Frank On The Hoops

When 3-pointers Sink No More, The BYC Lose Its Magnetic Power

1

995. The Blantyre Youth Centre is packed and in an electric mood.  10 seconds of the game remaining.  Henry Gomani sinks a long three pointer that ties the game at 79 and sends Poly Bob Cats and their ever-vocal supporters into frenzy. 

Zitto Phillips and his Falcons call time out and retreat to the bench.  They have to re-strategize and ensure the added time works to their favour.  Who is going to carry the day?  At this point, I really don’t know.  And so are the hundreds that have filled the BYC court.  As the serenading music fills the summer air, we patiently wait for added time to decide the tie.

“The games were simply exciting and full of tension,” recalls Mayeso Chirwa. 

“Basketball was fun to watch.” And to play too, I guess.

2

011. Blantyre Youth Centre.  On the terraces are a handful supporters.  The game is about to tip off, but the expectation, excitement and tension that should characterize a basketball game involving two regional giants is conspicuously missing. 

“Who do you think will win?” I ask a fan sitting next to me.

 

“You’re telling me you don’t know?” He shrugs off my question with a laugh that makes me feel a stranger in Jerusalem. 

“Everyone knows the result.   We are here to pass time…just that!” chips in a friend.

Bricks and Magang’a gets into action and with time it’s all clear this is a one-sided boring game.  The competition is not there.  I soon find myself watching the game ‘just to pass time’. 

 

“If you want to watch some competitive basketball, wait until Bricks lines up against Mimbulu.”

 

Such is the situation.   The steam on the arena is gone.  The courts that once vibrated with ecstatic fans are quiet.  Numbers of patrons have dropped, significantly!

“I feel the game is not as competitive today as it was during our time.” Chirwa as he sees the current situation.  

“In fact, we’ve slipped back to five, ten years ago.” That’s the reading from Daud Suleiman, one of Malawi’s respected players.  

“It’s boring and monotonous.  I can go weeks without training but when I am back on the court nobody is there to stop me.  Who would want to watch such games which one team wins even before the game is played?”

Although the extent to which the game has slipped could be a subjective rating, at least many, players, administrators and supporters, agree the situation is far from what it was. 

“This is not nostalgia,” says Suleiman.  “The game has hardly seen any improvements or investments in the past years.   None.”

Suleiman attributes the current trend to a number of factors, which include poor quality of players, lack of investment in infrastructure and poor administration. 

“We have no junior league.  Most of the players you see now missed out on the opportunity to play in this league.  As such, they lack basics and cannot compete effectively.   The old players continue to dominate...the same old names, Daud, Weluzani Chingota, Victor Jere, Chimwemwe Mulagha…”

Chirwa agrees nowadays there are few competitive and exciting players. 

“We had more height, big sizes and overall talent in the yester years. 

“Motivation also played a big role.  We had plenty sponsored competitions.”

That is no longer the case anymore.  Regional leagues run without sponsorship.  The companies that used to pour their finances in basketball have since abandoned the sport.  As one player put it to me, ‘they play out of the love of the game’.  Suleiman believes poor administration is largely to blame. 

“We have administrators who have no passion to manage basketball.   They are in BASMAL (Basketball Association of Malawi) purely for self enrichment.  They got into BASMAL to use it as a stepping stone into something bigger.

“What is it that they have done? Nobody knows.  Let them point to me only one thing that they have done.”

According to Suleiman, administrators have failed miserably especially with regard to investing in infrastructure.  Most of the courts that have produced some of the country’s greats are dilapidated.

“If, for instance, you’re in Blantyre and you want to play, you’ve nowhere but the Blantyre Youth Centre.  Courts at Dharap, BSS, Zingwangwa and several other places are in a sorry state leaving the BYC the only court around.

“Once we get courts like those functioning again, we will be able to excite a lot of youngsters to play ball.  But to get there, we need administrators who are ready to turn things around.  We don’t need rhetoric.”

Back to the Bricks Vs Magang’a game at the Blantyre Youth Centre.  Its third quarter and the Bricks are up by 21 points.  Each addition minute is simply stretching the lead and the other team is simply looking forward to the final whistle. 

“This is normally the trend nowadays.  It’s all about Bricks (in the South).”  And all about Mimbulu in the Centre.

What a resigned conclusion from the fan sitting next to me.   The game ends and the Bricks cannot even celebrate and I am left thinking whether in deed I should be coming to watch the games Suleiman describes as monotonous and boring!

2

013...the power base has shifted. Lox360 seems to have displaced the Bricks; and in Lilongwe, Mimbulu, although still in the ruling, is constantly being reminded not to slacken by such teams as Trojans and Disciples.

 

There are new administrators in SOZOBAL and CEZOBAL and piecemeal attempts are being taken to shake things up.  Sad though, the quality of the play generally remains below par.

   

Reminiscing about my past, the days I frequented the BYC court alongside such names as DJ Davis Mussa, I wrote this piece for a Charles Nyirenda local magazine that not sure it ever came out.  Sad enough my good friend, Mayeso Chirwa (MHSRIP) never lived to read this piece and drop in his always-structured feedback.  

When Frank Goes Off Air

For some good time stretch, I have been giving some good thinking about what to wear. This or that shirt with that tie? Or this and that shoe? First impression matters, so I tell myself. I neither want them to look at me and think I am one tobacco tenant or ‘mbwenumbwenu’ from somewhere in the plains of Chitipa nor one ‘molele’ grower or ‘moya’ from the sticky clay soils of the Thyolo escapement. First time impression matters and I have to matter, no matter what!

The morning cracks open and I yawn myself out of bed, quickly freshens up and tries out the best my wardrobe can give. Men are virtually no matchers, so I am thinking and thinking, as I keep changing, trying this and that shirt and that tie and that shoe. I am just being mindful of my friend, Willy’s sarcastic description of those who mix several colours as wearing mbendera za dziko lonse and I don’t want to look like the world’s flags blended into one. No, not me, not now, not at any time, never!

“Nay, not that one,” I tell myself and quickly throw the thoughts to something else.

“If not that, then which one? That plain, white shirt and that pin-striped tie? They have no affinity whatsoever with that jacket. They are munthu ndi apongozi ake.”

You see what a little plenty can be? Confusing and laboring at times!! Ask those with just one of everything, and you’ll entirely agree with me. They are not bothered. How can they when what they wear is all that they have? I try and try and try, again and again and again!

“Boy, how do I look?” I ask in a manner that should remind you of one Eddie Murphy in the movie, Coming to America. Not that I am asking anyone in particular. I am in this mood that I just seem to enjoy asking and answering myself.

Well, after putting my wardrobe to ample test and practicing that smile, grin et cetra, et cetra, I tell myself ‘Frank you’re ready to matter, no matter what’.

I admire the guy in the mirror, his courage and his presentation, and in the language reminiscent of the times of King James, I once again tell myself ‘go thee and let thy presence maketh sense.’
Ask me, you never get this honest and faithful than this day. Never ever and I mean exactly that. Never ever this faithful.

What’s your clock? I roll up my shirt; caress my silver-lined wrist watch to check mine. It ticks 7:30 a.m. Guess what; I have been sitting here patiently for some good 20 minutes; studying the reception and assimilating its receptive feel.

In the world of thoughts, there’s no rule that governs against wandering and wondering. So, there my eyes go, sinking into the Zain branded walls and my spirit squeezes through the concrete to the world of wander. So, there I go, ‘Frank in Wander land’ and as I wander and wander I find myself wondering and marveling at the different messages walls wear and radiate. Oh my, my, walls can make your day, big time. Lying? They would look at you with stuff like…

“Christ is the head of this house …banja ndi awiri, wachitatu ndi…and oh I like this one…imfa siithawika. It’s just another story gone bad just like when Bud Spencer goes West; the branch giving in, the axe falling off, the snake about to share the venomous strike, down the river the croc preparing its hungry jaws for a sumptuous swallow, and the lion by the river eager to beat the croc at the catch. What a description! Death indeed cannot be eluded – just as these reception walls before me.

Oh this Blessings girl, she sounds so reassuring. “I hope you don’t mind waiting until eight. By that time HR people should be in.”

Well, even if I mind there’s nothing else I can do other than to wait – patiently, of course. The little pious angel in me remind of some verse somewhere in the Bible that promises goodies to those who are patient.

Bear with me, folks, I can’t remember exactly what reward the patient will receive but one thing I am certain of is that there’s one on its way for the patient. Like me! I am not joking, just grab your Bible – I think it is written somewhere…er…was it Jesus during his sermon by the mountain or it was King David?

Anyway, one of the two for sure promised to reward the patient. So the patient me is still dug in the reception chair, thinking like an Aristotle’s admirer, and waiting like some faith-filled Christian waiting for the second coming of Christ: the way, the truth and the light.

Eight is fast approaching and true to her word, more and more footsteps are filling up the reception. They are in various types; light and heavy, quick and slow and they blend up for an unknown tune that can only be understood by the music wizards. They pass by, some so courteous enough to ‘good morning’ us. The few I know go that little mile.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of Zain.”

“Oh, finally you’re here, good you’ve come.”

“Hi, Frank, what brings you here?”

With lap top computer bags strapped onto their shoulders and intimating with their waists, they pass by some wearing the ‘hey, I have some deadlines to meet’ look.

Their behaviour does not surprise me at all. Rather, it briefly shoves me into another train of thoughts. Will I be behaving the same way? Passing by this same corridor just like they are doing? Wearing the same ‘hey, I am damn busy’ look?

Could be…yeah, could be. When you’re in Manchester, you do what Sir Alex Ferguson does: chewing bubble gum. When you’re in the Vatican, you do what the Pope does: praying for peace in the West Bank [close to Gaza] and for the flood stricken in the East Bank [in the Shire Valley in Malawi]. Interesting and funny in deed!

And when you’re in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, you do what the Amsterdamers do: wonder why there’s no red light district in Malawi.

And similarly when you’re in Zain, you do what Fayaz, Saulos, Enwell, Bridget and all Zainers do: amass ‘good to great’ motivational articles and wear branded materials every Wednesday and Friday.

And there now is Robert. He walks in, wearing the usual smile he wore when I first met him. He throws his eyes around - with no specific targets of course. One of his throws lands on these two new recruits – Jimmy and I [I am sorry I forgot to tell you I am with Jimmy].
He hi’s us and asks us to follow him to his office, after which he takes us on a tour of Zain offices and the faces that occupy them.

“Oh, your voice sounds the same,” many tell me the obvious. Oh damn you; my voice will not change with my change in position.

The Ethiopian Cyndrellas

Nothing much I can say about Ethiopia. Beautiful country...oh my, the women are just...I am not surprised why King Solo married a Kushiite lady. He was just human to resist them. There were times you wish you were not. I lived those moments a shortwhile ago. Oh sorry, some seven years ago. Beauty in plenty supply...everywhere your eyes go, they are bound to land in some striking creation. Ethiopia, the land of the queens.

Mike, a Kenyan friend of mine once told me it's in the plan of the creater not to make one a full house. I think he was right in one way or another. The Ethiopian beauty is divorced from wealth. The majority of the queens I saw were barely struggling to make ends meet.