Hope fades: Rachel Daniel shows a picture of her daughter Rose, 17, one of the kidnapped girls. Photo: Joe Penney/Reuters
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John Simpson: Can anyone bring back Nigeria’s lost girls?

President Goodluck Jonathan has no strategy for dealing with Boko Haram – he just hopes the world will forget the 276 youngsters kidnapped by them in April.

Newspaper journalism in Nigeria is an acquired but distinctly attractive taste. It’s chaotic, assertive, hugely competitive, often deeply untrustworthy, and yet it is stubbornly, determinedly outspoken.

There are 30 or so national papers available in Lagos or Abuja, and they are like 1970s Fleet Street on acid: full of wild, intense reporting, bile and partisanship. The very names derive from Fleet Street: the New Telegraph, the Daily Sun, the Daily Independent, the Mirror, the Guardian, the Daily Times, each with its own subtitle – “A Voice of Your Own”, “Sanctity of Truth”. There’s even a News Chronicle, and a Punch, which happens to be particularly good. Some newspapers are government stooges but most are either notionally or sometimes genuinely independent. Accusations of government corruption fill page after page, and sources are, to say the least, sketchy.

Nigeria Today (“The Newspaper for Nigeria”) recently carried the word “Emergency” in 36-point type across its front page, above a picture of a weeping child. Underneath was the headline “11 Chibok girls to die soon”. Chibok, you recall, is the small town in north-eastern Nigeria from which, three months ago, 276 girls were abducted by the extremist Islamist movement Boko Haram.

The opening sentence was a masterpiece of dodgy writing: “If the expected exchange negotiations between the Federal Government and the intermediaries of the Boko Haram insurgents fail, the sect may look to kill the abducted Chibok girls in batches, an authoritative independent source has revealed.” It goes on, “The killing of the first batch of nine to 11 girls may be on video before the end of August.”

This is a rather artless example of the kind of reporting British newspaper readers have long been familiar with: the “Stands to reason/Well, they’re not going to deny it, are they?” school of journalism. Still, just because the source sounds questionable and the piece is full of ifs and maybes, that doesn’t necessarily mean the basic assumption of the article is wrong. The fact is that for three months the Nigerian government has done nothing serious to get the girls back, and there is no sign that this is likely to change. So there must be a danger that Boko Haram will start killing some of them in order to get the government’s attention, just as Nigeria Today suggests.

The Nigerian president, Goodluck Jonathan, is a pleasant, unassuming and often rather unworldly character who habitually wears a hat that makes him look like a jazz pianist. As the father of two daughters of his own, he has promised again and again to get the girls back; but there is no indication that he might be able to do so.

His wife, Patience Jonathan, is a tougher proposition. Being the first lady of Nigeria doesn’t give her any legal powers, yet she is reported recently to have ordered the arrest of a campaigner from the Bring Back our Girls movement who came to see her on behalf of the girls’ parents; Mrs Jonathan seems to have expected the parents to come in person, and got annoyed. She has been quoted as accusing Bring Back Our Girls (BBOG) of fabricating the abductions in order to give her husband’s government a bad name.

The campaign to get the girls released has run into the swamp of Nigerian politics: the worst thing that could possibly happen to it. As Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani schoolgirl and education campaigner, arrived in Nigeria on 12 July she thought she had managed to persuade President Jonathan to have his first meeting with the girls’ parents. He did indeed agree but the meeting didn’t take place, because the BBOG campaigners insisted on being there, and persuaded the parents not to go.

Malala, who is only 17, was reduced to tears, begging the campaigners and the Chibok parents by Skype link to see the president after all. But even though her plane to Paris had to be delayed while the argument went on, she left without getting anything agreed.

Meanwhile, the girls are still being held prisoner in the extensive Sambisa Forest, near Nigeria’s border with Chad. If the president and the parents have been finding it so hard to hold their first meeting, what chance is there of ever negotiating the girls’ freedom with Boko Haram?

The main trouble is, President Jonathan doesn’t have many cards to play. If this happened in some other country, the national army would go in and bring the girls back. No doubt there would be an all-out battle and many of the hostages would be killed in the effort, but at least the crisis would be resolved. Sadly, the Nigerian army doesn’t seem to be up to the job nowadays. It enjoys a good reputation abroad because of the various jobs it has done for the UN in different parts of the world. It’s had good training, and it’s still got the British tradition of spit-and-polish.

But I’ve travelled in Borno in the north-east, where Chibok is and where the girls are still being held, and I’ve seen how little of the area the Nigerian military controls. Even in Maiduguri, the state capital, there are frequent attacks, and the army scarcely maintains any roadblocks in the streets to search the cars that travel round.

This is not an army that is capable of a broad assault on a remote forest on the farthest edges of its territory. Boko Haram doesn’t control Borno State, but it has the men and the logistical support to attack anywhere it wants in sizeable numbers, and the Nigerian army doesn’t have the means to stop it.

Nor can Nigeria rely on help from foreign troops. Britain, the US, France and China have offered support, but it is planning, logistical and intelligence help, not fighting soldiers. If there are a few SAS men or Rangers on the ground there, which isn’t impossible, their job is reconnoitre, not to free the girls. As for the satellite surveillance that was supposed to pinpoint the whereabouts of the girls, it looks as though the British, Americans and Chinese have all been reluctant to share too much with the Nigerians, because they don’t trust their security.

President Jonathan has an alternative: to do a deal with Boko Haram to buy the girls’ freedom. The basis of such a deal is perfectly clear. Boko Haram kidnapped the girls in the first place in order to have people to exchange for its militants, who are in Nigeria’s jails in quite large numbers.

But Jonathan can’t do that. Even without the hundreds of imprisoned guerrillas, Boko Haram controls whole swaths of north-eastern Nigeria. With them, it would be even more dangerous.

It is said in the capital, Abuja, that the countries that have offered logistical help to President Jonathan have warned him not to think of doing any deal with Boko Haram. For the British, French, Americans and Chinese it would be regrettable if the Chibok girls didn’t make it home, but it would be far worse if Nigeria started to collapse.

Not that President Jonathan does seem to be contemplating any deals. Have you had any contacts with Boko Haram? I asked a friend who was supposed to be one of the president’s ad hoc negotiators. He shook his head wordlessly.

No parley... no power. President Jonathan. Photo: Getty

If Goodluck Jonathan can’t free the girls, and he can’t do a deal with Boko Haram to get them released, what does that leave for him? Nothing. And nothing is what has been happening for three months now. To put it at its crudest, the president and his government must be hoping that the world will simply forget about the girls.

We can be sure that this is something that pains him, as a father, as a politician and as a devout Christian; there are suggestions that Boko Haram is forcibly converting the girls, most of whom are Christians, to become Muslims, and that it has already handed over some of them to its fighters to be their “wives”. However, Goodluck has a job to do, and that job is to try to keep Nigeria together.

The tactic of allowing the world to forget the Chibok girls has worked twice. It was a fortnight before President Jonathan felt obliged to make his first statement about them, and it was only the success of the BBOG campaign in persuading Michelle Obama and David Cameron, among others, to hold up its hashtag sign on camera that brought a flood of media attention. Soon, Michelle Obama and David Cameron had other things to do, and the attention of the world’s media quickly turned elsewhere; until, that is, the tiny form of Malala Yousafzai arrived in Abuja to remind everyone that the girls had now been missing for three months.

Normally, I would be instinctively sceptical about 17-year-old girls who get that much media attention and who have days named after them by the UN. But Malala is different. She is self-possessed, articulate and effective, a remarkable person, whose injuries after being shot in the head by the Taliban two years ago have been overcome with a combination of brilliant surgical care in Birmingham and her own courage.

Poor Goodluck Jonathan: Malala was the last thing he needed. But here she was, reminding the world that he had never got round to meeting the Chibok parents, and recalling that Michelle Obama and David Cameron had once shown an interest in getting the girls free.

What’s going to happen? Sadly, it’s hard to think it can mean much good for the girls, or for Goodluck Jonathan, either, with a presidential election scheduled for next year. He seems to have no strategy for dealing with Boko Haram, which is growing in strength and effectiveness. What is most likely is that he will try for the third time to forget about the girls.

And how will Boko Haram respond to that? Nigeria Today’s source, if it really existed, suggested that the movement would start killing the girls and sending round the videos. Having already had to sit and watch one Boko Haram clip of some poor prisoner being slaughtered, I pray I won’t have to see another. But, prayer aside, it’s hard to imagine what other hope the devout Goodluck Jonathan has. 

John Simpson is world affairs editor of the BBC. He will be writing regularly for the NS

John Simpson is World Affairs Editor of BBC News, having worked for the corporation since the beginning of his career in 1970. He has reported from more than 120 countries, including 30 war zones, and interviewed many world leaders.

This article first appeared in the 23 July 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double 2014

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Love a good box set? Then you should watch the Snooker World Championships

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. 

People are lazy and people are impatient. This has always been so – just ask Moses or his rock – but as illustrated by kindly old Yahweh, in those days they could not simply answer those impulses and stroll on.

Nowadays, that is no longer so. Twitter, YouTube and listicles reflect a desire for complex and involved issues, expansive and nuanced sports – what we might term quality – to be condensed into easily digestible morsels for effort-free enjoyment.

There is, though, one notable exception to this trend: the box set. Pursuing a novelistic, literary sensibility, it credits its audience with the power of sentience and tells riveting stories slowly, unfolding things in whichever manner that it is best for them to unfold.

In the first episode of the first series of The Sopranos, we hear Tony demean his wife Carmela's irritation with him via the phrase “always with the drama”; in the seventh episode of the first series we see his mother do likewise to his father; and in the 21st and final episode of the sixth and final series, his son uses it on Carmela. It is precisely this richness and this care that makes The Sopranos not only the finest TV show ever made, but the finest artefact that contemporary society has to offer. It forces us to think, try and feel.

We have two principal methods of consuming art of this ilk - weekly episode, or week-long binge. The former allows for anticipation and contemplation, worthy pursuits both, but of an entirely different order to the immersion and obsession offered by the latter. Who, when watching the Wire, didn’t find themselves agreeing that trudat, it's time to reup the dishwasher salt, but we’ve run out, ain’t no thing. Losing yourself in another world is rare, likewise excitement at where your mind is going next.

In a sporting context, this can only be achieved via World Championship snooker. Because snooker is a simple, repetitive game, it is absorbing very quickly, its run of play faithfully reflected by the score.

But the Worlds are special. The first round is played over ten frames – as many as the final in the next most prestigious competition – and rather than the usual week, it lasts for 17 magical days, from morning until night. This bestows upon us the opportunity to, figuratively at least, put away our lives and concentrate. Of course, work and family still exist, but only in the context of the snooker and without anything like the same intensity. There is no joy on earth like watching the BBC’s shot of the championship compilation to discover that not only did you see most of them live, but that you have successfully predicted the shortlist.

It is true that people competing at anything provides compelling drama, emotion, pathos and bathos - the Olympics proves this every four years. But there is something uniquely nourishing about longform snooker, which is why it has sustained for decades without significant alteration.

The game relies on a steady arm, which relies on a steady nerve. The result is a slow creeping tension needs time and space to be properly enjoyed and endured. Most frequently, snooker is grouped with darts as a non-athletic sport, instead testing fine motor skills and the ability to calculate angles, velocity and forthcoming shots. However, its tempo and depth is more similar to Test cricket – except snooker trusts so much in its magnificence that it refuses to compromise the values which underpin it.

Alfred Hitchcock once explained that if two people are talking and a bomb explodes without warning, it constitutes surprise; but if two people are talking and all the while a ticking bomb is visible under the table, it constitutes suspense. “In these conditions,” he said, “The same innocuous conversation becomes fascinating because the public is participating in the scene. The audience is longing to warn the characters on the screen: ‘You shouldn't be talking about such trivial matters. There is a bomb beneath you and it is about to explode!’”

Such is snooker. In more or less every break, there will at some point be at least one difficult shot, loss of position or bad contact – and there will always be pressure. Add to that the broken flow of things – time spent waiting for the balls to stop, time spent prowling around the table, time spent sizing up the table, time spent cleaning the white, time spent waiting for a turn – and the ability for things to go wrong is constantly in contemplation.

All the more so in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. This venue, in its 40th year of hosting the competition, is elemental to its success. Place is crucial to storytelling, and even the word “Crucible” – whether “a ceramic or metal container in which metals or other substances may be melted or subjected to very high temperatures,” “a situation of severe trial”, or Arthur Miller’s searing play – conjures images of destruction, injustice and nakedness. And the actual Crucible is perhaps the most atmospheric arena in sport - intimate, quiet, and home to a legendarily knowledgeable audience, able to calculate when a player has secured a frame simply by listening to commentary through an earpiece and applauding as soon as the information is communicated to them.

To temper the stress, snooker is also something incredibly comforting. This is partly rooted in its scheduling. Working day and late-night sport is illicit and conspiratorial, while its presence in revision season has entire cohorts committing to “just one more quick frame”, and “just one more quick spliff”. But most powerfully of all, world championship snooker triggers memory and nostalgia, a rare example of something that hasn’t changed, as captivating now as it was in childhood.

This wistfulness is complemented by sensory pleasure of the lushest order. The colours of both baize and balls are the brightest, most engaging iterations imaginable, while the click of cue on ball, the clunk of ball on ball and the clack of ball on pocket is deep and musical; omnipresent and predictable, they combine for a soundtrack that one might play to a baby in the womb, instead of whale music or Megadeth.

Repeating rhythms are also set by the commentators, former players of many years standing. As is natural with extended coverage of repetitive-action games, there are numerous phrases that recur:

“We all love these tactical frames, but the players are so good nowadays that one mistake and your opponent’s in, so here he is, looking to win the frame at one visit ... and it’s there, right in the heart of the pocket for frame and match! But where’s the cue ball going! it really is amazing what can happen in the game of snooker, especially when we’re down to this one-table situation.”

But as omniscient narrators, the same men also provide actual insight, alerting us to options and eventualities of which we would otherwise be ignorant. Snooker is a simple game but geometry and physics are complicated, so an expert eye is required to explain them intelligibly; it is done with a winning combination of levity and sincerity.

The only essential way in which snooker is different is the standard of play. The first round of this year’s draw featured eight past winners, only two of whom have made it to the last four, and there were three second-round games that were plausible finals.

And just as literary fiction is as much about character as plot, so too is snooker. Nothing makes you feel you know someone like studying them over years at moments of elation and desolation, pressure and release, punctuated by TV confessions of guilty pleasures, such as foot massages, and bucket list contents, such as naked bungee jumping.

It is probably true that there are not as many “characters” in the game as once there were, but there are just as many characters, all of whom are part of that tradition. And because players play throughout their adult life, able to establish their personalities, in unforgiving close-up, over a number of years, they need not be bombastic to tell compelling stories, growing and undergoing change in the same way as Dorothea Brooke or Paulie Gualtieri.

Of no one is this more evident that Ding Junhui, runner-up last year and current semi-finalist this; though he is only 30, we have been watching him almost half his life. In 2007, he reached the final of the Masters tournament, in which he faced Ronnie O’Sullivan, the most naturally talented player ever to pick up a cue – TMNTPETPUAC for short. The crowd were, to be charitable, being boisterous, and to be honest, being pricks, and at the same time, O’Sullivan was playing monumentally well. So at the mid-session interval, Ding left the arena in tears and O’Sullivan took his arm in consolation; then when Ding beat O’Sullivan in this year’s quarter-final, he rested his head on O’Sullivan’s shoulder and exchanged words of encouragement for words of respect. It was beautiful, it was particular, and it was snooker.

Currently, Ding trails Mark Selby, the “Jester from Leicester” – a lucky escape, considering other rhyming nouns - in their best of 33 encounter. Given a champion poised to move from defending to dominant, the likelihood is that Ding will remain the best player never to win the game’s biggest prize for another year.

Meanwhile, the other semi-final pits Barry Hawkins, a finalist in 2013, against John Higgins, an undisputed great and three-time champion. Higgins looks likely to progress, and though whoever wins through will be an outsider, both are eminently capable of taking the title. Which is to say that, this weekend, Planet Earth has no entertainment more thrilling, challenging and enriching than events at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield.

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