A new era dawned for Muhammad Ali when he reclaimed the world heavyweight championship as daylight smoothed its way over the heart of Africa.

His eighth-round knockout of George Foreman brought back the title to where it rightfully belongs.

In Kinshasa, a tropical storm broke minutes after Ali, at 32, had become only the second man in history to win back the most cherished prize in sport. But the deluge could never dampen the memory of surely the greatest performance Ali has bestwoed upon us since a brash young upstart named Cassius Clay stepped into the professional ring exactly 14 years ago to the day.

As I drove back from the stadium the swampy streets were filled - even at six in the morning - with scores of ecstatic youngsters chanting "Ali, Ali, Ali". They squared up to each other, feinting with their tiny fists, doing the Ali shuffle sometimes knee deep int he waters cascading down the narrow streets, and even falling down and pretending to be the flattened Foreman.

Some 40,000 Zaireis had left their krauls and raitia huts, had packed the cheapest sets at the Stadium of the 20th May to see Ali acclaimed as monarch again. But it was almost as if he had never left the throne. Indeed, one wonders whether he ever will - or if he will be allowed to by a public that thirsts for the sublime irascibility he has brought to boxing.

Will Muhammad Ali retire? That is the ive-million dollar question, and once he parries as effectively as he did the best of Foreman's bludgeoning punches.

"Right now I want to rest my bones, to pray, to spend time with my family, to count my money, and see what you all write about me," he said. "I want to read my name in the record books where it says 'Muhammad Ali - the Greatest of All Time'. Then I'll decide what to do. When my mind's made up, I'll let you know."

I think there is no doubt that Ali will fight again, almost certainly against Joe Frazier, the man who became unofficial champion in Ali's enforced absence and then confirmed his status with a points victory three-and-a-half years ago. Ali has since gained his revenge, and he showed today that he is an even better fighter than he was three years ago. Indeed, there was little to distinguish the new Ali with the 22-year-old loudmouth kid from Louisville, who so severely shipped Sonny Liston to become the champion.

He does not seem to have aged a day, and his physician, Dr Ferdie Pacheco, says: "If he wants to, he can go on for another five years. Name one fighter who has got the slightest chance of beating him? Ali has now found a condition that he intends to keep. He trained six months for this fight. The delay did not affect him, he is a remarkable man. His pride will not permit him to retire."

Ali's trainer, Angelo Dundee, concurs. "He might yap a lot about wanting to get out of boxing. But it's life. Can you really imagine him giving up all this? I don't think he could do it."

The decision will be left to Ali himself. He will confer with his Muslim leader, Elijah Muhammad, whose son, Herbert, is Ali's manager.

It was Herbert Muhammad who inadvertently brought about the final humiliation of the former Olympic heavyweight champion as the eighth round neared its end. During the interval after the seventh, the round Ali had predicted would be his target point, Herbert Muhammad climbed into the ring from his ringside seat to warn Ali: "You promised my father and myself you wouldn't fool around. Please stop it."

"OK," Ali winked. "This round, then."

So it was. Ali knocked out the crumbling forlorn Foreman with a tattoo of punches culminating in a left jab which re-opened the eyelid wound that had postponed the fight and a slashing right to Foreman's jawbone.

Foreman staggered forward, twisted, fell, turned on his back, quivered like a harpooned black whale, and made no move to beat Zack Clayton's toll of ten until it was clearly too late.

Foreman could have got up, I'm sure, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the shuffling feet of Ali and heard the taunts. He knew the end was inevitable, and, like so many big men of his ilk, Foreman decided that discretion, in this case, was most definitely the better part of valour.

Apart from one round, the fifth, when Ali simply and disdainfully absorbed all the body punches Foreman could muster, Ali was the complete master. He outfought, outgamed, and outboxed Foreman in every conceivable facet of the game.

Between rounds Ali conducted the crowd in their tribal-like chants of "Ali boma-ye" (Ali kill him) and talked to his corner, to the press - and continuously to Foreman. "C'mon, George. What's the matter, can't you dance?" he asked. Once he even leaned on Foreman's shoulder and whispered in his ear. "Hey, George, who told you you can hit? You're punching like a cissy."

The Marquess of Queensberry might not have approved, but then, he never encountered anyone remotely like Ali. "Hey, listen to that cheeky bastard," yelled one anguished American next to me as Ali let Foreman pound at his ribs, then shook his head, and winked in my direction. "No problem," he said. "Didn't I tell you - no problem?"

Those of us who had reservations that Ali could keep his word are suitably contrite. We came to say goodbye to the greatest, to bury him not to praise him, but once again he has defied all logic. The most wondrous black magician of them all had weaved his inimitable spell.

Foreman claimed he was not hurt and that he misread the count because he was looking at his corner. In fact, Foreman had misread the whole fight.

He reckoned he could crowd, cut off, and bully Ali as he did Joe Frazier and Ken Norton, He should have known that Ali would not simply run and hide. Ali's ability to take a punch and to trade blows in the fiercest of exchanges completes the hallmark of his greatness.

Returning from the stadium through the teeming torrents and ast those splashing, chanting, youngsters, I could easily appreciate that we were indeed a long way from Wembley or Madison Square Garden. Ali is the one man who could have brought us here, a mercenary with magic in his moods, a crusade in his soul, and greatness in every step. George Foreman simply could not compete with fate and Ali's fists.