The 800 Meter Trial of J'ame Mpana

By Chitrak Bandyopadhyay

https://youtu.be/xKLvsOmD-Tk

It had all started with Chrys Anisperre.

*

It was the summer of 2014, and in the second leg of the women's 800m final, J'ame Mpana, a diminutive young runner from a diminutive African nation, found herself running the race of her life. She had just cleared the first bend, still placed squarely in the middle of the pack, when all of a sudden, everything fell into place. Every myriad rhythm in her body- the sway of her arms, the movement of her hips, her heartbeat, her lungs- they all seemed to reach an impeccable harmony, as pace after glorious pace began to fall with increasing gracefulness and accuracy. Her field of consciousness narrowed, until it included only the movement of air through her lungs and the narrow strip of dusty track that lay before her. She had become as the wind.

By the end of the second leg, she had just about outpaced all her competitors. By the end of the third, she had left them all far behind. And by the end of the fourth, the world watched in awe as this tiny figure- who had come to embody speed and grace, who was now lightning made flesh- bent her head delicately, took the tape, and made it home; leaving her co-runners all a full track length behind.

It took her ten paces to slow down, and when she did, completely exhausted and oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, she collapsed to the ground, tears streaming down her face, her heart full of an ecstasy she had never known before.

*

To say that Chrys Anisperre was evil would not necessarily be fair. The daughter of a family that could be described as well-to-do but not excessively rich, her acquaintance with running was made at a very young age, when she chose to participate in a track-and-field event, organized by her school. There, she won her very first medal. Basking in the warm glow of achievement, the superlative reaction of her family, and clutching her little token of victory, crafted of blue ribbon and plastic gold, she decided in that moment that she would be a runner. Her youthful desire was met with open encouragement and so, her lifelong involvement with the sport began.

Right from the start, she showed remarkable dedication. Gone were the listless childhood protests against hard-work and discipline- both daunting virtues in the pursuit other, more mundane tasks. Such natural lethargy was replaced by a joyful effervescence and hard determination as she accepted everything the track demanded of her- earlier bed times, discipline in food, and grueling physical training. And as she grew, the results began to show. She came to represent her people in increasingly wider senses of the term, as she graduated from school to district, district to state, and eventually to national-level track meets for her age group- never returning without something achieved.

And as success attracts success, she became increasingly surrounded by similar young minds and was gradually inducted into the process of professionalism. She embraced it whole-heartedly. Her extended family soon came to include her coach, her team, and her group of aides- from physiotherapists to nutritionists. Her lifestyle began to reflect the latest trends in the running world, from workout schedules to meditation, to her very sense of fashion. The life of a runner consumed her, and she had never felt greater joy. No demand was too great- such was her determination! And therein her tragedy lay.

For indeed, if she had any true vice, it was that her allegiance had long swayed from the art to the craft. Where her dedication could have been to running, it was now to the runner's life. And so, any actions called for, even those contrary to the so-called spirit of the game, were deemed needful, as long as they were expected. Dubious practices, necessarily kept unofficial, were acceptable, as long as they were accepted- for then, dubiousness was the practice.

In the autumn of 2010, in what would be the start of a widely documented series of events, the WADA- the international body formed against the use of drugs in sport- instituted a new set of tests for common performance-enhancers, mere weeks before a major international sporting event. Though the changes were wide-ranging, the new methods were claimed to be based closely on existing standards, which, according to the WADA, justified their not giving international teams more time to properly assess the new tests and prepare. Out of fear for their reputations, should they suddenly pull out, most teams chose to move forward with the games, maintaining hope that their current methods for obfuscating test results would be enough to carry them through, and- notably- only a few key players ended up with suspiciously last-minute injuries during training, at the time.

The first event was the Women's 800m, and the first athlete to fail a test was Chrys. The media reaction was wildfire. Overnight, she went from being a somewhat obscure, but promising, young athlete to the symbol of substance abuse in sports world wide. As athlete after athlete began to test positive, she became the media's lightning rod; her semi-attractive face transformed into a target for international scorn and vitriol. The world of athletics was thrown into disarray, and Chrys Anisperre's personal world was shattered.

The portrait the media painted of her was fantastic. In the bid for greater attention, each source competed in a race to the bottom- each iteration of her story more cartoonishly grotesque. She was a symbol of western, colonial privilege, heir to so many undue advantages. That she should further pervert the theoretical nobility of sports, the great leveler- it was unthinkable! Or perhaps, more obvious still, she was a great sign of these wayward times, a product of unchecked liberalism and a repugnant example of today's disaffected youth! Was she the herald for greater social decay? As the headlines grew more outrageous, her pool of friends grew more sparse, and greater numbers of those, who once were her people, began to distance themselves from her.

The first to go was her national sporting body, officially disclaiming any involvement in her crime, and declaring that players often took rash decisions beyond the knowledge of the Administration, and that the Administration could not be held responsible for such actions. The same stance was adopted by her coach and team- the people who had shared her locker-room and had introduced her to the very practices she was on trial for- people who had escaped scrutiny as a result of cancellations stemming from her own personal disaster. Frequent well-wishers no longer knew her, distant family cut off all ties, and former fans, on occasion, became a physical danger to her person. Only the very closest of family remained though even their support seemed to waver, at first. Completely lost amidst everything was the little girl holding her medal who had once fallen in love with running.

*

Though the media frenzy soon died, taken over by whatever the latest trend in hurling stones, the deep and well-earned wounds left in international athletics would last for a long time.

In the summer of 2014, very soon after her victory, swirling in the debris from 4 years ago, the accolades surrounding J'ame's unbelievable win turned into something sinister, and the questions surrounding Chrys Annisperre's infamy began to take a 180-degree turn. J'ame was an unknown- respected but no over-achiever. How then, did this improbable result come to pass? The smoldering ember of doubt threatened to fan into a flame. Wanting to get ahead of any potential media fallout akin to 2010, the WADA and other international sporting bodies came down hard on J'ame- if justice was to be had, it would have to be meted out evenly. Poverty did not equate to blamelessness, and obscurity just meant that any potential impropriety would be easier to hide.

Her medal was immediately suspended, pending further tests. Her national sporting body was quick to protest and eventually, to file against the hosts in court. They were not to be blamed, they said, and they would not be targeted unfairly. Athletics was one of their few international exports, and they would not see this source of meager income and great national pride run dry over exaggerated paranoia. Their team, and several others from neighboring countries, in a show of solidarity, decided to boycott the ongoing athletic meet, and J'ame and her people returned home empty handed.

Framed against the dusty backdrop of their village, her eyes alternating tears and flame, the video of her mother, angrily defending the girl to some local reporters, flooded the media for weeks. "We cannot afford a light in our house", she declared, huffing and puffing in her native tongue, "what makes you think we can afford drugs?" Their national sporting body fought J'ame's case doggedly through the mire of international politics and law. It continues to do so, to this day.

Alternating between her village and an occasional trip to the national capital or some other big city, J'ame continues on as something of a local hero, slowly fading into obscurity, her days of international sport perhaps ended for good. But she continues her dedication to her art and makes sure to run every day, if only to feel the rush of the wind in her face. And though they may take her medal, there is one thing they can never take. The feeling of ecstasy she had felt at the finish line, in the summer of 2014.

By Chitrak Bandyopadhyay