A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellyghalo
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A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellyghalo
By popular demand, the latest in the World Cup Series...
The Curious Case of Odion Cellyghalo
by Coachua Bahiagbon Fakespeare
Fingers flitted across keypads like moths flirting with the luminous light. The heavy, humid airs of the oversized office trudged down throats before u-turning and hurrying back into the room just left, in forceful sighs. The blue lights of handsfree sets flickered on and off as if overcome by indecision, on, off, yes, no. The coiled, convoluted cord of the retro office phone, stretched its coils to subtle, seductive curls, as the receiver pressed against her ear. The elasticity in the cord’s yearn to retreat to its condensed shape, caused an unseen tug-o-war, manifesting as subtle shakes and vibrations akin to the tightropes slender buckle beneath the walker’s stride. The hum of distant dialling tones coalesced to a cumulonimbus of dull, monotonous melody.
As synchronous as the swimmers in the olympic pool effortlessly floating through their routine, pen tops clicked in frustration, others, uncapped, scrawled perplexing patterns across post-it notes lying, innocently atop the varnished mahogany worktops. The office was a festival of high design and extravagance, bold new fashions proudly arranged themselves within its massive enclosure. The bookshelves of old were retired and reduced to scrap wood, replaced by a 4 x 4ft, integrated, touchscreen, that one could be mistaken for assuming to have been the misplaced smartphone of a time travelled Goliath. Backless chairs suspended gel enclosed headrests above their curved seats in a matrix of coiled steel wires wrapped in luxurious leathers with triple stitched gold seams. An artistic masterpiece, an incoming call five minutes earlier, had stirred all the palette’s paints into medley.
The central phone had flashed, a private line known only to one contact. The two secretaries exchanged startled glances, their outstretched hands hovered above the receiver, equidistant, as if entrapped in a science fiction forcefield. Neither had envisioned this on entering the room. The instruction was clear, they were to fire up the coffee maker and bring the refreshments to the meeting room across the corridor. Black 2 sugars, white with cinnamon, vanilla with sweetener, as if singing along to their favoured song, the two gorgeously carved Cape Verdians, walked the length of the corridor repeating the lyrics with rhythm and blues.
The phone rang once more, seemingly wiggling with slight frustration. A deep inhalation expanded an appetisingly assembled chest. Lina, 22, the older of the two, was the masterpiece of a master mason, black molasses poured perfectly over pert and plentiful breasts that rose like mountains to a prominent cap of snow. Beyond the mountaintop, a calm black sea swam backwards towards two smooth, prominent cliffsides that pierced the sky alike the mountains above. A slender hand broke through the barrier, scattering the imaginary protons and electrons, she grabbed the receiver. “Hello”.
T’is said, a woman’s face was her greatest work of fiction, with each second in conversation, a new expression seized its moment of fame across this nubian stage. Could they all be lies?
‘Ok, I will do. Thank you Sir. Bye”. Hurriedly she replaced the receiver and motioned towards the door, a brisk walk, became a jog, before arriving at a full sprint as she reached the corridor. With each stride the gorgeous landscape danced with intensity. “Lina what is it” Caprice had asked. Taking Lina’s hurried exit as her cue, she followed suit.
The news had been greeted with momentary jubilation before a numbing realisation of the size of the undertaking and acuteness of the hill which they were to push this stone up.
“Argentina. Ineligible player. Disqualified. Nigeria France” Lina stuttered in exasperation. Shorthand, yet clear and concise.
The message was understood by all, the administrative team had 12 hours to recover the departed Super Eagles squad, who had scattered like the shards from a dropped glass, to enjoy the lasts of their summer holiday before a gruelling preseason at their respective clubs. Not one answered phone and a plethora of long, lengthy dialling tones, Dubai, Miami, LA and alike.
Tis said of Nigerians, such is the maturity of their olfactory senses, one could be placed anywhere in the world and would somehow by way of genetically encoded navigation systems or dark arts and superstition, find an establishment offering peppersoup. Moscow was no different.
Theres something about sporting contests that brings warring factions together, stretches the olive branch between Capulet and Montague, from Winterfell to Kings Landing and in the case of Cyberia, the exiled to the omnipotent. A bear paw of a hand, clad in myriad masonic rings, swallowed Patrick’s whole, like a five tentacled quintapus devouring a fishing boat at sea.
“Pato” Cellular chimed, flashing a gold-toothed smile steeped in trickery and embezzled riches, “its been too long” he continued. “We shoudn’t have let it come to this”.
“Onyebuchukwukov, bring two bowls of peppersoup, fish head!” he exclaimed. The young waiter hurtled towards the kitchen.
In times of war, the was no surgeon more skilled at tending to open wounds and placing approximating sutures across years of animosity than peppersoup. Fish head particularly. Hours passed and the squint of anger in Patrick’s stare warmed to a curve of accepted apology and renewed friendship.
“Chief, see stomach, abeg, as you dey eat everytin’ for table, mek you no chop dis cutlery o!” Patrick joked. “You’re doing well”.
“Na God be dat” Cellular returned, twisting the band of gold embellished with various symbols in ode to those secret sects of old Bavaria. Both hands cupping the bowl like an medieval goblet, he gestured towards the light, carved a pentagonal shape in the air, before tipping the contents between his parted lips.
“Chief, tek am easy o” Patrick warned, “bone dey…If na to do Heimlik manoova ehn, we go need startin’ eleven to circle dis yor belly”.
They laughed. Cellular’s mouth movements mirroring the masticating cow chomping through fresh grass.
“No wahala” he bragged, spitting shards of fish to and fro.
“So how is the state of our…” Patrick’s sentence came to an abrupt halt as if encountering a misplaced punctuation mark. His hand fidgeted in an inside pocket, before retrieving the quintessential two phones of a wheeler-dealer. A swipe of the screen and the conversation began.
“Ehenn…Ehenn…Adonbalivit…Ah, ah…Ehenn…Ehennn. Ok”.
Cellular looked on baffled, perplexed as his newly, re-acquainted old friend engaged in detailed conversation with barely a spoken word.
The call end abruptly. In a swift movement, a briefcase fell heavily on the table top, tilting the soup bowl slightly but enough to cause spillage. Annoyance stretched across Cellular’s face as he stared at the wastage. Fortunately the stockfish had stayed put. Patrick hadn’t finished his portion, it was only a matter of time before Cellular would annex his bowl and do the needy.
Click, click. The burgundy briefcase flew open, an ambrosial aroma whistled away from the assorted passports, birth certificates and various identity cards. An old school Nokia 8110 revealed itself, a push of a button and the case slid open in Matrix fashion.
The excitation had forced Patrick’s voice into an Uncle London demeanour, an Olawudeji Delboy Trotter perhaps.
“Dele, listen, get di boys, sharp sharp…a limo is on its way now now. Masaydeez. Bensss” he exclaimed. “They must be in Sochi in tartee minits” he added.
“Worriss all deez. Seet down!” Celly barked at the now standing Patrick.
Grabbing at the briefcase’s contents, he fixed his gaze at Patrick. “Chei! Pato…wetin be all dis”.
“Bros, I det ozzul now” a cliched reply with the slickness and swagger of a Nigerian Mina Raola.
“Chief” he continued “Infantino has disqualified Argentina, banned substances apparently” he spoke with interviewee like confidence, “its Nigeria - France for a place in the quarters. The French first team are spent, so they’re sending a reserve squad, whilst their legal team look into challenging the ruling”.
‘Ehennn, and…” Cellular interrupted.
“And our FA cant get hold of any of the players. So, they’ve asked me to pool together some clients and get them to Sochi. It’ll be 5 or 7 aside” he continued, “luckily I’ve got a group of thir….nineteen year olds, I was trying to get on the books of FC Spartak Middleofnowhere, in a 5 star, across the road. I must dash” he finished.
Cellular pondered for a minute as Patrick closed the suitcase.
“I’ll be needing those” he said motioning towards the pocket-sized green booklet and identity card in Cellular’s hand.
“Oh, of course”. Perfectly pitching them to within arms reach of Patrick, he rose to a stand, grabbing the bottle of odeku on his way up and emptying its full contents in one take.
Unexpected and exact. Patrick never saw it coming, leaning forwards to collect his particulars, his eyes left Cellular’s for the briefest of moments, barely a second, a sub-second that would last ten minutes before he regained consciousness. By then, Cellular was gone, the passport and ID card too.
The bottle crashed against the occiput, a popping sound chaperoning the shatter that followed. The force of impact propelled Patrick’s head forward and into the soup bowl. Not only was he unconscious, but the scotch bonnet would ensure a good thirty minutes of lavage would be needed before visual acuity would be restored.
Cellular hurtled towards the exit, skipping flights of stairs, like a runaway boulder in the temple of doom, till he arrived outside. Instinctively, a 4 foot Ghanaian sleeping by the doorway, with a Brazilian kit painted onto his barechest and Fourtalisa misspelt on his back, sprung to life.
“Worn’rey cab” he asked.
Together they rushed towards a beaten up Volkswagen with DNQ painted on the passenger side door.
“Gerrin” he urged.
“Sochi, fast!” Celly ordered.
“Yessah, my name is Teefco, I am yor Ooba dlivah. Five starz sah. Please” he laughed.
A twist of the key and the engine chugged to like with the chronic cough of a lifetime smoker. Clutch down into first, no sooner had they set off and the Ghanaman was moving the gearstick through second and third. Fourth, fifth followed in quick succession.
“Sah, jos for you, I go enta seess gear. Felly, fely fast. Hehe. Five starz sah, please sah, five starz” he mumbled enthusiastically like a pint-sized Smeagol-Gollum.
A loud thud followed and then the sound of metal screeching across the tarmaced road. Flashing a glance out of the rear window, Cellular could see the floor of the car disappearing in the distance. He faced forward bemused.
“Sees gear, felly felly fast” Tf replied in reflex reaction. Before lowering his feet to the floor in Flintstonian fashion, he’d kicked a yam tuber from beneath his seat on top of the accelerator.
Sixth gear was felly, felly fast as he’d promised and within minutes they were in Sochi.
“After a dire first-half, this match has sprung to life Ron”.
“Absolutely” Atkinson replied.
“For anyone just joining us” Motson informed, “the Argentina - France has been annulled due to infringements, with France being ordered to play the Super Eagles of Nigeria instead. France, are flicking through the law books, understandably and having refused to release their first team, sent a few B teamers to represent them”.
“I dont understand that John, you leave the law to the lawyers and play the bloody game. If they lose this, they’ve only themselves to blame. Typical fro….”.
“Well Nigeria were no better” Motson interrupted, “they couldnt track down any of their squad members and have had to use members of an under-19s squad that were on trials apparently”.
“Under-19, dont make me laugh, I’ve got stickers of a few of those fellas in my ’66 soccer album” he quipped.
Cellular had squeezed his way through the dressing room window and again into the largest kit he could find. Taking one last look at the ID badge, he memorised its contents and then stuffed it into socks. Chukwuka Ofulanri Deji Adams aka Garrincha, 21st of March 1999, he recited, hurrying towards the pitch.
“Deep into stoppage time at the end of the ninety here Ron, its 1-1, it looks like extra-time”.
“Both sets of players look spent John, theres a minute remaining, run down the clock and get some juice on board…or whatever those lot drink”.
“Looks like Nigeria are going to make a change, its the nippy number 9 coming off for a defender it seems. I wont have a go at the name Ron”.
“Neither will I John, neither will I” he laughed, “they love a letter dont they, almost as much as they love a watermel…”.
“I’ll interrupt you there Ron, its still before watershed and no longer the 80s” he added. “Well I never” he remarked, “I haven’t seen that since the days of Daniel Amokachi at Everton”.
“Typical”.
Cellular, employing all of his falstaffian frame, had barged his way to the touchline. Before the dugout could respond, he’d blown a handful of dried leaves into the face of the incoming substitute, who stood frozen stiff. After a superstitious shuffle, he jogged onto the field of play.
An outswinging corner teased its way into the French box. A weary header intercepted its path.
“He’s headed onto his hand Ron, accidental but the balls fallen kindly for the Adams, the keepers on the deck, its an open net, a chance to make himself a hero, surely…he cant miss from there, its too close to miss, he’s….….”.
As he’d seen countless times on FIFA and played over endless times in his mind, Cellular positioned himself for the scissor kick. As he leapt, both feet off the ground, he thought about the celebration, could he get his shirt off unaided or does he mimic the latest dance steps from Fortnite?
Had he judged the flight of the ball correctly. Could such an obelisk escape the grab of gravity for the necessary seconds to execute the volley? The ball hastened its descent, answering to the call of nature. Cellular’s sizeable frame seemed swifter in its reply. Both feet off the ground, kicking more in hopelessness than precision, he began his descent long before the ball was in shooting range. Landing with a thud, a forceful ripple waved through his rotund physique. Akin to the surfer catching the wave, the ball landed right on cue. The collision with a seismic ripple in his peppersoup filled belly, sent the ball on a back-spinning rebound, looping clear of the French penalty area, spinning in all directions past the halfway line, evading the leap of the last man.
“Unbelievable Ron, what a palaver…this could be interesting, he’s clean through….He’s one on one Ron, only the keeper to beat…surely, surely….”
“Goaaaaaaaaaal. Unbelievable scenes here Ron, an amazing, chance counter attack and France have snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. This world cup just keeps on giving. Well I never Ron, we’ve had it all here…Where do we start? How can you sum this one up Ron?’
“Naive”.
The Curious Case of Odion Cellyghalo
by Coachua Bahiagbon Fakespeare
Fingers flitted across keypads like moths flirting with the luminous light. The heavy, humid airs of the oversized office trudged down throats before u-turning and hurrying back into the room just left, in forceful sighs. The blue lights of handsfree sets flickered on and off as if overcome by indecision, on, off, yes, no. The coiled, convoluted cord of the retro office phone, stretched its coils to subtle, seductive curls, as the receiver pressed against her ear. The elasticity in the cord’s yearn to retreat to its condensed shape, caused an unseen tug-o-war, manifesting as subtle shakes and vibrations akin to the tightropes slender buckle beneath the walker’s stride. The hum of distant dialling tones coalesced to a cumulonimbus of dull, monotonous melody.
As synchronous as the swimmers in the olympic pool effortlessly floating through their routine, pen tops clicked in frustration, others, uncapped, scrawled perplexing patterns across post-it notes lying, innocently atop the varnished mahogany worktops. The office was a festival of high design and extravagance, bold new fashions proudly arranged themselves within its massive enclosure. The bookshelves of old were retired and reduced to scrap wood, replaced by a 4 x 4ft, integrated, touchscreen, that one could be mistaken for assuming to have been the misplaced smartphone of a time travelled Goliath. Backless chairs suspended gel enclosed headrests above their curved seats in a matrix of coiled steel wires wrapped in luxurious leathers with triple stitched gold seams. An artistic masterpiece, an incoming call five minutes earlier, had stirred all the palette’s paints into medley.
The central phone had flashed, a private line known only to one contact. The two secretaries exchanged startled glances, their outstretched hands hovered above the receiver, equidistant, as if entrapped in a science fiction forcefield. Neither had envisioned this on entering the room. The instruction was clear, they were to fire up the coffee maker and bring the refreshments to the meeting room across the corridor. Black 2 sugars, white with cinnamon, vanilla with sweetener, as if singing along to their favoured song, the two gorgeously carved Cape Verdians, walked the length of the corridor repeating the lyrics with rhythm and blues.
The phone rang once more, seemingly wiggling with slight frustration. A deep inhalation expanded an appetisingly assembled chest. Lina, 22, the older of the two, was the masterpiece of a master mason, black molasses poured perfectly over pert and plentiful breasts that rose like mountains to a prominent cap of snow. Beyond the mountaintop, a calm black sea swam backwards towards two smooth, prominent cliffsides that pierced the sky alike the mountains above. A slender hand broke through the barrier, scattering the imaginary protons and electrons, she grabbed the receiver. “Hello”.
T’is said, a woman’s face was her greatest work of fiction, with each second in conversation, a new expression seized its moment of fame across this nubian stage. Could they all be lies?
‘Ok, I will do. Thank you Sir. Bye”. Hurriedly she replaced the receiver and motioned towards the door, a brisk walk, became a jog, before arriving at a full sprint as she reached the corridor. With each stride the gorgeous landscape danced with intensity. “Lina what is it” Caprice had asked. Taking Lina’s hurried exit as her cue, she followed suit.
The news had been greeted with momentary jubilation before a numbing realisation of the size of the undertaking and acuteness of the hill which they were to push this stone up.
“Argentina. Ineligible player. Disqualified. Nigeria France” Lina stuttered in exasperation. Shorthand, yet clear and concise.
The message was understood by all, the administrative team had 12 hours to recover the departed Super Eagles squad, who had scattered like the shards from a dropped glass, to enjoy the lasts of their summer holiday before a gruelling preseason at their respective clubs. Not one answered phone and a plethora of long, lengthy dialling tones, Dubai, Miami, LA and alike.
Tis said of Nigerians, such is the maturity of their olfactory senses, one could be placed anywhere in the world and would somehow by way of genetically encoded navigation systems or dark arts and superstition, find an establishment offering peppersoup. Moscow was no different.
Theres something about sporting contests that brings warring factions together, stretches the olive branch between Capulet and Montague, from Winterfell to Kings Landing and in the case of Cyberia, the exiled to the omnipotent. A bear paw of a hand, clad in myriad masonic rings, swallowed Patrick’s whole, like a five tentacled quintapus devouring a fishing boat at sea.
“Pato” Cellular chimed, flashing a gold-toothed smile steeped in trickery and embezzled riches, “its been too long” he continued. “We shoudn’t have let it come to this”.
“Onyebuchukwukov, bring two bowls of peppersoup, fish head!” he exclaimed. The young waiter hurtled towards the kitchen.
In times of war, the was no surgeon more skilled at tending to open wounds and placing approximating sutures across years of animosity than peppersoup. Fish head particularly. Hours passed and the squint of anger in Patrick’s stare warmed to a curve of accepted apology and renewed friendship.
“Chief, see stomach, abeg, as you dey eat everytin’ for table, mek you no chop dis cutlery o!” Patrick joked. “You’re doing well”.
“Na God be dat” Cellular returned, twisting the band of gold embellished with various symbols in ode to those secret sects of old Bavaria. Both hands cupping the bowl like an medieval goblet, he gestured towards the light, carved a pentagonal shape in the air, before tipping the contents between his parted lips.
“Chief, tek am easy o” Patrick warned, “bone dey…If na to do Heimlik manoova ehn, we go need startin’ eleven to circle dis yor belly”.
They laughed. Cellular’s mouth movements mirroring the masticating cow chomping through fresh grass.
“No wahala” he bragged, spitting shards of fish to and fro.
“So how is the state of our…” Patrick’s sentence came to an abrupt halt as if encountering a misplaced punctuation mark. His hand fidgeted in an inside pocket, before retrieving the quintessential two phones of a wheeler-dealer. A swipe of the screen and the conversation began.
“Ehenn…Ehenn…Adonbalivit…Ah, ah…Ehenn…Ehennn. Ok”.
Cellular looked on baffled, perplexed as his newly, re-acquainted old friend engaged in detailed conversation with barely a spoken word.
The call end abruptly. In a swift movement, a briefcase fell heavily on the table top, tilting the soup bowl slightly but enough to cause spillage. Annoyance stretched across Cellular’s face as he stared at the wastage. Fortunately the stockfish had stayed put. Patrick hadn’t finished his portion, it was only a matter of time before Cellular would annex his bowl and do the needy.
Click, click. The burgundy briefcase flew open, an ambrosial aroma whistled away from the assorted passports, birth certificates and various identity cards. An old school Nokia 8110 revealed itself, a push of a button and the case slid open in Matrix fashion.
The excitation had forced Patrick’s voice into an Uncle London demeanour, an Olawudeji Delboy Trotter perhaps.
“Dele, listen, get di boys, sharp sharp…a limo is on its way now now. Masaydeez. Bensss” he exclaimed. “They must be in Sochi in tartee minits” he added.
“Worriss all deez. Seet down!” Celly barked at the now standing Patrick.
Grabbing at the briefcase’s contents, he fixed his gaze at Patrick. “Chei! Pato…wetin be all dis”.
“Bros, I det ozzul now” a cliched reply with the slickness and swagger of a Nigerian Mina Raola.
“Chief” he continued “Infantino has disqualified Argentina, banned substances apparently” he spoke with interviewee like confidence, “its Nigeria - France for a place in the quarters. The French first team are spent, so they’re sending a reserve squad, whilst their legal team look into challenging the ruling”.
‘Ehennn, and…” Cellular interrupted.
“And our FA cant get hold of any of the players. So, they’ve asked me to pool together some clients and get them to Sochi. It’ll be 5 or 7 aside” he continued, “luckily I’ve got a group of thir….nineteen year olds, I was trying to get on the books of FC Spartak Middleofnowhere, in a 5 star, across the road. I must dash” he finished.
Cellular pondered for a minute as Patrick closed the suitcase.
“I’ll be needing those” he said motioning towards the pocket-sized green booklet and identity card in Cellular’s hand.
“Oh, of course”. Perfectly pitching them to within arms reach of Patrick, he rose to a stand, grabbing the bottle of odeku on his way up and emptying its full contents in one take.
Unexpected and exact. Patrick never saw it coming, leaning forwards to collect his particulars, his eyes left Cellular’s for the briefest of moments, barely a second, a sub-second that would last ten minutes before he regained consciousness. By then, Cellular was gone, the passport and ID card too.
The bottle crashed against the occiput, a popping sound chaperoning the shatter that followed. The force of impact propelled Patrick’s head forward and into the soup bowl. Not only was he unconscious, but the scotch bonnet would ensure a good thirty minutes of lavage would be needed before visual acuity would be restored.
Cellular hurtled towards the exit, skipping flights of stairs, like a runaway boulder in the temple of doom, till he arrived outside. Instinctively, a 4 foot Ghanaian sleeping by the doorway, with a Brazilian kit painted onto his barechest and Fourtalisa misspelt on his back, sprung to life.
“Worn’rey cab” he asked.
Together they rushed towards a beaten up Volkswagen with DNQ painted on the passenger side door.
“Gerrin” he urged.
“Sochi, fast!” Celly ordered.
“Yessah, my name is Teefco, I am yor Ooba dlivah. Five starz sah. Please” he laughed.
A twist of the key and the engine chugged to like with the chronic cough of a lifetime smoker. Clutch down into first, no sooner had they set off and the Ghanaman was moving the gearstick through second and third. Fourth, fifth followed in quick succession.
“Sah, jos for you, I go enta seess gear. Felly, fely fast. Hehe. Five starz sah, please sah, five starz” he mumbled enthusiastically like a pint-sized Smeagol-Gollum.
A loud thud followed and then the sound of metal screeching across the tarmaced road. Flashing a glance out of the rear window, Cellular could see the floor of the car disappearing in the distance. He faced forward bemused.
“Sees gear, felly felly fast” Tf replied in reflex reaction. Before lowering his feet to the floor in Flintstonian fashion, he’d kicked a yam tuber from beneath his seat on top of the accelerator.
Sixth gear was felly, felly fast as he’d promised and within minutes they were in Sochi.
“After a dire first-half, this match has sprung to life Ron”.
“Absolutely” Atkinson replied.
“For anyone just joining us” Motson informed, “the Argentina - France has been annulled due to infringements, with France being ordered to play the Super Eagles of Nigeria instead. France, are flicking through the law books, understandably and having refused to release their first team, sent a few B teamers to represent them”.
“I dont understand that John, you leave the law to the lawyers and play the bloody game. If they lose this, they’ve only themselves to blame. Typical fro….”.
“Well Nigeria were no better” Motson interrupted, “they couldnt track down any of their squad members and have had to use members of an under-19s squad that were on trials apparently”.
“Under-19, dont make me laugh, I’ve got stickers of a few of those fellas in my ’66 soccer album” he quipped.
Cellular had squeezed his way through the dressing room window and again into the largest kit he could find. Taking one last look at the ID badge, he memorised its contents and then stuffed it into socks. Chukwuka Ofulanri Deji Adams aka Garrincha, 21st of March 1999, he recited, hurrying towards the pitch.
“Deep into stoppage time at the end of the ninety here Ron, its 1-1, it looks like extra-time”.
“Both sets of players look spent John, theres a minute remaining, run down the clock and get some juice on board…or whatever those lot drink”.
“Looks like Nigeria are going to make a change, its the nippy number 9 coming off for a defender it seems. I wont have a go at the name Ron”.
“Neither will I John, neither will I” he laughed, “they love a letter dont they, almost as much as they love a watermel…”.
“I’ll interrupt you there Ron, its still before watershed and no longer the 80s” he added. “Well I never” he remarked, “I haven’t seen that since the days of Daniel Amokachi at Everton”.
“Typical”.
Cellular, employing all of his falstaffian frame, had barged his way to the touchline. Before the dugout could respond, he’d blown a handful of dried leaves into the face of the incoming substitute, who stood frozen stiff. After a superstitious shuffle, he jogged onto the field of play.
An outswinging corner teased its way into the French box. A weary header intercepted its path.
“He’s headed onto his hand Ron, accidental but the balls fallen kindly for the Adams, the keepers on the deck, its an open net, a chance to make himself a hero, surely…he cant miss from there, its too close to miss, he’s….….”.
As he’d seen countless times on FIFA and played over endless times in his mind, Cellular positioned himself for the scissor kick. As he leapt, both feet off the ground, he thought about the celebration, could he get his shirt off unaided or does he mimic the latest dance steps from Fortnite?
Had he judged the flight of the ball correctly. Could such an obelisk escape the grab of gravity for the necessary seconds to execute the volley? The ball hastened its descent, answering to the call of nature. Cellular’s sizeable frame seemed swifter in its reply. Both feet off the ground, kicking more in hopelessness than precision, he began his descent long before the ball was in shooting range. Landing with a thud, a forceful ripple waved through his rotund physique. Akin to the surfer catching the wave, the ball landed right on cue. The collision with a seismic ripple in his peppersoup filled belly, sent the ball on a back-spinning rebound, looping clear of the French penalty area, spinning in all directions past the halfway line, evading the leap of the last man.
“Unbelievable Ron, what a palaver…this could be interesting, he’s clean through….He’s one on one Ron, only the keeper to beat…surely, surely….”
“Goaaaaaaaaaal. Unbelievable scenes here Ron, an amazing, chance counter attack and France have snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. This world cup just keeps on giving. Well I never Ron, we’ve had it all here…Where do we start? How can you sum this one up Ron?’
“Naive”.
-
Scipio Africanus
- Eaglet
- Posts: 31901
- Joined: Mon Dec 22, 2003 7:43 pm
- Location: Cyberspace
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
The true dean of the world council of coaches!!!! 
One for the archives, surely.
One for the archives, surely.
Wha choo looking at?!
-
imehjunior
- Egg
- Posts: 7145
- Joined: Wed Jul 05, 2006 9:51 am
- Location: No man's land
- Contact:
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
Abeg who fit translate to English then summarize for me?
"Nigeria's No.1 problem is that all the smart Nigerians and those who know the solutions to everything are hiding here on CE." 1naija
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
Always a pleasure. Celly has served the reading man well.Scipio Africanus wrote:The true dean of the world council of coaches!!!!
One for the archives, surely.
-
Cellular
- Site Admin
- Posts: 53773
- Joined: Mon Dec 22, 2003 5:59 pm
- Location: Nembe Creek...Oil Exploration. If you call am bunkering na you sabi.
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
Nna, coach, you got everything right but the coffee part. I don't add sugar or cream...
But, is this football related?
But, is this football related?
THERE WAS A COUNTRY...
...can't cry more than the bereaved!
Well done is better than well said!!!
...can't cry more than the bereaved!
Well done is better than well said!!!
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
Not only football related, but explains the whereabouts of a certain forumer!
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
I thoroughly enjoyed reading that. Well done!
Bushboy's bushmen : 1.Isaac Success 2. Terem Moffi 3. Victor Boniface 4. Samuel Omorodion. 5. Samson Tijani. 6. Rafiu Durosinmi.
Who will be next?
Who will be next?
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
I am not sure anyone can help you. This na Obahiagbon or one of his ilk. He is gifted in writing brain twisting English not comprended by sane peole. This na classic case of " the beautiful mind" movie in written form.imehjunior wrote:Abeg who fit translate to English then summarize for me?
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tfco
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Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
...but i am 5'10
5 games sweet o
DNA no good o
AFCON 2024 L-O-S-E-R-S
They did not CEDIS coming
Naira Did We
Re: A CE Story (WC Series):The Curious Case of Odion Cellygh
Just banter Tf. Only a six footer or just shy of can appreciate the likes of the Big Fella and proper football.