It is the dry season, no rain for the past four months. Midday temperatures are in the upper 30s C – hardly conducive to immense physical exertion. Yet today Parakou town hosts its eighth annual marathon.
More than 1,000 competitors have signed up, most much less than half my age. Three distances are offered: 10km, 21km and 42km. Only 72 have volunteered for the full gruelling distance. For weeks runners have been training before sunrise to avoid the day’s heat.
Organised by the Catholic parish of St François de Sales, whose priest Guillaume Kambounon has done more than 100 marathons, it has been copied by other African cities. Those doing the full marathon started at daybreak in Tchatchou, 21kms south. The rest of us wait at Parakou for these first runners to appear. A brass band plays the national anthem and we are off.
By now the sun is up and it is getting warm. I make an effort to get my breathing established. Why did I join this race? We go over the roundabout, by the statue of Hubert Maga, first president of independent Dahomey, and on up the incline towards Arzeke market. Being white, I stand out and get encouragement and laughs as I pass.
Already my shirt is sodden with sweat. Another upward incline. I must keep putting one foot in front of the other. By now quite a number of contestants are walking. I must not do that or I will simply stop.
Parakou gets its name from the Dendi word “Kpara’klou”, “the town of everyone”. It is a crossroads where people from different religions, cultures and races live together peacefully, and such an event cements our unity.
The leaders of the full marathon, dripping with perspiration, zoom past me. I urge myself onward. In the distance I can see flags that herald the finish. Someone puts a medallion around my neck as I cease running and nearly fall over. Wow I did it! And to prove it my photo is on the website of Parakou’s eighth marathon.
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