And so Chelsea Football Club won the UEFA Champion’s league in 2012. I was glad they did. No, not for the club but for my poor head! Who would not? My girlfriend is a supporter of Chelsea Football Club.
She would have given me one heck of a day if the bloody English club had lost. I was the happiest man on that day. I danced and celebrated. I ordered as many bottles of Heineken as I could down. I even slept peacefully without fear for my meal not being prepared. That is the high point of fulfilment, being sure of your meal.
But women are in control of this world. They can make you like what you dislike with or without the use of force. Either is better. And they sometimes are so meticulous about the approach; they can lead you to a slaughter house, making you feel such excitement like a man with an employment with an oil company.
I used to love the Enyimba Football Club of Aba until I had a relationship. Enyimba wears the blue colour. And blue is coincidentally my favourite colour. My girlfriend likes the blue colour also. When she started supporting Chelsea I can barely tell. But when she started telling me of her crush on Drogba I kept wishing in my heart that the bloody footballer should not visit Port Harcourt or someone would be imprisoned for murder. My girlfriend could jump at him, expressing all the love in this world with kisses and hugs. And I could jump at him expressing all my anger and hatred for his person with punches and bites. He would be lucky if I don’t give him the Evander Holyfield treatment.
I did not watch the final match between Bayern Munich and Chelsea Football Club. I had no business with them. I naturally dislike football. My reasons are simple: I have a tension problem. And I could dislike a lot of rubbish too. I have seen some football matches in the past where players are so greedy with the ball. They dribble alone to the goalpost and kick the ball away to god-knows-where. Then they would apologise for doing such. Yeah, retarded men, you would say, but those are the reasons why I do not watch football. They raise my tension and I develop a running temperature.
Imagine yourself in a house with an upset Nigerian woman. It gets hotter when the woman is your wife or girlfriend. She sits at an extreme of the house with the TV remote. And you are at a pathetic desk, with some lighting above your head, writing some bloody story about some crazy events that never happened just to earn some money. She does not care about you. You are already a hater. You are not a lover of what she loves.
As antagonistic as you are, you deserve a place in the zoo where animals lead their lives freely. Maybe your girlfriend does giggle at a scene on the television, but that is not for you. It is for the TV. She is upset with you because her team did not win so she cannot have giggled at your monotonous life as a sick writer. And do not expect any meal. You must be really stupid to expect that an upset woman in a Twenty-First Century would prepare you a meal and probably give you some sex. The latter may have you killed. Do not even think about it.
When the news of the Bayern Munich and Chelsea football match spread I knew it was going to be an uneasy one for me. I am appreciative to providence that my girlfriend did not invite me to watch the football match with her. And she did not watch it at home either. No. She went out. There are viewing centres everywhere. And those centres make the viewing of the game even funnier and more exciting, maybe.
People scream on top of their voices for their demons on TV. Others throw cuss words around, inviting Amadioha to strike a player who undermines the presence of other teammates and dribbles to the goalpost to eventually lose the ball to other vicious opponents. I particularly dislike those viewing centres. I think the guys who are there are really crazy. They are not in the stadium but they scream and curse the most. If you are anti-football, the viewing centre is not the right place to express your views. You may lose your entire teeth or your miserable life. Football is a religion, a super one, since it collates others to make its own.
I slept hard, snored my life away. Do I snore? How would I even know, I do not watch over myself. I had nothing in mind but a good wish to the football clubs, especially my girlfriend’s. If she would be happy I would be happy. Everyone would be happy. God too would not have to forgive words that would flow from our heads. Life is too short.
And when I woke up at about 3AM, the next day I saw my girlfriend sleeping quietly beside me. I picked up my phone and logged online to see the news of the football match. When I saw a still photo of a black man, presumably Drogba, lifting a trophy I knew her club had won. I smiled mischievously and quietly logged off. I admired her curved body in bed and then let my hand run through her body. She did not move. I did it again until a hand dropped on mine, casually.
It was such that presses a mosquito which is immersed in the act of blood sucking so much that it forgets itself. I told her in a soft tone that it was me and not a mosquito. She told me mildly to withdraw my hand. I requested to know why. She did not say anything. I congratulated her for the win but she turned her back on me. She told me I was late. She said I had slept off because I did not care about her club. She asked me to sleep and forget about the retarded veins which rose in my trousers. She asked me to quit touching her too. I did. I heeded like any stupid boyfriend would. She told me that if I had slept off I could have done same if her club had lost. I stammered all through trying to let her know my faith would have seen her through. I slept off as ordered.