Ugandan journalist Raymond Baguma goes out and about in London to discover how his fellow Africans are celebrating the continent’s first World Cup
Everyone in the hall holds a Ghanaian miniature flag. Upon entrance, I am directed to a desk and ordered to pay £5 and handed a flag and coupon which I am told entitles me to any drink of my choice from the bar counter. Quietly, I protest that I am not Ghanaian, but Ugandan.
I am at The Gold Coast Bar, to watch the World Cup match between Ghana and Serbia at one of Brixton’s entertainment centres that attracts hordes of African patrons, mainly from the west of the continent.
Across the street from Tesco, flags of participating African nations are visible through the bar’s plate glass windows on the first floor, making it appear like a drapery for the continent’s colours.
According to Remota one of the bar managers at The Gold Coast, a £5 entrance charge is necessary because management had to cancel some earlier bookings in order to accommodate the throngs of fans. From the entrance, I push past men, women and children. I am heading for the bar counter to get a glass of orange juice. My pleas of “excuse me, may I pass please,” cannot be heard over the din from cheers and songs of a group of sweaty youths. I give up my claim for a drink because an impregnable crowd jams the bar counter.
Inside, a melange of scents hits my nostrils. With about 700 people wearing colognes, perfumes and sprays of various types crammed here, the air conditioning seems to fail.
Here, African soccer fans converge to watch television and cheer on the legion of African teams participating in the World Cup – the first-ever to be hosted on the continent.
There is collectivism of emotion. The scenes of euphoria engulfing South Africa are being recreated in Brixton. Somewhere in the corner of the pub, a father and son take turns to blow the vuvuzela. Where there is a lack of African drums, the bar tables suffice. It may not be as deafening as the din from Bafokeng Stadium, but it’s sufficient to drown out the commentary.
Within Brixton, when I inquire from the shop attendants for a vuvuzela, the word itself sounds so alien to even be a shop item. At Tesco outlet opposite The Gold Coast bar, one staff at the counter tells me that the vuvuzelas have been distributed to staff, but were not sold to the public.
As a new arrival to London, Brixton is like a modern and clean African city with so many white visitors. At the train station, zebra crossing, bars, shop windows, at least a black face peers out somewhere. Brixton has a sizeable number of immigrants from Africa and a Caribbean community that numbers over 20,674 people. According to the census figures taken in 2001, African immigrants in Brixton are mainly from central, west, east and southern African countries such as Nigeria, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Congo and Kenya.
As an African visiting Brixton, I am in for a surprise when I bump into a long-lost schoolmate from Uganda. I conclude that lost African friends will most likely be traced to Brixton. But the Ugandan community lives mainly in the East London area of Upton Park.
In Brixton, as elsewhere, not every African is black – and not every black person is African. For instance, the two elderly ladies with Caribbean accents I meet at the bus stop and who give me directions to The Gold Coast Bar.
Over the loud cheers, with a Ghanaian flag in my right hand, I still feel Ugandan. I look for a Ghanaian whom I can donate my flag to, but I find no one without a flag. “Sorry I have a flag with me already,” Bentford, a Ghanaian living in Corydon tells me.
While Bentford supports Ghana, he is not sure whether his team will win the match, “I am praying for at least a draw,” he says during the goalless first half. During the second half, he gets more than he wished for when Asamoah Gyan converts a penalty.
Over the din, a significant feminine voice chants, “Allez-allez-allez.” She is from French-speaking Togo and supporting Ghana. She tells me that she could not travel to Africa because the trip is costly and would take up all her savings.
On another day or evening, when another African team, other than Ghana, is playing The Gold Coast pub has a handful of patrons. There are also various other spots within London where Africans converge to watch to cheer their teams. While Ghanaians are mainly in South London; I also watch with a group of Nigerians in Hackney in East London.
At Deut’s, a roadside barber shop in Hackney, Nigerian fans despair after losing to Argentina. After the final whistle, they argue over which player should have started from the bench and why coach Lars Lagerback is wrong. But there is universal agreement that the team may not have won, but resisted the deluge of attacks. They also relish the moment coach Diego Maradona will run naked in Buenos Aires if Argentina lifts the trophy. By beating Nigeria, Maradona’s shirt buttons are loosened. The gulf of class between forwards Lionel Messi and Yakubu Aiygbeni, awes even the most ardent of Nigerian fans. There are screams of, “Don’t push Messi. Simply mark him out of position.”
The fans cheer their football stars, whose collective net worth exceeds the national budgets of some African countries. Other fans wear replica jerseys of their national teams with jungle names such as Super Eagles, Indomitable Lions, Desert Foxes, and Elephants.
So far, the African soccer gods have not blessed Algeria, South Africa, Nigeria, Cameroon and Ivory Coast. Only the Black Star from Accra maintains a glow and a realistic chance to go beyond the group stages. With Ghana’s win over Serbia , youths waving miniature flags take up a lane of the road and compel motorists to cheer the Ghanaian flag, before they are let to drive on. I wave mine at them as I walk to the tube station. I am a nonchalant Ghanaian who bought his citizenship for £5.
South African Deon Schaup who buys me a glass of orange juice at The Globe pub across the Baker Street train station, also shares with me his genial introspection, “You know, my heart is with Africa, but my head thinks different.”
While the competition advances to other stages, Africa’s chances for the trophy get slimmer. It maybe Africa’s time to host. But from the performance of African teams, there is doubt if Africa may yet be ready to win the trophy.
*Raymond Baguma is a reporter with the New Vision newspaper in Kampala and currently working at The Times.
This article was originally published in The Times newspaper