Fight or Flight!
I can't breathe.
That was the second thought Femi's brain registered. He felt his heart pecking rapidly against his chest. There was no rhythm. Like the big diesel generating set in his parent’s church. He felt adrenaline, that hot fluidal energy, run its course through his veins. He was in danger.
That instinctive fight or flight danger... And his first thought had been – flight!
Earlier, Femi and a number of boys had decided to reclaim the football field they had lost to a heavy down pour. It still drizzled, and the field was filled with puddles of muddy water. That was not enough to stop them from playing football. And yes, the secondary school boys played a most unusual and thrilling football game which they would later dub as “Shaolin Soccer”; after the popular Chinese farce-movie that portrayed an unlikely and ridiculous use of the art of Tai Chi in football.
The boys played, kicked, dribbled and splashed in the rain and muddy puddles. It was the last day of school term. The boys played as if football would be forbidden the next day. Femi would always remember that “Shaolin Soccer” game, years after graduating from Ansar-Ud-Deen, Ota, as the best football game he ever played... If not for an unfortunate incident that happened on the field.
It was a five-aside game. Femi's team was leading by one nil and they had just scored another goal. In the game of football, when a team scores a goal – it calls for celebration. And where best to celebrate than upfield? You rub it in, in the “house” of the opposing team! Femi was doing his bit of celebration; a silly dance in front of the net-less goal post. He was oblivious of the goalkeeper’s school shirt in the muddy water he was revelling in with gleeful abandon.
The goalkeeper came back from fetching the ball, breathing out rants of how the goal was unjustly scored. Then he saw his school shirt, which he had (carefully?) hung on the bar across the large goal post, drowning in the muddy water Femi was splashing in. The ball in his hand did a free-fall.
The goalkeeper (adjudged to be one of the neatest in senior school) shouted, no shrieked! He demanded to know who threw his school shirt in the mud. Everybody on the field froze. He didn’t wait for them to thaw and answer. It became apparent that he had decided who the ill-bred criminal was – his nose flaring, his shirtless chest heaving like blacksmith’s bellows – he took long strides towards Femi.
Femi quickly opened his mouth to declare his innocence but some new facts his brain registered on the spur of the moment stopped him short of his speech – 1 the goalkeeper was about a foot plus taller than him (Femi was the shortest on the field); 2 his teammates were either afraid or a bit too far to attest to his innocence, or both; 3 and perhaps the most convincing: the goalkeeper stammered. And everybody knows you don't argue with a stammerer, especially a hot-tempered one.
Fight or Flight – his brain whispered.
Whoever had come up with the idea that fear means Fuck Everything And Run, must be a genius. Femi turned on the heels of his feet and ran. Guilt? Eye for an eye? Justice?
Nothing matters anymore. The FIFA worthy football game had suddenly morphed into Temple Run. The beastly goalie was in hot pursuit. No wicked twigs or logs to trip over. It was just a wide expanse of school field. And why were the classroom blocks so far away? Femi could barely feel his feet on the ground as he sprinted (h)over thick ankle-high grasses. It felt like flying.
But he wasn’t the only one flying. Something else was also flying. And it was flying at him at an angle. The classroom blocks were now in sig... Vveeep! – the flying saucer – a wooden slab, missed his face by half-an-inch. Femi's eyes widened in shock. The murderous slab might have missed him but it had succeeded in leaving him stunned. The fiery goalie stopped pursuing. The only thing he felt like catching now was his breath. And he was issuing curses while at it. Femi didn’t stop running.
Now, Femi hid in one of the deserted classrooms. He crouched behind a heap of chairs. He felt his heart beating wildly against his rib cage. Like the drumming of a crazed savage warlord. There was no rhythm.
I can’t breathe.
That was the second thought Femi's brain registered. He felt his heart pecking rapidly against his chest. There was no rhythm. Like the big diesel generating set in his parent’s church. He felt adrenaline, that hot fluidal energy, run its course through his veins. He was in danger.
That instinctive fight or flight danger... And his first thought had been – flight!
Earlier, Femi and a number of boys had decided to reclaim the football field they had lost to a heavy down pour. It still drizzled, and the field was filled with puddles of muddy water. That was not enough to stop them from playing football. And yes, the secondary school boys played a most unusual and thrilling football game which they would later dub as “Shaolin Soccer”; after the popular Chinese farce-movie that portrayed an unlikely and ridiculous use of the art of Tai Chi in football.
The boys played, kicked, dribbled and splashed in the rain and muddy puddles. It was the last day of school term. The boys played as if football would be forbidden the next day. Femi would always remember that “Shaolin Soccer” game, years after graduating from Ansar-Ud-Deen, Ota, as the best football game he ever played... If not for an unfortunate incident that happened on the field.
It was a five-aside game. Femi's team was leading by one nil and they had just scored another goal. In the game of football, when a team scores a goal – it calls for celebration. And where best to celebrate than upfield? You rub it in, in the “house” of the opposing team! Femi was doing his bit of celebration; a silly dance in front of the net-less goal post. He was oblivious of the goalkeeper’s school shirt in the muddy water he was revelling in with gleeful abandon.
The goalkeeper came back from fetching the ball, breathing out rants of how the goal was unjustly scored. Then he saw his school shirt, which he had (carefully?) hung on the bar across the large goal post, drowning in the muddy water Femi was splashing in. The ball in his hand did a free-fall.
The goalkeeper (adjudged to be one of the neatest in senior school) shouted, no shrieked! He demanded to know who threw his school shirt in the mud. Everybody on the field froze. He didn’t wait for them to thaw and answer. It became apparent that he had decided who the ill-bred criminal was – his nose flaring, his shirtless chest heaving like blacksmith’s bellows – he took long strides towards Femi.
Femi quickly opened his mouth to declare his innocence but some new facts his brain registered on the spur of the moment stopped him short of his speech – 1 the goalkeeper was about a foot plus taller than him (Femi was the shortest on the field); 2 his teammates were either afraid or a bit too far to attest to his innocence, or both; 3 and perhaps the most convincing: the goalkeeper stammered. And everybody knows you don't argue with a stammerer, especially a hot-tempered one.
Fight or Flight – his brain whispered.
Whoever had come up with the idea that fear means Fuck Everything And Run, must be a genius. Femi turned on the heels of his feet and ran. Guilt? Eye for an eye? Justice?
Nothing matters anymore. The FIFA worthy football game had suddenly morphed into Temple Run. The beastly goalie was in hot pursuit. No wicked twigs or logs to trip over. It was just a wide expanse of school field. And why were the classroom blocks so far away? Femi could barely feel his feet on the ground as he sprinted (h)over thick ankle-high grasses. It felt like flying.
But he wasn’t the only one flying. Something else was also flying. And it was flying at him at an angle. The classroom blocks were now in sig... Vveeep! – the flying saucer – a wooden slab, missed his face by half-an-inch. Femi's eyes widened in shock. The murderous slab might have missed him but it had succeeded in leaving him stunned. The fiery goalie stopped pursuing. The only thing he felt like catching now was his breath. And he was issuing curses while at it. Femi didn’t stop running.
Now, Femi hid in one of the deserted classrooms. He crouched behind a heap of chairs. He felt his heart beating wildly against his rib cage. Like the drumming of a crazed savage warlord. There was no rhythm.
I can’t breathe.
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