OWÓLỌLÁ ÀJÚLÉKÚN

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OWÓLỌLÁ ÀJÚLÉKÚN
Friday 28 March 2025

THE MATCH

An arena of mixed feelings;

The posh whistle pierces the air,

Setting legs and brains in motion.


Coaches snap orders

Thoughts clash 

Tactics hacked

Step-overs breed envy

In the scary four-corners

Counter launched at a price.


Resting at halftime is a crime

When chances go begging at 45.

Do or die, 

New legs injected with tactics

To prevent late equalisers—

Accidents that crumble a million soles.


Shadows are silent spectators,

Judging every showboating.

The restless referee roars,

Seeking whom to devour

With last cards.


The match wears grey hairs

Boots too heavy to move us

Final whistles blown

Penalties leave us with rolling hope 

Commentators rapture the stands with paradox—

Winners don’t win, losers don’t lose.


© Owólọlá Àjúlékún



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