A whole half a century has passed, but I remember it like yesterday.
I had just been promoted as a news editor at the Ghana Broadcasting
Corporation, and was fully in charge of the news that was to be
broadcast at 6pm that Sunday. Normally, a Senior Editor or even the
Head of News would take a look at the bulletin before it went on the
air, but it being a Sunday, none of them was around and the baby was
entirely in my hands.
Now, Ghana Black Stars were playing a match against Blackpool, a
Division One club from Britain and one which had been made famous the
world over by the exploits of Stanley Matthews, arguably the best
dribbler the game has ever seen – bettered only, perhaps, by George
Best. And only Best at Best's best, at that.
Matthews had himself visited Ghana a short time earlier, and played
some matches with the side that had invited him, Accra Hearts of Oak.
The Phobians were in those days, very glamorous, under the tutelage of
a great benefactor of the club, Ken Harrison. Anyway, Blackpool was a
name held in awe by all of us, and when they came to play the Black
Stars, our hearts were in our mouths.
I was exasperated that the duty roster had put me on duty that afternoon. Why not in the morning so that I'd have finished by 2pm and gone to watch the match? Well, there I was, reduced to imagining the match, as described by the radio commentators.
We knew something strange was happening when Ghana scored the first
goal. It was clobbered by centre-forward Edward Acquah. I say
'clobbered' because Acquah hardly scored without first struggling with
the ball. He was over six foot tall and very well-built. I wouldn't be
exaggerating if I said he probably wore size thirteen boots.
He had also been a goalkeeper before becoming a centre-forward. The
story was that in a match for his side, Sekondi Eleven Wise, the team
manager could not make up the numbers because one of his forwards had
gone truant at the last minute and was playing in a “shabo-shabo”
match somewhere else.
(In those days, football players were paid very little, and paid very
late. So 'football contractors' found it easy to arrange unofficial
matches on obscure grounds like Old Tafo or Jackson's Park, Koforidua,
in which they would feature one or two star players from recognised
clubs.
These were put at the head of locally recruited players and
other players whose ambitions were larger than their skills.
“Shabo-shabo” was a corruption of “sharpo-sharpo” – which denoted the
fact that not only were the secret negotiations over such matches
conducted in a pretty sharpish manner but also, the players were paid
sharply – upfront, or immediately after the match, sometimes on the
playing field itself! Stories abound about the unsavoury events that
surrounded many “shabo-shabo” matches, having to do with fisticuffs
with referees and opponents alike,, expensively-acquired juju that
failed to work, and other sources of tears.)
Anyway, Acquah was told he wasn't going to be a goalkeeper that day,
but a centre-forward. And he acquitted himself well, scoring two
goals. Because he was used to standing in a stationary position
between the goalposts, his feet were not used to the nimble steps by
which a centre-forward acquired the ball, slipped it past the
defenders of the opposing team, and then tried a shot at goal.
So whenever Acquah got the ball and tried to position it to shoot, he
would stumble first. But once he steadied himself, he would try and
shoot it from wherever he was. And because, as a goalkeeper, he was
used to kicking the ball straight -- and with all his strength -- his
shots were absolutely unstoppable.
Acquah scored two goals on his first outing as a centre-forward. And
the Eleven Wise manager was so pleased that he turned him that from
then on, he was going into a Number Nine jersey, not a Number One.
Acquah did so well in his new position that when the Director of
Sports, Mr Ohene-Djan, outraged the football world by raiding the
clubs and picking their best players for his newly-formed Real
Republicans (otherwise known by the grand name, “Osagyefo's Own Club”)
he enticed Acquah to join.
Ohene-Djan was a very clever man. He had studied the manner in which
the Eastern European countries, with whom Ghana was then very
friendly, organised their football. They practised “shamateurism”
without blushing: almost all the national team were picked from clubs
that employed the players in capacities other than as footballers:
tractor drivers, railway clerks and o on. Their ther jobs for which
they had neither been trained nor were expected to perform.
Their “non-jobs” were given to them to provide them with welfare and
security. What they were really told to do was to practise together as
often as possible, so that if they were picked for the national team,
it would be almost as if their club team had been picked. What
Ohene-Djan did was to put people like Acquah into organisations like
the Cocoa Marketing Board, the Workers Brigade, the Farmers Council
and the (then) Department of Social Security.
Hence it was that Acquah was playing for the Black Stars that Sunday
afternoon. After he had scored the first goal, he scored a second.
Then he scored a third. And – a fourth. Blackpool wasn't able to
respond with a single goal.
The whole of Ghana went crazy that day. Inside the newsroom the radio
box sent; signals of euphoria into my brain. We normally put football
stories at the end of the bulletin. But I made it the lead story! Not
only that; I headlined it: “Ghana Black Stars beat Blackpool of
England at the Accra Sports Stadium this afternoon.” I also produced a
secondary headline: “Centre-forward Edward Acquah scored all four
goals.”
Now, the six o'clock news was huge: it was only really big world and
local news that ever led it. So I was expecting the telephone to ring
as soon as the first headline was read. Why had I put a football story
as the lead story in the world news? Why had I headlined it? These
were the questions I expected my bosses to fire at me, their
22-year-old editor.
But the telephone did not ring. Nor did it ring when the story itself
was read. And again, it didn't ring when the headline was repeated at
the end of the bulletin. I had got away with it. The national euphoria
had affected my bosses too. Meanwhile, every single tongue in Ghana
was glorifying the name, “Edward Acquah!”
Acquah was also instrumental in the Republicans drawing 3-3 at the
Accra Sports Stadium, scoring two of the Republicans' goals. That
match enabled Ghanaians to see two of the greatest players that Real
Madrid had ever produced – Di Stefano and Puskas. Acquah was also in
the team that won the African Nations Cup twice – in Accra in 1963 and
in Tunis in 1965. Both Osei Kofi – the wizard who won the cup for us
in Tunis – and Wilberforce Mfum (whose shots at goal were almost as
powerful as those of 'Sputnik' Acquah) have testified that Acquah was
unselfish and often passed the ball to them when he realised he could
not score himself.
When I left GBC and became editor of Drum magazine, I continued to
build Acquah up by making him one of the first players to feature in a
colour centrefold section we introduced. Acquah realised how much I
appreciated his football prowess and often came to have a chat with me
at the Drum office. He confided in me – and he somehow knew I wouldn't
betray his confidence – that when things were hot for the Black Stars
and it appeared as if they would either lose or draw, Ohene Djasn
would come on to the touchline and begin to yell at the top of his
voice: “MKK! MKK!” This meant that whoever scored the winning goal
would benefit from an account Ohene Djan had set up in his father's
name. Acquah smiled when he revealed this.
Acquah died last week. He was 76. I believe he was impecunious when he
died. Which didn't surprise me, knowing how we don't recognise our
national treasures, let alone look after them when they need a payback
for all they have done for our country. I am not going to say we
should give him a state funeral or establish a fund to look after his
family, or even that a stadium should be named after him at Sekondi.
But those in authority in our country should know that if they fail to
honour Acquah adequately – as they've done in the cases of so many
others, including the great musician' Ephraim Amu – their own children
will grow up to despise them. For when the kids get to learn the facts
about these great people, they will say, “And my Dad was there and did
nothing about preserving the memory of such an incredible person who
did so much to put Ghana, our country, on the map?”
Yep.
I had just been promoted as a news editor at the Ghana Broadcasting
Corporation, and was fully in charge of the news that was to be
broadcast at 6pm that Sunday. Normally, a Senior Editor or even the
Head of News would take a look at the bulletin before it went on the
air, but it being a Sunday, none of them was around and the baby was
entirely in my hands.
Now, Ghana Black Stars were playing a match against Blackpool, a
Division One club from Britain and one which had been made famous the
world over by the exploits of Stanley Matthews, arguably the best
dribbler the game has ever seen – bettered only, perhaps, by George
Best. And only Best at Best's best, at that.
Matthews had himself visited Ghana a short time earlier, and played
some matches with the side that had invited him, Accra Hearts of Oak.
The Phobians were in those days, very glamorous, under the tutelage of
a great benefactor of the club, Ken Harrison. Anyway, Blackpool was a
name held in awe by all of us, and when they came to play the Black
Stars, our hearts were in our mouths.
I was exasperated that the duty roster had put me on duty that afternoon. Why not in the morning so that I'd have finished by 2pm and gone to watch the match? Well, there I was, reduced to imagining the match, as described by the radio commentators.
We knew something strange was happening when Ghana scored the first
goal. It was clobbered by centre-forward Edward Acquah. I say
'clobbered' because Acquah hardly scored without first struggling with
the ball. He was over six foot tall and very well-built. I wouldn't be
exaggerating if I said he probably wore size thirteen boots.
He had also been a goalkeeper before becoming a centre-forward. The
story was that in a match for his side, Sekondi Eleven Wise, the team
manager could not make up the numbers because one of his forwards had
gone truant at the last minute and was playing in a “shabo-shabo”
match somewhere else.
(In those days, football players were paid very little, and paid very
late. So 'football contractors' found it easy to arrange unofficial
matches on obscure grounds like Old Tafo or Jackson's Park, Koforidua,
in which they would feature one or two star players from recognised
clubs.
These were put at the head of locally recruited players and
other players whose ambitions were larger than their skills.
“Shabo-shabo” was a corruption of “sharpo-sharpo” – which denoted the
fact that not only were the secret negotiations over such matches
conducted in a pretty sharpish manner but also, the players were paid
sharply – upfront, or immediately after the match, sometimes on the
playing field itself! Stories abound about the unsavoury events that
surrounded many “shabo-shabo” matches, having to do with fisticuffs
with referees and opponents alike,, expensively-acquired juju that
failed to work, and other sources of tears.)
Anyway, Acquah was told he wasn't going to be a goalkeeper that day,
but a centre-forward. And he acquitted himself well, scoring two
goals. Because he was used to standing in a stationary position
between the goalposts, his feet were not used to the nimble steps by
which a centre-forward acquired the ball, slipped it past the
defenders of the opposing team, and then tried a shot at goal.
So whenever Acquah got the ball and tried to position it to shoot, he
would stumble first. But once he steadied himself, he would try and
shoot it from wherever he was. And because, as a goalkeeper, he was
used to kicking the ball straight -- and with all his strength -- his
shots were absolutely unstoppable.
Acquah scored two goals on his first outing as a centre-forward. And
the Eleven Wise manager was so pleased that he turned him that from
then on, he was going into a Number Nine jersey, not a Number One.
Acquah did so well in his new position that when the Director of
Sports, Mr Ohene-Djan, outraged the football world by raiding the
clubs and picking their best players for his newly-formed Real
Republicans (otherwise known by the grand name, “Osagyefo's Own Club”)
he enticed Acquah to join.
Ohene-Djan was a very clever man. He had studied the manner in which
the Eastern European countries, with whom Ghana was then very
friendly, organised their football. They practised “shamateurism”
without blushing: almost all the national team were picked from clubs
that employed the players in capacities other than as footballers:
tractor drivers, railway clerks and o on. Their ther jobs for which
they had neither been trained nor were expected to perform.
Their “non-jobs” were given to them to provide them with welfare and
security. What they were really told to do was to practise together as
often as possible, so that if they were picked for the national team,
it would be almost as if their club team had been picked. What
Ohene-Djan did was to put people like Acquah into organisations like
the Cocoa Marketing Board, the Workers Brigade, the Farmers Council
and the (then) Department of Social Security.
Hence it was that Acquah was playing for the Black Stars that Sunday
afternoon. After he had scored the first goal, he scored a second.
Then he scored a third. And – a fourth. Blackpool wasn't able to
respond with a single goal.
The whole of Ghana went crazy that day. Inside the newsroom the radio
box sent; signals of euphoria into my brain. We normally put football
stories at the end of the bulletin. But I made it the lead story! Not
only that; I headlined it: “Ghana Black Stars beat Blackpool of
England at the Accra Sports Stadium this afternoon.” I also produced a
secondary headline: “Centre-forward Edward Acquah scored all four
goals.”
Now, the six o'clock news was huge: it was only really big world and
local news that ever led it. So I was expecting the telephone to ring
as soon as the first headline was read. Why had I put a football story
as the lead story in the world news? Why had I headlined it? These
were the questions I expected my bosses to fire at me, their
22-year-old editor.
But the telephone did not ring. Nor did it ring when the story itself
was read. And again, it didn't ring when the headline was repeated at
the end of the bulletin. I had got away with it. The national euphoria
had affected my bosses too. Meanwhile, every single tongue in Ghana
was glorifying the name, “Edward Acquah!”
Acquah was also instrumental in the Republicans drawing 3-3 at the
Accra Sports Stadium, scoring two of the Republicans' goals. That
match enabled Ghanaians to see two of the greatest players that Real
Madrid had ever produced – Di Stefano and Puskas. Acquah was also in
the team that won the African Nations Cup twice – in Accra in 1963 and
in Tunis in 1965. Both Osei Kofi – the wizard who won the cup for us
in Tunis – and Wilberforce Mfum (whose shots at goal were almost as
powerful as those of 'Sputnik' Acquah) have testified that Acquah was
unselfish and often passed the ball to them when he realised he could
not score himself.
When I left GBC and became editor of Drum magazine, I continued to
build Acquah up by making him one of the first players to feature in a
colour centrefold section we introduced. Acquah realised how much I
appreciated his football prowess and often came to have a chat with me
at the Drum office. He confided in me – and he somehow knew I wouldn't
betray his confidence – that when things were hot for the Black Stars
and it appeared as if they would either lose or draw, Ohene Djasn
would come on to the touchline and begin to yell at the top of his
voice: “MKK! MKK!” This meant that whoever scored the winning goal
would benefit from an account Ohene Djan had set up in his father's
name. Acquah smiled when he revealed this.
Acquah died last week. He was 76. I believe he was impecunious when he
died. Which didn't surprise me, knowing how we don't recognise our
national treasures, let alone look after them when they need a payback
for all they have done for our country. I am not going to say we
should give him a state funeral or establish a fund to look after his
family, or even that a stadium should be named after him at Sekondi.
But those in authority in our country should know that if they fail to
honour Acquah adequately – as they've done in the cases of so many
others, including the great musician' Ephraim Amu – their own children
will grow up to despise them. For when the kids get to learn the facts
about these great people, they will say, “And my Dad was there and did
nothing about preserving the memory of such an incredible person who
did so much to put Ghana, our country, on the map?”
Yep.
