By George Bahgory The Brazilians stand on the field like small yellow camels, chewing over their victory in the last World Cup. Ronaldo the Bald stands straight, long-necked, his pate gleaming between grey sky and green pitch. He is actually chewing a piece of gum, and reminds me irresistibly of the camels in the village of my childhood years, as they chewed a stick from the load of sugar cane they were carrying back from the field at first dusk. They stand there, like the drawings of my ancestors, tall and Pharaonic -- almost two-dimensional in their streamlined, muscle-bound bodies. Only the bright colours of their uniforms keep them firmly anchored to this last big, beautiful game of the century. Elsewhere, the scenery is dominated by the hulking forms of Scottish shoulders, and a forest of legs clad in shorts the dazzling white of Egyptian cotton. Thousands of silk worms have spun for them shirts of shiny red. Who cares if they're actually polyester? It's the brilliance of the waltz that counts. I, a spectator, watch open-mouthed, sometimes bright and more often stupid. I don't understand this football business. Well, they say it's round. I draw, but I don't know how to draw it. It spins around, it won't stay still. I search for its face, but cannot find it. A mask? My luck is no better. How will I understand this game that the whole world is watching? I will applaud, then, and shout "brilliant pass!", applaud while looking over my shoulder at my friend who understands football. I never imagined that sight alone could determine the victor. I am interested, now: which team wins on colour skills? Shirts and shorts don't all match, after all. I'm the referee, now. All I need is a whistle. I win every time. I'm only wrong when it comes to Jamaica: dazzled by their colours, bowled over by their footwork, I am taken unawares when Croatia's skill proves superior. On this small island, my idol Gauguin played for neighbouring Tahiti. How many goals he scored, no one knows today. I suffered, watching the Third World teams play football. They played like heroes born to run on bronze legs across this green field, wearing pre-Columbian or African masks. Yet they crumbled before more renowned teams: unable to believe it when they scored, disappointed before the game had even begun, they stood amidst the ruins of their glory, gazing in wonder and bewilderment at the fans' tribunal surrounding them on all four sides. From the north and south of the continent, they played valiantly -- but it was almost as though they hoped they would lose. The referee's whistle sounds, shrill as an Amazonian parrot, and the players mingle, piling up to form an enormous pyramid of arms and legs and shining teeth. Some have lost, some have won. This is the part I like best, when all the bright colours mingle, shiny vermilion and rain-forest green. I can't tell the difference, any more, between winners and losers here. Only colour is important. My love for colour makes me evil at times: I rejoice when the referee plucks, seemingly from the air, a card of bright blood red or sunny yellow. I only wish there was a green card, to punish smaller misdemeanours: then it would appear more frequently, flourished against the pale blue or sardine grey of the sky. But red remains my favourite: it is the colour of threats, of revenge and of danger, not to mention blood. For Matisse, Picasso and Mondrian, it was the colour of joy.
