Excerpt from 'Abali'

I want to fall madly in love with soccer. I want to know the chest beat that the last few minutes bring. I want to be genuinely excited about the start of a game because of the game. And not because there is chance that Ali may just rock my world if he wins. You see, Ali is really a gentleman. Oh, he is the gentlest of them all. But if Chelsea wins a March I have learned to stay out of the way of his madness. First he pulls the top of his shirt over his afro and gives the air a good fuck and fisting. And then the magic happens for me. He brings me a frosty glass of gin and tonic. Rides me to a pop. And then passes the night besides Raluchi's cot with his bottles and wipes on stand by. But if Chelsea loses, he drives out briefly for a smoke, returns home in a few minutes and goes straight to bed. And no matter how much Raluchi squeals at night, this oga is not moving. Of course all this fizzles off before the sun comes up and he is back to being the chatty and overly perceptive Ali who ... At the Berger park in Lagos, although we were tribes and world's apart, we connected over a knowing smile about sex, it's naughtiness, it's being a taboo. In that brief moment everything between us thinned.