I had
been living in Kano, Nigeria, for three years and I thought it was time to go see
what traditional African boxing was like.
I
went to Kano City Stadium, which was used for soccer, prayer
gatherings, and boxing. The stadium consisted of a large grass-less field with a
single cement grandstand. The field was grass-less because it was the
height of the dry season, and it had not rained in Kano for the last seven
months.
I
bought a ticket at the window and gave it to the ticket-taker to enter the
stadium. I was surprised when he asked, "White
Man, where do you live?"
"I live in Tudun
Wada."
The ticket-taker told
me that I had to sit at the far end of the cement grandstand. I did what
he said, even though I did not see any difference between one end of the
grandstand and the other.
I sat down. A
couple dozen boxers took the field. Each boxer had one fist tightly wrapped up in cloth strips.
There was no ring, no
ropes.
I turned to the people
sitting near me for some help. First question, of course, was why did the
ticket-taker make me sit at this end of the grandstand when I told him I lived
in Tudun Wada?
I found out that Kano
was divided into north and south. I was not sure where the dividing line
was, but Tudun Wada was definitely north. All the north city people sat at
this end of the grandstand while all the south city people sat at the other end
of the grandstand.
The boxers on the
field were also divided: north city boxers would be fighting south city boxers.
There was no schedule
of matches. The boxers themselves determine the schedule. Someone
challenges an opponent by tapping him on the chest with his wrapped fist.
If the opponent thinks the match is fair, he returns the tap, and they start to
box.
A match ends when a
boxer touches the ground: knee or hand or shoulder or body. The match
would also ends if one boxer decides to call it off.
I was impressed.
Traditional African boxing seemed less brutal than American boxing where they
try to knock each other unconscious, and where boxers are paired by
promoters, without regard to the fairness of the match.
A sudden gasp rose
from the grandstand. The primo hot-shot south city boxer had just tapped
a north city boxer on the chest. The crowd knew that the north city boxer
was clearly outclassed, but he tapped back.
The lopsided match was
on. Punch; Punch; Stagger; Fall. It
was the hot-shot south city boxer who had touched the ground.
The match was over in about
two minutes, and everyone around me stood up and cheered.
Then people stopped
cheering and started leaving. What? Why are they leaving?
There are two dozen boxers on the field; surely there are more matches to come?
Someone explained it
for me: The north had triumphed, and nothing can be sweeter than having an
ordinary north city guy defeating the primo south city guy.
I lingered there while
the grandstand emptied out. Instead of feeling triumphant, I felt a
little bit cheated. I had come all the way from Tudun Wada to Kano
City Stadium, and only got to watch two minutes of boxing.
- . - .- . - . - .
A 2-minute video of traditional boxing in Argungu, a much smaller city than Kano.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?
- . - .- . - . - .
NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath. Price = $11. You can purchase a copy at http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com
