Why I Must Stop Arguing About Football
The air in "Sam Soap's Viewing Centre" in Makurdi vibrated long after the final whistle blew on Man United and Spurs. Sweat stuck to foreheads, clenched fists hung stiffly in the air, and the stale smoke of cigarettes and frustration lingered. The match, a rollercoaster of missed chances and equalising goals, had left its mark.
Philip, draped in his United jersey, eyes as red as the club's colours, stamped on the dusty floor. "Rashford! How? How he miss that, ehn?!" His voice, booming across the room, silenced the groans from the Spurs supporters huddled in the corner.
Agada, decked in Tottenham white, his nose wrinkled in annoyance, retorted, "You talk as if United did anything all game! Bentancur's rocket was pure fire, eh!"
And so it began, the familiar dance of banter turning into a heated debate. Statistics were thrown around like verbal grenades, refereeing decisions dissected with venomous precision, players' mothers dragged into the fray. Philip's voice grew hoarse, Agada's face contorted with righteous fury. The screen, once displaying the Premier League logo, seemed to shrink in the face of their animosity.
Across the room, Madam Cash, wiping down sticky tables with a sigh, watched the scene unfold. She'd seen it countless times before – friendships strained, tempers flaring, all over a ball kicked around by millionaires in faraway stadiums.
It wasn't the passion that bothered her, Madam Cash loved football herself. It was the blindness, the inability to see past club colours and into the shared humanity on the other side. Here, in her dimly lit viewing centre, the lines between United and Spurs, Liverpool and Chelsea, faded away. They were all Makurdi boys, struggling with the same tough times, hustling for the same Naira, laughing at the same jokes.
Finally, Madam Cash had enough. "Enough!" she boomed, her voice a clap of thunder in the smoky air. Both Philip and Agada looked at her, startled. "This game is over, but your lives go on," she continued, her gaze sweeping across the room. "Is a goal worth losing a friend, a neighbour? This football, it should bring us together, not tear us apart."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with truth. Philip shuffled his feet, shamefaced. Agada offered a hesitant smile. Slowly, the tension subsided, replaced by a grudging respect.
Later, as the crowd thinned, Philip approached Madam Cash. "She was a beauty, that Bentancur shot," he admitted, a sheepish grin on his face. Agada chuckled and slapped him on the back. "Don't tell your boys that, eh?"
That night, in Sam Soap's Viewing Centre, the football didn't disappear. But amidst the cheers and banter, a new understanding flickered. They were still fans, still passionate, but they were also neighbours, friends, Makurdi boys sharing a love for the beautiful game. And maybe, just maybe, that love was bigger than any rivalry.
Because in the end, it wasn't about who won or lost on the pitch. It was about who we were off it. And on a dusty Sunday night in Makurdi, Madam Cash reminded them and infact all of us, that sometimes, the most important match happens not on the green field, but right here, in the shared space of our lives.
Honestly, I use to argue a lot about football but yesterday's experience has changed that side of me. For good I guess.
Philip, draped in his United jersey, eyes as red as the club's colours, stamped on the dusty floor. "Rashford! How? How he miss that, ehn?!" His voice, booming across the room, silenced the groans from the Spurs supporters huddled in the corner.
Agada, decked in Tottenham white, his nose wrinkled in annoyance, retorted, "You talk as if United did anything all game! Bentancur's rocket was pure fire, eh!"
And so it began, the familiar dance of banter turning into a heated debate. Statistics were thrown around like verbal grenades, refereeing decisions dissected with venomous precision, players' mothers dragged into the fray. Philip's voice grew hoarse, Agada's face contorted with righteous fury. The screen, once displaying the Premier League logo, seemed to shrink in the face of their animosity.
Across the room, Madam Cash, wiping down sticky tables with a sigh, watched the scene unfold. She'd seen it countless times before – friendships strained, tempers flaring, all over a ball kicked around by millionaires in faraway stadiums.
It wasn't the passion that bothered her, Madam Cash loved football herself. It was the blindness, the inability to see past club colours and into the shared humanity on the other side. Here, in her dimly lit viewing centre, the lines between United and Spurs, Liverpool and Chelsea, faded away. They were all Makurdi boys, struggling with the same tough times, hustling for the same Naira, laughing at the same jokes.
Finally, Madam Cash had enough. "Enough!" she boomed, her voice a clap of thunder in the smoky air. Both Philip and Agada looked at her, startled. "This game is over, but your lives go on," she continued, her gaze sweeping across the room. "Is a goal worth losing a friend, a neighbour? This football, it should bring us together, not tear us apart."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with truth. Philip shuffled his feet, shamefaced. Agada offered a hesitant smile. Slowly, the tension subsided, replaced by a grudging respect.
Later, as the crowd thinned, Philip approached Madam Cash. "She was a beauty, that Bentancur shot," he admitted, a sheepish grin on his face. Agada chuckled and slapped him on the back. "Don't tell your boys that, eh?"
That night, in Sam Soap's Viewing Centre, the football didn't disappear. But amidst the cheers and banter, a new understanding flickered. They were still fans, still passionate, but they were also neighbours, friends, Makurdi boys sharing a love for the beautiful game. And maybe, just maybe, that love was bigger than any rivalry.
Because in the end, it wasn't about who won or lost on the pitch. It was about who we were off it. And on a dusty Sunday night in Makurdi, Madam Cash reminded them and infact all of us, that sometimes, the most important match happens not on the green field, but right here, in the shared space of our lives.
Honestly, I use to argue a lot about football but yesterday's experience has changed that side of me. For good I guess.
