Edited by Goodness Onu, Nigeria
My earliest memories of Cameroon were of pains inflicted on the Super Eagles and me. I cut my teeth as a football fan during the Maroc 88 African Cup of Nations. We sat outside, and the radio from dad’s Peugeot 504 became our transportation to Morocco. Names like Mfede, Omakaro, Egboibe, Kunde, and Oman Biyik were recurring, as the coarse voice of the commentator from Radio Nigeria vocalized the action from a distant land. My kiddy nerves were on the edge the whole time.
“He moves the ball from the midfield and he shoots!”
“It’s a….”
My heart would melt.
“Over the bar!”
We would heave a collective sigh of relief. In retrospect, I think the commentator escalated the situation more than the players on the pitch.
“It’s a goal! Henry Nwosu!” the voice cried, smacking us in the ears.
“It’s a goal!” We all screamed and hugged each other. Palms parted the air to find another palm to slap. Mama Edozie’s high pitch tore through the air.
“It has been disallowed,” the commentator echoed over ten times to crash our party.
At this point, I was the only kid still paying attention to the voice from the car.
“Penalty! It is a penalty!”
“To whom?” My father asked.
As if on cue, the commentator cried, “It’s a penalty to Cameroon”
“Goal! Kunde! Kunde! Emmanuel Kunde! It’s a goal! Cameroon, one, Nigeria, zero!”
The screams from the commentator grated my ears. My eyes bubbled and I took deep breaths to hold back the fountain.
My father, uncles and the other neighbours filled the air with optimism.
“There is still time,” was the chorus.
Time faded into emptiness. Nothing came out of it. The game ended and I became a fountain of tears.
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In 1989, we did it all again. On August 12, my senior uncles and neighbours all mobilized and trooped to the National Stadium in Surulere to watch Nigeria defeat Angola by a lone goal scored by Stephen Keshi. I remember straining my eyes and peeling layers off the crowd to see if I could catch a glimpse of any of them on our small tricolour television. We watched as Sam Okwaraji slumped on the pitch and was later proclaimed dead. We waited all night as we heard tales of stampede and chaos at the stadium. On the light of the next day, they all returned in one piece, and the celebrations were truly on. The victory meant we were tied on seven points with Cameroon and needed just a draw to qualify.
As it was in that era, away matches were not broadcast live on TV. We turned back to daddy’s car stereo for another pulsating encounter with the FRCN commentator. There was an air of optimism as the new Dutch technical adviser of the Super Eagles talked tough. I read through his newspaper interviews and was pumped up. I recollect the image of goalkeeper Alloy Agu in a catlike dive pasted on the back page. I ran my fingers over the image and tried to recreate it on the bed with my younger brother.
The commentator, as usual, cried wolf before calming us down with, “And the ball goes out of touch!” He regaled us with the rough play of the Cameroonians.
“Cameroonians are rough oh,” my uncle lamented, before giving us a history of bad Cameroonian behaviour. My lungs were filled with bated breaths as the commentator drilled holes in our hearts with his excited screams.
Alloy Agu, our trusted hands, was injured and taken off. David Ngodigah was brought on. Our ears soon got accustomed to hearing, “another save by Ngodigah!” The name rang in my ears all through the match and for several days after.
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“A corner floats in from the right. It’s a header! It’s a goal! Oman Biyik! It’s a goal!” The cries tore through my ears and wretched my little heart. Cameroon had taken the lead. There was a great stillness in the space we sat. The remaining part of the match was torture. Our hearts were pulled out and placed in over the concluding course of the game. My mom persuaded me to eat dinner but my appetite deserted me. I cried myself to sleep.
Cameroon went on to dazzle at the Italia 90 World Cup. We turned our support to them during the FIFA tournament. Their opening game against Argentina was my first World Cup match. I had never seen Maradona play, but his name was constant during our street football. The best dribblers in school were called Maradona. My uncle told me of how he dribbled all the players on the pitch, got to the open goal and dribbled back to his post. I was scared for Cameroon. The game gave me a first glimpse of what Cameroonian football was about. I watched in disbelief as they mauled down the Argentinean players by the minute. I was looking forward to seeing the great Maradona and his dribbling moves, instead, he was a cry baby. I was proud of my African brothers.
“They don’t know we are Blacks and we are stronger than them,” somebody quipped.
Oman Biyik, the man that broke Nigerian hearts, leapt and planted a downward header. I thought the keeper had caught the ball. Our neighbour’s parlour exploded into screams of “Goal!” Back slaps and hugs were passed around. Mighty Argentina and Maradona had fallen.
Roger Milla then put up a show in the last group game and the second round. His iconic corner flag dance was transported to our local football fields. The World Cup fever was high. The images of Roger Milla picking Rene Hugita’s pocket in midfield and then running with the ball before slamming it into the net still gives me goosebumps. There was a celebration every night Cameroon won a game. As kids, we got little treats too. All previous animosity was buried as we rose as African brothers fighting for glory.
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No African country had made it to the quarter-finals before then. Cameroon wrote their names in World Cup history when they filled out against England in the quarters. The game was a late game and we were initially not allowed to watch. My father later got excited when Cameroon took the lead and called us to join in. I couldn’t believe the scores on the screen: Cameroon- 2 England -1. A few minutes to the end penalty. Garry Lineker buried it neatly. During extra time, another penalty. Everyone was livid.
“They don’t want an African team to win the World Cup.”
“The Whites will always cheat us Blacks!”
“How can that be a penalty?”
“You can’t give one team two penalties in a game like this!”
“Ojoro referee!”
Gary Lineker sent the keeper the wrong way and England to the semifinals.
It was another night of tears for me. Cameroon had broken my heart again.
This article was published in the May 2022 edition of the WSA magazine.
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