An Open Letter to Asamoah Gyan.

Dear Asamoah,

It took me a day to gather the broken pieces of my heart,
dip one shard into a bottle of black velvet ink,
and write out this letter to you.

Yes, you broke my heart yesterday in such an unusual way.
It was more painful than I expected,
and I am still bleeding as I write.

Everyone assures me that I will be fine in a few days,
that I will soon forget this pain,
and find a new love.

But you are tied to me in such an inexplicable way,
your blood is my blood, your soul mirrors my own,
and my pain, I am sure, parallels your own.

That kick heard around the world caught me in my soul,
my tears began at that very moment,
and erupted into fiery trails three kicks later.

It took me a day to gather the broken, burned shards of my heart,
to get over the image of you burying yourself into the turf,
and of those tears that racked your body and rocked the stadium.

You need to know that I forgive you,
for breaking my heart, cracking my soul.
I forgive you.

Because on the way to this heart-break and soul-cracking,
you also brought me immeasurable joy.
You made me dance. You made me believe.

I forgive your kick in this heart-break,
because you kept hope alive,
for me and all of us in your life.

You gave me moments of such sheer pleasure and thrill
en route to this heart-break and that,
that I can never forget.

Yes, you broke my heart yesterday in such an unusual way.
But you also showed me what love can do.
Love for the game, the players, the audience…

You broke my heart, you made me cry.
I watched your heart shatter at the exact moment
that you shattered mine…

And it took me a day to grieve and pity myself,
I am still bleeding,
but I know…so are you.

You left your heart right on that field yesterday,
and your soul…
You shared that with the entire continent.

Perhaps they are right. I will forget soon enough.
Healing in a few days, latching onto a new love.
But I will wait for you. If it takes four years, I will wait.

And I will love you still. Perhaps, even more then. I forgive you now,
for this wretched heart-break, for the pain you are enduring now,
and especially for the sake of how much I, and you, love this game.

I hope that you can forgive me for all my expectations,
I could not help but get buoyed by your exuberance,
by the promised thrill of world-record breaks.

But, see, this is why I want to wait for you. In four years,
when this heartache is revisited and rehashed,
I will carry my vuvuzelas, sukuti drums, traditional chants to Brasil…

to show you my heart, show you that I still love you.

I will wait for you, in Brasil.


The Continent of Africa.

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