In a candid interview with The Guardian, Pakistan legend Wasim Akram admits that the match-fixing allegations against him “was like a trauma”. So traumatic that he had not read the Qayyum report that fined him and his eight teammates, until he began to work with his memoir, Sultan, with the Australian journalist Gideon Haigh.
He maintains that his conscience has always been clear, but it hurts that the rumours still persist. “People may talk about Wasim Akram, one of the best left-armers, Pakistan and Lancashire etc, and that’s how I’m generally seen by you guys in the UK. But in Pakistan, the rumours persist – ‘he’s a match-fixer’ – and that hurts a lot,” he admitted.
The scandal goes back to the 1990s when fast bowler Ata-ur-Rehman alleged that Akram offered him Rs 3-4 lakh to “fix” the game. There were other rumours too, like he faked injury and withdrew from the 1996 World Cup quarter-final games against India in Bangalore, besides shuffling him around the batting order and use a mobile phone in the dressing room. But one by one, every allegation fell apart. Rehman, who he calls “not the brightest crayon in the box” claimed that he was pressured into picking Akram’s name, and later Rehman was banned for life for his involvement in match-fixing. As for the 1996 quarterfinal, then team physio attested that Akram was indeed injured. He was eventually cleared of serious charges, but was slapped a fine and stated that “he should be observed closely.”
His only “serious mistake”, was that he was friends with Zafar Iqbal, a gambler and bookie, who was his old schoolmate. But he didn’t know the others. “I think I was the only cricketer who wasn’t friendly with these guys,” Akram said. “After Imran Khan and Javed Miandad retired, there was no one left to control the dressing room. It was so self-destructive. Imagine me playing with people who did that to me? There was just so much distrust. The cricket board should have been stronger, with strong managers and coaches,” he adds.
Another player in his team who was banned for life for fixing was Saleem Malik. “He was a guy that you never trust. People change over time, though. I just don’t know him now. I have moved on in life, my father taught me to forgive and forget. I don’t burn bridges or seek revenge, life is very short,” he says.
Imran Khan had nicknamed him the “Rat,” because he was “sneaky, untrustworthy and often unpleasant to deal with.”
To revisit those dark days for his memoir was tough, but he says he wanted to present his side of the story. “It was tough to revisit those moments in my life – the betrayal, the tragedies – but the reason for doing the book wasn’t money. I probably wanted to forget. I’ve been diabetic for 25 years and didn’t want the stress. But my sons are 25 and 21, my younger daughter is almost 18, and it’s my story for them. And my [second] wife, Shaniera. They all wanted to know what happened, my side of the story, because they have heard stuff about me,” he explains.
Waqar feud
He touched upon other aspects of his career as well, like his blow hot blow cold relationship with fellow quick, Waqar Younis. “We were OK. We had good days, bad days, but we were like siblings, not jealous but competitive. But instead of waiting for their turn, [Pakistan vice-captains] have players around them – a gang – saying: ‘It’s your turn, you are the best captain.’ Waqar was a kid who made mistakes. I made mistakes. As human beings, we all do,” he says.
“We have been working together recently, actually, commentating and doing a World Cup show. I told him I had written a book, there was nothing personal about anyone, it’s just my side of the story and he said that’s fine,” he adds.
Cocaine addiction
He also admitted about his cocaine addiction. “I didn’t know what I was going to do in my future,” he says. “I got into the wrong company, I hurt my late wife very much in that period. With addiction, you can’t think about anything else. It was the worst time of my life.”
Akram said that he began using cocaine while working as a television pundit around the world. “The culture of fame in South Asia is all-consuming, seductive and corrupting,” he told the Times.
“It started innocuously enough when I was offered a line at a party in England; my use grew steadily more serious, to the point that I felt I needed it to function,” he adds.
However, he finally came out of it following the death of his first wife. “Huma eventually found me out, discovering a packet of cocaine in my wallet . . . ‘You need help.’ I agreed. Huma, I know, was often lonely in this time, she would talk of her desire to move to Karachi, to be nearer her parents and siblings. I was reluctant. Why? Partly because I liked going to Karachi on my own, pretending it was work when it was actually about partying, often for days at a time,” he admits.
“Huma’s last selfless, unconscious act was curing me of my drug problem. That way of life was over, and I have never looked back,” he adds,
He could not even understand the concept of match-fixing when he first heard it. ““You would hear things. I just used to ask: ‘How is this possible? I don’t believe it. Why would we do such a thing?’ Everyone was panicky and playing for themselves. It was a horrible time, no one trusted each other.”
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