Commentary
By Jerry Gbardy, Vancouver, Canada.
Asamoah Gyan stepped forward, hands on hips, gazing at the Jabulani and the Uruguayan goalie mischievously. He has led his country to the Quarter-finals of the FIFA World Cup, a feat worthy of emulation. With a lethal left-footed strike in extra time of the Round of 16, he sent the Americans home on the first Delta Airlines flight bound for Washington DC. Cameroon in 1990 had been to this level before after the Round of 16. Senegal also, in 2002 had trotted that same route. And so it was in Gyan’s place to beat that record, to take Ghana and the continent to the higher heights of nobility where they will be seated at the table with FIFA World Cup elites Brazil, Italy, Germany, Argentina, etc. The playing pitch was the 95,000 seat stadium in Soccer City, Johannesburg and the date was July 2, 2010, the date that will forever remain etched in the mind of Mother Africa for generations to come.
From Soweto to Sokoto, from Mombasa to Lusaka, and from Kigali to Kumasi, nothing moved. The crowded market grounds in Accra, Kumasi and Sekondi-Takoradi, the noisiest of all places in Africa on a typical market day, fell conspicuously silent for once in four years, of course with the exception of the deafening loud vuvuzelas which blared across the stadium and beyond. Gyan and the Blacks Stars, the continent’s “last man standing” - after five others including hosts, South Africa, crashed out - were on course to make history for the whole of Africa was united behind them. The heart of mother Africa pounded with infinite ferocity! I looked across at my friend sitting next to me; our palms were sweating, his rib cage pulsating like a blacksmith’s bellows. So was Gyan’s. And so was mine.
Asamoah Gyan. Top photo: The author, Jerry Gbardy.
Four years ago in Germany, Gyan’s penalty kick against the United States catapulted the Black Stars into the Round of 16. In South Africa, his 85th minute spot kick against Serbia secured the three points. A spot in the Round of 16 was guaranteed when in the 25th minute, he struck home a penalty kick against Australia. If he did it then, he could still do it again. However, with all the mastery at converting spot kicks the only thing that mattered now was for the ball to be in the back of the net. This was not the time to be vainglorious. It was in the last seconds, yes the last freaking seconds of the game. And so the continent held its breath and stood still.
The referee blew the whistle, Gyan walked gallantly towards the Jabulani on the penalty spot, twelve yards from the goal post which measured eight yards wide and eight feet high by FIFA standards. I buried my face in my cupped palms, refusing to see what was about to unfold. Gyan fired!...and it was a… Oh no! Oh no! The Jabulani went crashing on the crossbar along with whatever hope there was that Mother Africa had. A lady in Accra shocked by the missed opportunity, yelled, “Aye Asamoah!” crumbled to her feet and lay motionless.
I opened my eyes; I could not believe what I was seeing. I stood transfixed with both arms folded over my midsection. I rubbed my eyes again and again as if there were a thread of cotton blurring my vision. I saw Asamoah Gyan’s tears flowing like the River Volta while his teammates were taking turns consoling him. In the foreground of the video footage there was Suarez the disgraced and unpardonable Uruguayan cheat - whose deliberate parrying of the ball off the goal line with his hands had caused the penalty - walking towards the tunnel quite jubilantly. He had become an instant hero for his country.
Why Mother Africa, why did the gods let us down? Have we not paid our dues? Why did we come so close yet so painstakingly far? Did we not consult the oracles before venturing to undertake this noble task of defending your name? Oh Mother Africa, what have we done wrong? Truth be told, many of us are blessed with the gift of short term memory. But how can we afford to forget a defeat as this? And lest we should be prone to forget, may we be reminded each day for the next four years, of that day, of that nerve-shattering, palm-sweating, nail-biting moment when Africa stood still.
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