My earliest memory of football was my country Nigeria, coming back from behind the great underdogs to beat Brazil in the ’96 Olympics. I was six years old, and had just begun to listen. This is why I reason, like I do now. I never admit defeat, even to the very end, always wishing for the impossible even when the dim light keeps fading. I never admit being less than anybody, for if my mind and heart says I am, my body will do – it will dazzle for the world to watch in awe. Whoa! Quite something for God to implant in the head of a little girl.
I am a Nigerian – and this goes hand in hand with loving football. It was the first game I was introduced to – whether bouncing around with an orange, or trying to turn backward in a money post to save a near penalty. It was what brought people together. It made them argue, I hate the argument, but then, there is this togetherness.
Do you know what I love above everything? It is the sound of a goal. The silent kick from the striker. The goalkeeper diving just to….Everyone especially the defenders standing motionless watching the goal post. A goal has no sound, it is lost in this timeless oblivion where everything that happens does not need to be said. The action spoke, no sound, no syllable.
Do you know what I also love? The sound after the goal. There is no timeless oblivion, as the human sense has witnessed the action. The sound is an uproar, great cheer by packs….It goes, goes, goes, reaching its highest peak and falls slowly. In that space of time of this short sound, the pitch is filled with both jubilation and disappointment. The team that scored raise their hands, shout and run – displaying their strength, showing the joy of their will. Then, in anger, fists are clenched and thrown sown, heads are bowed, some are shaken – it is as though they let themselves down, but ponder on what to do next – bowing in acknowledgement to what seems an immediate task.
Do you know what amazes me? The minute after the minutes. It starts with a whistle. It is over. One lost – one won. Sadness vs. Joy. All in one. Tears and smiles. Oh! disappointment and joy. But, in one way or the other, each side come together to comfort and to celebrate. Then, they face each other, to exchange their gifts – but they don’t for they share. In shaking hands, the winner admires the loser in defeat and shares in his pain, the loser congratulates the winner and wishes him luck – for the next time they meet again. It all comes down to that exchange of hands, all I have been waiting for – on who will fall, and who will triumph all comes down to that. That in which downfall and triumph are shared and walk hand in hand into the open tunnel to….
Adaudo Anyiam-Osigwe from her book of poems Words From Beyond When Crying for Myself: Musings of Childhood