I can trace the beginning all the way back to the shade of the big Iroko tree at Government College Umuahia when and where my Mother handed me the parcel from my Uncle in Germany containing among many things, this certain book. For as long as I can remember this book - as well as my Parents (Here I stand in between them ...a confluence of Rhine and Niger ) would have a dominating effect on my life as I turned from young boy to young man and from default scholar to actual writer. Looking back even after a somewhat lengthy career in writing, I find this quite amazing considering that even at an early age not only was I a voracious reader consuming everything from Hardley Chase to Soyinka; but that I was also a devout Catholic lost seemingly forever in the pages of the bible studying a certain Saint one day and church dogma the next. Yet it was this book with limited wording that would virtually negate everything I had read so far, and fan into full flame not just the simmering love affair between myself and football but with the art that is story telling. Try as I may I can not think of a more definitive occurrence in my life that would help shape and spawn the writer in me.
Uncle Horst (left) in Munich
As I mentioned the book was sent to me by my Mum’s brother and my favorite Uncle “Horst Bonacker” whom coincidentally I was also named after. At that time a Bundesliga referee he could do no wrong in my eyes and even as a little boy my Scrapbook was a living testimony to his accomplishments on the field. In fact I would Sport some his hand me down jackets with pride later on in life in College. Mesmerized and oft with heart in throat our collective family would watch as he would orchestrate games like a conductor and when need be, confront and waive his finger in the faces of Super Stars like Gerd Mueller. One particular game still comes to mind between Bayern and Bremen where despite the whining of all of Munich he stood fast and refused to award a PK for an obvious flop. Even then he was inadvertently already building character.
My memory banks are still so vivid in this case, that if I close my eyes real tight and transport myself back I can still remember the way the ink smelled when the book was opened and the way the sunlight would bounce of the pages if held at a certain angle. Though the games had long ended by the time I got the book, it was as if each player caught forever by the lense was still acting out the enthralling ballet that captivates the football world every 4 years – but this time just for me. I was mesmerized by each and every story that the photos revealed or even remotely suggested. How was Paul Breitner -100% Caucasian - able to sport an Afro that would have made any member of the Jackson 5 envious….let alone the average Nigerian teenager like myself? Would the Brazilian Caesar’s disadvantage of being blind in one eye, be taken advantage off by the Dutch in the heavy rain? Did Juergen Sparwassers Goal for the DDR against the West galavanize them into playing above themselves from that point on? Would Africa and Zaire in particular, ever recover physiologically from the mauling the Slavs handed out in their Groups Game 1? Was there a better Locomotive in all of Poland than the Red Express aka “Messers Denya and Lato”? The insinuations were as many as the book had pages and each demanded exploration or at least educated speculation. As it was the first World Cup to be broadcast in color these pictures were far from the almost drab ones we saw from Mexico in 1970 and were therefore in our minds, larger than life. Long before the book was carefully taken apart with a razor and its contents used to posterize the entire dormitory it had been passed around the entire school virtually from hand to hand. In any case life was never the same for me again and from that point on each time I wrote, I wrote from the perspective of seeing my subject matter through a lense first. The next summer my essay in preparation for WAEC, based on the migratory patterns of flying egrets was named best in the Aba region ahead of my Seniors and much to my Father's absolute shock. To prove that that was not a fluke I would subsequently ace both my GCE O levels and the dreaded WAEC with Alphas in English. All thanks to Uncle Horst and a simple gesture of love.
On May 18th it will be Uncle Horst’s 70th Birthday and while strife and personal differences in our family have separated us and communication has been non existent for almost three decades; I feel it is time to pay this good man a tribute in my own simple way. From being an unequal brother to my Mother by never turning his back on her even when the rest of the family virtually excommunicated her for marrying an African and moving to Nigeria, Uncle Horst has remained a “true mentsch” in every form manner and shape.
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Iwedi Ojinmah I can trace the beginning all the way back to the shade of the big Iroko tree at Government College Umuahia when and where my Mother handed me the parcel from my Uncle in Germany containing among many things, this certain book. For as long as I can remember this book - as well as my Parents would have a dominating ef...
i have 3 brothers who are much older than me and their obsession with the world cups in late 70's and early 80's pissed me off so much that i grew a phobia for football.
=aguabata;321696>i have 3 brothers who are much older than me and their obsession with the world cups in late 70's and early 80's pissed me off so much that i grew a phobia for football.
Let me guess...I bet u are one hell of a Snakes and Ladder player. :razz:
Uncle Horst (left) in Munich 
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