Yusuf Musa | Abuja, Nigeria
The whistle blew before the match began,
Before the boots touched grass,
Before the crowd found its voice,
A verdict had already been written
In invisible ink upon the wind.
The referee stood at the center,
Clothed in the garments of fairness,
Yet his eyes wandered only one direction.
The linesmen held their flags
Like sharpened spears disguised as rules,
Waiting not to judge the game,
But to shape its ending.
And there stood a lone contender,
Not without flaws,
Not without scars,
But standing still—
Amid a field tilted by unseen hands.
Each pass became an offense.
Each stride became suspicion.
The goals he scored
Were measured with rulers of prejudice,
Then erased by fingers
That feared the noise of applause.
The crowd watched,
Divided between memory and propaganda,
Between what they saw
And what they were told to see.
Truth became a wandering orphan,
Knocking on doors
That no longer opened.
How heavy is the burden
Of playing a match
Where the scorekeeper is your accuser,
Where the judge is your rival,
And where the rulebook changes
Whenever you gain ground?
The sky itself seemed exhausted,
Carrying clouds swollen with disappointment.
The earth beneath the pitch
Knew every footprint of ambition,
Every stumble,
Every silent prayer
Offered to a justice that never arrived.
The saga unfolded
Like a river forced against its course,
A story not merely of a man,
But of power,
Of loyalty betrayed,
Of friendships dissolved
In the acid rain of politics.
For politics is a theater
Where yesterday's allies
Become today's witnesses,
And tomorrow's strangers.
It builds monuments with one hand
And digs graves with the other.
Yet history has a stubborn memory.
It listens beyond the whistle.
It studies beyond the flag.
It remembers beyond the headlines.
And often,
Long after the stadium empties,
It asks the questions
The officials feared.
Was the contest ever fair?
Did the lines truly mark the field,
Or did they fence a man from destiny?
Did justice hold the whistle,
Or merely wear its uniform?
The evening descended slowly,
Painting the horizon
With the colors of unfinished arguments.
The cheers faded.
The accusations lingered.
The game was declared over.
But some battles are never settled
By the final whistle.
For when the referee and the linesmen
Stand against a player,
Victory may be denied,
The scoreboard may be altered,
The trophy may be withheld—
Yet the deeper contest remains:
The struggle between power and principle,
Between silence and conviction,
Between temporary judgments
And the long, patient court of time.
And time,
Unlike men,
Raises no flag in haste.
It waits.
It watches.
And in the end,
It tells its own story.
Just like, against all odds -
SPAIN BEAT AGENTINA TO LIFT THE WORLD CUP!!!!!
JULY 22, 2026 (158 DAYS)
Abuja Network News
Tags
Opinion