Grand King Michael (1958-2009)

Been too devastated to say anything about this huge loss to all of us. I was following the news on Thursday night up until 11.49 pm when PHCN did its bit and I went to bed praying that of all the conflicting reports, the one about MJ being in coma would turn out to be the truth the next morning, but it didn’t. And the import of it all has been numbing and draining to contemplate.

There is has only ever been one King of Pop, and for many, king of music itself. That king was in music for at least 40 years and was king of his genre for at least 30 years. He is was King Michael Joseph Jackson. He lived his life out in the open. From age five, this king could no longer live like the person next door. He was forced to become an adult even before he understood what being a toddler meant to him. But we never really sought to understand the implication of all that to him. Hence his latter life was more about the man than the music. But still no one could dim the star with mega sparks. Not where there were billions sleeping, eating, thinking, drinking and even dying MJ.

I have never really been a devotee of King Michael, but, like most people around the world, including your father, your grandfather and your children I have always been a follower of the true king of pop music. How could I not when he has been a phenomenon, a course in the study of the subject called GENIUS. I remember once being a panelist in a teenage hood discourse in which our subject matter led to us wanting to know who the most popular person in the world at the time was. I remember one of us advancing the theory that the three best known or most famous people/phenomenona were: Football(call it soccer or football, somehow everybody seems to know it); God (whther you are an atheist or deist or whatever else, everybody seems to have heard about Him at one time or the other, although worshipping him is another subject altogether); and Michael Jackson(your 2-year-old daughter born in 2007 for instance know about him already, just like your father and your do), in no particular order. Years later, I remembered that theory as I watched the Jackson behemoth in concert, and from then onwards I accepted that childhood theory as a semblance of the truth if not a fact in itself. That is the measure of MJ.

King Michael loved life and nature and truly celebrated it. He thrilled us all because he was forever desirous of sharing his life with the world, although the world did not know exactly how to relate with him. He believed we human could heal the world, of its myriad of disease, literally and figuratively. And for him, that had to start with our appreciation of true human nature. He was not bad, although the media made him seem terrible. Truth is, we could not just explain his enigma in black or white, perhaps that was why he needed to teach us some history and that is why even though he lived for us all and we enjoyed it all, we cannot but feel he has gone too soon. Rest in peace King Wacko Jacko. You are not alone, even in death,although sometimes we may have made you feel like a stranger in the moscow cold while you were here with us. We all love you. You have left a huge vacuum in the world. Thanks for ever being here.

No one to trust?

I am shaking my head with a mixture of amusement and amazement as I punch away on my PC’s keyboard. I had an encounter on my way home this evening, which I am still trying to get my head round.

I was at Egbeda earlier this evening walking down to where I was going to board an okada home. As I did, I noticed a small boy of not more than nine years old standing by the side of the road, a tray of fufu on his head, crying. I approached him to know why he was crying, and his story instantly touched me: he narrated how he had had lost the entire money he had made from the sale of his fufu – five notes of N200, meaning he had lost N1,000.

The boy further explained that the money had been snatched from his hand by some people from a moving vehicle, as he was counting the money. I felt his story was quite possibly plausible, so I sympathized with the poor boy. I asked him where he lived and he mentioned Iyana-something-I-could not-comprehend. On whether he lived with his parents, he answered that he lived with his aunt. I felt some chill course down my spine on hearing that. Some aunties would skin any child who dare throw away a N10 note and only God knows what this aunty could do to this poor thing this night if and when he got home without that ’whopping’ N1,000. So I started to think of how exactly to help him. I concluded that giving him another N1,000 would not exactly be the smart idea to adopt, so I toyed with the idea of going to see his aunt and help him explain to her.

At that point another man noticed the agitation of the boy and joined us. He also expressed empathy with the boy’s situation. Between the two of us, we decided to put the money together to give to the boy rather than follow him home. The man was rummaging in his pocket while I was trying to find out more about the boy’s plight, when another man passing by said, calmly but sharply, “You this boy, na everyday you dey come cry for here?” He said that without waiting or looking back. I tried to call him back to shed more light on what he had said, but he wouldn’t budge. “I no know am o,” was the only thing he added. But he had sounded honest and the import of the conviction with which he said those words was unmistakable.

We turned back to our little ‘angel’, with the other man asking shebi you hear wetin that man talk? I added, ‘na true im talk? The little thing seemed to be lost for words momentarily, then quickly gathered himself together and claimed, in a stuttering voice, that the only other time such had happened before was once when he also lost his money. And you happened to have stood at the same point as you are now standing that other time? How very convenient I said to myself.

Suddenly it all started to come together; his tray still had about 12 wraps of fufu . At N10 per wrap, that would amount to N120. Even at N20 per wrap, that will still be just N240. If truly he sold part of his wares to the tune of the N1,000 he claimed had been stolen, that would mean that he initially had about 62 wraps of fufu on his tray – that is not impossible but it is highly improbable and, in fact very doubtful considering the size of the tray. Pray also, a fufu seller who only has N200 notes, no N10, N20, N50, N5? That is quite interesting. Interesting indeed that those N200 notes conveniently rounded off to N1000 and not N850, N700, N520 or some other figure not so round in total.

The other man was already too pissed off and was raring to go, urging me to leave the dubious thing there and go my way, too, but I tried one last time to salvage the seemingly unsalvageable: I asked him once again, where the incident had happened and he shifted the crime scene to ‘inside estate, I come shout but them hold me, come run’. I don’t think the other man heard everything else he said after that before he turned and walked off in anger and disappointment.

I gave the little imp a you-are-lying-through-your-dirty-teeth-you-little-con look and also walked away as he stood there determined to act out the remainder of his script to an imaginary audience. I felt the urge to go back to him, give him some good spanking and haul him, kicking and screaming, off to his house, wherever it was. But I reconsidered that. Beside a little twine that can cook up such obvious deceit is sure capable of a little more. And God help me if he suddenly yells out for help, claiming I was trying to kidnap him or even worse. So, quietly, I pocketed the Samaritan in me and took the next available okada home, asking myself what the world has come to. But did I hasten into conclusion on that little thing? I may never know now.

Obama in Nig... eh, Africa

Shhh... this is from the grapevine. Have you heard? They say President Barack Obama of the US will be coming to Africa on a five-nation tour this week. But he will not be coming to the ancestral home of one in every three Africans. It's his first visit to his mother continent as president of the most powerful nation on earth, but his tour will not take him to the giant of Africa and most populous black nation in the world.

Obama departs Friday June 19, on a 15-day tour that will take him not only to his father's homeland, Kenya, but also to South Africa, Congo, Djibouti and Sudan. Why not Nigeria? Is there something we are missing in this picture? Methinks this tells us how relevant we have become in the scheme of things around the world. Can you imagine Obama on such a tour to the Middle East without touching down in Saudi Arabia. Again maybe it is my oft reckless imagination, especially where political matters are concerned, that is again in overdrive here

Anyway, welcome, karibu, ukwemuleka, boyei bolamu, merhaba to Africa, Mr. Obama. Hope you are not offended that I can't find the ka 'abo, sannu da zuwa or nno, to usher you in here? Have a nice stay all the same.

Mount her, she's yours for the grabbing

I'm not a fan of fuji music, but one of my favourite lines in music is taken from a fuji song. The line, from one of Abass Akande Obesere's songs (I think it's Oba Idan or Fuji Gyration), reads: ko ni ragba fun eni ti'o like obinrin. Literal translation: ‘It shall never be well with anyone who doesn't like a woman’. Now, if you try to explain that line a little further or take it slightly out of context, especially as the translation does not do it much justice, you could end up with anything in the region of: May God punish whoever mistreats a woman; woe betide every misogynist; he who does not appreciate the gift of woman in human existence is not fit to live; only an idiot would dislike a woman; women are a must-have, and so forth. This, I assume covers for all women – mothers, children, sisters, in-laws, wives, aunties, you name it, although it does not give any woman the right to maltreat any man either. However, not every man shares this belief. To some men, women are just objects and are a must-have only like the chairs, plates cars, etc in your house. In the best case scenario, they are merely to be tolerated rather than be valued.

That noted, how many times have we all been faced with people or situations that make us feel like throwing expletives, however, raw and obscene they may sound? Well, last night I had an encounter that almost forced me into directing Obesere's line, in its pure, most serious-intentioned, untranslated and unadulterated form at a specific person. I often hear about female rape victims, but I have never been close to anyone who I know had been a raped. But this almost changed last night on my way home from work. Time was about 11:12 pm as I was walking towards Egbeda from Iyana-Ipaja, having being forced to trek the rest of my way after the bus I boarded from Iyana-Ipaja broke down mid-way. As I approached Banire Bus Stop, just a few yards from the market in Egbeda, I heard some voices - one of them being unmistakably feminine - in frantic conversation behind the wall that separates the main road from the rest of the market and the adjoining Gowon Estate. At first I could not make out what they were saying to each other, but as we drifted closer to each other, the picture became clearer - it was the female voice against two male voices.

The exchange was something like:

Female: leave me alone o.

First male: leave you for where?

Second male: wetin you come do here?

First male: fear no even catch you to come pass this place.

Female: (more frantic now): why can’t I pass here?

Second male: you still dey get mouth to talk? See the kin cloth wey you wear come dey pass for here?

First male: block am for the other side. No let am escape.

Then their footfalls became heavier and more rapid as the two young people, half in fear (I felt) and half in lust (of course), engaged the young girl (who could only mutter a low, H-e-l-p) in a run-walk as they all turned a bend darting across my path. As they did so, I quickly steadied myself, cleared my throat and in as commanding a voice as my nerves could permit, let out a: ‘What is happening here?’ This startled the two men and gave the young woman some leverage to quickly jump over the gutter and dash across the main road. One of the men gave a brief chase but returned after the woman slid into the nearest street. The other man was now face to face with me as his partner returned to us, actually charged back towards me. With nerves jangling inside me and unable to think of anything else, I repeated my earlier line: ‘what is happening here, I say?’, trying hard to keep my voice steady.

From the hasty estimate I made, the one who had gone after the lady was about 6feet tall while his accomplice was almost 5 inches taller than me. They both easily towered above me and of course, had the numerical advantage, plus what if one of them suddenly thought to himself: ‘wait a minute, when did they start recruiting dwarfs into the Nigerian Police Force’ (for I was actually hoping they would pass me for a policeman)? Thankfully though, they both showed enough nervousness themselves for me to seize on to and ask them if neither of them had a sister or any other female relative at home and whether they would like it if she was raped by men like them. Six-Feet replied, ‘wetin the girl sef dey wear trouser dey find for this kind place?’ Without any further word they both hissed and muttered some words I couldn’t understand before they went back through the way they had chased the lady from.

That lady had been lucky for the fields around the corner from where they had chased her are verdant with criminals and criminal activities of every ilk. Therefore, she could have been raped there for as long as those filths wanted without anybody coming to her rescue. Whether she would have made it without my intervention or not, I am not to know. And I know I was staking my safety and even my life by being so rash, but hey what if that lady was wearing just undergarments? Does that give anybody the franchise to her body? For all we know she might have been a commercial sex worker. Afterall the space just off the main road behind Egbeda market from where they had chased her is usually lined with commercial sex workers at night. But even if that were the case, those women are called commercial sex workers because you have to pay an agreed fee to be able to have sexual encounter with them.

One of those dogs blamed the lady for wearing what she wore, (a tank top as top garment, from what I noticed)for their advances, but how does that concern his phallus or groin? How does that rationalize the fact of him or anyone else forcefully having their way with her? You hear people often blaming rape victims for inviting trouble on themselves by the way the victims dress, but I will believe that the woman is to blame only if and when any man will be so titillated by what they see in a woman’s dressing as to grab her and mount her in the full glare of all, whether at the market, school, mosque, church or any other place filled with people. If you claim to be aroused by a woman’s dressing, yet you only satisfy your randy craving when you are alone with your victim in a secluded area, then you must be disturbed by some other demons other than the woman’s. You are simply a lecherous, vile and depraved cowardly beast. And if anybody throws the most serious intentioned ko ni ragba fun e… or something worse your way a zillion times over for so existing, believe me, they are only just starting.

You should count yourself fortunate

Few people would disagree with my saying that one of the groups of people outside our political leaders, who have been most oppressive to the Nigerian people are transport operators in the country, particularly the intra-cities operators. Those who live in Lagos, especially and don't own a car, are quite familiar with inexplicable hike in transport fares up to 200 per cent or more in many cases, in addition to other shenanigans of commercial vehicle operators. With the fuel hardship of the past few months, commuters have been perhaps worse hit in Lagos than anywhere else around the country as commercial vehicle operators in the state continue to squeeze hapless commuters real hard. So when earlier today, I boarded a bus from Egbeda towards Iyana Ipaja in Lagos and the conductor announced that the fare was N50 for a route that normally costs just N20, I was pissed, to say the least. But as I was already more than late for where I was going, I had to board that particular bus rather than wait in the hope I’ll get another at a lower charge.

My irritation turned into out right indignation soon afterwards. The bus conductor, in response to complaints from the passengers of the insensitivity of bus operators to the plight of commuters, looked me in particular in the eye and, with all the coldness in him, said in Yoruba: you should all count yourselves fortunate to be aboard this bus. I countered instantly; what exactly did he mean by ‘fortunate?’ I wasn’t hitchhiking in the bus, of course. And I couldn’t remember him demanding N100 as fare and I begging him to accept N50 from me instead. So, where exactly did ‘fortunate’ fit in with me or any of the other passengers? As I was trying to establish what ‘fortunate’ meant, the driver interjected with: “make I tell una, na Nigeria we dey and nobody send una o.”

I was still trying to match both driver and conductor word-for-word when, few moments later, the full import of the conductor’s words hit home. Come to think of it, I really needed to be thankful considering that our petroleum minister is an overused and over recycled geriatric in government. Yes, grateful I should be for despite the fact of our having such a man who has certainly exhausted his relevance and whose ideas about petroleum issues may be better suited to the petroleum ministry he held 25 years ago, I can still get a vehicle to board to my destination, irrespective of how the fuel in it came to be in this country.

The thought came to me of how much of the route to or from work I have had to trek in recent times in order to cut down the amount of money I spend on transportation per day. I imagined how the soles of my shoes must be feeling for the punishing routine I have subjected them to, and although I cannot not hear their curses, I nonetheless realized that I should be relieved that on this one occasion at least I have enough money and there is a bus to help me take the heat of my poor soles.

I also remembered the man who sat in the front seat of a bus I boarded sometime last week. I recalled how excited he was to be able to catch a bus after almost two hours in the sun. His gestures as he demonstrated how he elbowed and pushed his way through the crowd to secure that most prized seat on the bus, flashed through my thoughts. And that further informed me that the only thing I actually owed that driver and his conductor was gratitude for their being able to provide a bus with enough fuel to take me to my destination.

My thoughts then went to the current face-off between the Nigerian military Joint Task Force and militants in the Niger Delta. I thought of just how many young men and women, however culpable they may be in the whole setup, must have been wasted in the on-going battle. I thought of how more than any other factor, the lives of these people and other helpless innocent ones are being wasted because of the cluelessness and inflexibility of successive government regimes in this country over the oil-rich delta region. I therefore, agreed with the conductor that I must consider myself fortunate to be just one of the ‘on-lookers’ rather than one of those unfortunately caught up in that war. Then again, it also occurred to me that every November 10 in this country we remember Ken Saro-Wiwa and eight other Ogoni activists who, almost 14 years ago, died for the same Niger Delta-government-oil issue and I convinced myself that really, I should consider myself more fortunate than the families of those slain sons of the Niger Delta.

The internal monologue followed me into another bus (as I made my way to Ojodu-Berger) in which I sat next to a widow for whom I was to become an impromptu spokesperson. According to the woman, she had been brought by a friend who lives in Ayobo-Ipaja, Lagos, to Lagos from Ondo State under the guise of getting her a job. On getting to Lagos however, her friend tried to force her into selling her infant son to another woman. Having tried unsuccessfully for days, the friend sent her out of her (the friend’s house). The poor woman she could barely say two consecutive correct words in pidgin English) who had never been to Lagos before, ran into a man who raised N500 for her out of which she had to spend a part to feed her little son. For whatever reason, she chose me to confide her plight in so that I could help her appeal to the other passengers. Hence I took up the role of her mouthpiece and amongst us, the passengers, we were able to raise a tangible sum of money to enable her transport herself back to Ondo. I placed my fuss about a mere N50 side-by-side this pathetic story and I immediately felt the urge to go into the next mosque or church for thanksgiving to God for small mercies.

And when I got into the office about an hour later and this image of President Yar’Adua stared at me from a newspaper page on the desk, all my anger at that conductor or his driver totally evaporated almost instantly. I took a long look at the eyes of the image in the newspaper and saw that they belonged in the face of a clearly overwhelmed, fatigued and clueless man who seems to be asking himself: “what have I got myself into.” So, I surrendered and accepted that N50 or not, clueless as our leaders have been, the fact that between them and oil marketers, oil can still somehow get fuel into the country, be it at cut throat prices, should be celebrated by the likes of me rather than blame or harass drivers and conductors who are only trying to get the most from a honeycomb they have been presented with by those who should guard it.

Olote and Oriyomi

Olote is the Yoruba slang for describing a spoil spot, cynic or destructive critic (in Nigerianese, bad belle). Oriyomi literally means ‘I made it by the whiskers’. In other words, it means lucky escape. After the Barcelona survived elimination from this year’s champions league at the hands of Chelsea last night, the Blaugrana should be chanting oriyomiooo by now.

The x-rated anchor

As for olote.., ahem, ahem (double cough cough again), I am olote. I am an Arsenal fan and I have spent the better part of the outgoing season compiling a list of my 101 reasons why Manchester United were never going to win five trophies in one season as many had predicted they would at the start of the season. Needless to say, Manchester United will not win five trophies this season as Everton had ensured that by eliminating the Red Devils from this year’s English FA Cup. I have had to eat a truck load of humble pie all the same after the way Man U beat Arsenal over two legs in the champions league. It was supposed to be the only direct chance my Arsenal had to reduce the number of trophies the Red Devils could win this season. You can then imagine my disappointment with seeing Arsenal lose to the same Manchester United on Tuesday night, although my disappointment was tempered by my belief that by far the superior team won in the fixture.

Utter joy

In the case of Chelsea, I have never been ready for the taunting that will follow if they were to somehow win the champions league before Arsenal do, thereby making them the first London club to do so. C’mon, Arsenal is supposed to be the real pride of London, abi? On the other hand, I have not exactly forgiven Thiery Henry and Alex Hleb for the way they both left Arsenal for Barcelona in successive seasons. And to think of how winning the champions league with Barca would vindicate their decision to leave. So I had to choose which was the ‘lesser evil’ of the two to support in the tie. And for whatever reasons I concluded that Chelsea was the higher evil. I therefore, backed Barca to go through.

And when Barca scored that late, late away goal that was to get them through to the final, what do you think I did? Of course I jubilated. But as I consider myself a seasoned (I no get any other title apart from the cheap ‘Mr.’ and I think that is a tacit crime in Nigeria ) football fan, I didn’t celebrate too much, just a few punches into the air and some hug hug with one of my cousins. Make no mistakes however; yesterday night was not the triumph of football over steel as some are wont to believe. Yesterday’s wasn’t exactly the victory of beauty over the beast. Perhaps it could have been after the first 90 minutes of the tie. The tie may have ultimately resulted in the triumph of a footballing team over a robotic one, but over the two legs, and particularly on the night, perhaps it's not far from inconceivable to say that football won. Considering that the Chelsea goalkeeper, Petr Cech last night had to carry out only two other tasks - taking the occasional goal kick and bantering with the steward behind his goal line - for 92 minutes before picking the ball from the back of his net, it is less plausible to argue that the better football won on the night or perhaps even in the fixture.

And now, as we approach May 27 and all attention turns to Rome for the final of the competition, I am still in a dilemma as to whether to forgive our prodigal sons and back Barca or watch Manchester United become the first (that word and Man Utd again!) club ever to win the champions league in successive seasons. I guess I’ll wait till May 27 to make a decision. Crest fallen

A few things from last night I know what I would do or would have done if I had to contend with: First, if I were Didier Drogba, I’d never have had to be restrained from cutting the match referee into a million tiny pieces. If I were him and I had that glorious 53rd minute chance in the match and were able to make Gerard Pique wipe much of his 18 yard box with his backside, I would equally make sure I hit the ball over the Barca keeper’s head and into the onion bag. That way I would never have had to be an impromptu “f******”(sic) television anchor person last night. Also, if I were the Chelsea team I would have realized that for the better part of the last 25 minutes my opponent was playing with only three men in the defence, one of which was not really a defender while the other two were walking on one leg each. With the calibre of players I have, I’d therefore, turn in the screw and kill off my opponent.

And if I could take UEFA or FIFA’s place, I would make sure that the match referee, Mr Tom Henning Ovredo never blows a whistle anywhere near a football arena ever again. If only I could trade places with Mr. Ovrebo, I would instantly put aside my whistle, hand my referee’s badge over to whoever is in charge of referees’ issues and sign up with a boxing weightlifting or wrestling club where my physique could be better employed rather than arbitrate any sports contest even between under-twos.

Pharaoh crumbles under the pyramids

At the height of his lunacy, the late Idi Amin Dada, the butcher of Uganda, would add the sobriquet “Conqueror of the British Empire” at the end of his about five-line-long (un)official-title-cum-appellation. After their exploits in Cairo, Egypt, on Saturday, May 2, 2009, Kano Pillars football club of Kano, Nigeria may well be justified in branding themselves as 'Conquerors of Pharaoh's almighty army of Red Devils'. Of course, Amin never conquered the British Empire. His antics were nothing more than a way of trying to spite a government he felt was too overbearing. Kano Pillars can however lay claim to at least conquering Pharaoh’s Red Devils.

When Pillars, the football team from Kano, the pyramid city and Nigeria's acclaimed centre of commerce travelled to Cairo to do football battle with Al-Ahly of Egypt, it was supposed to be a lose-lose situation for the Nigerian club side. They had blown their only chance in the tie (if at all they had any) when they only managed a one-all draw against the same opposition in the first leg in Kaduna two weeks previously. Surely any hope they had of further progress in this year's competition was supposed to hinge totally on whatever result they could secure from their home leg of the fixture. And even that was supposed to be precious little. Reason, they were pitted against Al-Ahly of Egypt, the Red Devils of Cairo, Al-Ahly, Africa's club of the 20th century.

The statistics staring the Nigerians in the face were staggering, even frightening; here is a team which had won the crème of African club football competitions six times, a team that has been involved in the final matches of the same competition every single time during the last four years. The Nigerians were coming up against the serial Egyptian national champions, a team of players who have over the past few years robbed shoulders with players from AC Milan, Manchester United and Liverpool courtesy of the club world cup.

The match was supposed to be Ahly’s picnic. Yes, picnic and not a contest. In football, you only battle when you have to conquer an opponent but when you have to pick a result up on a platter; it’s a stroll in the park, just a picnic. This was just a fly swatting exercise and not a bull taming or dragon slaying one for the Red Devils. The US army cannot celebrate a victory against the Cayman Island or against Tahiti? The celebration will come when Russia, France or Germany is in the picture. If any football mission could classify as Herculean, this one was it. You can ask 3SC Shooting Stars, complete with their Gbenga Okunowos, Isiyaka Awoyemis, Patrick Manchas, Ajibade Babalades, David Ogagas and Abiodun Baruwas. You can also ask Enyimba of Aba. A match in Egypt or any of the North African countries starts right from the country’s embassy in Nigeria. Then the psychological persecution shifts to the airport as soon as the travelling team touches down. The charade goes on to the team’s hotel, that is if they manage to get to one before match day. The rest of the battle would, of course, take place in the stadium. And as Pillars, with all due respect to them, are neither Zamalek nor at least the Enyimba of 2003/2004, the cathedral called Cairo International Stadium in Egypt was supposed to be one bridge way too far.

The verdict was unanimous and emphatic: there was simply no way out, not even a mathematical chance for Pillars. This writer had also given up on the Kano boys too. The only strand of optimism left in me stemmed from my experience of being an Arsenal fan that has had to endure supporting a club which has yet to win a single trophy in the past three, now almost four seasons despite coming close to winning some and despite being acknowledged as one of the best teams around. Such experience has taught Arsenal fans to believe in absolutely any possibility, like beating AC Milan at their home in the San Siro but then losing to Hull City at Emirates Stadium, Arsenal’s home ground. In my books, the most Pillars could get from that game was grab a goal and somehow manage to drag the tie into extra time and perhaps even penalties. And even that, too was more patriotism-induced wishful thinking than hope and belief. In any case they could also go ahead and concede three or more for the one goal. After all they were coming up against a team that could have as many as six first team members of the Egyptian national team – champions of the African continent for the past five years and on six occasions in total – in its starting lineup.

And when the Pillars team left for Cairo last week with its full complement of players and traditional rulers, Islamic clerics, local council chairmen et al, in tow, the rest of us wondered what madness had befallen everyone associated with the club. Why waste funds in air lifting and accommodating these people? Why not just assemble any collection of 18 or 23 players plus their coaching staff, pick two or three medical personnel, dump them all in an aeroplane and go to Cairo then come back home and see out the rest of the Nigerian league season. Why decorate the rotten and unsalvageable?

The script had been written. Pillars only had to go to Cairo, and like all good actors, interpret the script, no fuss, no whining of any sort. Alas, they did much more than act meek or docile. Whether the initial hostility from the home crowd was taken care of by a few exchanges of assalam alaikum between the travelling delegation and their hosts, we may never know, but Pillars got not one but two goals 15 minutes into the match and the rest, as they say, is history. That they managed to let slip that two-goal cushion to tie the match 2-2 isn’t really material. Not many teams go to Cairo to play against Al-Ahly and still grab a goal, never mind two. And if losing two goals yourself guarantees success, then why not.

By eliminating the most dominant force in African club football from this year’s competition Pillars have thrown the 2009 champions league wide open. And given the fact that their compatriots, Heartland FC (they sure must be feeling like the side dish in a buffet in the face of Pillars’ feat in Cairo) also eliminated last year’s beaten finalists, Cotton Sports of Cameroon on the same weekend, then the competition may well be anyone’s for the taking. But have no illusions, the feat by all three Nigerian clubs on the continent, including Bayelsa United in the Confederations Cup, is not a confirmation that the Nigerian football league has arrived, just a hint of its potentials. Better organization and more funding could definitely take the league places.