A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerobby

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A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerobby

Post by Coach »

Light reading to tickle the midriff on the eve of next round of Rainforest Raucous, Samba Sorcery. One must say, the Mundial, or perhaps its colours and creativity, is/are certainly an antidote for writer's block, another two or so chapters into the anthology...a little break from the serious for a bit of parody and spoof. Cyberia is certainly an endless source for such. No spell-check and two refreshing Coors lights in, arguably the beverage of the summer. Part 2 in the Man Booker Prize winning trilogy. A little rushed, but with poetry to write, theres only few hours for play.



Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerobby
By Coachilliam 'Bahiagbon Shakespeare


The sun's setting cast a commanding shadow over the glistening gold sands of the Cabana, the splendid rays that brought the day to such illumination as to rival the hooded cloaked cabals of Cyberia, retreated to the motherly embrace of the burning ball like prodigal sons, spent and weary. A mirage perhaps, the fallacious foolery of caputo's effect, conjured the image of an animalian apocalypto, a savaged Serengeti, the soils of which stained red with the carcass of all creatures. Bull elephants, crumpled heaps, trunks sunken neath the sands, tusks of ailing ivory, flaccid , infirm. Lions, indomitable, dominated, toppled thrones atop crownless kings, manes strewn across scarred faces, lifeless. Dead. As far as the eye dare voyage, a collage of rigor mortised mammals, a beach far removed from the rainforests of Manaus, littered with the leftovers of divine retribution? A mirage, magnificently untrue, yet tempered with the sorry state of a continent's collapsed campaign.


"Ah ha, see lion dey for beach, dead, elephant, dead, hyoosless. Indomitable gini?", "no be ivory wey dem get for tusk abi?", weighed in a bashful Big Pokey. More than the disappearing sun, the local brews consumed in considerable quantities had inspired the illusions of a Serengeti's cemetery. "Afta all di big talk, no be Yeye Toure wey enta field" laughed Mazi Ohsee, the elder statesman had been called to bless and break the kola at the final whistle for yesterday's viewings. 3-2, a defeat, but one of relative irrelevance, Nigeria were through, the Eagles, those birds of prey, flapping their wings where the lions couldn't roar, where the elephants wouldn't stampede. The defeat to FC Los Bubblos Buttos women's 5 a-side team the night before had been washed away by pints of Brahma and boasts of qualification from the group stage. Theres something about success, no matter how slight or slender, that puffs chests and broadens shoulders. Casual, cocksure, with an air of the rambunctiously robed Ric Flair, the famous five strolled, strut, across the sands like the proverbial Ogas on top, sharing purposeful bicker on Muntari's mutiny and ancient Eto'oan head snapping, finger clicking, hand on hip, mmm hmmming, guuuuuuuuurl, you better recognise, within earshot of the saddened faces drowning sorrows and drying tears neath flags flying at half-mast.


"Oya, shoyyop, I sey, shoyyop, cantchu see, kwiyet, di lions ah trening". Shock had lent to a young Bamenda, denial and disbelief, days were spent talking up chances of qualification and grandiose delusions of go hear wens. Cameroon had since returned to Yaounde, Eto'o the Great was leading a secession in his frontroom, rallying his remote control to demand monetary reward from the TV for its services. "Samsung, yoo, namesake no be excuse monsieur, pay me di morney, wey is dis morney, l'argent!". Life had returned to normal for the Ndomi-for-table lions, Song was on all fours in down town Bethlehem, donkey for hire sign perfectly suspended from his neck and Mbia, polishing up a fresh baldy to ease the osmosis of brainlessness from his block head. Normality had resumed for all but Bamenda.

"Hey! Hey! Arrete de parler, arrete!" bellowed a brilliantly bleached headed Couer d'Ivoire, completing his vented frustrations with six or so lines from MC Solar's cameo in Missy Elliot's, All in My Grill.

Staggering to a stand, a consequence of a shrapnel laden frame, so said legend, General Ogolo in rusting military fatigue, marched with military precision towards the Cyberian quintet. Closer inspection of the medallions fastened to the blazer, coupled with the baggy shorts and baggier singlet poorly concealed, suggested a recently run steeple-case. Twas common knowledge that the so called shrapnels were infact shin splints from poorly timed jumps and collisions into the hurdles on each lap. Rolled Rs and countless maishani mwangu, sijiapata mkares later and the old soldier was head to head with the self-appointed Cyberian skipper, Celluminati.

"Hey! Hey!".

"Try eet, you go die hia!".

"Die weh, who go kill am!" roared an eau du Plantain odoriferous voice from afar. The screeching brake pads of a beaten up 504 spluttering its way towards the melee, brought the voice and its owner to the thick of the action. The front door on the driver's side fell open revealing a diminutive fellow, 4 foot 5 Annans, draped in an oversized dashiki with Taksi misspelled across its front. Completing the ensemble was an Asamoah mohican with a wonky 3 bleached into a thicket of nappy roots. "Yor sheeeeet, sheeet, di whole tin' is fixed, yor tim is sheeeeet, di wey Transse go deal widchu, I go laugh" Rawlings ranted, confirming his capriciousness with a chorused "worna' caaaab, worna' caaaab, eh eh! worna' caaaaab".


By now the beach was bustling with bodies, those fabulous fruit salads of perfect endowment that had Yakubu'd Celluminike and co, had gathered by the bra cup and bikini strapful, bouncing those plentifuls in tandem. "Fight, fight, fight, fight!", had first started off as a jovial chorus, but within seconds, the squabbling factions were encircled by scores of scantily clad gorgeous goddesses, magnificent sculptures carved by the most skilled of masons. Bubbled was not nearly enough of an epithet to capture the majesty of the derrieres that danced to the chorus, bounced brilliantly, twerked tantalizingly. In the sweetest of synchronous movements, those rhythmic gyrations had entranced the Cyberians and Ogolo's ragtag band of brothers (by way of national team failure). Like the curvaceous crowd about them, they too were singing, screaming, shouting, "fight, fight, fight, fight!" at fullest voice.


Mazi Ohsee was the first to breach the standoff, an arthrirtic Ali shuffle preceded a wild swing of his right hand, slow, telegraphed and yet, with the turning speed of Danny Shittu post egusi and ogbono soup with assorted cuts of cow foot, Ogolo could only close his eye in preparation for the collision of knuckle and bone. The fat pad above the eyelid served as a splendid shock absorber, reducing the damage to a light shade of purple bruising around a partially closed eye. Ohsee, brittle boned by the ravages of age, somewhere in his hundreds, legend told, had started to fashion a cast of red clay and beach sand, almost in the same passage of movement as the thrown punch.

"Chai, di state of our yoonyon don scatter finish" began Robbynice, "moss we fight? My people, my dawgs", the tendency to break into a Nollywoodean American accent was said to have been one of the reasons behind his controversial call up to the traveling band. Oyinbo na Oyinbo. The other being the bag of silver handed over to Celle$hi, apparently.


"See as Pah Ohseedinho tro' ponch hia, in Brasil, ah ah, wetin" he sighed, "all I know sey, for my own house, e go b...", "next goal wins!" interrupted Celluminati, whilst booting a ball high into the night sky. In spite of his shockingly poor performance in the previous match, the self-titled Oga on top had appointed himself skipper, stretching a black band across his upper arm, whilst summoning the others to an adhoc team huddle.

"1-3-1 fo'mation" he whispered, "Babafad sweeper, na me go chop lef' centre, Mazi right, Pokeydipokey...John Pokey Mikel, centre centre, Shola Amerobby, yoo go be di targetman, hedders and hold up ehn, hedders and hold up!".


The Ogoloeans instantly fell into a 1-4, attack-minded naivety. General Ogolo, big, burly, formed an uncompromising one man defence behind a front four of the Hobbit-like Rawlings, the sporting waved Akonesque Bamenda and two other ringers, one, an Arabic complexioned adolescent who spent the day entertaining the Cabana's crowds with cocktails of keepy-uppies and short stories. The other was more mysterious, dark shades and a novelty nose and 'tache two piece camouflaged a face hidden neath a Fellaniesque fro. Whilst the El H on the back of the former's top confirmed his identity, the $ sign on the latter's had sparked ample discussion amongst onlookers and social media. "El importo de mercenaryo?" questioned a voice in the crowd, "no" whispered another cautiously, casting a glance left and right for want of secrecy, "they say its Vanciudad de Eaglos" he concluded. "Ssssh, nao falam, nao falam, es uno secreto. El dollar es un takio del pisso of Stephio Keshi no".


"Its been a brilliant World Cup thus far Andy and the festival of football continues right here. The Cyberians, led by villain of the last game, Celluminike, have challenged the Ogoleans, the balls almost landed, we're about to kick off here".

"I'm very surprised with the lineup Clive" Townsend puzzled, "Waffledinho would've been the obvious inclusion with Celly dropping out, he was poor in the last game. Very and shouldn't be starting".

"Well he is Andy and the Cyberians cant ponder over that for much longer, its Bamenda on the ball, ghosts past Mazi, who interestingly has Ohseetunde scrawled upon his jersey, something to do with the cast on his right hand, an injury sustained in a brawl with Ogolo apparently. FIFA will be looking into the video replays, but we're underway here and its with the Cameroonian...".

"Great skill from Bamenda, he sold Pokey a dummy there and has got El H in acres of space to his left...this could all be over Andy....ooooooh, he's gone for goal! Poor, poor choice. Its high, its wide, he had the young Egyptian unmarked in the area and...".

"You're right Clive, he's got no excuse, its selfish, its naive and you get that with these Africans Clive, they all want to be the...".

"Oooooh, whats this? Unbelievable, the two have gone head to head Andy...its not looking good for the Ogoloeans".

"Well they need to put the handbags away and get back to the game Clive, the ref's letting them play on here, it could be a counter".

"Babafad to Celluminike".

Control instantaneous, the self-aggrandizing secret societarian strode across the pristine planes of the Cabana with the new found elegance and technique of a Zinedine Zidane, cooked, boiled and marinated at La Chateux du Taribo, that most mercurial of shrines where unparalleled abilities were hocus-pocused into individuals. Shimmies, Cruyff turns confirmed the Jujufication before a raking cross-field pass fell inch perfect at Mazi's feet. Rawlings had sworn the ball had turned into a bird mid-flight, undergoing some sort of Galapagos Island Darwinian evolution, flapping its wings till perched on Ohsee's foot.

"Ooooooh, great control from the veteran".

"He makes it look so easy Clive, any kid watching this one and able to pry their eyes away from the magnificent mounds and bubble's with the bouncebackability of Ian Dowie on a pogo stick, should..."

"I'll interrupt there Andy, he's skipped inside of his marker...and thats a wonderful pass, exquisite, outside of the boot, its exhibition stuff here now!"

"Its up to the big man Clive, this is what he's been called up for, Amerobby's got to hold this up, bring the boys into pl...ooooooooh no!!!!!!!".


Skyscraping, six foot and beyond, Shola Amerobby was, by the tape alone, a unit, an old fashioned number nine cut from the granite with deliberate size and stature. A Goliath, a horse for those courses where the going was such that hold-up was essential. Who better for such a purpose than Cyberia's very own Odeku Large.

Who better? Anybody without the first touch of a virginal adolescent, fumbling away at a bra strap, desperate for second base.

The pass had done most of the work, with Ogolo inconveniently inhibited by his portly frame, unable to do any more than slow motion his way towards Amerobby, the counter needed the briefest of hold up plays to assume a three on one. Sol Glo gleaming like a jherri curled Patrick Ewing, one could've been forgiven for assuming long left leg had met equally long right leg for the first time. Neither known to the brain. A purposelessly pathetic stepover chaperoned absolute incompetence on to the sands. The gangly left leg, in attempt to step over the ball, had careered into the heel of the right, skidded over the ball's surface and sent the left leg left as the right spread far right.


"Unbelievable, unbelievable Andy...dont adjust your TV sets, you're not mistaken, Amerobby, in attempting to hold up play, has fouled his right leg with his left and slipped on the ball. He's doing the splits now, oooooh, thats got to hurt, thats got t...."

"Speechless. I'm absolutely speechless. Theres no words for it" Townsend spoke, contradicting the speechlessness of Amerobby's spectacle, "well, we all know what Big Ron would say...and on the evidence of that he's ri...".

"Its a big clearance upfield by Ogolo, he really gave that some welly...Its with Hadary now, theres been alot of talk about this youngster, the Prince of Persia, Tutankhamen, amongst his many monikers. We've heard it all before, Mido, Zaki, Abou Tre...oooooooooooh, wonderful, wonderful, its Jay Jay Okocha-like, ball between his feet Andy, he's flicked over Celluminike, who's fallen to the ground wrong footed".

"He'll be looking for okro for that garri Clive".

"Turn of pace from Hadary, he's gone past John Pokey Mikel like he wasn't there!...or if he was, he's running in treacle with cement blocks for shoes".

"Mazi's trying to get back Clive, he wont make it, today or tomorrow". Age had given to Ohsee wisdom, whilst stealing every quantum of speed and stamina, leaving little more than solace in the form of a Costa Coffee Card and a bookshelf bending under the burden of countless short stories unpublished, rejected, ridiculed by various publishers.

"Its Hadary bearing down on goal, Babafad between the sticks, or Gianluigi Babaffon as he prefers, does he come out and make his obelisk-like frame even bigger, or stay on his line...".

Opting for the former, Babaffon roared towards the young Egyptian, a mass of piceous onyx akin to a biblical plague besieging a half-naked, incredulous and absolutely effeminate Pharoah.

"Babaffon's closing in and...oooooooooh, ingenious! Ingenious! Ooooooh, you wont see a better piece of skill for a long time...".

"He's given him the eyes Clive and then done him with a gaucho, its that heel-toe the Ronaldinhos and Neymars do to ya', brilliant from the youngster...dinks over to the far post and........its in, its in!...they've hit them on the break Clive and its the new boy".

"What a goal Andy and what a celebration, Hadary's walking like a Bangles' 1985 Egyptian and...ooooooh, what this, the new boys taken his shirt off, he's been waiting for this one".

"Whats that on his vest Clive?"

"Why...Why Always V.E".
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by highbury »

We have a Schizophrenic in the house
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by Coach »

^why in the house, the sun's out, rather the garden.
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by bamenda boy »

:thumbs: :rotf:
Cochito na who comout 504 and doors them fall off? The midget? Keep make I run finish read. Too sweet.
Only two things in life are certain - death and taxes. But there is one other unpleasant certainty: criticism. No one escapes it entirely and often our careers, our emotional stability, even our happiness depends on how we react to it."By Benjamin Franklin"
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by bamenda boy »

:rotf: :rotf: Ameorobby don die. The guy Ernie ei rught leg with left leg attempting to do step over. Lmao
Only two things in life are certain - death and taxes. But there is one other unpleasant certainty: criticism. No one escapes it entirely and often our careers, our emotional stability, even our happiness depends on how we react to it."By Benjamin Franklin"
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by Scipio Africanus »

I have run out of paper for di printer. Abeg wait me make I go porshase paper.

Wha choo looking at?!
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by Cellular »

A story about Shola and not a mention of his agent, TheYeyeman himsef?

Coachito, are you alright...


Never mind... na rhetorical kweshion... :taunt: :P
THERE WAS A COUNTRY...

...can't cry more than the bereaved!

Well done is better than well said!!!
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by Coach »

^e go do you like film trick!

If you see di kind penarity Celluminike go chop in di next one ehn, real hyoosless! E go put ball for tree and run collect udala. Nonsense!

:taunt:
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Re: A CE Story, Pt 2: The Good, The Bad and The Shola Amerob

Post by uglyoneiamagain »

"Yor sheeeeet, sheeet, di whole tin' is fixed, yor tim is sheeeeet, di wey Transse go deal widchu, I go laugh"

That was the killer :rotf: :rotf:

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