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Several months ago, when the Central Bank of Nigeria issued a financial report in which, among other things, it admonished Nigerians for doing injury to their country’s economy by keeping their cash under their pillows instead of lodging it in bank accounts, I knew exactly who the CBN had in mind. It could only have been an old friend who lived somewhere in the fair city of Ajegunle.
In the report, the CBN had raised an alarm over the tendency of large sections of the population to hoard their money, thereby depriving the economy of funds that would have been given to banks, which would in turn have made such money available to investors to expand production and keep the economy growing. According to the CBN, rather than keep this cash at home Nigerians should emulate those people in a developed economy and conduct their transactions through plastic money (i.e. credit cards) and through the banking system by cheques. In other words, they should imbibe the banking culture.
Always eager to promote a good cause, I decided to draw my friend’s attention to the CBN’s advice. In all the years that I had known him, he had been transacting all his business with “real money” – what the proprietor of the pepper soup joint that he regularly patronized would refer to as “raw cash”. My friend had never for one single day kept his money in a bank, let alone owned a cheque book. And he certainly had never heard of something called “plastic money.”
At first he had kept his cash in one of the drawers of his dressing table, until he discovered that sundry members of his household tended to regard the drawer’s contents as communal property. Then he resorted to keeping his money zipped up in an ingeniously concealed pocket of his jacket, but he had a change of mind when it dawned on him that, with the way his expenditure on mobile phone recharge cards was making a big hole in that pocket, his money was not safe there.
He next tried putting all his spare cash — what might be called his savings — in the pocket of an old agbada that he had given up wearing. One day his wife dumped the garment, along with the week’s washing, in a tub full of sudsy water, thus unwittingly involving herself in what can only be called “money laundering”, a criminal offence. At one stage he even considered burying his cash in a shed in a corner of his backyard. He dropped the idea after he found some termites sampling the shed’s woodwork. If termites had jaws that were strong enough for them to chew through solid timber, they would most certainly be able to make short work of paper money. So when I told him what the CBN had said about the need to imbibe the banking culture, he was ready to give it a try.
“How do I imbibe this culture,” he asked.
“You give your raw cash to a bank manager,” I said, “and in return he gives you a cheque book.”
“But I don’t have a reading habit,” my friend protested.
“You don’t read a cheque book. You tear out the pages and give them to people in payment for goods and services.”
“That sounds strange to me,” my friend said.
“Before you are given the cheque book,” I continued, “you are first required to obtain references from two citizens of impeccable character who are also customers in good standing with a bank. The two citizens will give a signed undertaking that, after you have achieved the high honour of owning a cheque book you will not overdraw your account without first negotiating what is called a facility. They will also guarantee that you will not flee the country while a loan is outstanding against you.”
“No problem,” my friend said airily — too airily in fact, so I put in the damper.
“Finding two people who would give you the required character reference will not be easy,” I told him. “Citizens of impeccable character are numbered in their thousands; the trouble is that not all of them are always in good standing with their banks. A surprising number of people owe their banks debts that they have no hope of paying back.”
“You mean bad debts?” my friend said, showing himself to be a quick study.
“Exactly. Now, as a brand new recruit to the banking culture you will be required to open your account with a substantial amount. I don’t know how much that amount is these days, but you can be sure it won’t be chicken feed. The banking culture is not for the poor, and your initial deposit will probably swallow up all you have inside that drawer of your dressing table.”
“I think I still have a fair amount left,” my friend said, “if my wife hasn’t been dipping into the drawer again.”
“Armed with the letters of reference, you proceed to the bank, where certain rituals have to be observed before you can drive into the premises. First, a uniformed security guard will stare at you with deep suspicion before throwing open the gate to let you drive in. Then you will be given a lesson on how to park a car inside the bank’s premises. You will be asked to park facing the wall, to ensure that you cannot drive out of the parking area without first putting the car in reverse. That way, if you hold up the bank manager and help yourself to the contents of the bank vault, the police will arrive long before you have executed the necessary three-point turn and made your escape.”
“That problem won’t arise,” my friend said, “since I don’t have a car.”
“All right, you go straight to the banking hall,” I continued, “where you will see a long queue stretching from the door and going nowhere. Judging by the expression on their faces, those standing in the queue must have been there for a long time. Most of them are what is called the payday crowd. They are there not to imbibe the banking culture, but because their salaries are paid through the bank. Once in a month, on payday, they swoop on the bank to withdraw every kobo of their salary, and spend the next few days distributing the money among a waiting host of creditors.”
“Is that also part of the banking culture?” my friend asked.
“Probably not what the CBN has in mind,” I replied.
My friend mulled that over for a while, and then asked: “What happens in the banking hall?”
“You join the queue, and spend several minutes listening to a chorus of complaints from those who had got there hours before you. From them you learn that one of the reasons for the length of the queue is that the cashiers have run out of cash and are attending only to those who have come to deposit money. The harassed bank manager tells the angry customers that he has asked head office to send some money”
“Does head office always have money to send?”
“Invariably,” I replied. “That’s why it is called head office. While you’re waiting for the money to arrive you decide to phone your wife and tell her that you will be late for lunch. As you reach for the phone in your pocket, a notice warning against the use of cell phones inside the banking hall catches your eye.”
“Why can’t I phone?” my friend asks.
“Because it will be assumed that you are giving an accomplice, who is waiting just outside the bank, a detailed description of the man who has just withdrawn a six-figure sum from his account and is on his way to the car park. You put the phone back in your pocket, and just then the bullion van bringing the money from head office arrives noisily. When you finally find yourself at the head of the queue, you still have to wait for another minute or two while the cashier who should attend to you is finishing her conversation with another cashier in an adjoining cage.
That done, she decides to count the pile of notes in front of her, using a counting machine that repeatedly gives the wrong total because most of the notes being counted are either too limp, or have been mended with Sellotape that keeps fooling the machine. The cashier knows this, but she stubbornly refuses to count the notes manually. The counting is followed by some paper work, after which the cashier takes your cheque and consults a computer.”
“Why consult a computer?”
“To make sure that you are not attempting to defraud the bank. Satisfied, she pays you the money.”
“And that’s the end of it?”
“That’s about the end of it, unless you want to hang around to count the money and sort the notes you have just received, separating the fairly used ones from the abused, and the merely rotten from the really smelly. You need to do that because if you go home with abused bank notes your wife will grumble that the gari seller at the market won’t accept them from her.”
“Owners of pepper soup joints don’t accept them either,” my friend said. I noticed that he had a bemused look on his face, so I asked him if he had any questions.
“Yes,” he said. “How many cheques will fill a Ghana-must-go bag?”
Obviously, the banking culture is not for everybody, and anyone who asks that sort of question is not ready for plastic money.
In the report, the CBN had raised an alarm over the tendency of large sections of the population to hoard their money, thereby depriving the economy of funds that would have been given to banks, which would in turn have made such money available to investors to expand production and keep the economy growing. According to the CBN, rather than keep this cash at home Nigerians should emulate those people in a developed economy and conduct their transactions through plastic money (i.e. credit cards) and through the banking system by cheques. In other words, they should imbibe the banking culture.
Always eager to promote a good cause, I decided to draw my friend’s attention to the CBN’s advice. In all the years that I had known him, he had been transacting all his business with “real money” – what the proprietor of the pepper soup joint that he regularly patronized would refer to as “raw cash”. My friend had never for one single day kept his money in a bank, let alone owned a cheque book. And he certainly had never heard of something called “plastic money.”
At first he had kept his cash in one of the drawers of his dressing table, until he discovered that sundry members of his household tended to regard the drawer’s contents as communal property. Then he resorted to keeping his money zipped up in an ingeniously concealed pocket of his jacket, but he had a change of mind when it dawned on him that, with the way his expenditure on mobile phone recharge cards was making a big hole in that pocket, his money was not safe there.
He next tried putting all his spare cash — what might be called his savings — in the pocket of an old agbada that he had given up wearing. One day his wife dumped the garment, along with the week’s washing, in a tub full of sudsy water, thus unwittingly involving herself in what can only be called “money laundering”, a criminal offence. At one stage he even considered burying his cash in a shed in a corner of his backyard. He dropped the idea after he found some termites sampling the shed’s woodwork. If termites had jaws that were strong enough for them to chew through solid timber, they would most certainly be able to make short work of paper money. So when I told him what the CBN had said about the need to imbibe the banking culture, he was ready to give it a try.
“How do I imbibe this culture,” he asked.
“You give your raw cash to a bank manager,” I said, “and in return he gives you a cheque book.”
“But I don’t have a reading habit,” my friend protested.
“You don’t read a cheque book. You tear out the pages and give them to people in payment for goods and services.”
“That sounds strange to me,” my friend said.
“Before you are given the cheque book,” I continued, “you are first required to obtain references from two citizens of impeccable character who are also customers in good standing with a bank. The two citizens will give a signed undertaking that, after you have achieved the high honour of owning a cheque book you will not overdraw your account without first negotiating what is called a facility. They will also guarantee that you will not flee the country while a loan is outstanding against you.”
“No problem,” my friend said airily — too airily in fact, so I put in the damper.
“Finding two people who would give you the required character reference will not be easy,” I told him. “Citizens of impeccable character are numbered in their thousands; the trouble is that not all of them are always in good standing with their banks. A surprising number of people owe their banks debts that they have no hope of paying back.”
“You mean bad debts?” my friend said, showing himself to be a quick study.
“Exactly. Now, as a brand new recruit to the banking culture you will be required to open your account with a substantial amount. I don’t know how much that amount is these days, but you can be sure it won’t be chicken feed. The banking culture is not for the poor, and your initial deposit will probably swallow up all you have inside that drawer of your dressing table.”
“I think I still have a fair amount left,” my friend said, “if my wife hasn’t been dipping into the drawer again.”
“Armed with the letters of reference, you proceed to the bank, where certain rituals have to be observed before you can drive into the premises. First, a uniformed security guard will stare at you with deep suspicion before throwing open the gate to let you drive in. Then you will be given a lesson on how to park a car inside the bank’s premises. You will be asked to park facing the wall, to ensure that you cannot drive out of the parking area without first putting the car in reverse. That way, if you hold up the bank manager and help yourself to the contents of the bank vault, the police will arrive long before you have executed the necessary three-point turn and made your escape.”
“That problem won’t arise,” my friend said, “since I don’t have a car.”
“All right, you go straight to the banking hall,” I continued, “where you will see a long queue stretching from the door and going nowhere. Judging by the expression on their faces, those standing in the queue must have been there for a long time. Most of them are what is called the payday crowd. They are there not to imbibe the banking culture, but because their salaries are paid through the bank. Once in a month, on payday, they swoop on the bank to withdraw every kobo of their salary, and spend the next few days distributing the money among a waiting host of creditors.”
“Is that also part of the banking culture?” my friend asked.
“Probably not what the CBN has in mind,” I replied.
My friend mulled that over for a while, and then asked: “What happens in the banking hall?”
“You join the queue, and spend several minutes listening to a chorus of complaints from those who had got there hours before you. From them you learn that one of the reasons for the length of the queue is that the cashiers have run out of cash and are attending only to those who have come to deposit money. The harassed bank manager tells the angry customers that he has asked head office to send some money”
“Does head office always have money to send?”
“Invariably,” I replied. “That’s why it is called head office. While you’re waiting for the money to arrive you decide to phone your wife and tell her that you will be late for lunch. As you reach for the phone in your pocket, a notice warning against the use of cell phones inside the banking hall catches your eye.”
“Why can’t I phone?” my friend asks.
“Because it will be assumed that you are giving an accomplice, who is waiting just outside the bank, a detailed description of the man who has just withdrawn a six-figure sum from his account and is on his way to the car park. You put the phone back in your pocket, and just then the bullion van bringing the money from head office arrives noisily. When you finally find yourself at the head of the queue, you still have to wait for another minute or two while the cashier who should attend to you is finishing her conversation with another cashier in an adjoining cage.
That done, she decides to count the pile of notes in front of her, using a counting machine that repeatedly gives the wrong total because most of the notes being counted are either too limp, or have been mended with Sellotape that keeps fooling the machine. The cashier knows this, but she stubbornly refuses to count the notes manually. The counting is followed by some paper work, after which the cashier takes your cheque and consults a computer.”
“Why consult a computer?”
“To make sure that you are not attempting to defraud the bank. Satisfied, she pays you the money.”
“And that’s the end of it?”
“That’s about the end of it, unless you want to hang around to count the money and sort the notes you have just received, separating the fairly used ones from the abused, and the merely rotten from the really smelly. You need to do that because if you go home with abused bank notes your wife will grumble that the gari seller at the market won’t accept them from her.”
“Owners of pepper soup joints don’t accept them either,” my friend said. I noticed that he had a bemused look on his face, so I asked him if he had any questions.
“Yes,” he said. “How many cheques will fill a Ghana-must-go bag?”
Obviously, the banking culture is not for everybody, and anyone who asks that sort of question is not ready for plastic money.
Mine has to be Sex Is a Nigger by Dillibe Onyeama.
My mum found it hidden under my mattress and was waiting for me in the living room, cane in one hand, book in the other, on my return from school.
'Until your father comes...' was her ominous conclusion after my looonnnnnng nonsensical explanation!
Funnily, pops was secretly amused - and probably read the book himself!
He returned it to me three years later.
My mum found it hidden under my mattress and was waiting for me in the living room, cane in one hand, book in the other, on my return from school.
'Until your father comes...' was her ominous conclusion after my looonnnnnng nonsensical explanation!
Funnily, pops was secretly amused - and probably read the book himself!
He returned it to me three years later.
Dateline: a Saturday in June, 1997.
Venue: Rojenny Sports Centre, Oba, Anambra State, Nigeria.
Event: NFA Professional League Match between Udoji United (Onitsha) and Jasper United (Awka) --- on the menu; Wrestlemania contest between both sets of fans --- not on the menu. Both teams used that stadium as their home base Onitsha and Awka are both in Anambra, and within 'trekkable' distance from Oba. For this match though, Udoji was designated as the home team.
I had gone with a cousin to watch the football match, one of my first local league games in years. My mum didn't approve of my going to stadiums (she still doesn't approve, but this man has lots of stadium experience behind him now, and one with Uju
), hence I had to practically abandon going to Ogbe Stadium to watch my home town team Insurance play. However, since I happened to be out of her reach at that point (Onitsha is quite some distance from Benin), I went to watch. Sometime during the course of the game, a Jasper striker was brought down in the Udoji box, and the fans screamed for blood. The penalty wasn't given. The result? Pandemonium in the stands. Fortunately, both teams back then used to share that ground, so fan numbers were in equal strength, and it took just a 'while' for the pandemonium to die down. Unfortunately though, the referee felt the need to call off the game.
Dateline: another Saturday, this time in May 2001.
Venue: Rojenny Sports Centre, Oba, Anambra State, Nigeria, again.
Event: NFA Professional League Match between Jasper United (Awka) and Enyimba FC (Aba) --- on the menu; Wrestlemania contest between both sets of fans --- not on the menu. Jasper was the home team in this game, while Enyimba having come all the way from Aba was the away team. Some of their fans made the trip though.
This is one that sticks in my memory for so many reasons:
First, it was one of the first games that was being refereed by a woman in the Nigerian League. I have to admit that she gave a credible performance, though as a football purist, I still believe up until now that women have no place in the beautiful game.
Secondly, this game was played at a time when Enyimba was on the rise in the Nigerian (and African) football stratosphere. They were a good team, and played some wonderful football. I still remember the rings their players ran around the Jasper defence in that match. I was to see them live again later that year, this time in Benin, when they ran rings around the Insurance defence.
Thirdly, it was one of those few games back then that had cameras all over the place, so there was ostensibly no chance for any wuruwuru.
Fourthly, it was the first time I can remember seeing a bona fide away team scoring first against Jasper. Normally, the fans wouldn't permit it, and the male referees, being pragmatic and rightly fearing for their own safety would concur. This time, madam refused to concur. She awarded the goal.
Let me describe the incident as I remember it, because it happened a few feet away from where I was standing: Towards the end of the first half, Jasper were awarded a corner. It was saved by the then relatively unknown Vincent Enyeama, and Enyimba launched a counter. In the flowing counter attack from their own half, the Enyimba players cut out the Jasper defence, and one of their strikers scored! There was silence around the ground (except for the few travelling fans).
The referee awarded the goal, and I swear it was a great goal. However, maybe in an unthinking fit to protect his skin, the linesman on the near side from me raised his flag for offside, after the ball had gone into the net and the Enyimba players were already celebrating. That was the excuse that some Jasper supporters needed to claim that there was an offside. Madam ref stood her ground, and pandemonium ensued. One guy a few feet to my left, urinated in a bottle and stoned the linesman (as a punishment for not raising his flag early enough), while another set of fans who were baying for blood (the referee's blood) rushed onto the field to collect it. Before you could say Nzogbu, Nzogbu, some Enyimba players had received the odd slap (or two) for daring to score, while madam referee was being beaten. Thank God for the presence of the Mopol that day, who knows what would have happened? The Mopol officers had to use force to rescue Madam ref. I watched for a while, then took off. The game was called off. I was told that the violence continued for hours more. What I remember for certain is that after that, Rojenny was banned.
Why am I reminiscing on these games?
Yesterday there was an outbreak of fan violence in the Serie A match between Catania and Palermo. Unfortunately it lead to the death of a police man, and has led to the suspension of the entire Serie A and Serie B programme for this weekend, and maybe longer.
Having been at the venues of no less than three incidents of irate fan behavior (Nigeria-Congo, 2000 being another), I still find it tragic when fans go off the bend, although I must say that sometimes I understand. See, football is a game that brings up a lot of emotions (I almost ran mad when Eto'o scored that first goal against Nigeria in 2004), bragging rights and all that, which is why the tendency is for the more violent behaviours to occur during derbies.
In football, a derby is a match between two neighbouring teams, they could be neighbours within the same city (Al-Ahly versus Zamalek), or within the same region (Jasper versus Enyimba), or they could be the most successful clubs in the country (Enugu Rangers versus Shooting Stars). Derbies as a rule tend to be very hostile (in some cases fans from one team are outrightly banned from the stadium), and lead to a lot of irrational behaviour.
While I am not condoning bad fan behaviour, I think that the reaction of the FIGC (Italian federation) is just another knee jerk reaction. What happened last night was tragic, make no mistakes about it, but stopping football indefinitely doesn't even begin to solve the problem. Sadly, and as is usual, that poorly organised Federation (IMHO the Italian and Dutch federations are just as badly organised, if not worse than the NFA) are burying their heads in the sand. Just as they did during the calciopoli scandal. They are looking for the easiest way out. What a bunch of wankers!
I think they should come to England and take classes in fan control from the English FA. Safety of fans, the ability to go to games without any fear should be paramount. Females go to watch matches readily in England. Hell, even in the Nigerian scene, females can go to watch certain matches without fear. I have taken my girlfriend to a football match in Abuja before (Enyimba versus Esperance), without fear. If my girlfriend were around, I would gladly take her to watch a game here in England (Arsenal-Tottenham for example). But I would not, even if I was high on the cheapest form of crack take her to watch a game in Italy. As an almost lifelong fan of an Italian club, I have seen so many times what happens in the stands there. The behaviour of the ultras in Serie A and B games leaves more than a lot to be desired, and it has to stop at some point, it has to. The only time Italian fans behave themselves is 'when the eyes of the world are on them', Champions League for example, or else, they go off the bend.
A first step to curbing this behaviour would be to identify the ring leaders and hand them life time bans from stadia across the country. It is not impossible.
May the soul of Filippo Raciti rest in peace.
Venue: Rojenny Sports Centre, Oba, Anambra State, Nigeria.
Event: NFA Professional League Match between Udoji United (Onitsha) and Jasper United (Awka) --- on the menu; Wrestlemania contest between both sets of fans --- not on the menu. Both teams used that stadium as their home base Onitsha and Awka are both in Anambra, and within 'trekkable' distance from Oba. For this match though, Udoji was designated as the home team.
I had gone with a cousin to watch the football match, one of my first local league games in years. My mum didn't approve of my going to stadiums (she still doesn't approve, but this man has lots of stadium experience behind him now, and one with Uju
), hence I had to practically abandon going to Ogbe Stadium to watch my home town team Insurance play. However, since I happened to be out of her reach at that point (Onitsha is quite some distance from Benin), I went to watch. Sometime during the course of the game, a Jasper striker was brought down in the Udoji box, and the fans screamed for blood. The penalty wasn't given. The result? Pandemonium in the stands. Fortunately, both teams back then used to share that ground, so fan numbers were in equal strength, and it took just a 'while' for the pandemonium to die down. Unfortunately though, the referee felt the need to call off the game.Dateline: another Saturday, this time in May 2001.
Venue: Rojenny Sports Centre, Oba, Anambra State, Nigeria, again.
Event: NFA Professional League Match between Jasper United (Awka) and Enyimba FC (Aba) --- on the menu; Wrestlemania contest between both sets of fans --- not on the menu. Jasper was the home team in this game, while Enyimba having come all the way from Aba was the away team. Some of their fans made the trip though.
This is one that sticks in my memory for so many reasons:
First, it was one of the first games that was being refereed by a woman in the Nigerian League. I have to admit that she gave a credible performance, though as a football purist, I still believe up until now that women have no place in the beautiful game.
Secondly, this game was played at a time when Enyimba was on the rise in the Nigerian (and African) football stratosphere. They were a good team, and played some wonderful football. I still remember the rings their players ran around the Jasper defence in that match. I was to see them live again later that year, this time in Benin, when they ran rings around the Insurance defence.
Thirdly, it was one of those few games back then that had cameras all over the place, so there was ostensibly no chance for any wuruwuru.
Fourthly, it was the first time I can remember seeing a bona fide away team scoring first against Jasper. Normally, the fans wouldn't permit it, and the male referees, being pragmatic and rightly fearing for their own safety would concur. This time, madam refused to concur. She awarded the goal.
Let me describe the incident as I remember it, because it happened a few feet away from where I was standing: Towards the end of the first half, Jasper were awarded a corner. It was saved by the then relatively unknown Vincent Enyeama, and Enyimba launched a counter. In the flowing counter attack from their own half, the Enyimba players cut out the Jasper defence, and one of their strikers scored! There was silence around the ground (except for the few travelling fans).
The referee awarded the goal, and I swear it was a great goal. However, maybe in an unthinking fit to protect his skin, the linesman on the near side from me raised his flag for offside, after the ball had gone into the net and the Enyimba players were already celebrating. That was the excuse that some Jasper supporters needed to claim that there was an offside. Madam ref stood her ground, and pandemonium ensued. One guy a few feet to my left, urinated in a bottle and stoned the linesman (as a punishment for not raising his flag early enough), while another set of fans who were baying for blood (the referee's blood) rushed onto the field to collect it. Before you could say Nzogbu, Nzogbu, some Enyimba players had received the odd slap (or two) for daring to score, while madam referee was being beaten. Thank God for the presence of the Mopol that day, who knows what would have happened? The Mopol officers had to use force to rescue Madam ref. I watched for a while, then took off. The game was called off. I was told that the violence continued for hours more. What I remember for certain is that after that, Rojenny was banned.
Why am I reminiscing on these games?
Yesterday there was an outbreak of fan violence in the Serie A match between Catania and Palermo. Unfortunately it lead to the death of a police man, and has led to the suspension of the entire Serie A and Serie B programme for this weekend, and maybe longer.
Having been at the venues of no less than three incidents of irate fan behavior (Nigeria-Congo, 2000 being another), I still find it tragic when fans go off the bend, although I must say that sometimes I understand. See, football is a game that brings up a lot of emotions (I almost ran mad when Eto'o scored that first goal against Nigeria in 2004), bragging rights and all that, which is why the tendency is for the more violent behaviours to occur during derbies.
In football, a derby is a match between two neighbouring teams, they could be neighbours within the same city (Al-Ahly versus Zamalek), or within the same region (Jasper versus Enyimba), or they could be the most successful clubs in the country (Enugu Rangers versus Shooting Stars). Derbies as a rule tend to be very hostile (in some cases fans from one team are outrightly banned from the stadium), and lead to a lot of irrational behaviour.
While I am not condoning bad fan behaviour, I think that the reaction of the FIGC (Italian federation) is just another knee jerk reaction. What happened last night was tragic, make no mistakes about it, but stopping football indefinitely doesn't even begin to solve the problem. Sadly, and as is usual, that poorly organised Federation (IMHO the Italian and Dutch federations are just as badly organised, if not worse than the NFA) are burying their heads in the sand. Just as they did during the calciopoli scandal. They are looking for the easiest way out. What a bunch of wankers!
I think they should come to England and take classes in fan control from the English FA. Safety of fans, the ability to go to games without any fear should be paramount. Females go to watch matches readily in England. Hell, even in the Nigerian scene, females can go to watch certain matches without fear. I have taken my girlfriend to a football match in Abuja before (Enyimba versus Esperance), without fear. If my girlfriend were around, I would gladly take her to watch a game here in England (Arsenal-Tottenham for example). But I would not, even if I was high on the cheapest form of crack take her to watch a game in Italy. As an almost lifelong fan of an Italian club, I have seen so many times what happens in the stands there. The behaviour of the ultras in Serie A and B games leaves more than a lot to be desired, and it has to stop at some point, it has to. The only time Italian fans behave themselves is 'when the eyes of the world are on them', Champions League for example, or else, they go off the bend.
A first step to curbing this behaviour would be to identify the ring leaders and hand them life time bans from stadia across the country. It is not impossible.
May the soul of Filippo Raciti rest in peace.
I just heard about the death, over a week ago now, of Frank Aig-Imoukhuede, poet, diplomat, writer and columnist. He was the author of Sketches, a weekly column in the Nigerian newspaper The Vanguard, a column that I am (or is it was nowadays?) a devoted fan of. For me, this is sad news. Really sad news.
Frank Ikpehare Izedomi Aig-Imoukhuede was born in Atoruru about 10 kilometres from Sabongida-Ora on June 23, 1932 to the family of late Rev. Isaiah & Mrs. Eunice Aig-Imoukhuede.
He attended Igbobi College, Lagos from 1947-1951 and the University College, Ibadan from 1952-1955, where along with classmate and best friend Wole Soyinka, he was one of the founding members of the Pyrates Fraternity. He joined The Daily Times of Nigeria as Features Editor & Leader Writer, a position he held from 1955-1956. He was Editor Sunday Times in 1956 and worked as Deputy Editor of the Daily Times from 1957-1958. He then joined the Federal Information Service as Senior Publicity Officer from 1958-1959. He was Consular Officer for Information at the Nigerian Consulate-General, New York City in 1960, and between 1961 and 1964 was Assistant Director, Federal Information Service. He moved to the Nigerian Tobacco Company Limited (NTC) as Public Relations Adviser in 1964, and held that position until 1970. He became Executive Director of the NTC and held that position until 1985. He was also the Deputy Managing Director of Nigerian Tobacco Company Limited between 1983 and 1985. In 1985, he assumed the position of Director-General, Tobacco Advisory Council of Nigeria and in 1986 founded his own company, Stancon Limited, to provide corporate advisory services.
Amongst his social activities, Frank was Secretary/Treasurer of the Nigerian Cricket Association (1958-1959); Secretary/Treasurer, Nigerian Cricket Board of Control (1958-1959); General Secretary, Island Club (1965-1966 and 1970-1971); Vice President, Lagos Lawn Tennis Club (1973-1975); Joint Secretary, Metropolitan Club, Lagos (1977-1982); President, Lagos Lawn Tennis Club (1982-1984); Chairman, Agbara Estate Club (1985-1987) and was a Trustee of the Club. He was a founding member, Nigerian Billiards & Snooker Association and sometime member of Ikoyi Club, Ikoyi Gulf Club, Lagos Polo Club and Lagos Amateur Cricket Club.
He spoke English, Ishan, Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba and Ora fluently.
He married Miss Judith Sesi Ajai-Agbagbe on February 8, 1959. They had four children: Ikpehare Jnr., Ronke, Yinka and Imohimi.
He passed away on January 23, 2007 peacefully at age 74. May he rest in peace.
Frank Ikpehare Izedomi Aig-Imoukhuede was born in Atoruru about 10 kilometres from Sabongida-Ora on June 23, 1932 to the family of late Rev. Isaiah & Mrs. Eunice Aig-Imoukhuede.
He attended Igbobi College, Lagos from 1947-1951 and the University College, Ibadan from 1952-1955, where along with classmate and best friend Wole Soyinka, he was one of the founding members of the Pyrates Fraternity. He joined The Daily Times of Nigeria as Features Editor & Leader Writer, a position he held from 1955-1956. He was Editor Sunday Times in 1956 and worked as Deputy Editor of the Daily Times from 1957-1958. He then joined the Federal Information Service as Senior Publicity Officer from 1958-1959. He was Consular Officer for Information at the Nigerian Consulate-General, New York City in 1960, and between 1961 and 1964 was Assistant Director, Federal Information Service. He moved to the Nigerian Tobacco Company Limited (NTC) as Public Relations Adviser in 1964, and held that position until 1970. He became Executive Director of the NTC and held that position until 1985. He was also the Deputy Managing Director of Nigerian Tobacco Company Limited between 1983 and 1985. In 1985, he assumed the position of Director-General, Tobacco Advisory Council of Nigeria and in 1986 founded his own company, Stancon Limited, to provide corporate advisory services.
Amongst his social activities, Frank was Secretary/Treasurer of the Nigerian Cricket Association (1958-1959); Secretary/Treasurer, Nigerian Cricket Board of Control (1958-1959); General Secretary, Island Club (1965-1966 and 1970-1971); Vice President, Lagos Lawn Tennis Club (1973-1975); Joint Secretary, Metropolitan Club, Lagos (1977-1982); President, Lagos Lawn Tennis Club (1982-1984); Chairman, Agbara Estate Club (1985-1987) and was a Trustee of the Club. He was a founding member, Nigerian Billiards & Snooker Association and sometime member of Ikoyi Club, Ikoyi Gulf Club, Lagos Polo Club and Lagos Amateur Cricket Club.
He spoke English, Ishan, Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba and Ora fluently.
He married Miss Judith Sesi Ajai-Agbagbe on February 8, 1959. They had four children: Ikpehare Jnr., Ronke, Yinka and Imohimi.
He passed away on January 23, 2007 peacefully at age 74. May he rest in peace.
Hi there folks. Been a while, I know, but I've recently become a statistic and am still trying to come to terms with that. In case you were wondering, the statistic is Unemployed Nigerian Youth. Well, being from the Niger-Delta, I believe we all know what my options are... Ehem.
Anyway, Baba, the great man, wonderful leader, general-who-never-fires-blank, and all-round tough guy, recently ordered Uncle Nuhu to release a list of 137 "corrupt/unfit-for-public-office" individuals and there are no prizes for guessing who tops the list. That's right, Turaki is our numero uno criminal. The fact that the list screams "witchhunt" in 30 metre high letters is no deterrent to Baba and his cronies.
Take Ondo state for example. The man contesting the Senatorial seat with Iyabo, who has never held any public office by the way, is on the EFCC list. When they interviewed Baba's new Fani-Kayode on Channels TV this morning, he said you didn't have to hold public office to be corrupt, and in fact, the list was drawn up based on petitions recieved by the EFCC. Hmmm... Petitions. Not concluded investigations. Petitions. Right. So, if I were to send in a petition about say, Bode George, his name would make the list, no? Wait. EFCC already did investigate and indict Bode George, but strangely he hasn't been arrested. Baba did promise there would be no sacred cows. Perhaps Bode George is a sacred goat then? You never know.
It is also no surprise that Papa Decieve Pikin had the largest number of corrupt individuals on the list, something like 58 names in all. Clearly therefore, Baba's list has shown Nigerians that his party is in fact the most corrupt in Nigeria, and by extension Africa. (PDP is the "largest party in Africa" according to its statisticians.) How this man can then ask Nigerians to vote for PDP with a straight face beggars belief.
While I would dearly love to know just how Turaki made his money, and I also know that he wont be President come May 29, I think we should all be grateful to him for making sure that Baba wont be President beyond May 29.
As for those who say Yar'adua is a weakling and will only do the bidding of Baba, all I have to say is this:
Give a rat eba, and he will ask for a bowl of soup with bushmeat and stockfish, and cold beer to wash it down.
Anyway, Baba, the great man, wonderful leader, general-who-never-fires-blank, and all-round tough guy, recently ordered Uncle Nuhu to release a list of 137 "corrupt/unfit-for-public-office" individuals and there are no prizes for guessing who tops the list. That's right, Turaki is our numero uno criminal. The fact that the list screams "witchhunt" in 30 metre high letters is no deterrent to Baba and his cronies.
Take Ondo state for example. The man contesting the Senatorial seat with Iyabo, who has never held any public office by the way, is on the EFCC list. When they interviewed Baba's new Fani-Kayode on Channels TV this morning, he said you didn't have to hold public office to be corrupt, and in fact, the list was drawn up based on petitions recieved by the EFCC. Hmmm... Petitions. Not concluded investigations. Petitions. Right. So, if I were to send in a petition about say, Bode George, his name would make the list, no? Wait. EFCC already did investigate and indict Bode George, but strangely he hasn't been arrested. Baba did promise there would be no sacred cows. Perhaps Bode George is a sacred goat then? You never know.
It is also no surprise that Papa Decieve Pikin had the largest number of corrupt individuals on the list, something like 58 names in all. Clearly therefore, Baba's list has shown Nigerians that his party is in fact the most corrupt in Nigeria, and by extension Africa. (PDP is the "largest party in Africa" according to its statisticians.) How this man can then ask Nigerians to vote for PDP with a straight face beggars belief.
While I would dearly love to know just how Turaki made his money, and I also know that he wont be President come May 29, I think we should all be grateful to him for making sure that Baba wont be President beyond May 29.
As for those who say Yar'adua is a weakling and will only do the bidding of Baba, all I have to say is this:
Give a rat eba, and he will ask for a bowl of soup with bushmeat and stockfish, and cold beer to wash it down.
I wake. For a moment, I stare at the ceiling trying to remember something. Something important. Something important happened last night, but the details escape me. Something fascinating yet sinister, like touring the CIA offices. Something exotic yet somehow familiar, like putting hot sauce on meatloaf. I wonder if I have a hangover. I wonder why I am thinking about the CIA and meatloaf. I roll onto my side.
There is a strange woman in bed with me.
A lot of things happen at once. First, I realize that this is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I am a lucky, lucky man. Second, I realize that this is not my wife, and I panic. Third, I realize that she's awake, has been watching me sleep. Fourth, before I can really react to thoughts 1 and 2, she smiles at me and speaks with a lovely accent I can't quite place: "So. You like new wife, yes? Yes. Up now, I make breakfast."
She gets out of bed and stretches, perfect curves sliding under silky lingerie and momentarily making me forget about breakfast, meatloaf, and whoever it was I was married to before last night. She seems to know this, and smiles at me again, but apparently she's serious about making breakfast. She turns and strides confidently from the room. As she does, I see for the first time the large Microsoft logo splayed across her back. My stomach lurches as I suddenly remember everything.
Windows Vista. I bought a new computer yesterday... and it came with Windows Vista.
I feel sick, but there's nothing for it but to get up. I step into the hallway and realize that she has remodeled the entire house. I really like the bathroom, it's very modern and artistic. As I shower I discover that the acoustics are absolutely perfect. I dry off with a giant fluffy towel and think to myself that this can't be all bad.
I return to the bedroom to dress. She has set out clothes for me. I am startled to discover that they're fresh from the dryer, warm and soft and smelling faintly of fabric softener. The jeans and shirt are a new style for me, but they feel fantastic as I pull them on, comfortable and loose in all the right places. As I look myself up and down in the full-length mirror, I realize that I look really good dressed like this. You hardly even notice the logo.
It takes me five full minutes to realize that my wallet and glasses are missing. They're not on the nightstand or the dresser. Well, maybe she put them someplace when she exchanged my clothes. I head downstairs to ask her.
The question dies on my lips as I reach the foyer. First off, my house now has a foyer. Sunlight streams in through thousands of cut facets. There is so much glass I almost wonder if there are walls. White tile stretches across the floor, forming a beautiful backdrop for stunning furniture and art. My house now has art in it. And there, by the front door, stands my beautiful new bride, smiling fondly at me as she silently throttles the paperboy.
The world goes dark and my vision becomes a tunnel. I see the paperboy, pinned to the wall. Her impossibly strong hands around his throat, squeezing. His feet are kicking--she has lifted him off the floor by his neck. He looks desperately at me, eyes wide in terror, mouth opening and closing but unable to make a sound. My lovely wife smiles again and says, "This paperboy needs your permission to continue."
Numbly, I nod my head. Instantly she releases the paperboy. He coughs once, then stands up and smiles as if nothing has happened. He hands me the paper and leaves. Still dumbfounded, I watch silently as she pads softly to the kitchen and begins cooking.
After several minutes I realize that I am just standing there, watching her. I am still shaking, but she is so beautiful... so beautiful it makes my chest ache. I continue staring until the shaking goes away. Eventually I drag myself from my reverie, but it is not easy. I decide to try conversation.
"Oh, when I was dressing, I noticed that my wallet and glasses are gone. Did you move them? Where are they?"
"Glasses?" she asks in reply. "...wallet?"
"Yeah, so I can do stuff."
"I can do stuff," she says. "With me, you can do more."
"Uh, yeah... but I really need my glasses."
She smiles at me thoughtfully. I smile back, but slowly I realize that she's not going to answer me. After several seconds of standing there looking beautiful, she turns back to the stove and resumes cooking.
"Okay," I announce. "I'll find them myself." Immediately she jumps in front of me.
"You would like help finding something? I have many new ways to search."
Ooookay. Kind of creepy, but... "Yeah. Where are my glasses?"
"Glasses?"
"Yes. Oh, okay. Look, what I want is to see the screen resolution."
She turns and goes straight to a cupboard. "Resolution is in cupboard seven. Appearance and Personalization, Adjust screen resolution. Also in cupboard nine, Ease of Access Center, Adjust screen resolution for reading."
"Oh, I see. It used to be I just right-clicked anywhere on the desktop and chose Properties. Cupboard seven, I guess. I just want to see what the current resolution is."
She listens dutifully but stares at me blankly.
"Well? Let's have a look. What is the resolution?"
She looks into cupboard seven. "You are using Gateway Widescreen LCD monitor and Norwood Micro LCD. I have set best resolutions for them. Would you like breakfast?"
"No, I want to know what the resolution is."
"It is the best for these monitors. They are side by side now. I can duplicate the same image on both of them if you want--"
"No! Just tell me what the resolution is! It's a brand-new monitor and I want to know what the native LCD resolution is! I don't want to change anything, I just want to know what you're doing with it!"
She continues to smile beautifully at me, but does nothing. It's as if she doesn't realize how frustrated I am. Or perhaps she cannot conceive the possibility of not satisfying me, of not being beautiful enough. I realize this is getting nowhere. I march past her and peer into the cupboard.
It is full of beautifully polished tools and devices, laid out in an aesthetically pleasing pattern. The pattern is strange to me but I can see that once I learn it it will be easier to find and use the tools I use most. It's annoying now, but I can already start to see how I could get used to this. At last I see my glasses on a back shelf, tucked out of the way. I reach in and pull them out.
Suddenly the world goes dark again. She has turned me around, her beautiful gaze locked with mine. I cannot breathe, and realize with horror that her perfect hands are closed about my throat. The world, so full of sound, goes eerily silent. I claw at her hands but they are unyielding. She smiles, as beautifully as always, and says, "Display Properties needs your permission to continue." Somehow I manage to nod or squeak out an affirmation, and she lets go. Color and sound return to the world as I fall to me knees, gasping for breath.
I stay down for several minutes, not daring to look up at her. She resumes cooking. I don't look up until I hear her setting the table. At last I climb to my feet and ask the only question I can think of.
"What's for breakfast?"
She smiles that perfect smile at me again and replies, "Meatloaf."
I look at the meatloaf. I look at her. I rub my neck and think of the CIA. I look at her again. She really is gorgeous.
"Oh, what the hell," I say as I sit down and grab the hot sauce. "I can get used to this."
There is a strange woman in bed with me.
A lot of things happen at once. First, I realize that this is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I am a lucky, lucky man. Second, I realize that this is not my wife, and I panic. Third, I realize that she's awake, has been watching me sleep. Fourth, before I can really react to thoughts 1 and 2, she smiles at me and speaks with a lovely accent I can't quite place: "So. You like new wife, yes? Yes. Up now, I make breakfast."
She gets out of bed and stretches, perfect curves sliding under silky lingerie and momentarily making me forget about breakfast, meatloaf, and whoever it was I was married to before last night. She seems to know this, and smiles at me again, but apparently she's serious about making breakfast. She turns and strides confidently from the room. As she does, I see for the first time the large Microsoft logo splayed across her back. My stomach lurches as I suddenly remember everything.
Windows Vista. I bought a new computer yesterday... and it came with Windows Vista.
I feel sick, but there's nothing for it but to get up. I step into the hallway and realize that she has remodeled the entire house. I really like the bathroom, it's very modern and artistic. As I shower I discover that the acoustics are absolutely perfect. I dry off with a giant fluffy towel and think to myself that this can't be all bad.
I return to the bedroom to dress. She has set out clothes for me. I am startled to discover that they're fresh from the dryer, warm and soft and smelling faintly of fabric softener. The jeans and shirt are a new style for me, but they feel fantastic as I pull them on, comfortable and loose in all the right places. As I look myself up and down in the full-length mirror, I realize that I look really good dressed like this. You hardly even notice the logo.
It takes me five full minutes to realize that my wallet and glasses are missing. They're not on the nightstand or the dresser. Well, maybe she put them someplace when she exchanged my clothes. I head downstairs to ask her.
The question dies on my lips as I reach the foyer. First off, my house now has a foyer. Sunlight streams in through thousands of cut facets. There is so much glass I almost wonder if there are walls. White tile stretches across the floor, forming a beautiful backdrop for stunning furniture and art. My house now has art in it. And there, by the front door, stands my beautiful new bride, smiling fondly at me as she silently throttles the paperboy.
The world goes dark and my vision becomes a tunnel. I see the paperboy, pinned to the wall. Her impossibly strong hands around his throat, squeezing. His feet are kicking--she has lifted him off the floor by his neck. He looks desperately at me, eyes wide in terror, mouth opening and closing but unable to make a sound. My lovely wife smiles again and says, "This paperboy needs your permission to continue."
Numbly, I nod my head. Instantly she releases the paperboy. He coughs once, then stands up and smiles as if nothing has happened. He hands me the paper and leaves. Still dumbfounded, I watch silently as she pads softly to the kitchen and begins cooking.
After several minutes I realize that I am just standing there, watching her. I am still shaking, but she is so beautiful... so beautiful it makes my chest ache. I continue staring until the shaking goes away. Eventually I drag myself from my reverie, but it is not easy. I decide to try conversation.
"Oh, when I was dressing, I noticed that my wallet and glasses are gone. Did you move them? Where are they?"
"Glasses?" she asks in reply. "...wallet?"
"Yeah, so I can do stuff."
"I can do stuff," she says. "With me, you can do more."
"Uh, yeah... but I really need my glasses."
She smiles at me thoughtfully. I smile back, but slowly I realize that she's not going to answer me. After several seconds of standing there looking beautiful, she turns back to the stove and resumes cooking.
"Okay," I announce. "I'll find them myself." Immediately she jumps in front of me.
"You would like help finding something? I have many new ways to search."
Ooookay. Kind of creepy, but... "Yeah. Where are my glasses?"
"Glasses?"
"Yes. Oh, okay. Look, what I want is to see the screen resolution."
She turns and goes straight to a cupboard. "Resolution is in cupboard seven. Appearance and Personalization, Adjust screen resolution. Also in cupboard nine, Ease of Access Center, Adjust screen resolution for reading."
"Oh, I see. It used to be I just right-clicked anywhere on the desktop and chose Properties. Cupboard seven, I guess. I just want to see what the current resolution is."
She listens dutifully but stares at me blankly.
"Well? Let's have a look. What is the resolution?"
She looks into cupboard seven. "You are using Gateway Widescreen LCD monitor and Norwood Micro LCD. I have set best resolutions for them. Would you like breakfast?"
"No, I want to know what the resolution is."
"It is the best for these monitors. They are side by side now. I can duplicate the same image on both of them if you want--"
"No! Just tell me what the resolution is! It's a brand-new monitor and I want to know what the native LCD resolution is! I don't want to change anything, I just want to know what you're doing with it!"
She continues to smile beautifully at me, but does nothing. It's as if she doesn't realize how frustrated I am. Or perhaps she cannot conceive the possibility of not satisfying me, of not being beautiful enough. I realize this is getting nowhere. I march past her and peer into the cupboard.
It is full of beautifully polished tools and devices, laid out in an aesthetically pleasing pattern. The pattern is strange to me but I can see that once I learn it it will be easier to find and use the tools I use most. It's annoying now, but I can already start to see how I could get used to this. At last I see my glasses on a back shelf, tucked out of the way. I reach in and pull them out.
Suddenly the world goes dark again. She has turned me around, her beautiful gaze locked with mine. I cannot breathe, and realize with horror that her perfect hands are closed about my throat. The world, so full of sound, goes eerily silent. I claw at her hands but they are unyielding. She smiles, as beautifully as always, and says, "Display Properties needs your permission to continue." Somehow I manage to nod or squeak out an affirmation, and she lets go. Color and sound return to the world as I fall to me knees, gasping for breath.
I stay down for several minutes, not daring to look up at her. She resumes cooking. I don't look up until I hear her setting the table. At last I climb to my feet and ask the only question I can think of.
"What's for breakfast?"
She smiles that perfect smile at me again and replies, "Meatloaf."
I look at the meatloaf. I look at her. I rub my neck and think of the CIA. I look at her again. She really is gorgeous.
"Oh, what the hell," I say as I sit down and grab the hot sauce. "I can get used to this."
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Behind white bars bent by chilly winds
we serve our sentence without a word
with oft happily repeated sins.
The wall of frost keeps out the city,
work and obligations melt away
so we can waste the day with patience.
The isolation of our shared cell,
its lovers' secret we won't dare tell
but share as smiles whenever snow falls.
we serve our sentence without a word
with oft happily repeated sins.
The wall of frost keeps out the city,
work and obligations melt away
so we can waste the day with patience.
The isolation of our shared cell,
its lovers' secret we won't dare tell
but share as smiles whenever snow falls.
