Twelve Yards to Comedy: When Destiny Slips on a Banana Peel.

Ajulo David

Biography: Ajulo, David Olufemi is a multifaceted professional whose career and passions span technology, literature, business, and agriculture. Trained as a Telecom Engineer, he has built a solid reputation in the world of communication technologies, ensuring innovative solutions that connect people and empower industries. Beyond engineering, Olufemi is an internationally recognized Sales Professional, celebrated for his outstanding ability to build relationships, inspire trust, and deliver results across diverse markets. His creative spirit finds expression in revolutionary poetry, where his words resonate deeply with audiences, weaving themes of humanity, egaliatrian society, resilience, and the beauty of existence. As a passionate poultry farmer, Olufemi demonstrates his belief in self-sufficiency and sustainable living, nurturing not only livestock but also a philosophy of responsibility and care for the earth. At his core, Olufemi is a lover of nature and all that is good to behold. Whether through professional excellence, poetic insight, or his agricultural endeavors, he embodies a rare balance of intellect, creativity, and a profound appreciation for life’s simple yet profound wonders. The number to reach him is 07061394472.

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Ajulo David

Friday 16 January 2026

Twelve Yards to Comedy: When Destiny Slips on a Banana Peel.

Playing a penalty like chewing gum—

stretch, chew, snap… then swallow doom.

World-class football is no friendly game;

it’s pseudo-war dressed up in fame.

No bullets fired, no soldiers fall,

just leather launched toward destiny’s wall.

Goalposts stand like stubborn fate,

while nations tremble, love, and hate.

Nigeria vs Morocco came dressed to kill,

with razzmatazz, noise, and scripted thrill.

Drums were loud, the stakes ran high,

yet truth wore boots and passed us by.

For lurking near the centre spot

stood Ghana’s Judas—whistle hot,

booking one side with holy zeal,

yellow cards like raffle deals.

Flip! Flip! Fly!—another card,

as if fairness slept off-guard.

The Golden Eagle blinked and froze,

confused by rules that bent and froze.

Yet still they fought and held the line,

a clean sheet standing past full time.

Haba! One-twenty minutes strong—

clean as hymn, yet something wrong.

Osimhen trapped, Lookman bound,

Iwobi boxed, Akor drowned—

not by skill or clever play,

but by strings pulled far away.

Then penalties—ah! destiny’s prank,

football’s casino, logic blank.

Eni orí yó—head or tail,

sense grows legs and runs to jail.

Second came Chukwueze, chewing fate,

swagger late, composure late.

His body spoke, his mind did roam,

as if the pitch were back at home.

He struck the ball with timid grace,

a lover’s tap, not warrior’s pace—

straight to the keeper, neat and clean,

a wrapped-up gift, politely seen.

Then Bruno came with ritual calm,

not fire, not rage, but folded palms.

An ancestral son of Ahmadioha,

chanting softly, “make this ball no just wahala me.”

No thunder shot, no rebel cry,

just gentle prayer drifting by—

laid carefully, with sacred care,

into the keeper’s waiting snare.

No venom. No fight. No protest sound.

Just destiny slipping, flat on ground.

And just like that, without a shot,

a nation’s pride untied its knot.

No blood was shed, no trumpet blown,

yet silence roared from screen to home.

So learn this truth, both young and old:

the game is less than we are told.

For modern wars need not be guns—

sometimes they’re lost

by chewing gums.

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Twelve Yards to Comedy: When Destiny Slips on a Banana Peel.

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