WHEN DOES A LOT NEVER HAPPEN IN NIGERIA?
A LOT has been happening in Nigeria recently (when does A LOT never happen here?). The President, Transformational Colossus of the Cyclop of Africa, Worthy Bedfellow of Barack, MLK, Gandhi & Some Korean, was understandably furious that some incontinent upstarts committed the (here’s how grave their faux pas was) grave sacre bleu of rating him sixth richest African president, behind the leaders of such African powerhouses as Angola and Equatorial Guinea, and level with the Mighty Mswati of the Miserable Little Swathe of Swaziland.
Sixth. Who does that?
(Other stuff have been happening: Nigeria [via Jesus Piece’s private jet] was caught wanking in front of what looked innocuous but was in reality a two-way mirror. Twice. Lesson: Don’t masturbate in front of mirrors. Not once. Certainly not twice. TB Joshua is still the un-Nostradamus, busy prophesying events after the fact; and busy invoking pestilences to visit on nosy loudmouths who dare question his divinity. Linda Ikeji was bent over a table and given a good what-follows-bending-over-a-table and dressed up and returned to the street like nothing happened. And Keshi, by all the gods, has simply been [Ke]shit.)
But I’m sure people better and timelier than I have all contributed so many two kobos on these issues to drown the Titanic all over again. Which is why I’ll steer my ship past those icebergs. For there are issues even seriouser than paper talk.
SCORE IT LIKE NASTASIC
Own goals can arise from a resignation to an inevitability lurking in the form of an in-position striker. They can result from delusion or an overestimation of one’s Messianic capabilities. They can result from pure unadulterated bad luck. They can also arise from a broken line of communication, like a defender assuming the keeper is on his line when in fact he has charged out goal. And so the pass rolls into a gaping goal unchallenged, heralded by disbelief around which mouths and eyes are framed, and heads bearing triangled hands.
This is how you score this latest sort of own goal:
YOU (SORT OF IN COMPANY OF OTHER GUY) meet GIRL and it’s all laughs and man-she’s-a-total-bang-job and high-fives and I’m-totally-one-night-standing-that and all.
Which would be fine except that there’s a little background story.
Now you love quantum physics and antique literature (including Beowulf and all that Chaucer nonsense) and inevitably, rocket science, which is an interesting and rather unique collection of interests. Because you are the sort who feels guilty attending a wedding reception without the church, two hours before OTHER GUY (your friend and chronic reception goer) rocks up, you meet this girl who is hotter than hell fire in an active volcano in the Sahara on a hot day and, would you believe it, a chatterbox who loves quantum physics, antique literature (including Beowulf and all that Chaucer nonsense) and inevitably, rocket science, which, before it happened, had the same chances of happening as sighting a blue moon, finding a Nigerian politician in it for Nigeria, getting an uncontroversial statement from CAN, seeing an unforced sub from Wenger before 65 minutes and finding leaked Snapchat nudes…
…which, if gist is to be paid any heed, is about to happen. Raaaa.
You are understandably over the moon. In the capacious studio of your mind you have drawn painstaking designs (and even made cardboard models) on the girl that far exceed one night. At the reception, OTHER GUY rocks up and pleasantries are exchanged. While WEIRD HOT CHICK excuses herself, presumably to drain her crab, OTHER GUY, hands shading his mouth, comments on the total bangability and onenightstandness of DAT CHICK, shit, which our guy, drunk on that brand of braggadocio only out-of-sight women can elicit from men, is quick to corroborate, as per say hin sef be DAT GUY.
Problem is, in that little exchange, the lines of communication have broken. OTHER GUY takes your braggadocio as Kate Blanchet (or carte blanche if you like; thanks Channing!), a declaration of a free-for-all. You assume that the girl has touch-not-my-anointed status because c’mon-I-mean-we-can’t-be-watering-the-same-holes. Or even-if-we-could-please-let-some-respectable-amount-of-time-pass-first… Like 10 years. Or never. But the memo was never dispatched.
Long story short, the story ends for you with lots of weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Which brings us to the “through pass.”
PASS IT LIKE FABREGAS
The folks familiar with football know of the through pass. Typically, a through pass anticipates a run and so is played so that the receiver runs on to it, as opposed to the simple pass which is to the feet of the receiver. The perfectest exemplar of an effective through pass is one in which the receiver runs past an opposing defence so that a one-on-one situation develops with the opposing goalkeeper. And if the attacker is Diego Costa, that’s your net bulging then.
This time you have managed to cop yourself a girl and you’ve been at the races for four solid years. Four. And faint chimes of wedding bells tinkering in the distance are occasionally borne on the back of air to your ear. Your penis, however, has always been recalcitrantly wanderlustey and worse, your away game is so porous homegirl would inevitably learn of your dalliances, but forgive, in the name of love and I-have-him-they-only-fuck-him.
As you know however, camels, despite being excellent beasts of burden, can suddenly become notoriously sensitive over the most inconsequential bullshit, which considering what they had been carrying is baffling. It’s one more fucking straw, one more weightless fucking straw, c’mon.
It turned out you only kissed her, that other girl. But it was enough. And now you’re calling radio stations, not for limo rides, or tickets to some event, or some goody bag from some tightfisted brand, but for:
This is a radio message
To your babayyy
And you’re begging her
Come back (come back) Come back (come back)
And did she leave you for a guy who had been biding his time for two of your four years together? Did you know that this guy had been pestering her for two years? Did that stop your wandering man (or mouth, if you like) from wandering? Did your exquisite and deliciously weighted slide rule pass put Diego Costa through one-on-one with your girl? Did Diego Costa take his chance?