Parlay
A night at The Establishment
Dear Bolu,
It has been seven years since I was last at The Establishment to watch football. Seven years since an Algerian with a wicked left foot knocked Nigeria out of the semi-finals of the AFCON with virtually the last kick of the game. In that period, we’ve lost a final and a semi-final in the familiar tale of almostness that litters our footballing history. There is an almostness here, at least. In most other facets of our Nigerian experience, there is a nothingness.
Not a lot has changed at this viewing centre since then. The wooden benches, arranged in three columns, are still long and hard. A widescreen monitor hangs in front of each column, programmed to show live football games. It has been many years, yet it feels as though I was only here yesterday. This sameness, though comforting, borders on stagnation.
Stagnation? Or regression? The times are so far ahead, and we—everything—are so far behind, so far below where we should be—nay, where we could have been, for we haven’t done enough to earn it. We’re stuck fighting yesterday’s battles and losing, constantly sucked into this black hole we call motherland. I run the risk of making this letter about the country, dear friend, but I will restrain myself now.
When I’m at The Establishment, I like to sit in the middle column but not too far in front, so that I can keep an eye on the other screens; and not too far back either, lest I strain my eyes. Tonight, I’m early. I find a perfect position where I can see everything before me. I also listen to Uncle Pele on repeat through my left earphone.
It’s a festive night of European football, with sixteen matches taking place simultaneously. None of the games are particularly box office, but their sheer number provides a different kind of entertainment, one that sends the internet into a betting frenzy. Nights like this are a gambler’s paradise, filled with a million and one promises, if you play your bets right.
Oh, the wonders the world will see when our fortunes change after the final whistle.
The jokes and memes that fly around are a lot of fun, and they make my day. At kick-off, I try my best to keep tabs on the three monitors, but I soon give up and settle for the one right in front of me. It’s the Goal Rush program, where they show any important highlights from the ongoing games. I’m focused on this, and on the music in my ears, when one of the lads around me starts buzzing about goals that have been scored—before they’ve actually been scored.
Football apps often get notified of in-game events, such as a goal, before it’s seen on the monitor due to a feed lag. So, one can tell that a goal has been scored before it’s observed, and the lad would occasionally provide such updates, taking the liveness out of the game. It does not bother me much because I care little for the games themselves, but on another night, it could have.
As the games come to an end, The Establishment empties. I hear murmur after murmur of disappointment in the outcomes. The betting frenzy on the internet starts to die down, and the funny jokes are no longer of promises but, rather, failures. For most, it was more hell than paradise in the end.
In the corner to my right, I spy a man wearing a face cap with a hole in its side and clutching a roll of paper. He seems to have just rushed in. He asks a question of another man beside him, who checks his phone for what I presume to be scoreline updates. They speak in whispers. After all is said, he crumples the paper and lets it fall from his hands.
Soon all the games are over, and I’m outside. I ask the first bike rider I see if he’s going. He is, and we hit the road. The ride is slow, but I don’t mind. It’s a beautiful night, and I contemplate how sometimes, all that is required to see beauty is light—the moon, the sun, headlights, candles. You.
When we get to my stop, I alight on the left side and hand out the fare to him, but he’s looking straight ahead, lost. I take a closer look and I see that he’s wearing the cap with the hole—only that it’s not a hole, but a pattern my vision misjudged. I tap his shoulder, and he comes to.
“You’re going to be alright,” I say.
He nods, collecting the money, and drives off.
The walk home is short. With Uncle Pele still in my ears, I wonder when next I will be at The Establishment. A few years, perhaps. Maybe never. If ever, would it be the same, with the columnar wooden benches and monitors? Or would it be better? I wouldn’t bet on it. I wonder also about where and how I’ll be watching games in a few years, if not at a viewing centre. Alone, perhaps, as I often do. Or maybe with you beside me. This one, I’d bet on. I hope I have a bit of luck left in me, dear friend.
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Write you soon, merci!
- Wolemercy