of our dear
beloved late President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua’s ‘cabal-liers’, who found football
important enough to include in their scripted speech from the spirit world:
“I’d also like to use this opportunity to wish our national team the Super
Eagles success in our Nation’s Cup matches in Angola…blah blah”. And the Eagles
did not come home with the cup, because lies bring bad luck.

To forget football is to forget that we now have a president
whose name is Goodluck, a man who ascended the throne despite the evil machinations
of political Maradonas. And this is why I am wishing our national team, the
Super Eagles, good luck (not through BBC). May they bring us the ultimate cup,
the true mark of world champion, no matter the tricks and maneuvering of the
other teams’ cabalists.

The
World Cup is bringing deserved appreciation of South Africa as a nation
that transitioned from white minority domination to a vibrant pluralist
democracy. Yet its achievements stand largely alone on the continent.
Of the 17 African nations that are commemorating their 50th
anniversaries of independence this year – the Democratic Republic of
Congo and Somalia will both do so in the coming weeks – few have
anything to truly celebrate.

Five decades ago, African independence was worth
rejoicing over: These newly created states signaled an end to the
violent, humiliating Western domination of the continent, and they were
quickly recognised by the international community. Sovereignty gave
fledgling elites the shield to protect their weak states against
continued colonial subjugation and the policy instruments to promote
economic development.

Yet because these countries were recognised by the
international community before they even really existed, because the
gift of sovereignty was granted from outside rather than earned from
within, it came without the benefit of popular accountability, or even
a social contract between rulers and citizens.

Buttressed by the legality and impunity that
international sovereignty conferred upon their actions, too many of
Africa’s politicians and officials twisted the normal activities of a
state beyond recognition, transforming mundane tasks like policing,
lawmaking and taxation into weapons of extortion.

So, for the past five decades, most Africans have
suffered predation of colonial proportions by the very states that were
supposed to bring them freedom. And most of these nations, broke from
their own thievery, are now unable to provide their citizens with basic
services like security, roads, hospitals and schools. What can be done?

The first and most urgent task is that the donor
countries that keep these nations afloat should cease sheltering
African elites from accountability. To do so, the international
community must move swiftly to derecognize the worst-performing African
states, forcing their rulers – for the very first time in their
checkered histories – to search for support and legitimacy at home.

Radical as this idea may sound, it is not without
precedent. Undemocratic Taiwan was derecognised by most of the world in
the 1970s (as the corollary of recognizing Beijing). This loss of
recognition led the ruling Kuomintang party to adopt new policies in
search of domestic support. The regime liberalised the economy,
legalised opposition groups, abolished martial law, organised elections
and even issued an apology to the Taiwanese people for past misrule,
eventually turning the country into a fast-growing, vibrant democracy.

In Africa, similarly, the unrecognised, breakaway
state of Somaliland provides its citizens with relative peace and
democracy, offering a striking counterpoint to the violence and misery
of neighboring sovereign Somalia. It was in part the absence of
recognition that forced the leaders of the Somali National Movement in
the early ‘90s to strike a bargain with local clan elders and create
legitimate participatory institutions in Somaliland.

What does this mean in practice? Donor governments
would tell the rulers of places like Chad, Congo, Equatorial Guinea or
Sudan – all nightmares to much of their populations – that they no
longer recognise them as sovereign states. Instead, they would agree to
recognise only African states that provide their citizens with a
minimum of safety and basic rights.

The logistics of derecognition would no doubt be
complicated. Embassies would be withdrawn on both sides. These states
would be expelled from the United Nations and other international
organisations. All macroeconomic, budget-supporting and post-conflict
reconstruction aid programmes would be cancelled. (Nongovernmental
groups and local charities would continue to receive money.) If this
were to happen, relatively benevolent states like South Africa and a
handful of others would go on as before. But in the continent’s most
troubled countries, politicians would suddenly lose the legal
foundations of their authority. Some of these repressive leaders,
deprived of their sovereign tools of domination and the international
aid that underwrites their regimes, might soon find themselves
overthrown.

The international community would reward African
states that begin to provide their citizens with basic rights and
services, that curb violence and that once again commit resources to
development projects, with re-recognition. Aid would return. More
important, these states would finally have acquired some degree of
popular accountability and domestic legitimacy.

Like any experiment, de- and-re-recognition is
risky. Some fear it could promote conflict, that warlords would simply
seize certain mineral-rich areas and run violent, lawless quasi-states.
But Africa is already rife with violence, and warlordism is already a
widespread phenomenon. While unrecognised countries might still
mistreat their people, history shows that weak, isolated regimes have
rarely been able to survive without making significant concessions to
segments of their populations.

For many Africans, 50 years of sovereignty has
been an abject failure, reproducing the horrors of colonial-era
domination under the guise of freedom. International derecognition of
abusive states would be a first step toward real liberation.

Pierre Englebert, a professor of African politics
at Pomona College, is the author, most recently, of “Africa: Unity,
Sovereignty and Sorrow.”

© 2010 The New York Times

The
World Cup is here and all over the sporting world, the current subject
is football’s most prestigious event currently holding in South Africa.
For a change, Africa is the centre of something positive even in the
most sceptical of the world’s media.

In Nigeria, the
media is bombarded with all sorts of promotional gimmicks in tune with
the allure of football as a passionate sport, unifying tool, and big
business. Leading names in sports reporting are in South Africa to
serve as the ears, eyes and voices of their respective media.
Relationships are being strengthened as many men have added reason to
stay home and watch; pay television subscriptions are being hurriedly
renewed; new television sets purchased and old ones fixed; viewing
centres are filled with football fans, all wanting a piece of the
action.

The event commands
attention in Nigeria for at least three reasons. As our most popular
sport it provides opportunity for our national team to put forward a
positive side of our national life. Football has a unifying bond, which
makes us suspend our artificial differences for the duration. During
the Nigerian civil war, football’s unifying bond was underscored when
the combatants ceased hostility for two days to follow on television
and radio a visiting Brazilian football team parading Pele and a
Nigerian side. The 2010 World Cup is Africa’s first in its 80 years and
therefore defines the continent’s entry into the global sports
organisation. Every success recorded in South Africa is a plus for
Africa and challenge to the rest of us of what is possible with
planning, and organisation.

I’ve always been a
football buff until the Super Eagles threatened to make me a regular
visitor to the cardiologist. I was not just a cheerleader; I played it
in school and even teamed up with schoolmates to establish a football
team, DAMEO Rovers, a name coined from the first initials of the names
of the five prime movers—Dante, Austin, Michael, Edgal and Olanrewaju.
I was so passionate about the game I would forgo the meal that
immediately followed the match if my school team lost. I remember one
occasion in 1970 when my emotional dam broke and I wept. My school, the
Lagos Baptist Academy, had looked good to win the Principals’ Cup. We
had crushed schools like Ansar ud Deen Isolo, St. Finbarr’s, and Yaba
College of Technology Secondary School, and booked a place in the semi
final with Zumuratul Islamiyya Grammar School.

A diminutive
player, named Haruna Ilerika combined so effectively with Mustapha (MM)
and Toye Ajagun that they beat our hitherto conquering team, 3-0. Our
goalkeeper was to complain that each time the ball went in he actually
saw two balls hurtling towards him. Before we knew it word was out that
the opposition had overwhelmed our boys with juju. It was an
explanation I repeated at home, which of course drew much derisive
laughter. Ilerika’s feat in later years for club and country has of
course disproved that theory.

My involvement with
football over the years has changed. After following the exploits of
the Eagles—Green, Flying, Baby and Eaglet—for four decades, I have come
to the conclusion that it is in my enlightened self-interest not to
rely too much on the Super Eagles. For a year now my defence mechanism
is not to watch any of their matches live so that I can live to tell
the story. So last Saturday while everywhere was agog with excitement
on the impending Nigeria-Argentina match, I had made up my mind not to
watch it. A wedding in the family had provided a convenient excuse. Its
reception was billed for the same time as the match. Ten minutes into
the match I decided to follow the match on my phone. It was a mistake
as I learnt the Argies had put in a goal in the sixth minute. For the
rest of the reception I switched my attention between the reception and
the match on my phone unable to enjoy either.

On my way home I
monitored fans’ reactions on radio. Most callers were satisfied that
Nigeria was not disgraced. They saw hope in the team and some hunger
for glory. When I got home I watched the repeat broadcast of the game.
The analysis reinforced what I heard earlier. There was much hope that
the Eagles would raise their game in subsequent matches and progress in
the competition. While my heart prays along with them my head cautions
it won’t be easy, considering Nigeria’s shoddy preparation.

It is worth
celebrating if Nigeria advances to the second round, which remains
Nigeria’s best performance in three World Cup appearances. As I wish
Nigerians good luck in the competition I will stick to my resolution
not to watch the Eagles play live today. I do not hate the Eagles. I
just love my heart more. Go, Eagles, go.

Where to start.

Apparently, a legion of government officials is
presently circling around Johannesburg, South Africa – clearly at the
expense of tax payers and other Nigerians.

This band of travellers are ably led by the
President of our Federal Republic, Goodluck Jonathan, the same man who
came into office projecting an aura of frugality and fiscal
responsibility.

The first question immediately arises: What
exactly is Mr. Jonathan doing at the World Cup? Did he go in with the
expectation that there would be something to celebrate? That his team
was indeed worth seeing? That there is a particular function that his
presence would serve in Johannesburg that it wouldn’t from the Federal
Capital Territory in Abuja?

He has been part and leader of a government – as
Vice President, Acting President and then President – that has overseen
one of the world’s worst tournament preparations, amid monumental
corruption, that any nation can cobble together. Apart from that, he
has less than nine months to perform the hardest task in the world:
organising free and fair elections in Nigeria amid suggestions that he
himself will be throwing his hat in the ring. So how does going to
South Africa to witness the opening ceremony of the tournament
factor into this urgent task?

Unfortunately, this sense of misplaced priority,
not to talk of fostering an atmosphere that tempts corruption, is not
limited to His Excellency. Newspaper reports crow of a 13-member
Federal Government delegation led by Senate President David Mark,
including at least two governors and five serving ministers, including
the governors of Ogun, Gbenga Daniel; Borno, Modu Sheriff; Kwara,
Bukola Saraki; Rivers, Rotimi Amaechi; and Delta, Emmanuel Uduaghan as
well as some ministers and top federal officials, who were part of the
advance team that travelled to South Africa ahead of the President.
This is apart from the 62 senators who, last Wednesday night, left
aboard a chartered aircraft from France, Boeing 757-200, for the
fiesta.

It is crucial to note that, at any point in time,
it is difficult to find 62 senators seated in the hallowed chambers
where they work – actually making laws. The ministers have spent less
than two months in office, many without any remarkable signs of
achievement, these are governors who are not remarkable for their sense
of vision and purpose, not to speak of the President who has yet to
demonstrate any urgency in terms of the tasks he has set for himself:
power and electoral reform. As it is, the electoral commission is
unprepared to begin the monumental task of voter registration not to
talk of preparing for the elections proper.

When you add this to the 202 names of football
officials submitted to the South African embassy by our sports
authorities, the thread is clear: this is not a government different
from its predecessors; waste and recklessness continue to define our
governance: it is business as usual.

In an interview with News Agency of Nigeria, the
popular Save Nigeria Group described this as what it is: a waste of
public funds. “As individuals, there is nothing wrong with their going
to watch the World Cup, but as senators going to represent Nigeria, it
is shameful and condemnable. We are talking of the nation’s image
abroad and the senators are making us a laughing stock,” the group
said.

Indeed, laughing stock is the term to use in
describing a nation that celebrates when it should be mourning, one
that travels to a sister nation to celebrate its global coming of age
party while its own people grapple with fundamental issues of survival.
A nation where the levers of its government are allowed to screech to a
halt whilst its key drivers embark on an estacode-powered jamboree.

This is, without mincing any words, a national disgrace.

And it is a disgrace that speaks to a spectacular
failure of judgment that has spread its cancerous limbs across the
length and width of our executive and legislative arms of government.
It is also a calamity because the two arms who are supposed to check
and balance each other have colluded to promote a culture of
triviality. This is of course the same government that plans to expend
N10 billion on the Nigeria @ 50 celebrations – with such inanities as
N100, 000 for a website.

What is worse: there is no hope that this is just a one-off incident, a moment of madness that will pass, no.

As we speak, information in the public space is
that a 200-man delegation is “gearing up” to, in a matter of weeks,
follow the president to the G8 summit in Canada.

One does not even begin to know whether to laugh or cry.