White Man, Where Do You Live?

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.

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A 2-minute video of traditional boxing in Argungu, a much smaller city than Kano.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUp1D81kLW8

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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