Highlight of the week: A weekend at Nkwali safari camp. 5 leopards, 12 wild dogs, a bush breakfast and a catch up with dear friends.
Lowlight of the week: I’ve got conjunctivitis.
Maximum temperature 31 degrees Celsius
Rainfall: zilch
Football. The universal language. Responsible for more conversations than the weather in many quarters. 22 players. 1 ball. An unspecified number of supporters. Goals. Life blood to the hoards. Rules, known even by your grandmother. Love it or hate it. It’s certainly here to stay.
Our own experiences of football have been sporadic. Astonishingly, our first international football match is in 1994. Tanzania versus Uganda. Our attendance is almost an accident. We are staying in Dar es Salaam, at the Salvation Army hostel. We are learning Swahili. The Tanzanian national stadium is within spitting distance. Today, there is a qualifying match for the African Cup of Nations. A hum emanates from the ground. The hum penetrates the peaceful enclave in which we study. We make a snap decision to go. Two long queues delay our entry to the ground. Two snakes in blistering heat. We buy tickets at the head of the first snake and gain entry after reaching the head of the second eternal snake. Kick off does not wait for quorum. We finally enter the ground 25 minutes after kick-off. Tanzania already 1-0 up. The game is gripping. But the crowd is far more engaging: multicoloured; dancing; alcohol-free and convivial. Two more goals punctuate the side-line entertainments.
With 10 minutes left on the clock, we edge through the throngs to the gates. To beat the rush. And miss another goal. The crowd go wild. 4-0 the final score. Well beyond the dreams of the Tanzanian underdogs. A recipe for dancing in the streets.
We arrive in Zanzibar in 1994. Football rules. There are no balls as such. Plastic bags tightly bundled together. Tied with grass. Or string, if it can be found. Coiled into a sphere which suffices as a ball. Kicked around by exuberant kids. Bare foot. Scruffy, torn clothes. Laughter. Shouts. Screams. Cheers. Boos. Never a dull moment. There are 18 teams in the local league. All of them called Manchester United is seems. We mention that we are from England. Smiling faces look admiringly at us. Ah, Manchester United? Keith fails to mention that he is a City fan.
Football can also be a currency for corruption. CUF square in Zanzibar town. The hotseat of political opposition. CUF are the opposition to the ruling CCM party. It’s 1995. Election week approaches. The word on the street is that CUF might just edge the big vote. Can the malcontent be addressed? A plan is hatched. CCM wants all the village Shehas* on side. What currency might be used to swing things? CCM allegedly give the Shehas football. TVs appear in every village. Even CUF square is not immune. Black and white TVs. Fuzzy images. The ball barely visible. No-one seems to care. A direct connection has been made to Manchester United. The squares and village clearings are all packed. Standing room only. Old Trafford in miniature around every second corner.
Our contemporary host nation, Zambia, also has footballing form. The men’s national team were runners up in the aforementioned African Cup of Nations in 1994. And champions in 2012. The Copper Queens, the women’s national team, have bettered that. They have qualified for the women’s world cup finals this year. They commence battle against Spain, Costa Rica and Japan in the group stages. Two Valley docs will not be able to hide their allegiance come July. Two honorary Zambians will be cheering for the Copper Queens.
Here in Mfuwe, football is a passion for many. The ranks of the impassioned are due to swell. It’s January 2022. Doc Ellie arrives spouseless. Her husband Crispin fearing the unknown and fearing no role, stays home. Four weeks pass. Crispin submits to peer pressure and materialises. He instantly finds a niche. Football. Serendipity guides Crispin. Pam Carr is responsible for leading him astray. Her StART charity supports school children through art. And football. The StART team are capable but hamstrung by bare feet and a litany of other issues. Those issues include acacia thorns which lance any conventional ball. Bootless, those acacia thorns also puncture feet to side-line potential StART stars. And without boots the team aren’t allowed to compete. Pam and Crispin conspire. Something has to be done. Crispin becomes a football Messiah* in Mfuwe.
A simple idea. Sponsorship. Boots, kit and balls. Football has an intrinsic value. Sport for sports sake. No-one here is in it for the money. The Saudis and the Qataris would get no return here. But Crispin has faith in these kids. They stay in school partly for the love of the game. The team is for pupils only. A conventional education is a fringe benefit. But the value of graft and co-dependency is a more valuable lesson.
The sponsors do not appear spontaneously. Crispin makes an appeal. Not a begging letter. More an impassioned plea. An e-mail that strikes a chord. Friends and families march to Crispin’s drumbeat. Heart strings taut. Donations come in. Crispin leaves Doc Ellie working in Mfuwe. He travels home and scores an interview with Look North. In short order Newcastle United, the eponymous Mags, pay homage to the new Messiah. Even Alan Shearer plays a cameo. Offerings worth more than gold, frankincense and myrrh arrive at his crib.
Four weeks later the Messiah returns to Mfuwe. Bearing gifts. Doc Ellie is no longer the star of the show. Crispin eclipses her. Black and white shirts now adorn his 11 apostles. Crispin’s life-long obsession with the Mags bares fruit. The StART team metamorphosise. The Mfuwe Mags are baptised on the banks of the Luangwa.
Doc Ellie crosses her finishing line in Mfuwe. She passes on the Valley doctor baton to others. Back in Blighty, her day job engulfs her. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Crispin relishes retirement. A fundraiser in Jesmond baits his resolve. How do you choose which kids to support? Asks a potential donor. Not a sporting question, but an ethical one. Northeast teams and donors keep the ball rolling and kit rolls to the distant South. Airfreight and containers. Such is the passion from the footballing community toward bootless Zambian school kids that momentum shifts the goalposts. Support them all. Retorts the Messiah. We have plenty of fish and loaves for everyone.
We now find ourselves in the present day. Crispin and Ellie follow a gravitational pull. A holiday in Mfuwe de rigueur. Their visit happily coincides with our second tour of duty as Valley docs. An invitation lands in our WhatApp inbox. Please come to see the Mfuwe Mags play! It would be churlish to decline.
We attend our second game of football in Africa. Not an international match this time. But a local derby. The Mags take on the Silver Celtics. Opponents whom the Mags are yet to beat. Pride at stake and everything to play for. This would be our biggest match yet.
Yosefe school, Saturday afternoon. Early doors. A crowd amasses. We cross the hallowed turf. A bumpy, rutted walk, through long grass. Hippo foot-holes challenge our ankles. We take our seats. School desks arranged pitch-side for honoured guests. The crowds stand, or dance, in anticipation, around the makeshift pitch. The edges are barely discernible. No white lines. But the goals are pristine. The Mags appear. Purple warm-up shirts cover the black and white stripes. Their warm-up almost a Haka. Their esprit de corps on display. Intimidating. Three circuits of the pitch. Chants and drills. Ball skills. The opposition watch and quiver. Their preparations desultory.
Expecting an African start time, the Messiah arrives 10 minutes before kick-off. Entourage in tow. Adoration clear from all around. But such an eagerly awaited event waits for no man. The referee’s whistle matched Apple time. Kick off sends the crowds into rapture. The battle commences.
End to end stuff. The ball somehow finds boots, despite the uneven ground. Brazilian creativity. Gripping football and initially the game seems nip and tuck. But drama in front of goal shifts the balance. The opposition foul and a penalty is awarded. The Mags convert the spot kick. The place erupts. The goal scorer does an incredible 3 flying somersaults. The pitch is invaded by dozens of ecstatic boys and girls. Singing breaks out. Dancing. Cheering. An exuberant celebration of a well-deserved goal.
The game restarts. They play hard. Tackles that make us cringe. Occasional foul play. The acting is premier league standard. These guys have learned both the dark arts and their ball skills well. But some crunching tackles leave genuine hurt. By good fortune no doctor is needed. Topical ibuprofen saves the day.
At half time it’s 1-0 to the Mags. As the second half starts the Mags are in control. Their stamina shows. More chances. But no more goals, for another forty minutes. Until. A breath-taking move. From the right side of the pitch. An accurate long-range pass to our number 9. Kelly Tumbwe. Who, by the by, is as far offside as is possible. Off his head the ball flies. Into the goal. The crowd go berserk. The linesman considers his safety. He chooses not to raise his flag. The ref gives the goal.
Cue pitch invasion number 2. Chaos and emotion rein. The opposition harangue the linesman. It gets physical. Everyone rushes over. I mean everyone. Players. Spectators. Team officials. The Mags players head away from the melee. No VAR here. Our watches suggest its full time anyway, the second goal academic.
Wrap things up ref. We all plead. Whistling and scorning. But the red card comes out. Spectators are being sent off. 22 players stay on the pitch. As do the school children. The Mfuwe Queens are singing and dancing. 15 minutes pass. The field clears slowly. Unbelievably, the game restarts. It is getting messy. An opposition player kicks wildly. His boot connects to a poor defender’s family jewels. Red card. Neither player will take a further part in the game.
We are deep into time added. Very deep. The Mags get the ball. And keep the ball. Time wasted, par excellence. We whistle again to summon the whistle. No impact. The game goes on. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. The sun starts to set. We pray for an elephant to invade the pitch. We pray in vain. After 20 minutes the ref blows, mostly out of boredom. The whistle heralds a controversial 2-0 victory to the Mags. Rapture abounds. The Silver Celtics skulk away. We shake the victors’ hands and salute their skill. And head home in semi-darkness. Now, that’s entertainment.
* He's not the Messiah. He’s a very naughty boy.
* Sheha – village leader
I really enjoyed this edition of the blog and your inviolvement with the Mfuwe Mags ! Keep the blogs coming - oh, and don't forget to do some doctoring ! x
Love this - the world is football crazy - but how to gain attention and support - well done Crispin 😎 "He is. He is the Messiah - only the true Messiah denies his divinity"..... 😉
Fantastic. Never thought football would dominate one of your blogs! Great photos too. Well done. Dean Melhuish