Euroscene: If Alex Ferguson, Fabio Capello, Frank Rijkaard et al ever thought they had problems motivating players, they should pause to spare a thought for some of their African counterparts.

Your correspondent was intrigued by a BBC report from Tanzania last week regarding the concern expressed by the Tanzania Football Federation (TFF) about a series of recent scandals prompted by the widespread use of witchcraft. For example, the country's top two teams, Simba and Yanga, were fined after their players performed "juju" rituals before a recent game.

The Simba players apparently sprayed the pitch with a strange mixture of broken eggs and powder. Two Yanga players then tried to break the spell by urinating on the pitch. Later, when the teams took to the field for the kick-off, nearly all the players entered the stadium with their backs to the pitch. In the end, the battle of the witchdoctors ended in a 2-2 draw, one side's magic (presumably) cancelling out that of the other.

Were this not a serious problem, it might sound funny. Six years ago, at a seminar in Paris, I had the good fortune to hear French coach Philippe Troussier talk about the experience of coaching in Africa. At the time, Troussier was not only coach to France '98 finalists South Africa but also someone known to the French media as the "White Witchdoctor" because of his sustained success with a variety of teams, including the national sides of Nigeria, Ivory Coast, Burkina Faso and South Africa as well as the Ivory Coast club Asec Abidjan.

In a fascinating address, he talked at length about the problem of witchcraft, the extent to which African players and fans believe in its powers and the need to take it and its believers seriously. Troussier's basic premise was entirely pragmatic. He offered no value judgments on the practice of witchcraft in football but accepted it as an intrinsic part of African football that, within limits, had to be tolerated or accommodated.

If some of his players believed a daub of blood on their forehead from a freshly-killed chicken would improve their performance, then so be it. To some extent, it was a case of "whatever it takes to get players motivated".

In an age when top European football clubs spend hundreds of thousands of euro hiring highly skilled coaches, dieticians, personal trainers, physiotherapists and psychologists, (some) Western minds might find it difficult to take witchcraft seriously. Mind you, how many European fans, tempted to laugh at witchcraft, see nothing "funny" in the observation of their own particular pre-match rituals (tie/coat/sweater you wear, road you take, seat you sit in, etc).

In Tanzania, however, they take the problem of witchcraft very seriously. Kassim Dewji, secretary of the Simba club until last June, told the BBC last week he had always been under pressure from fans and hangers-on, urging the club to use witchcraft: "If you look at my record . . . I have won eight trophies - it is because I believed in coaches. I used to spend a lot of money to buy good players for the team - that's why the team did well. But there was a clique of people who opposed me all the way because I didn't believe in that witchcraft of theirs."

Dewji and others in African football claim club officials may be tempted to promote witchcraft, to convince players they can win thanks to witchcraft, as a way of making money. Payments of up to $5,000 to witchdoctors may not always be entered in club records.

Even people in high places are alleged to have resorted to witchcraft. Last September, Mwina Kaduguda, the former TFF secretary-general, claimed the TFF had paid for a witchdoctor to travel to Nairobi for a World Cup qualifier against Kenya - a game Tanzania lost 3-0.

For the time being, the TFF says witchdoctors are welcome - but on a voluntary basis only. With total pragmatism, former Tanzania coach Charles Mkwasa told the BBC players should concentrate on training rather than rely on "juju" to get results. "Juju", he says, just induces a false sense of security.

Could be, but if I were Arsene Wenger, the next time I headed for Old Trafford, I'd have a think about calling my local witchdoctor.