As most of you narrate fairy tales on how your dads, elder brothers or male family members and friends introduced you to football or soccer, mine is summed up as a night-time accident back in 2008. A signature after every assignment was completed made my dad a silent companion as I did my homework, call it late nights with dad. To kill time, as he sat and waited, he read my textbooks or stared into the room from wall to ceiling perhaps thinking because that's what grown ups do. At times maybe hoping I turn out to be a God-fearing, successful child who is a law abiding citizen. This day though, he chose to tune into a football match broadcasted on one of the cable channels. Which team is yours dad? I asked. He cleared his throat and answered, Chelsea. Confused but curious I asked again, Of the two, which team is Chelsea? The gentlemen dressed in blue t-shirts, he responded. I support the ones in red t-shirts then, I said sarcastically. Ideally he would be resistant and firm in insisting I should do my homework and stop watching TV but in this instance, he flowed with my questioning, overlooked me watching TV and from time to time reminded me I have homework to do. With this he indirectly introduced me to football watching, made me a fan and turned me into an addict. Should I thank him or should I be mad at him for giving me a roadmap to a world full of emotions, history and memories? To that I just don't know because we have relived this moment over and over again with World Cups', Athletics, European football Competitions and now for the first time, we did AFCON. For games that came earlier than 8pm, I briefed him on the full time results, tactical approaches and players who impressed. To date, I tend to think I excelled in that punditry role just because, my mom began gaining interest in watching the game itself. She loves the sport but limited her indulgence to updates on full-time scores and five minutes of highlights. AFCON being a competition known to have little or no patience for under-performing players, everyone was there by merit. An intriguing trail of footballers in some teams made some ties look a little pedestrian at times and tempted fans into bragging of wins they hadn't achieved, yet, forgetting, a draw is only good if you win it. Each game was a personality on its own; good work, fortune and planning made teams move from stage to stage with a win, draw or at times a loss. The competition burst into life in the round of 16. Players had acclimatized to the weather, shaken of some of the beginners pressure and rediscovered their energy, fluency and accuracy in the general play. The patterns of play no longer cautious, as in group stages, but those of urgency. Small teams were showing off strongly and causing big teams problems. They hadn't been dining at the top table thus far but they didn't rule out the possibility of this being the start. Clearly these teams knew these were games of consequence. Compact plays and excellent passes condemned spectators to waiting for a spark from somewhere that would lead to a save. They were matches between impressive attacks and shaped defences. Addicted to the drama, we kept coming back game after game long after our favourites had been eliminated. With each piece of play into pockets of space in progressive areas of the opponents side of the pitch, we silently prayed and held our breathes, hoping it would end with the ball in the back of the net. At times our manifestations were rewarded and we marvelled at the exceptional skillset displayed. Other times the ball would put up a show and delight in our misery as it went everywhere but in the net. It would gladly ricochet into the goalkeepers gloves for a save, fly high into the Yaoundé sky or rattle the cross bar or the upright. With even scores, missed opportunities and a race against the clock, frustration kicked in and the players mental strength and fortitude was tested by extra time and penalties. Each and everyone more than played their part; be it the players, their technical staff or the fans but Senegal cracked the code and programmed their play to continental victory and it was a career defining moment for all of them. But this wasn't by accident, it was them reaping returns from years of investment into their local football. For almost a month, football was the ultimate passport to Cameroon and our entertainment spaces were coated with ungodly pressure. Eye test alone proved the continent has this aura of untapped potential. Statistics elevated the belief that if we channel our resources effectively and efficiently, great things happen and when anyone follows their dream, we start to see something magical. Now that it's all over, everyone takes a break and marvels at what was created right before our eyes till the next time.

An urban area with the characteristic of a rural center wasn't the only thing that made this neighborhood special. Mokua's clan drama, holidays and symbolic solidarity that screamed, “We are family” made it twice as special. “When will you move out?” they asked. “Err not now, not ever,” I always responded. How can people as educated as them be this foul-mouthed and short tempered? It always started with hurling of insults before quickly escalating to physical fights. Mokua's clan made it difficult to imagine peace, love and harmony in a large family; every day there was factional fighting in their compound. Somehow, it always ended on the adjacent road. Neighbors knew better not to get involved in any of their actions; they are family after all. I was channeling my inner lazy self on this day, the 10 o'clock heat is what woke me up. Never knew being in a class full of noise makers could one day pay off. I easily over-slept amidst all that noise outside. A holiday it was for children were playing along the estate streets and music blaring from each household. Music genres were like a plate of Bombay mix, made of beats ranging from slow to fast pace ones. Some of my friends stated, “It's a coping mechanism for the withdrawal symptoms from club music”, while the rest continuously made fun of the amplifier competition and questioned, “When will a winner be declared?” My brother Ohm wasn't home when I went to bed last night. Hoping he made it back from his nighttime escapade, I loudly called out his name. This name calling ritual was initiated by him. As annoying and irritating as it seemed, he justified his actions saying, “I am on energy saving mode each morning, be it my strength or call credit. Therefore, that's how I call the family register.” “Ohm, are you there?” No response indicated either he came back and already left, has too much hangover and is still in bed or never came back at all. I left bed and walked towards his room to confirm which is correct. His opened door indicated the latter was more of it. He neither had called nor texted. Not his usual trait but there is a first time to everything, so no need to panic. I repeatedly told this to myself as time passed by, but even I didn't believe me. “What moonshine could he have taken this time around? Not even a message to indicate his whereabouts? If I complete all my chores having not heard from him, I will call,” I said with a sigh. The urge for a daily dose of Mokua's clan drama was for once overtaken by something else. I was desperately waiting for a reply from Ohm. I had called, texted but all remained unanswered. His last seen on WhatsApp was yesterday at 11pm. His friends were all saying they parted ways at 3am, almost fifteen hours later, where could he be? After a while there was commotion outside. Weirdly, it was in motion and towards my home. In my head, The Mokua's had outdone themselves this time around. Clearly the mountain of drama had brought itself to Muhammed. I lowered the volume of my music system, to listen to everything while in the house. A lesson learnt way earlier in life not to be anywhere where the drama can spill over and get to me was; a friend died from a stray bullet in a distance she thought was the safest. Like tornadoes, the more the number of walls between you and the incident the better. As if every neighbor was in tune with each other's thoughts, the music suddenly stopped. “Beat him!!!” “What kind of behavior is that???” “The audacity of this people baffles everyone” “What has he done? Is he even from this place?” Screams of pain could be heard from the person being pelted with stones, whipped, hurled with insults and bombarded with questions. “I didn't do it. I am innocent!” he repeatedly said. Immediately, it didn't sound like the noise always heard from the Mokua's. The previous time it took this characteristic, it ended up being a thief. He was stoned to death and burnt to ashes. Not even a week has passed, could this be another one? Don't they learn? What degree of thuggery has the country's economy turned its people to? The screams grew faint, until they could no longer be heard. From my sash window, I couldn't see who had been mobbed. I left the house to have a closer look before the tyre doused with gasoline and a matchbox arrived. An idea I will live to regret. That scene was gory, but the amulet around his neck looked very familiar. “Ohm”, I faintly called out. He just didn't respond as I knelt, vigorously shook and tightly held his lifeless body. “God let this not be him; this can't be him, not today.” In shock everyone turned to look at me. “This boll weevil to our societal values is your relative?” someone asked. Immediately I knew he had been lynch mobbed for being gay. I feared this would happen one day, and it did. What hurt the most, the rabble rousers weren't strangers but neighbors and his friends. Stolidly I told myself, “I'm done with them all.”