-Ameboi
We all chorused “goal!’ at the same time. I was jumping up and waving my T-shirt in the air, some people were hitting the roof with their clenched fists. These went on for a long time and soon began to rhyme, turning into a sort of drumming. Coupled with the repeated shouts of “goal”, it was almost musical. Of course, it wasn’t the type of beautiful music one would hear when Uncle Onome’s wife would lead the choir at church on Sundays. It was more like the kind of noise one heard when those Pentecostal churches three blocks away from our house would begin their usual ground- shaking prayers against spiritual attacks.
It was the summer of 2009. I had sneaked out of home with my brother to watch the game at the local viewing centre in the next neighbourhood. Messi had scored the second goal of the match to soil Manchester United in the final of the Champions’ League. Barcelona fans were jumping helter-skelter. Still hitting the roof, the owner of the centre threatened to chase everyone out but his warning fell on deaf ears. My feet kept scooping up sand and dust as I kept running round the wooden-walled room like the rest of the winning fans. Fans of the losing team were downcast and I saw one man whose crying was considerably louder than our victorious noise combined. He walked out with his index fingers placed in his mouth, still verbally ruing the day he was born. It was comical. At least it was at that moment. My team was leading and there was a supporter of the losing team wailing like a hurt baby. After about twenty minutes, Barcelona was lifting the cup and the atmosphere was agog. There was much more of mocking the losers than celebration of the winners.
“Ronaldo don dey flop!” said one man sitting on a bench behind him. I could have agreed with him but for the repulsive stench of ogogoro oozing from his mouth.
“Messi na the best player ever.”
“Barca go dey win go ni!”
“Aye ti so Man-U deleya!”
This exchange of allying words was cut short when a loud cry was heard from outside. We all rushed out and saw some people gathered twenty feet away from the entrance of the centre. I rushed there and saw laying on the ground, the man that had been wailing like a hurt baby just half an hour ago. His eyes were rolled back in his head. His palms were wet with thick blood and from his stomach protruded a knife. He had killed himself.
When I heard people chatting minutes later after virtually the entire neighbourhood had gathered round the scene, I discovered that the dead man had bet his house, his entire life-savings, his okada and his youngest daughter on the match which his team unfortunately lost. As I walked back home with my brother I reflected on this and wondered if it could be called a bold move or a downright dumb decision. I agreed it was the latter but I knew I would not have said the same if he had won the two hundred thousand naira, two-bedroom flat and three-year slave that was the other side of the bet.
I wondered on life. How we would blame people just because of the outcome of their actions rather than the action itself. But it was the way of the world. We are all judgmental when it is comfortable. But at the same time I wondered how a person would place his life on the line for a match whose outcome he had no control over whatsoever. I thought it stupid, dumb and baseless. Yes, I’m being judgmental. But that is human nature.
