JJ Okocha: a gift from the heavens, By Odi Ikpeazu
It is not usually in my habit to publicly wax lyrical about people, lest my motive be misconstrued. However in selected cases, I would do so despite standing at the risk of being accused of that act, which I genuinely dislike – being a praise singer. I would take that risk for Kwame Nkrumah. I would take it for Pelé. I would take it for Muhammad Ali. And a few others too.
This morning, I was just casually reading some typically sadistic, cynical, mean spirited comments on an innocuous blog article about J J Okocha, which made me appreciate anew why witchcraft and diabolism are in the African DNA.
One of the reasons why Okocha is up there on the FIFA World Cup draw podium and you and I are not is because he is regarded correctly by those who matter as one of the true all time legends of the beautiful game.
His ball playing was extraordinary, his skills wizard-like. When he played, opposing players caught themselves absent-mindedly watching him in awe. The fact that he is so universally acclaimed long after retirement and despite playing for so called ‘small teams’, makes his magical abilities even more incredible. He is a heroes’ hero, a players’ player, an avatar of the sport, worshipped by the very ones you claim to worship.
Sardonic African folks can be sitting there in beer joints, weeping and wailing, mourning and gnashing their teeth, their stomachs typically full of bile, counting the trophies that he didn’t win, discounting the accolades he did amass, while Okocha’s incredible feet are already indelible in football’s sands of time.
