The AFCON final was meant to be a flicker of joy, a glimpse to the tunnel lights that have been starved many Nigerians. The insistent rise of commodities—a grueling rise—has plunged many citizens into a microcosmic version of Great Depression. We wanted something to celebrate. Something that could serve as a womb to birth our laughter, that has long been stifled, long marinated in pretense. So, a lot of people left their homes, while some stayed, crawled beneath their TVs. But for things like this, it is more better to experience it with others. Because there is love in shared passion and ultimate joy among a group of people who long for the same thing. In our case, who long for winning. So, I went with some friends to The Freedom Square at UNN, where we were to witness Nigeria's win.

It was in some way crested in our beliefs that Nigeria would win. Ivory Coast were once the losing team in the early stages of the tournament. But out of luck, or surprise, they found their way to the finals, with a country that had once beaten them in the group stages. I also think our team gave us the credence to believe in a win. With the likes of the dazzling Osimhen, and Chukwueze, and the elegiac Ihenacho or seniorman, and our novel Stanley Nwabali—the Rivers' State son, who defiled the laws of gravity to save two goals that gave us a lead against South Africa—the country that we had developed a taunting enmity against since the GRAMMYS'.

My friends laughed and talked about the girls from different faculties as we trekked the long distance from our lodge. We also fantasized about how we would hug the girls if Nigeria won, and how we would squeeze them tight, feeling their bosom and how everywhere will be wrapped in commotion and how in the commotion we would throw firecrackers, and dance to the futuristic songs that would be boozing from the speakers. When you are an alien to these kind of things, you only blend in with laughter. So I laughed a lot—even vigorously. Because I only joined them to see Nigeria win. And without this, I'd rather be at home listening to Fireboy or Omah Lay or some random soulful songs on Spotify—because I am a wrecked thing.

A good number of people had already converged at the square by the time we got there. Some were sitted on the low plastic chairs, some squatted on the surface of the earth. So we had no choice but to stand. I made my way to the front, because I was deficient in matters of height. After some delays, the speakers finally boomed and the sound sent waves of joy to the dusty air. And yes, dust. There was plenty of dust. It was in the air, on my breath. The harmattan had left us with a vengeful, fiery heat, and as I stood there, inside the crowd that manifested every minute, I felt very hot. Although, I was dressed in a light basketball singlet, and I was enjoying the little breeze landing on my bare side, till one girl, unknown in the darkness, plastered her hands on my shoulders, and I didn't know which one I liked most: the feel of the littlest air on my bare skin, or the silky and smooth touch of her hands. I left her anyways, but deep into the minutes it was no longer only her hands that I could feel on my body.

Before the match started, there were some cinematic slides of the footballers. I took the chance to see for the first time, some of the Ivorian players, and I can't lie, I immediately knew we were in for a tough game, especially when I saw one of the strikers, Haller. However, this was countered swiftly when the camera showed the passionate and kindled faces of Osimhen, and Chukwueze and Nwabali. They seemed prepared; that facial contour of passion—of Nigerian passion—was layered on their faces. My mind is a fragile thing, but I managed to fill it with hope. Although I think being hopeful is hard. Fear and worry has a way of brooding at the back of your mind. So now, in your mind, it will be a pretensive tugging between hope and fear. Hope is the most amplified one telling you, we will win. Fear is the occasional creeper that speaks without a voice, that shows you reality even when hope keeps fueling you with fascinations.

One of the speakers read a tweet from X, saying, Eagles don't fly at night and so so and so. Everyone laughed it off, but somehow, that passive statement stayed with me. Maybe it was it's prophetic tone, or maybe it was because I am a sucker for proverbial lines. But there was hope cleansing it from my mind. This statement would only stay afloat on the Atlantic waters of my mind some hours later.

Soon, the match started; a stream of happiness, a stream of expectation. The orange glows of the Ivorian jerseys were sort of positive compared to the simmering, moody green of the Nigerians. It was easy for them to catch your attention, there was a lot of orange in the pitch, part of what I would later come to consider as home advantage. Also, they possessed the ball often. The Nigerians appeared to be playing a defensive game. I looked for Osimhen, and he was home. Chukwueze, he was home. Everyone was home. And that gave the Ivorians the edge to dominate both their home, and a chance to filter into ours. But like our market women say to comfort themselves, anaghi eji ututu ama njo ahia.

It was during this going and coming that I first detected Simon Adingra of Ivory Coast. He was likely the youngest player on the pitch. With my ailing glo network, I browsed him up and saw he was a player for the sterling Brighton & Hove Albion. I agree that he is fine; I also agree that he was drenched in finesse. And I think one thing about French people and the Francophones is that their language sounds silvery, in line with their physicality. This is entirely subjective, but if I were to coerce you into this analogy, I'd suggest you to see the movie, Lupín. I started learning the French language on Duolingo because I wanted to be smooth on an international scale. I fantasized to attract the girls with my newfound smoothness. Lupín inspired me. Made me think about it all the time. And that's a brief insight into how I am the greatest fan of cinema.

No matter how much the Ivorians seemed to dominate the field, The fate of no scores left us hopeful even the more. I think there was one or two attempts of the Nigerian strikers diverging to the other side, but was stopped short. In fact, I didn't see much of the Ivorians' goalkeeper because he never had much work to do. Then, suddenly, a corner kick. That particular corner kick had a ting of great expectations to it. I believe it because it was Nigeria's first full-blown attempt to score on our opponent's side. And they did score. It was our poetic captain, Akong.

When I remember this goal, I remember how in a little time, I had turned from a frail, course-load-disturbed boy into a jumping man; even jumping as high as Billycock hill of Enid Blyton's Famous Five. The Freedom Square radiated its freedom. There was an outburst of jumping things. Tiny moans of jumping girls, the base vocals of jumping boys, the laughter of mischief, the laughter of harmony. And the dust. It was in the air, again. A large coat of it. It hung in the air for so long, for so so long even after the celebration died down. Nothing you can tell me, I was so sure this was the making of a beautiful, redemption story. I think when you are one step ahead of winning, the tuggle is largely dominated by hope. My entire fear dissolved. Nigeria would win.

This surety lingered in the same-fated Ivorian domination of the second half. We were so happy, so elegant. Happiness has a way of being felt. It has a way of not being forced. I have this assumption people always make that I always appear sad. They tell me this most often times, I just think it has to do with the frequency of my thoughts. I think a lot: about dead flowers, old people, little children, fine girls and many more. So maybe my face has only been reflecting the spectral nature of my thoughts. But at this moment, my joy could be felt. I was so happy. So so happy. For the first time, I asked the girl behind me what her name was, she said Ngozi. I said to her, Ngozi we are going to win. She said agreed with a vibrant nod. I asked which department, and as she was about mentioning, everywhere died down. Silence can have a voice. A deep silent grumbling that can envelope the whole earth around you. It was this kind of silence that held the whole of Freedom Square in one-piece. It was this kind of silence that made me turn, and suddenly, orange things were running and celebrating across the white, large, projected screen. It was this silence that brought back fear into the tuggle. And now, even hope was afraid.

The Ivorians had scored. Reality had dawned. But it was just 1 to 1, and if the worst—penalties—could happen, we had a nuclear hand to hope in. But the worst was not what we deciphered.

The next goal felt elusive—like something that should be questioned. Like something that has happened, but is still happening, and you're trying to figure out how to cleanse the mess, how to make it unhappen. It was painful yet stunning. It had a placid aftertaste to it. Everyone who just got a first win in one point or the other thinks there's some force behind their winning, and they believe that this same force would keep them against rivals if there is a progression. But I have come to learn that first wins should not be backed with surety, rather it should propel to more action, and instead of ruling out every possibility of failure, one should have a heart for every fate. Except if that person is guided by some faith that may waver with the littlest undertone of reality. That way, it does not change the course of the future, rather it reduces the pain, if the doomed latter should happen.

But this calculation does not often come at the happening moment. I felt souls around me drown in a pond of disappointment. The Nigerian players began playing a tensive game. It was no use though. The boys around me affirmed the match was done. The Nigerians had lost. The square had lost it's glory. And in the midst of this, one deluded stranger was still trying to conceive hope, trying to embrace faith, praying that the remaining three minutes would be enough for Nigeria to equalize. (Laughs in subdued horror). And that was me; and that was how I thought the force behind us, behind all of us broken Nigerians, would cause something to happen. But sometimes, Eagles try to fly, and it begins to rain, defiling their season. Sometimes there's strong will, but the unknown has a will of it's own. Sometimes we hope on luck, but life teaches us that destiny is planned. That everything begins and ends with us, with how hard we work. And sometimes, even with all these hardwork, some things are meant to end as lessons.

The inscrutability of destiny had marred the youthful vigour of my friends and all other students that had gathered at the freedom square. There was no music when we left, there were no chants, we did not remember the girls, we did not remember mischief; and the world was silent when we left.

Later, as we began the heavenwards journey to the mountain where we lived, our vigour seeped in, announcing survival. It started with the funny guy in our midst. We rubbed shoulders as we laughed: at Iwobi, at Chukwueze, and most importantly, at Tinubu. We didn't have to fly that night but we lived on the ground in laughter. I have come to learn that this is how life should be: Tragedies, personal tragedies and not the finality of the ones of literature, is like a tunnel, a long abbysimal tunnel. Sometimes it would feel endless. Sometimes it would feel so dark. But there would surely be an opening. Sometimes we can create those opening ourselves, by remembering that every tunnel has two entrances. And when we are worn out by the unseeming journey of the one at the far end, we can go back to the one we came through. Because there is always home. And where home lies, there's laughter.