Two bulbous, prominent, edifices, each standing proudly on the strap of previous achievements, each with the ability to be soft and to harden when instigated. Each sharing the same field of attention but ever separated, ever serrated by a deep dark cleavage. The law class of 17 and the Law Class of 18, victors in their own rights, conquerors and survivors, warriors and hunters, marched out to glorious music, adulating fans and curious heavens on a sunny Friday afternoon, battle worn, battle scarred, battle ready.
The warmth and chides and smiles and shakes and hugs and pats sauntered across the two teams twice and one felt the atmosphere resonate with mutual respect and friendly rivalry. It was a sight for paradoxes and oxymorons, men dressed in full battle gear, sharpened studs, ironed jerseys, shin guards, and premeditated nutmegs in their hearts, smiling and shaking each other, like wedding guests at a buffet queue… civil war.
And when the formalities were done away with… the referee raised his hand to his blackened lips, the anxious faces in the stands animated themselves into different expressions of anxiety and dread… and he blew the whistle.
The final was a sight for sore eyes, living up to its billing as the best end to what has been a stupefying tournament, it had elation, dejection, ooohs, aaahs, and a bit of shakiti bobo. But the irony of life is that everyone wants the growth of the two orbs, but the more the monuments grow, the deeper the cleavage gets. A goal from the Class of 18 and the atmosphere erupted in wild jubilation and unbridled joy! A few minutes to the end of the half and wham! A goal from the Class of 17 and the atmosphere erupted in wild jubilation and unbridled joy!
The referee raised his hand to his blackened lips …and he blew the whistle.
The second half kicked off to the shrill cry of the whistle and the ball rolled up and down the the unshaved pitch, oozing of skill, silky passes and hoofed shots, all in a bid to thrust the ball into the net. But like church going sisters on a cold Saturday evening, both teams refused to let any ball in… until a persuasive cross from Tobi John and the defence melted letting in the ball in a disappointing clearout. At this point one could sense an overriding feeling of foreboding, a certain feeling of inevitability, a slight droop of the shoulders… the year 2 students seemed to be at sea at this point, and despite the best efforts of Russel, Kay and the likes, they only seemed to thrust deeper into the dark hole that is despair. But then, out of the dark blues, a throw in, a shuffle, a muddled clearance, bounce, ball, blue jersey, black jersey, blue leg, ball, net, omg! Goal!!! And the referee raised his hand to his blackened lips… and he blew the whistle! Gooooaaaaaal! The stadium erupted! Insanity!
Uh oh, hollup, the lines man’s flag is up! What? Off side??? And the referee raised his hand to his blackened mouth and he blew the whistle! No goal! Calamity!
Now go back to the line at the top where I said ; the law class of 17 and the Law Class of 18, victors in their own rights, conquerors and survivors, warriors and hunters, marched… battle worn, battle scarred, battle ready, and add …’literally’. Hell’s fury was let loose upon the pitch!
Agitated bodies rushing onto the field,
Heated words wrapped in passion and saliva,
Spewing from angered mouths and retorting throats
As uniforms and plain clothes united and clashed in
Tumultuous overtures. Fracas, anarchy, fists, lethargy
‘we no go gree’ ‘we no play again’
‘get the f**k out’
‘I go knack you’, ‘f*ck you’ and ‘please what is happening?’
As is the case wherever there’s a cleavage, there’s a bust. And the year 3 and year2 students had a big bust up! The questions that are aroused by these bursts of aggression are whether or not the hardened stubbornness was merely erected by the referee’s ‘idibia’ness or there are underlying unresolved reservations or bad blood between both classes or if (considering the prematch ripples about prize money by the year2 and the post humus rumours of bribery) the Class of 18 were merely being overly wary. Of what exactly, the writer may not have full grasp of the intricacies of humans to know. But at least the writer knows enough of his series to leave you with these wise words…
“The Lord of light protect us…For the night is dark and full of terrors”
And he raises his hand to his blackened lips…
Published by Teni Akeju