Africa

Football - the love affair

Robin Adams — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 16:30:37 +0000

It's so easy to get caught up in the romance of football. Or maybe it's just me?

Every so often a team comes along, and their story just pulls on your heart strings.

Libya is a prime example.

The national football team qualified for the Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) proper, despite a war going on in the country. They played most of their qualifying matches outside their own borders.

Sadly they didn't progress pass the group stages, but that won't matter. The mere fact they made it here - while teams like Egypt, the defending champions who failed to qualify, and South Africa, who failed to familiarise themselves with the qualification rule book - was enough for people to praise Libya's efforts.

Sudan won their first Africa Cup of Nations game in over 40 years last week. Remarkably, it was a victory that helped them book a quarter-final spot. I couldn't help but silently cheer for them in their last eight match against Zambia. Sadly Sudan lost, and it was the end of the AFCON road for them.

Then there was Gabon. They'd only ever reached the quarter-finals of the Cup of Nations once. And they were hoping to make it to the semis for the very first time. History would have been made.

I arrived in Libreville just a day before their quarter-final match against Mali. Already there was an air of excitement. Anticipation. Tension.

Thousands and thousands of Gabon fans packed the Stade de l'Amitie (French for friendship stadium - though I reckon they were in no mood to be friendly) to cheer on their team. The Mali supporters were completely outnumbered. Still they soldiered on. Their cheers drowned by the might of the Gabon faithful.

When Mali eventually won the match on penalties and marched into the semis - the cheers got louder. Maybe the fact that the disappointed Gabon supporters, who were leaving the stadium in droves and in an awful hurry, had something to do with it.

I must admit - I really wanted Gabon to win. I got completely caught up in the moment, in this belief that it would be so nice to experience Africa Cup of Nations history being made. It wasn't to be, of course.

Keita's peace appeal

Time for the next romantic football moment. Time for the heart strings to be tugged on a little, again.

Mali. A war ravaging the country. One of the country's most instrumental footballers, Barcelona star Seydou Keita, used the quarter-final post-match press conference to make a passionate plea for his country's people to stop killing each other. "It's not normal," he said. "Malians should not kill Malians. It's not normal!"

Ivory Coast, Mali's semi-final opponents on Wednesday, know all too well the effects of war. Their players made a similar plea for peace in their last Cup of Nations.

Ivory Coast, fondly referred to as the Elephants, are hoping to be crowned continental champions for a second time. While Mali - the Eagles (have landed?) - have ambitions of lifting the Africa Cup of Nations trophy for the very first time.

There will, quite obviously, be a lot of emotion attached to this last four match in Libreville.

I guess I'll just have to man up and stop the tears from coming at the sound of the final whistle.

I hope I'm not going soft. Well - not too soft, I mean!

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An African Spring in Senegal?

Barnaby Phillips — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 20:21:54 +0000

For more than a year, opposition supporters in some of sub-Saharan Africa's more repressive countries have hoped that the wave of pro-democracy protests will spread south from Egypt, Libya and Tunisia.

By and large, the wait has been in vain. There is some irony in that the latest candidate mooted for "people power" is Senegal, one of the few African countries with a genuine democratic tradition in the post-independence era.

Senegal has strong institutions, and is the only country in west Africa never to have suffered a military coup.

The current president, Abdoulaye Wade, first come to power in 2000 when he defeated the incumbent in one of the most exciting and transparent African elections of the post-independence era.

But now, to the fury of many, Senegal's constitutional court has ruled that Wade will be allowed to run for a third term in presidential elections due at the end of this month.

'Constitutional coup'

The court decided that Senegal's two-term limit does not apply to Mr Wade, because it took effect after he became president. (In fact, he introduced it himself.)

This sophistry certainly appears to be in violation of the spirit with which term-limits were conceived, whatever one makes of opposition accusations that the constitutional court is manipulated by Mr Wade.

The court has also ruled that the world-famous singer Youssou N'dour cannot stand as president, because of concerns about the alleged authenticity of the signatures on his application form.

When I met Youssou N'dour in Dakar, he was angry. He describes the court's decisions as "a constitutional coup".

He appealed to the international community "to speak sense to Wade, otherwise we'll have a catastrophe in this country".

Divided opposition

It is true there have been riots in several cities, and the clumsy police response has made an already volatile situation even worse.

But, I have to say, my feeling during five days in and around Dakar was that a popular uprising in Senegal is not imminent.

For a start, the opposition is divided, and somewhat confused.

Some believe that Wade is beatable in the elections, and want to get on with the campaign. N'dour, on the other hand, believes the process is a sham, but even he is not advocating a boycott of the polls.

Wade, who is believed to be 85 years old, shows a depressing determination to cling onto power.

My friend Ofeibea Quist-Arcton, a long term Dakar resident, writes here how his star has faded.

Real story

There are superficial similarities with some of the dictators of the Arab world who have been toppled in the past year; a partiality for garish monuments, the apparent grooming of a son as a successor, and the constitutional meddling.

Another similarity is the huge number of unemployed, frustrated young men in the cities.

But there are also differences. Wade is not a vicious dictator. Senegal has a more open tradition of parliamentary democracy than Egypt, Tunisia, Libya, Syria, and, in fact, just about every Arab country.

The next few weeks will be crucial.

The presidential elections are due on February 26. The country is divided. There is the risk of a violent campaign and a disputed election.

Never mind superficial comparisons with the Arab Spring; the real story is that Senegal's democratic credentials are under threat.

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What's next for Egyptian football

Andy Richardson — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 07:05:57 +0000

Al Ahly is a football club that has long been famous as a focal point for patriotism and political discussion.

Right now it is a meeting point for grief.

Families of the dead gather for shared comfort at the team's Cairo social club. Former and current players offer what support they can. Hundreds line up to sign a book of condolence. The future is something this club are struggling to contemplate. Remembering the fans who didn't return home from that fateful game in Al Masry is their only focus for now.

In Al Masry's hometown of Port Said, pitches stand empty. All local leagues have been suspended as a mark of respect.

Here the local supporters talk of being unfairly vilifiied, that the disaster was the consequence of a police plot. Some tell us they are now afraid to drive out of the city. Anyone with a Port Said number plate on their car is liable to be attacked, they say.

Mohamed Mahfouz , a former Al Masry player, was in tears when we met him the day after the disaster.

"We are more than sad, more than sad.. Those that died, they are our sons, all our sons. They are Egyptians. We hear what people are saying, but the people of Port Said could not do this."

At the centre of all this is the game loved by Egyptians above all others. At some point the next step for football in this country will have to be considered. At the moment it is looking bleak.

The domestic premier league has been indefinitely suspended and the government has dissolved the Egyptian Football Association. That action could impact on the national team.

Government intervention in a sporting body is outlawed by FIFA, the sport's world governing body, FIFA. It means Egypt face the possibility of an international ban.

Sitting in the manager's office of his Port Said textile firm, Hossam Omar says not to restart the league this season would be a big mistake.

Until last Wednesday night, Hossam was an Al Masry club director as well as a businessman. But he, along with every other board member, resigned after hearing news of the deaths.

"Obviously we need to mourn and reflect but we also need to think. If we don't get going again, players will be free to walk out of their contracts and will move to other countries. It could set our game back five or six years. Maybe in a few weeks time the league can be played, but without supporters, behind closed doors."

Games in empty stadiums is one idea, but as yet there is no plan. The future is a foreign land when grief is so raw.

Everyone talks of the importance of the official investigation into the disaster, but they also talk of their scepticism about it. Many doubt the real truth will ever be revealed, and fear the current enmity between Al Masry and Al Ahly will intensify rather than heal.

The consequences of what happened in a few cursed minutes look likely to define Egyptian football for years to come.

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An unequal football legacy

Andy Richardson — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 03:13:34 +0000

It was a scene that must come close to defining irony - Equatorial Guinea's President Teodoro Obiang introducing himself to the Libyan players at the opening ceremony of the Africa Cup of Nations with a big smile.

Since the departure of Muammar Gaddafi, Obiang has taken the prize of being the longest serving leader in Africa. His country is effectively a one-party state and human rights abuses are well documented. Sound familiar?

The Libyan team is a group of players who talk optimistically about the new values they hope their country can represent.

But, in Equatorial Guinea, the people are often too frightened to even mention politics.

Last year alone a state radio broadcaster was fired on air just for mentioning Libya. He foolishly tried to evade the official news blackout on pro-democracy protests.

A recent conversation with a taxi driver is indicative.

He happily spoke about football, food and religion but, it was rather different when I asked him about Obiang:

"People can have an opinion about politics if they like. But I just want to eat and sleep safely.

"Politics is not my business," he told me.

Since seizing power from his uncle back in 1979, Obiang has gone out of his way to discourage open political discussion.

Reporters without Borders has described Obiang as a "predator of press freedom". It is even said that in the 2002 election, one precinct gave him 103% of the vote.

What Equatorial Guinea does have though, is a lot of cash.

Rich oil reserves have funded the building of new stadiums in Bata and the capital, Malabo, for this tournament.

We have also visited the new town of Sipopo, where the Ivory Coast team are cosseted in five-star comfort. Their hotel, complete with golf course and spa, is part of the $700m development that hosted last year's African Union Summit.

You drive there on a desolate three-lane highway. Lifeless beach resorts and manicured follies are your only company. It is only a few kilometres outside of Malabo but it might as well be on a different planet.

Statistics tell you this is one of the richest per capita countries in Africa. But, your own eyes tell a different story.

While there is a very wealthy elite here, the vast majority survive on less than a couple of dollars a day. The United Nations estimates that around half the population simply do not have access to clean drinking water.

The football facilities that have been built for this event will provide some sort of sporting legacy. It has been heartening to see new training pitches used not only by the visiting teams, but by local sides as well.

Beyond the escapist release of a host nation match day though, there is precious little excitement surrounding the event.

It is a country with a limited footballing culture and the majority are too busy just trying to get on with their lives.

Three weeks of football is what the people have, but sadly it is it not really what they need.

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Vuvuzela - I'm just not that into you

Robin Adams — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:08:05 +0000

A quick show of hands, if you will. Who, like me, is not a fan of the vuvuzela?

You know? That giant horn which featured over-abundantly in the 2010 football World Cup in my country, South Africa? The one that is making another appearance right now at the Africa Cup of Nations. And I have an interest in this – I’ll be going there in a couple of weeks.

I must admit, I sang the vuvuzela's praises in the lead-up to the first World Cup on African soil. I believed the vuvuzela would give the biggest football event on the planet a uniquely African flavour.

That was until I attended two World Cup matches featuring the South American giants, Argentina and Brazil respectively, and got it in the ear from all sides.

Vuvuzelas blaring!

I thought the blowers were sounding it in my ears on purpose. They weren't being blown into the air. They were aimed a little lower - at my head.

It felt like the sound was amplified by like a trillion. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little for effect - but it was really loud!

And the fans weren't going full throttle merely during the big moments in the matches either. No sir. It went on and on and on, throughout the game. Ninety-odd minutes of that uniquely African sound ringing in my brain. Uniquely deafening!

The vuvuzela was banned in all UEFA competitions after the World Cup. Fans who bought them in South Africa and took them home to England were disappointed to learn that they wouldn't be allowed at Premier League games either.

I know Uncle Sepp (Blatter - head of FIFA) was seriously considering giving it the boot during the World Cup as well.

If I can just be very clear about this. I'm not knocking the vuvu. Make no mistake. All I am saying is that I am not a fan.

I used to own quite a few of those uniquely African objects. My kids loved making a noise with it. And I didn't mind. Mainly because their little lungs couldn't release enough air for it to actually be loud enough to annoy my neighbours. (Oh. I've since moved house and it was great excuse to give them away).

The vuvuzela is again featuring quite prominently at another African football tourney - the Cup of Nations in Equatorial Guinea and Gabon.

I am sure the reviews will be mixed. But the vuvuzela will most certainly be a talking point.

Do you like the vuvuzela? Are you a fan? Or like me - it is something you feel football matches could do without?

Join the conversation on Twitter. My handle is: @RobinAdamsSport

I am genuinely looking forward to your views – just don’t blow your trumpet too loud.

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What's going on in Nigeria?

Barnaby Phillips — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 11:22:12 +0000

A series of bomb blasts hit the northern city of Kano on Friday, killing at least 178 people [Reuters]

I bumped into an old friend at a book launch in London recently. She used to be a senior British diplomat, and is still involved in African affairs. The conversation quickly turned to Nigeria, a country that we are both passionate about, and that we visit regularly.

"I get the feeling that people in Lagos have been reacting to the violence in Northern Nigeria like we Londoners used to react to news from Northern Ireland during the Troubles of the 1970s and 1980s", she said.

"They recognise that it's terribly sad, but it all feels so far away for many of them, not something that touches their day to day lives," she said.

I knew what she meant. I was in Lagos in April last year, when violence erupted in the North after the presidential elections. Many hundreds of people died. My Lagosian friends were concerned and saddened, naturally, but I also felt they were somewhat detached. They didn’t see events in the North as a direct threat to their own livelihood or safety. Their own city was doing well economically. I had the sense then that Nigeria was a country diverging, with a relatively prosperous South impatient for more progress, and a North still mired in deep poverty.

Last month, I returned to Lagos, Nigeria's financial capital. I sensed that the worsening situation in the North was starting to have an impact. Expatriate friends, adventurous types who had always loved to explore Nigeria, told me they felt that much of the North was now out of bounds for them. And judging from the many messages of dismay I received from Lagos and the capital Abuja, in the wake of the latest atrocities in Nigeria's second largest city Kano, most Nigerians recognise that their country is now in grave danger.

Wherever you are in Nigeria, it is no longer possible to feel detached from events in the North. Evidently the people behind this violence are doing their utmost to fuel regional and religious tensions. There is no more room for complacency because Nigeria is a notoriously combustible place. Even if much of the talk of it being "on the brink" or "close to civil war" is lazy and simplistic, what we are already seeing is bad enough and there is the threat of much worse to come.

Last week I went to a discussion about the Nigerian crisis at the Royal Institute of International Affairs. A well-informed Nigerian said she felt that social media was exacerbating ethnic and religious divisions. She described outpourings of hatred and prejudice on sites Facebook and Twitter, leading her to fear the country really is in danger of falling apart.

I'm not so sure. In part, I think she may be exaggerating the impact of new media in, say, rural Northern Nigeria, where the vast majority still rely on the radio for news. But there's another reason I feel she may be overestimating the harmful impact of social media.

All over the world, all sorts of people hide behind the relative anonymity of the internet to say the most dreadful things. Republicans and Democrats, Greeks and Turks, Arsenal and Spurs fans, you name it, they can spew bile and poison. It doesn't mean they are actually going to go out and kill each other.

Social media is a double-edged sword. It can spread prejudice, but as we saw during the recent fuel protests, it can also empower people, make them think more about issues, and demand greater accountability from their leaders. All of which is good for Nigeria. Perhaps it has helped encourage the many decent people in the north and south of the country who have come out to protect respective minorities whilst they pray in churches and mosques.

There's an urgent need for Nigerians, and outsiders, to understand what drives Boko Haram, if it is to be defeated.

It's easy to characterise it as part of a "global jihadist threat", with connections to similar Islamic extremist groups elsewhere. This analysis seems overly simplified, (although it is perhaps convenient to those with an interest in bloated security contracts). Yes, the attack on the UN building in Abuja fitted this pattern, but the rest of Boko Haram's activities are taking place firmly in the context of Nigeria's troubled internal dynamics.

These are two of the more nuanced articles I've read about Boko Haram recently. The first is from the African Arguments series published here in London; Boko Haram: The Answer to Terror Lies In Providing More Meaningul Human Security, whilst the other appeared as an op-ed in the New York Times newspaper; In Nigeria, Boko Haram Is Not the Problem.

In Lagos, and other cities in the South, it's possible to imagine that Nigeria is going to be the next Brazil, an emerging giant. In the North, blighted by environmental degradation, struggling agriculture and collapsed industry, life is no better than in neighbouring Chad, Niger or Mali.

As long as that gulf exists, Boko Haram, and groups like it, will not struggle to find recruits for their vile acts.

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Ex-rebels eager to 'rebuild' Libya

Stefanie Dekker — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 22:03:25 +0000

Mohammed is 19 years old and has a cheeky smile. Wearing a hoodie, he spoke in very impressive broken English that he had taught himself by watching television.

He’s one of a few hundred rebels who have answered the transitional government’s call to come and sign up to the interior ministry.

“I want to help rebuild my country. Now, everything is fine, Gaddafi is gone,” Mohammed told me.

Since Saturday they’ve been coming here to register. They’ll be joining the ranks of the police force, or the traffic police, or any other interior ministry branch.

They have no say where they will be placed, but many of them I spoke to all had the same message. Gaddafi is gone, we are free and we will rebuild our country.

After Mohammed did his initial registration he came past me, on the way to sign his contract.

"Did I like music?"

Yes.

"Who?"

Pretty much all styles I told him.

"Bryan Adams?"

Yes, although I was surprised at his choice. Then he asked me ... "Mariah Carey?"

I imagined him, Kalashnikov in hand on the battlefield, humming to Mariah. It didn’t quite fit.

But that’s just it about many of the guys here, they just didn’t look like they had just fought a fierce war, and seen death.

They are young, funky men. One with slicked back hair, crisp shirt and oversized sunglasses; another wearing a Gucci baseball cap. So many ordinary people joined the fight, becoming soldiers overnight.

This country is now flooded by all kinds of weapons.

Sure, the brigades have their piles of ammunition, but ordinary people do too.

Many houses will have a stash of AK-47s hidden away. The transitional government is trying to clean all that up, but it’s a complicated issue and they are being cautious.

I asked whether these men needed to hand in their weapons as they registered with the interior ministry. The man in charge of taking their applications said: "No. We’ll deal with that later."

Around 600 rebels have signed up since the interior ministry launched this programme. It’s not a high number if you compare it to how many fighters are out there, but every day has seen a steady flow of people.

The officials running the programme are optimistic.

There’s a long way to go, with so many different groups, but it’s a start. And the fact that everyday there are more men signing up from various different brigades, gives them hope.

The police force and army will need to be built up and introduced to Libyans as serious, dependent security forces before the majority of people will consider giving up their weapons.

Both institutions were sidelined under Gaddafi so they command very little trust.

As we filmed some last shots outside where the final contract finalisation takes place, Mohammed was sitting with some friends.

He had just signed. Congratulations I told him. I asked him where his gun was?

"It’s at home."

Would he give it up?

He smiled his cheeky smile again: "Yes I will, if everyone else does, too."

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Nigerians ready for deal or no deal

Haru Mutasa — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 12:58:38 +0000

Labour unions in Nigeria aren't protesting this weekend.

It's amazing how things have changed.

When I arrived in Abuja, the capital, last Saturday there were very few cars on the road or people on the street.

When the fuel subsidy protest started on Monday, the central business diestrict felt like a ghost town.

It felt as if most people had left the city. Shops and business were closed, police were out in full force and the atmosphere was tense.

We have just arrived back in Abuja from Kano – a journey that took about five hours by road.

The traffic was terrible. Lots and lots of private cars, public transport and fuel tankers – all trying to get into the capital.

There are long queues at petrol stations as people fill up their cars.

A few shops are open and families are doing their weekend shopping.

Shopping carts are full, I suppose some are buying a little bit extra just in case unions don't sign a deal with the government on Saturday night.

A lot of Nigerians will be glued to television sets waiting for the news.

If no deal is struck tonight, I'm afraid that means more protests, more incidences of police firing live ammunition on protesters and Abuja going back to being a ghost town.

I watch a young mother trying to push her shopping cart to her car and trying to carry her baby at the same time.

I offer to give her a hand. She's relieved, smiles and says thank you.

Then she says: "I'm not taking any chances this time - we could be stuck indoors for longer than a week if there is no agreement."

Stuck in doors for longer a week ... imagine how frustating that would be?

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Race against time under Nigeria's curfews

Haru Mutasa — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 16:14:21 +0000

It's an odd feeling - living with a curfew.

I am in Kano, in northern Nigeria. After protests over the removal of fuel subsidies turned violent, officials here declared a curfew from dawn to dusk.

That means you have no business being on the street during those hours.

So here we are (me and the colleagues I work with) trying to finish up some filming, we have a live crossing to do, an interview with a minister in an hour, and them somehow have to dash back to the safety of our hotel.

It was a nightmare, but we make it just in time.

My problems are minor compared to those who actually live here. I am just passing through.

I went to the market in Kano, one of them anyway, and saw people trying to make a living.

A butcher complained about the rise in prices of basic commodities and how the market is very quiet since the curfew was imposed.

Everywhere I go someone tells me how quiet things are in Kano. I have to be honest, it does feel like a ghost town in some parts.

People aren't going to work, protesting against the removal of fuel subsidies, the curfew has meant some choose to stay home for their safety - and some streets are deserted.

I drove to Kano from Abuja on Thursday morning. I was glad to get out of the capital for a little bit. When we reached Kaduna we were stuck in a long queue of cars and lorries waiting to enter the town.

The army had closed off the road - there was a 24-hour curfew at the time.

Using our press cards (those things are lifesavers) we cut to the front of the line and were let through.

I got my first taste of what it really feels like to live with a curfew.

There were checkpoints manned by police and soldiers every 300m. At every checkpoint I'm asked, "who are you, where are you going, do you know where you want to go is dangerous?"

But everyone is very polite and lets the "crazy journalists" through.

The city centre was dead - the odd goat here and there, one lone street begger roaming around - and that's that. The town had ground to a halt.

But it seems people have become used to it. I confess I am getting used to it too. You just have to adapt. Before long, the road blockades, the soldiers holding guns on every street corner, the quiet dusty streets, become normal.

Kano does not have a 24-hour curfew but everyone keeps looking at their watch. A 12-hour curfew is just as bad.

I have 90 minutes to interview the Kano state governor, interview a family for a report I am compiling later this evening, and I have to factor in the time I will take to get back to my hotel.

The governor is in a meeting - and I am waiting in his office.

The clock is ticking. Will I make it back to the hotel before 6pm - when the curfew starts?

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Libyan art, from the heart

Imran Khan — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 12:16:48 +0000

Over the last four weeks I have crisscrossed what feels like the whole of Libya, but in reality is probably only half of it.

The one constant in every town I have visited is the sometimes extraordinary, sometimes awful graffiti that covers every white wall.

After the fighting (and probably during it knowing the fearless nature of Libyans), graffiti artists took to the streets and painted.

They painted massive patriotic flags with slogans that encouraged the rebels.

They painted downright crude and wicked caricatures of the Gaddafi family and regime that compared them to, well, rats.

It's worth remembering Gaddafi called the rebels rats.

But one piece really caught my eye.

Silhouetted against the red, green and black of the Libyan flag was a scarf-wearing protester, her eyes full of the promise of revolution.

Of all the probably thousands of pieces of graffiti I had seen this one really stood out. It seemed to sum up Libyan hopes and dreams.

I had to track down the artist. We began by asking around the neighbourhood. Someone must know who painted it, surely?

After a couple of hours we gave up. In keeping with the secretive nature of graffiti art, he had simply painted and gone.

But in between the travelling and the deadline pressure of delivering news stories I never forgot those eyes.

After three weeks of fruitless calls I had given up hope of ever meeting the artist behind the mural.

Then a breakthrough. A neighbour returned a phone call with a location. Twenty-eight days after first seeing the piece, I had found the person responsible.

I met Adnan Al Gargani at his home in central Tripoli. He's a quiet unassuming man and to see him, in smart shirt, blue jeans and shoes, he is as far removed from the stereotypical, hooded, paint-stricken London graffiti artist as you can imagine.

I ask him how he came up with the idea for the painting.

"I saw an image of a woman protesting in a magazine. She was Libyan, but she was out on the streets fighting for freedom, and it struck me. I had to paint it"

It seems the photo had struck Adnan as much as his painting of it struck me.

I then asked him about what life, and art, were like under Gaddafi.

"There was nothing, no freedom of expression. I was offered lots of money to do paintings of Gaddafi, but I couldn't. I could have been rich, but no."

Adnan lives a modest life. His studio is dotted with canvas, an easel sits in the corner. On his shelves sit model planes, cars, guitars. Everything that suggests a restless and creative mind.

I watch as he patiently paints on canvas his mural I so admire.

I understand that many street art purists will balk at the idea that I had Adnan paint me his mural on canvas.

After all, the point of street art is its temporary nature. It's on a wall one day, painted over the next day.

The same fate awaits Adnan's work. I know one day that Libya's graffiti will be painted over.

The bombed wrecks of its streets will be repaired, the bullet holes filled in.

So, to have one example I can keep of this revolutionary art, a reminder of what once was, is important, to me at least - if only to remind me of my time in Libya.

When the painting is finished I offer Adnan money, after all this is his job, and I appreciate his hard work and time.

He flat out refuses. Instead, in broken English he says, "This is a gift from me."

I am both embarrassed and touched.

My friend jokes, "Libyan art… from the heart"

I laugh along, I don't know why. It's a terrible pun. But one that sums up the graffiti I have seen in the country: From the heart.

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