Interco 1 - Augusco Goes Gay with Moga

This story has put together interco experiences from several years of witnessing the event in Cape Coast. it is not one specific year

Nobody missed Interco. It was one of the most fiercely contested athletics championships in the whole country, thanks mainly to the bitter rivalry that existed between the three boys’ schools in Cape Coast. The schools spared no effort in their fervent desire to win. Scholarships were awarded promising athletes all over the country and before the competition, spies would be sent to opposing schools to assess the strength of the opposition. Adisadel College had won the previous year’s competition and looked very much like repeating the victory that year, if only their star athlete Izzo, would have recovered from the hamstring injury he had sustained in a trial competition before Interco. Rumours abound that he would not be competing and the rest of us were ecstatic.

The week leading up to Interco was always strange. There would be a relaxed atmosphere on campus with students unwilling to learn and teachers not too keen to teach either. Teachers like Mr Otwe who had been old students would come to class but spend the time telling stories of great Augusco athletes in times long gone. The likes of George Daniels, who had gone on to break national records, would get a mention. But more often than not, we stood on corridors discussing our team and their preparation. This week would be for the likes of Zaitoto, our star sprinter, who would have been the best in Cape Coast had it not been for the devil Izzo. Thank God Izzo was injured this year.

In the afternoons, the whole school would gather on the school pitch just to watch the boys being taken through their paces by Mr Bentum. They would practice baton-changing ad-nauseum because the 4x100 was a race Augusco had to win by right. In the evenings, we would attend singing sessions to practice the songs for the day. This was compulsory only for the juniors but many seniors voluntarily attended. Then on Friday, the first day of the games, the headmaster would speak to the whole school in the morning.

At first, there would be the usual cautioning about dressing appropriately and putting up behaviour befitting of students of St Augustine's College. And then he would begin;

“Today is the day” there would be little giggles of anticipation from the students. They loved the headmaster’s speeches, when he was in the right mood.

“Today is the day when men shall be separated from boys. When the flame of Augusco will once again burn brightest and show the rest, that along the West Coast of Africa and perhaps far beyond, no school even comes close.

“And our boys have trained hard for today. We have all seen them as they run along the beeches and over the hills of Augusco. They tell me they are ready!

“Zaitoto says he is ready!” wild cheers from the students

“Agbota Tetteh is ready” wild cheers. His nickname was Mogadishu, affectionately shortened to Moga. He was our 1500m runner. He was new to St Augustine’s, having come to sixth form from another school

“Amuakwa is ready” to which the students would respond “Oshoo! Oshoo! Oshoo!” for that was the nickname of our burly shot putter. He would often be somewhere at the back flexing his muscles for effect amidst laughter all around. Such was the spirit of the times.

“They have promised to run as hard as they can, jump as high as they can, throw as far as they can, and with God on our side and “Omnia Vincit Labor” our motto, victory will be ours.”

There would be wild cheers as the students burst into the school anthem, whipping up spirits over the horizons.

The competition that year was to be held at the Mfantsipim School. Whatever classes we managed to have would end at 11.30 am to enable us all get to Mfantsipim in time for the 2.00pm start. When one entered Mfantsipim School, one was instantly met by a huge edifice that was the Balmer-Acquah House. The road coursed underneath the Balmer- Acquah House and rose up the Kwabotwe Hill. The administrative building, assembly hall and huge classroom blocks sat atop the hill. Beyond the hill and if one took the footpath to the left, one walked under a canopy of huge trees in an artificial forest for about 100 yards and then out of the blue, one found oneself at the edge of a long cliff, with the Kwabotwe pitch sprawled in the valley below. The spectator stands extended from your feet, to the right and down all the way to the edge of the pitch. On Interco days, it was a sight to behold; a sunlit colourful bowl of thousands of students cheering for their schools.

“Choooooobuei!” Augusco would begin.

“Yeei!!” The response in unison of a thousand or so students

“Cho, cho, cho, cho, cho, chooooooooooobuei!!”

“Yeeeei!”

“Azigizagazigizaga”

“Zim zim zim!”

“Azigizagazigizaga”

“Zim zim zim!”

“Zigizagazigizagazigizaga!”

“Zim zim zim!”

Mainly meaningless sounds supposed to instill awe in the opponent

“Augustine’s College We are the happy people When it comes to athletics……”

The singing would commence in earnest as tension reached fever pitch in anticipation of the first race of the day, the boys’ hundred meters.

“Izzo is out” I heard one senior say

“Sent to hospital this morning” another said

Our anxiety was understandable. Izzo did the 100m, 200m, 400m and both relays and the damage this caused the other schools could often not be repaired. If Izzo was unwell, then there was hope for us.

“Competitors for the boys 100m heats, please report at the registration desks” the announcement finally came.

Each school was represented by two athletes in each race. We could see Zaitoto and Adamu limbering up. We craned our necks to see who was representing Adisadel. There was only one boy there in the stripped black and white of Adisadel. Would he wouldn’t he? Was he in the stadium at all? No one had seen him. Then suddenly, there was a loud cheer from the Adisco boys as the great man appeared from one corner of the field and jogged enthusiastically towards his fans with no hint of an injury. Bloody Santa Clausians, it had all been a hoax.

“Everybody loves Izzo

“Everybody loves Izzo

“Izzo” – clap, clap clap

“Izzo” – clap clap clap

“Everybody loves Izzo”

The Adisadel boys sang as Izzo danced in front of them, one finger raised, a broad confident smile on his face. Even his opponents admitted he was a graceful performer. Of course he won his heat and so did Zaitoto. The final was much later on on the same day.

“On your marks, Get set Go!!!” The gun fired.

False start! The culprit, Zaitoto, in the green and white of St Augustine’s.

“Zai toto toto toto toto Zai…..”

The St Augustine’s boys sang in unison. There was a smile and a wave of acknowledgement from Zaitoto. He must have been nervous. If Izzo had one weakness, it was his start in the 100m and everybody had hammered that home to Zaitoto.

“Get a good start Zai and you have a chance. He is not unbeatable”

Izzo was not going to be outdone. He got up from the marks, jogged a few meters down the track, lifted his trademark finger, a smile on his face;

“Everybody loves Izzo clap, clap clap!”

“Get set! Go! False start! The guilty man, Zaitoto. Off you go! Zaitoto, disqualified! No way! We lounged forward unto the tracks. Our prefects and Mr Bentum the sports master struggled briefly to restore calm. Soon peace was restored. It had not been that difficult to be fair. Zaitoto had clearly made two false starts, but it was important in such situations to put the fear of God into the officials. Nobody took Augusco for granted.

Izzo of course won the 100m eventually. Later, he had won the 200m as well. St Augustine’s were floundering. The singing had subsided. People sat in the sun, hands on their chins, admiring Adisadel College. The 1500m had been announced but nobody really had high hopes for Moga. He came with a good reputation but had so far not done a single good time in Augusco. He talked a good race but always seemed to have one excuse or another. But on this day, he looked fit and ready for battle and then he proceeded to do something that touched everybody and forever established his legendary status. In difficult times, inspiration often comes from unexpected sources. For, just before the race started, Moga had run over angrily to the perimeter of the field, looked up at the St Augustine’s boys and shouted;

“My people, why are you so quiet? Why are you so quiet?! 1,2,3!!”

And Augusco found its voice again “Moooooga!

“4,5,6!” he yelled, sweat dripping off his face “Moooooga. Moooooga, Moooooga!!

The cheers and singing continued as he made his way to the starting line. It had been a good show by Moga that had briefly lifted the spirits of the fans but in truth, no one believed he had any chance against those chaps from Mfantsipim and nothing Moga did in the first few rounds gave anybody reason to believe otherwise. He was at the back of the pack. There you go. Augusco had seen it all before-people who could talk more than they could run. But as the race went on he made his way gradually forward placing himself strategically in the middle of the pack. There was the odd burst of “Moga” as he occasionally dashed forward, but reality would set in as the favourites increased the gap. The game of cat and mouse went on till two rounds to go when to everyone’s surprise Moga had positioned himself strategically behind the two chaps from Mfantsipim.

Augusco found our voice again “1,2,3, Mooooga! “4,5,6 Moooooga!

He was going to be third or fourth which would have been pretty good for us with Adisadel struggling. Nobody had dared anticipate what was going to happen next. For with 300m to go, out of the blue, Moga had stepped forward, running like mad, determination etched on his face, a trail of dust behind him. Had he gone too quickly? Would he be caught? The others were coming back with a vengeance! 150m to go. They were catching up. 80m and 50m and 30m. We doubted till he finally crossed the finishing line arms held aloft, with the Mfantsipim boy right behind him. And then followed a near frenzy as he kept running on straight to the Augusco fans, completely out of breath and gesturing;

“What did I tell you?! What did I tell you?! 1,2,3!

And a grateful school responded;

“Mooooooooooooooooga!”

Oflow!! - A First Day in Augusco

“What is Geography?” That was the voice of the teacher in my first ever lesson in St Augustine’s. Mr Riverson was a young ambitious teacher who was soon to leave us for a more lucrative job in a company in Tema.

“Geography is the Science that deals with the Earth as home of man” he said I still remember that definition, though sadly, I struggle even now, to know what it actually means.

Then there was “What is history? What is Science?” and so on as our new teachers came one after the other and introduced us, in as dramatic a way as they could, to secondary school education. There was Mathematics and then French. The next lesson was to be English and while waiting for the teacher who had been a bit late, we had stood in little groups chatting and still getting to know each other-which famous schools we had attended and what score we had obtained in the Common Entrance Examination. The class prefect also used the opportunity to continue the distribution of the Mathematics textbooks he had collected from the bookshop earlier.

“Class stand!”

With all the mayhem, Mr Hooper, the English teacher, had walked in without anybody noticing. He was a tall elderly man. When he spoke, sprays of saliva would often emit from the corner of his mouth which he intermittently wiped off with his handkerchief. We all lept up, frightened by the sudden aggressive command.

“Sit!” We sat down

“Stand!” We stood up

“Sit!” We sat down

“What subject do you have?”

“English Sir” Quartey Pappafio, our class prefect answered

“So why are you distributing Mathematics books? Why are you not reading something in English while waiting for the teacher?”

“We were…….” Pappafio attempted an explanation

“You have not come to this school to learn to be rubble rousers.” Mr Hooper continued, as we all looked around, eager to know if there were some clever Johnnies among us who actually understood what he was saying. Thankfully there didn’t appear to be any.

“You have come here, I believe, because you aspire to be the undeserving beneficiaries of the best secondary education anywhere along the west coast of Africa.” He continued, as I noticed this strange mixture of fear, excitement and anticipation among my mates. “But if it is trouble you want, I have plenty in my pocket to dish out free of charge!”

He uttered the free- of- charge with such emphasis, that a generous spray of saliva gushed out which he wiped off yet again with the tip of his handkerchief.

“Here in St Augustine’s,” he continued “our aim is to give you a strong foundation. For when the foundation is weak, the building cannot stand.”

Good old Mr Hooper. We later found out his nickname was “Oflow” because when students struggled to speak English fluently in class, he enthusiastically urged them on; “Let it flow, let it flow!”

And as we spoke to the seniors, we realized this was a yearly ritual, a kind of initiation for the first years, much like Richard Gere’s experience in the Air Force camp on his first day in the film, The Officer and a Gentleman. We loved Mr Hooper. In the third term in form one however, he had walked into the class one day and had an announcement to make.

“I am sorry to have to leave you wonderful students midstream.”

We were all shocked.

“I have just gained admission to the University of Cape Coast to pursue a degree Course in English.”

We looked with surprise at each other. Oflow? Going to the University? Who could be better than our famous teacher?

“It is a four year programme, so you will be preparing for your General Certificate of Education O’level exam by the time I return. I would be glad to be of some assistance then. I wish you all the best in your studies.”

There had been a few tears. Over the months, our initial fear had gradually turned into warm affection for the man from whose lips English flowed like the river. As he went out of the class room at the end of the lesson, we had all followed him;

“Oflow! Oflow! Oflow!” we continued as he made his way unto the quadrangle and into the staff room, a broad smile on his face.

The Day The Music Stopped in Augusco-May Their Souls Rest in Peace

I was in the sixth form. St Augustine’s College was fifty years old. The celebration was going to be the biggest ever in the history of the school. And the preparation had been feverish. Every single building in the school had been newly painted in the green and white colours of the school. Even the coconut trees by the roadside had not been spared the painter’s brush. On top of the Administration Block at the entrance of the school just by the sea, the red, gold, green and the Black Star blew in all its majesty, alongside the green and white of Augusco.

Every afternoon, bus loads of girls from the Holy Child School would come in to practice with us in the choir, in the various cultural dance groups, in the orchestra and in the school play. All afternoon, there would be a festive mood as the singers sang and the sounds of drums hung heavily in the warm Augusco air.

Away in the distance, members of the school Cadet Corp would be heard and often seen practicing their drills: “Guard of honour, preseeeeent Arms!!” The sergeant-major’s voice could be heard for miles Everybody shouted just that little bit louder, moved just a tad faster, and danced that wee bit more vigorously, when the girls were around. Finally, Augusco was ready.

And it had all started so well. The headmaster was interviewed on national television. Our school choir and orchestra performed brilliantly on television as well. At the time, we were about the only school in Ghana with a full orchestra. The final week was going to be the climax of almost a year long celebration. To set it off, there was going to be a candle light possession through the principal streets of Cape Coast with brass band accompaniment. We all looked forward to this.

On the night of the procession, every single student wore the Augusco Golden Jubilee t-shirt on a pair of khaki trousers. Candles were distributed to us and we started the procession. We marched past a tall collection of wood on the school field that was to be used for a bonfire after the procession. We were in high spirits. There were different generations of old students marching as well, from university students to pensioners. They were all there. There were doctors, engineers, diplomats, politicians and musicians, who all came, eager to contribute their bit to the school that had made them who they were.

Awichway was there. Awichway was a well-built good-looking guy in year five. He was one of those guys who just happened to be popular. People just loved Awichway. And Ankamah was there. Ankamah was a thin lanky lower sixth former who was new to St Augustine’s having done his O’Level elsewhere. From all accounts, he was a brilliant student having done exceptionally well in the O’Level Exam. He was amiable too and full of humour and had already made a great impression on those who knew him in the short while he had been in Augusco. I had seen him at the beginning of the march. He was dancing. He had turned to me and seemed disappointed that I was not dancing;

“I’ve been in this school for barely two months but I seem to be having more fun than you. Come on, dance!” he had said playfully. Little did I know, that it was the last time I would see him alive. The procession went exceedingly well. The people of Cape Coast are nothing if not fun-loving and nothing gets their women waist and bum-shaking more than good brass band music. They joined us and danced with us. Awichway engaged a lady in a brief erotic dance to wild cheers from all of us. The guy was having more fan than anyone else. We marched through Bakano and over the Fosu Lagoon on our way back to school.

As we marched, cars that approached us slowed right down. Boys will always be boys and some of them took to drumming on top of the cars as they went by. But it was all boyish fun with no harm intended. Indeed most of the drivers honked their horns in time to the brass band music, just their little contribution; congratulating us on our school’s anniversary. But out of the blue, it happened. It happened right in front of the Central Hospital which shared borders with St Augustine’s. And I saw it all clearly.

A car that had been driving slowly as we parted to make way suddenly accelerated and rammed through the marching students. I was right there where it occurred. For, I happened to be, that very moment, on the side of the road. I heard the acceleration of the car, right beside me. I heard the most awful sounds of the impact between machine and men. I saw with my own eyes, boys flying in the air either from the impact of the car or in desperate acts of self preservation. I saw the car as it sped away, leaving in its trail, visibly shaken students, with a number of them lying in pools of blood on the ground. And the music, had stopped.

Then the doctors in our midst got to work, giving first aid and helping to get the boys into the hospital. They had all stayed to help the on-call doctors as they struggled frantically to save young lives. Awichway was the first to go, soon to be followed by Ankamah, but there were five other students critically injured and many others with minor injuries. An old student, a senior officer in the Ghana Air Force, had quickly made some phone calls and a military helicopter had soon arrived to take the critically injured students to the Korle Bu Teaching Hospital in Accra.

As the rest of us walked back to school, we stood for a while by the bonfire which had been set alight in anticipation of our arrival from town. It had burnt vigorously while we had all been in the hospital. We watched silently as the last embers extinguished and with them, gone, the lives of good young people and that joy that should have been but never really was. And that song, it came to me again, in my sleep and everywhere else;

“Go with the Lord The same good old Lord He that walks with you And forever keeps you safe.”

Augusco Mourns Mr Mark Forjoe

On the 27th of April when Mr Mark Forjoe is put to rest, I wish I could be in Ghana, to sing with my guitar by his grave. A melodious song, not of sorrow but of joy, a song sang in celebration of a life well led. For there-in would be the remains of a man loved by all, hated by none and whose very simplicity was an example for all.

Mr Mark Forjoe was my Art master in the St. Augustine’s College in Cape Coast. For years, he was as much a part of Augusco as his old fender guitar. He would often be seen solemnly strolling down the hills from the staff bungalows, his guitar on his back, down into the valley with the little bridge lined on either side by palm date trees and up to the base of the St Stephens –St Patricks building. As he popped out between the school tower and the Biology Laboratory in front of the building, there would be the odd shout of “Mac Tonto!”, because he played the guitar and shared a first name with that member of the Osibisa band. He took it all in good spirit.

Mr Forjoe was a brilliant artist, guitarist and composer who not only took up the responsibility of organising the school choir, but also in teaching anybody who cared to walk into his house, how to play the guitar. Many of us did. One could walk into Mr Forjoe’s house anytime, any day and he would bring you a guitar to start practicing. I still wonder how they coped with the traffic of students going through the house each day.

Mr Forjoe was always the same, always even-tempered and soft-spoken. The only time he expressed reservation about how often I went to play the guitar was during a period when I was struggling with my A-levels and he quietly sought to ascertain from me whether I was getting my priorities right or something to that effect. That is how much he cared. He was a teacher, a mentor and a dad to me, and I believe to a host of other boys who went through St. Augustine’s.

And God was kind to him, blessing him with a wonderful wife, two extremely gifted and intelligent boys, Francis and Mark and two lovely daughters, Theresa and Margaret, who are all doing very well in their various spheres of life. He lived in peaceful retirement in his hometown in the Western region of Ghana where he will be laid to rest on the 27th of April.

It was during one long vacation when Mr Forjoe, perhaps bored by the lack of activity, decided to organise all the kids living on the St. Augustine’s campus into a choir. Within a couple of months, he had built a pretty good choir from a bunch of kids, many of whom had never sung seriously before in their lives. The Campus Choir had the honour of singing in the first church service when school re-opened.

I still can remember the look of surprise on people’s faces as they craned their necks to see who this choir was as we belted out popular tunes like Amazing Grace, Peace Perfect Peace and Let your light Shine! We will continue to try to let our lights shine in everything we do, even if only for the memory of a good man. “Oh let it shine, shine shine, Come on and let your light shine........” Papa Appiah

"Ashanti Stars!" - The Demise of The Black Stars

Little decisions define great coaches. The Black Stars played Burkina Faso on the worse pitch anyone has ever seen in an international tournament. So the Burkinabe’s devised a simple strategy – to kick a long ball into the Black Stars’ area anytime they gained possession and get their fast forwards to charge up the field. They believed, and they have been proved right, that with the nature of the field, there was no point attempting man-to-man football. Again, the bounce of the ball on this pitch meant our defenders or goalkeeper could easily make a mistake. These are the little things that make a difference. These are not skills acquired in UEFA licensing courses. They are everyday common sense tactics.

The least said about the decision to take off Wakaso, the better. I believe that Kwesi Appiah, in his quiet moments, would reflect and accept that he made a mistake with that one. Suffice it to say, that in a penalty shoot-out, the least a coach can do is to start with one of the most competent and confident penalty takers to relax the rest of the team. What you do not do is to start with good old Vorsah, an untested player in this department, who’s every step towards the ball, displayed a total lack of confidence and belief. I felt sorry for the guy.

The problem with Kwesi Appiah is that while he was captain of Kumasi Asante Kotoko and the Black Stars several years ago, he has no real coaching pedigree to serve as a yardstick for assessing his competence. After all, being Black Stars captain does not necessary make one a good coach. Anytime I have said this, somebody has mentioned victory against Nigeria in some under-23 game and a gold medal in the All-African games under-23 competition and four years as assistant to the much-maligned Serbian coaches. I am sorry, but if that is the criteria for selecting the national coach of a country like Ghana, then I weep for Ghana soccer.

All over the world, serious football countries select coaches with indisputable proven competence at club level to become national coaches. The national team becomes a kind of “retirement” job for men who have done it all at club level. So Brazil have Scolari, England have Roy Hodgson, Spain have Vincente del Bosque, Germany have Joachim Low. If we are serious about getting to the semi-final of a World Cup, then these are the countries we should compare ourselves with. In the rare example where a person like Klinsmann became German coach, he was surrounded by some of the best brains in German soccer, while he led with his charisma.

Ghana’s most successful local coach, CK Gyamfi, the man who won 3 AFCONS for the country did not come out of the blue to become Black Stars manager. He had proved his coaching acumen at a relatively young age by forming his own club, Ashanti Heroes, and leading them as player and coach all the way to the top division in Ghana. That was an incredible feat that proved to all, that here was a particularly gifted man with a great future in coaching. He then went on to Borussia Dortmund as the first African in the Bundesliga, did his coaching badges when he retired and came down to coach the Black Stars. Anyone who has heard him speak will not doubt the knowledge, intelligence and inspiration this man exudes. Coaching manuals he wrote are still being used all over Africa. That is the kind of quality we are asking for!

National football coaching in a country like Ghana is serious business. It is not about having a pretty face, having friends in the right places, being “loved” by the players or being from the “right” tribe. The curriculum vitae of Kwesi Appiah at senior level reads as follows – Wins against the likes of Lesotho and Malawi, a World Cup campaign in peril, the worse performance by any Black Stars side in AFCON for several years. On what basis are we clamouring for his retention as our national coach? On what records are we vouching for his managerial competence? Or are we simply happy to leave him there, pray very hard and hope for the best because he happens to be a local coach?

There is more to Kwesi Appiah than the “mild-mannered” facade he portrays in public. I remember an incident in the 1992 competition when the captaincy had been rather controversially taken from him and given to Abedi Pele. In the middle of a game, Abedi had to receive treatment on the touchline. We were all surprised to see Kwesi Appiah running to the touchline to try to snatch the armband from Abedi even before a final decision had been made as to whether he was going to continue or not. As it happened, Abedi continued the game. It may have been a small incident but it clearly showed that while Kwesi Appiah played the gentleman and failed to complain in public, he harboured a deep bitterness that I believe has persisted till now.

This is a dangerous guy who has schemed his way to the top job and tried to compensate for his lack of knowledge by playing the tribal card from the bottom of the deck. The Black Stars suddenly became “Ashanti Stars”. Players like Derek Boateng who had hitherto been at the fringes of the team suddenly became spokesmen alongside Agyemang Badu. The Asantehene got caught in the flow. Kwesi Appiah fun clubs were formed in Kumasi and all-night prayer vigils were held for him.

He then pandered to anti-Ayew sentiments in Kumasi by playing the hero and making sure no Ayew was in the team. He even rubbed it in further by giving the cherished number 10 jersey to Danquah Adomah, an Ashanti second division player, woefully incapable of shouldering that huge responsibility. Vorsah was kicked out for Akaminko till the latter showed how rubbish he was. Waris was not even considered despite setting goal-scoring records in Europe. Richmond Boakye-Yiadom was deemed better. Asamoah Gyan, a guy who has had the audacity to withdraw his services from the nation was called back to be captain.

A blatant attempt was made to strengthen an Ashanti clique at the core of the national side, who would stick together and “die” for the course if need be. Unfortunately, as we have witnessed, there is far more to international football than that. We will only succeed with a coach who does not only have the experience and requisite qualifications for such an important job but who also understands, that while individuals may have different characteristics, it is his job to foster unity in the team. Ghana only succeeds when we stand as one people, a nation with a shared and common destiny. Kwesi Appiah must go!