By John Gustafson

Friday, October 10, 2008

In the womb of mother Africa is a faded piece of asphalt, a playground court between dilapi dated apartment buildings, a hoop beneath a pair of palms. A gym lit by florescent tubes, a floor of fitted two-by-fours where broken knots in the wood serve as gateways to subterranean ant farms. A national stadium where a broken scoreboard yields to a chalkboard and easel. In the womb of mother Africa is a sand soccer pitch, a boxing ring without canvas. In the emptiness of these moldering locales, elit ...

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