2 July 2010 was one of the worst days of my life.
No, I hadn’t lost any members of my family.
Nor had I burnt $128 billion of my huge fortune on the world’s major Stock Exchanges.
But my discomfiture would probably have been less if either of these calamities had found its way into playing the same role in my life history as did the event I am going to tell you about.
I had been invited to a birthday party which I couldn’t turn down. You know – the sort of event, invitation to which, was a command.
Now, who could command me? Not anyone I hadn’t myself installed in my heart as commander-in-chief, of course. Yes, you’ve guessed right.
WHAT? WHY?
I was angry with myself the whole day! Why should the day Ghana was playing a match that could take us into the semi-finals of the World Cup, be the day she was partying?
But worse, why hadn’t I had the courage to tell her outright that I couldn’t come because – because — of — a — a— f-f-f-f-football match?
No sooner had I unwillingly entered a taxi to go to her place than my mobile phone rang.
“Oh, this is BBC Radio 4.”
My heart jumped! Radio 4 is one of the most prestigious radio stations in the world. Politicians welcome telephone calls from its staff, for no sooner have they made a statement on Radio 4 than it’s picked up by other stations, including those of foreign countries.
In the UK, appearing on Radio 4 news programmes almost always means one’s views would be summarised and included in national news bulletins.
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Chum, that call from Radio 4 to me … Let them explain it to you themselves:
“Oh, you remember that beautiful interview you gave us when the World Cup began….?” asked the Radio 4 man.
You see, now? Someone had remembered something I said on the station! They are the best!
I remembered that interview only too well. It was the first time a BBC radio van had come to my house. All the neighbours had noticed it and quizzed me afterwards. ”What did they come to talk to you about?” I was asked. Not twice… maybe five times! By neighbours from whom a “G’morning!” was so rare it sounded like a two-hour chat.
Radio 4 had quizzed me about how I thought African players would fare in the World Cup that was about to be played in South Africa. I had told them:
“International football, to Africans, is not just a game; it’s one of the means of asserting or enhancing the image of black persons all over the world. For, far too long, Africans have been ignored by the rest of the world or been relegated to the position of inferior beings in a world in which the culture of white people dominates everything.
“But on the football field, none of that matters. It’s just ‘you-and-me!” I have the ball, take it from me if you can!
“Or you have the ball, right? Well, I’m gonna take it off you in style! In a way you’d never have thought possible! And I am gonna go all the way with it and put it into your goal!
“And hey! my name is Samuel Etoo; or Didier Drogba; or some other – to you – unpronounceable name which, from now, on, you will remember for ever. Who doesn’t remember Roger Milla?
“On the field of play, I can show that I am good! And that display, beamed live into the homes of everyone by television, tells the story – even more than the sort of money your famous clubs are paying me (!) – it tells the world that if they look down on the black man, they will live to regret it.”
Well, the BBC wanted more of the same? They wanted me to come and talk to them when Ghana, having dispatched the Czech Republic, was playing Uruguay to potentially reach the semi-final stage? In the first-ever World Cup to be staged in Africa?
Annoyed at the trick fate had played on me, I asked the BBC man: “Do you have a studio in?….) I mentioned the name of the town where I was to attend the party.
He said, “Yes! Of course. We do.”
I said, “I shall arrive there in about two hours.
Can arrange something from there?”
He replied “Sure! We can try something”.
I never got to knew whether they did try to contact me during the match. For I discovered, after arriving in the town, that it had “black-spot” areas where mobile phones didn’t work! Yep. And I had to be there on that day! Tweaaaaah!
Well, you know the rest. How Louis Suarez robbed Ghana of the certain chance of getting to the semi-finals, with a spectacular foul in which he became Uruguay’s second goal-keeper. And how, our all-conquering Captain, Asamoah Gyan, had missed the penalty awarded to Ghana as a result of Suarez’s blatant foul.
Then, extra time.
Followed by penalties.
And how Uruguay had beaten Ghana 4-2 in the shoot-out.
All this took place when love had driven me into a mobile phone black hole?
Yeah. Life’s like that. An opportunity comes your way once in a lifetime to do something spectacular – such as weep before the whole world on Radio 4 at age 60-plus – and it doesn’t happen because you are in love with a woman!
So, I know, with great sympathy, exactly how every Englishman or woman has been feeling during the weekend leading to England’s Wembley appearance against Italy.
I am sure I’d back England just because a black player, Rahim Sterling, has been doing so well for them. But even without Sterling, I have a spot for them because of Harry Kane. And any, I don’t like the way Italian fans have been treating Mario Balotelli (who is of Ghanaian parentage and could have played for Ghana in the days of imaginative sports administrators like Ohene Gyan).
“GOAAAAAAAAAAL!”
Who will be yelling the loudest on Sunday 11 July 2021? The English? Or the Italians?
Were it not for the fact that I abhor cliches, I’d say, “Your guess is as good as mine!”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
By Cameron Duodu