5. If our “brother” were African, he would have a lot of explaining to do to the local moralists when he included in his speech of thanks the support received from the homosexual community: a mortal sin for the proponents of so-called “African purity.” For these moralists — so often in power, so often with power — homosexuality is an unacceptable vice that is foreign to Africa and to Africans.
6. If he won the elections, Obama would probably have to sit down and share power with his defeated opponent, in a degrading process of negotiation that proves in some African countries the sacrosanct — the will of the people expressed in the ballot box — can be eroded by the loser. At this stage, Barack Obama would be sitting at a table with some Bush or other, in the middle of endless rounds of discussion with African mediators, who are there to teach us that we should be satisfied with those crumbs of the electoral process that don’t favour dictators.
Inconclusive conclusions
Let us be clear: there are exceptions to this generalized view of the situation. We all know what exceptions we are talking about and we Mozambicans were able to constitute one of them.
Let us also be clear: impediments to an African Obama would not be imposed by the people, but by those in power, by the elites who turn governing into a source of unscrupulous self-enrichment.
The truth of the matter is that Obama is not an African. It’s true that Africans — the simple people and anonymous workers — celebrated Obama’s American victory with all their hearts. But I don’t think the dictators and corrupt leaders of Africa have any right to an invitation to this celebration; the joy which millions of Africans felt on 5th November arose because they had invested in Obama precisely the opposite of what they have experienced with their own leaders. No matter how painful it is to admit this, only a minority of African states have had, or have, leaders concerned with the public good.
On the same day that Obama acknowledged his victory, the international news bulletins were packed with horrifying stories from Africa. Africa was still being crushed by wars, bad management, and the unbridled ambition of profit-seeking politicians. Having killed democracy, these leaders were killing politics. In some cases, war was still being waged. In others, hope had been abandoned and cynicism prevails.
There’s only one real way to celebrate Obama in African countries: that is to fight so that more flags of hope may be unfurled in our continent. To fight so that African Obamas may win. So that we Africans, of all ethnic backgrounds and races, may win through these Obamas and celebrate in our own home that which we celebrate now in someone else’s.
Article originally published in
Savana, Maputo, 2008.
Nutmegged By a Verse
In my area of town, football was a reason for much celebration. We would get ready for the occasion, just as believers get dressed for their saint’s day. Sundays were a time of mythical duration. And the field situated in an area of waste ground in Muchatazina was a stadium that was bigger than the world itself. The game hadn’t yet begun and our hearts were already tired: there wasn’t a clock big enough to accommodate those ninety minutes.
It wasn’t the hunger to win. I don’t want to paraphrase Pierre de Coubertin, but the important thing was to be there, in that game of boundless performances that a football match allows. Suddenly, the place we lived in migrated and our identity travelled to worlds where all was huge and aglow. This was the great secret behind our beating hearts, behind this addiction that made us run away from our homes, skip school, leave our girlfriends waiting for us. When we were playing, we ceased being ourselves. We ceased being. And we were everything, everyone. The living and the dead were lined up in the pantheon of those who never lost.
In my glorious team, I was the striker. It was, perhaps, a euphemism to call me this, for all I did was dribble. I never shot. My nickname in Chissena reflected this ability: I was kiywa, the dribbler. A “dribbleballer,” as others teased me. On the other hand, I lacked a name for my inability.
“Hell! To win, you need to score, man! That guy’s a poet. That’s what he is: a poet.”
That’s what Joe Hotshot, our coach, said. Maybe coach was right. Maybe I wasn’t really a forward. Maybe my field really was poetry. But the beauty of football isn’t in the score. As in the art of love, the fascination lies in the preparations. The delight is in what can’t be translated into a number or even a word. A football match is always worth more than the result. The most beautiful thing in a game is what can’t be converted into goals and points; it’s what eludes the radio commentator, it’s the sighs and silences, the looks and the mute gestures of those playing both inside and outside the four straight lines of the pitch.
Let’s go back to Hotshot. The frustration of the coach, in point of fact, had an explanation: in my hometown of Beira, the neighbourhoods were territories of feigned confrontation. There were world wars between the different areas of the tiny conurbation, which disobeyed the logic of urban planning. Beira was disobedient from its outset: I was even born and grew up in zones that had been destined for Asians. And football games were held in which the various mixtures defied the racial boundaries of the time. Esturro was, at that stage, my area, my tribe, my nation. Preparations were in hand for the big derby match between Esturro and Ponta-Gea. Our fate was in our hands, or rather in our feet. Joe Hotshot decided to try out his talent as a psychologist on me.
That afternoon, the day before the game, Hotshot called me over. He wore a solemn, serious expression. He made me sit on the wall in front of my house, while he held a long stick in his hand like a huge pencil.
“See the six-yard box here?” he asked, making some scratches in the sand.
The scratches became more complicated as he talked, illustrating my chaotic movement around the pitch. Then, he once again retraced the square of the box:
“Pretend the six-yard box is a girl. That’s right, a girl, a chick. You need to open her out, caress her, kiss her. But afterwards. . afterwards. .”
“Yes, afterwards?” I asked, half asleep from all the scratching in the sand.
Afterwards. . Afterwards, I ask: afterwards, at the decisive moment, what must I do?
The allusion made by Joe, the finest coach of all time, was obvious, yet the metaphor eluded me. Love doesn’t have an “afterwards.” Love is all time, spent in an instant. And I thought of the girls who, during my fifteen years of existence, jostled at the door of my platonic dreams. And I saw Alda, Guida, Isabel, Martinha, Leila, Paula, Mónica, and more than any of the others, Laura, the most recent. And suddenly, it occurred to me: “In matters of love, I only dribble. I don’t shoot.” This was what suddenly dawned on me.
Joe Hotshot didn’t notice my glazed look, lost in other championship contests. And he continued with his carefully drawn-up tactics: the chip shot in direct free kicks, the looping centre in corner kicks, the penalty humdinger. If I lived my football through poetry, Hotshot was a master of prose. His was a language that cleared the pitch of weeds: bicycle kicks, sliding tackles, butterfinger goalies, beating your marker, being up for it, the ball in open play. But I wasn’t paying attention. Deep within me, all I could hear was the conflict between myself and my age.