(An evening with the Green Eagles)
Atlanta!!! What a beautiful name , and a beautiful city to match! You must give it to the Americans, whatever other misgivings. They have a knack for coming up with cities of breathtaking beauty, with names infused with brilliant and magical symbolism. Atlanta, Memphis, Indianapolis, Cincinnati, Phoenix, Los Angeles, New Orleans—which presupposes an old Orleans, and many more. It takes some breathless confidence in one’s manifest destiny as God’s anointed nation to take these old world names and infuse them with new world possibilities.
The Americans thought they were founding the world anew; a new nation with shinning possibilities which will serve as a beacon for others; a great new human citadel on the hills which would be impossible to ignore and unwise to trifle with. It did not occur to them that the foundation of this new world was laid on the brutal expropriation and summary annihilation of some older civilisations. The native Indians themselves had probably pillaged some earlier and older civilisations. This is a classic example of creative destruction which the world will learn to forgive and forget in order to move on.
So, when the cultural hubris of founding a new world works for America, it works spectacularly well, creating beauty out of the ugliness of man’s inhumanity to man and glittering monuments out of the back-breaking labour of the formally and informally enslaved. In the western world, you do not need to be formally enslaved to be a slave, as the white underclass are finding out. All that is required is to be on the wrong side of the economic orrery, which is the case for ninety nine percent of the populace.
When cultural hubris becomes political hubris, it leads to the apocalypse of Vietnam and the Dante’s inferno of contemporary Iraq. It did not occur to America that the Vietnamese are a proud, doughty and hardy race who would not brook being politically dictated to by a young brash country. They had been doing their own thing for almost a millennium before America came to be. The lessons were never learnt.
It was noted by George Santayana, the fabled Spanish philosopher, that those who refuse to learn from history are condemned to repeat the past. When America was invading Iraq to remove Saddam Hussein, the old chicken rustler from Tikrit, they were told that it was not easy to change the mindset of a people formed over a thousand years overnight. Democracy cannot be externally imposed. It can only be internally induced through a slow transformation of mindset, attitude and institutional impedimenta. Trillions of dollar after, the result is the apocalyptic mess and roiling carnage of contemporary Iraq and the liquidation of American fiscal liquidity.
Almost two thousand years earlier, the captured and enslaved Israeli tribe had captured the tragic dilemma for humanity and posterity in a moving elegy and on the same confluence of Tigris and Euphrates rivers:
By the rivers of Babylon
Where we sat down
And then we wailed
When we remember Zion
For the wicked carried us away in captivity
And required from us a song
How can we sing King Alpha’s song in a strange land?
But tonight, Wednesday, 5th of March, in the year of our lord, 2014, an arctic freeze had overtaken normally warm and cosy Atlanta. Everybody was dressed like a Siberian wayfarer, and this in early March. Incredible. A glum and icy reserve had taken over the normally jaunty populace. This was not the Atlanta one was used to. A denizen of its more familiar haunts and of the old and imperious state of Georgia itself, Snooper was returning after a ten year leave of absence. Ray Charles, the old crooner of the magical metropolis, would have stirred in his grave, bewildered by the frosty formality.
The great and good thing about America is that it is a land of ceaseless self-invention. You leave a city for one year and upon your return, you are lost in the maze of new developments and glittering new suburbs. Within a decade, Atlanta had undergone an amazing transformation. Tonight, one was beginning to feel like good old Rip van Winkle who had come back from the dead. Could this magical emporium be the new Atlantis? And then panic began to give way to certainty and certitude as the mind locked into the central highway with the sign to Macon and Birmingham in Alabama.
You now had a measure of the old geography. To the South East of Atlanta and about three hours journey by road or an hour by air lay the beautiful historic city of Savannah in all its Gothic gorgeousness. Like a beautiful treasure, Savannah is frozen in time, a classic example of a living city as one vast alluring museum. It was said that General William Tecumseh Sherman was so enthralled by the surreal charms of the city that he refrained from putting it to sword. He had offered it instead as an 1864 Christmas present to Abe Lincoln.
It is not just the weather and urbana that are changing in America. Everything else appears to be changing as well. The Capone Capitalism by which America was able to impose its will and might on the rest of the world appears to have run its course. Some other Capone nations are appearing on the hazy horizons. Good old Babylon and the old Western nemesis of Afghanistan have upended the American apple cart. There is time for everything.
Consequently and even more dangerously, democracy itself appears to be losing its shine and gloss. While China with its state capitalism, its audacious and cheerfully authoritarian system, routinely lifts more people out of poverty and the debt trap into a rapidly expanding middle class, the Obama reform has virtually collapsed under the weight of an institutional gridlock and democratic deadlock. Developing nations are not unlikely to notice the dangerous developments from America.
The Chinese, like some of their fabled generals of literary lore, appear content with watching America slowly dissolve under the weight of its own historic contradictions without firing a single shot. The Russians are not so sanguine or strategically savvy. Under Tsar Vladmir Putin, it is unlikely that the west has heard the last from Russia. The old Russian bear is not dead after all. It has only recovered from its catatonic stupor. While America is wringing its hand about what to do in Ukraine, its response oscillating between studied equivocation and downright confusion, Putin is relentlessly raising the stakes. Russian hyper-nationalism is proving far more dangerous than communist radicalism.
Lest we forget why we were actually in Atlanta, it was to watch the Green Eagles play their Mexican counterparts. Soccer is unarguably the single most unifying factor for Nigeria and Nigerians. As it ever so happens with the nation itself, most Nigerians who follow the Green Eagles are gluttons for punishment often enduring disastrous defeats or dismal self-destruction on the field of play. Four years earlier after watching the Green Eagles in Durban plunge to the very nadir of their fortunes in a remarkably inept display which saw to their ouster from the World Cup, yours sincerely had vowed never to have anything to do with the national team again.
But hope springs eternally from the Nigerian heart. Besides, there is no killing the eagles. They have ratcheted up some fine and impressive performances under the able generalship of Stephen Keshi. They have emerged from the depths of despair and destruction to give some outstanding displays. For Snooper, what did it was the moment Mba’s winning goal crashed through the Ivorian defence on the team’s way to winning the last African championship. It was a marvelous outing. The eagles of yore were back.
By a remarkable coincidence, Atlanta was also the scene of the Eagles greatest triumph till date when they won the soccer gold medal at the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta. Snooper had been watching the classic game against Brazil with his son in faraway in England. It was past midnight when Brazil suddenly went three goals up to Nigeria’s lone goal. With an angry scowl, the boy headed for bed claiming that he was tired of further punishment.
In one of the most remarkable upsets and incredible come-back in footballing history, the eagles went on to beat Brazil and to outclass Argentina in the final . Eighteen years later, and at the same venue of the Eagles greatest triumph, one was hoping for another outstanding performance against another notable Latin American footballing nation. The atmosphere was electrifying.
Strangely enough, the massive din from a million Mexican vuvuzela reminds one of the end of the Aztec empire when a handful of Spanish adventurers put the ancient civilisation to sword. It could have been part of the military strategy of the Aztec warriors, but many believed that the din could only have come from the offended Gods of the Aztec people. This evening, it is the Aztec hordes that seemed to have invaded America. It was as if Mexico itself has emptied into the massive Georgia dome in Atlanta and spilled over to adjoining areas. It was an endless column of men, women, the young and the old, all draped in green.
The Green Eagles refused to be fazed by the overwhelming numerical superiority of the Mexican supporters. Even at the nadir of their fortunes, something could always be said for the superb confidence and militant self-belief of these boys. It is a self-belief that often tips into overconfidence and sheer irresponsibility. But they seemed to have reined this in for now.
After some opening cautious probes from both sides, it was obvious that the match was evenly poised in terms of physique and flair. The Mexicans have had some outstanding successes with their junior teams, and some of these boys are now beginning to come through and into their own. Ranked nineteenth in the world soccer pecking order as against Nigeria’s forty seventh, the Mexican whizz kids could be forgiven for initially thinking that this was going to be a routine work out against inferior opponents.
In the event, it was the Eagles that first took the battle to their opponents, but the Mexicans immediately responded. This culminated in a series of misses on both sides. Judging by the dramatic manner in which the vuvuzela went quiet, it was clear the Mexican crowd were not expecting the kind of robust response and daring incursions from an African team. But towards the end of the first half, the Mexican team increased pressure on the Eagles and the goalkeeper was forced to make a series of brilliant saves.
For most of the second half, the match stalemated into a technical affair with some good chances fluffed by both teams. The Mexicans in particular did not appear to have much appetite for adventurous forays, preferring to catch the Eagles on the offensive rebound. At the end of 90 minutes, there was nothing to separate the two teams. Although the match ended in a goalless draw, it was by no means dreary and unexciting.
Yes, Stephen Keshi seems to have the nucleus of a very good team. This was not the dismal eagles one watched in Durban, South Africa almost four years ago. Some of the new eagles, particularly Leon Balogun, held their own. But a lot of work still needs to be done. Legendary failings persist. The strikers still seem to lack the killer instincts of all predators. Rather than calm marksmanship in front of goals, there were too many blind and wild shootings.
Mikel Obi had a good game, but he is too much of a defensive ball-holding midfielder to function as a creative playmaker. The Eagles still need that visionary libero and game-changer who can impose his will on the midfield even as he determines the tempo and pace of the match with perfectly weighted passes. Let the eagles’ officials watch this match again. The forward often had to drop deep to collect the ball while making their way forward. It points to the absence of the master midfielder. It is our prayer that Keshi finds this supremely gifted Nigerian before June.
On and off the pitch, what cannot be taken away from Nigerians is a natural flair for the dramatic. You cannot beat Nigeria when it comes to what is known as chutzpah. The classic instance of chutzpah is the case of the young fellow who killed his parents but then went on to ask the court to be lenient with him on the grounds that he was an orphan. On Wednesday morning in Atlanta, Snooper made discreet inquiries about the Minister of Sports, Bolaji Abdullahi, an old pen-pusher on the back page of This Day. The Nigerian official chuckled and then grunted: “Sir, he has just been fired!!!.”
Your mind immediately raced to WAWA, the colonial acronym of frustration about the impossible ways of Africans. WAWA means West Africa Wins Again. You cannot win Nigeria, as they will say in pidgin English. But this sudden political execution notwithstanding, Nigerian officialdom was at its most impressive and productive in Atlanta thanks to the likes of Demola Olajire, Ayodeji Tinubu, Chris Green, Musa Ahmadu the Secretary of NFF and Honorable Godfrey Gaiya, the Chairman of the House Committee on Sports.
With his understated old world charms and civility, Aminu Maigari, the Chairman of NFF, stands a very good chance of leading the Nigerian Football Federation to greater glory. It has been a beautiful night in Atlanta. Georgia will be on the mind for a long time to come.
