Ces joueurs africains qui tiennent l’Afrique dans leurs cœurs et qui veulent aider le sport africain bla-bla-bla bla tout en se battant avec un coéquipier sur la scène internationale en 2014....
Vous me faites doucement rire...mais ça ce sont vos valeurs 🤔 @AssouEkotto
I was a Messi fan when “he needs to win with another club” was the GOAT requirement.
I was a Messi fan when international trophies were the final excuse.
I was a Messi fan when they said he was nothing without Xavi & Iniesta.
I was a Messi fan when his Copa América tears became a global meme.
I was a Messi fan when he finished 5th in the Ballon d’Or rankings after carrying football with goals, assists & a domestic double… just because of one bad World Cup.
I was a Messi fan when every legend could fly with club + country wings, but Messi only had Barcelona.
I was a Messi fan when people mocked his only “international trophy” as a gas canister.
I was a Messi fan when they called him timid because he led with football instead of shouting.
I was a Messi fan when the World Cup was still “the ultimate argument”.
I was a Messi fan when he was judged more for what he hadn’t won than for everything he had conquered.
Now he’s completed football and suddenly it’s “let’s enjoy both goats” 😭
Two goats ke? After all that suffering? Never.
We stood in the trenches. Vawulence continua 🐐
🚨⚪️ Barça president Laporta: “I don’t envy Real Madrid for Mbappé as new signing…”.
“This distorts the dressing room, for sure”.
“You have to sell a player, don't you? Because they're not going to play in the same place…”, told Mundo Deportivo.
This is legit… Please, help me reach that person 🙏
Celine Dion battled this too, and by GOD’s grace she’s okay now ❤️. I’m holding onto that same hope.
But survival has a price tag: $88,800 for IVIG 💔. Dad’s gone. If you can help me reach them, you might be saving me 😔✊🏾.
One year later. Still iconic.
I dropped a body of work that spoke.
A year later and the album is still leaving a mark. This era was crafted with intention, passion, and a team that understands excellence.
Forever grateful to everyone who showed love.
🔗: https://t.co/SlfUKxEPRR
My brother left for Canada on a Tuesday, and I have been the firstborn ever since.
That sounds like nothing. Let me explain what it cost me. Before Kofi boarded that KLM flight from Terminal 3, we were a team — he handled our mother's rent, I handled her light bills and the small pharmacy drama that came every quarter, and together the weight was manageable, the way two people carrying a wardrobe up a staircase is manageable, until one of them puts their end down and waves goodbye. The morning he left, he ate waakye from the woman by the SSNIT flats in Adenta — the one with the red plastic bowls and the fish that always looked at you — and he was laughing about something on his phone, and I watched him eat and I thought, this is the last normal morning, though I could not have told you why I thought it.
The calls reduced first. Not immediately, not dramatically, the way people imagine abandonment — it was gradual, the way harmattan takes moisture from your skin, you don't notice until your knuckles are cracking. Then the time difference became a personality. Then he got busy. Then his Ghanaian sim stopped working. Then there was a girlfriend, then there was a lease, then there was something called a credit score that apparently required all of his emotional energy for two years running.
And I carried everything. I carried our mother's cataract surgery. I carried the family WhatsApp group, which is its own full-time job, with its own pension scheme of accumulated grievances. I carried the explanation every Christmas — "Kofi sends his love, you know how the visa situation is" — delivered to aunties whose eyes said *we know exactly how the visa situation is.* I carried the weight of being the one who stayed, which nobody tells you is also the weight of being the one who is seen, which is also sometimes the weight of being the one who is blamed.
Last year, our mother was in the hospital for five days. Kofi called on day three. He was crying. I sat in the corridor of the 37 Military Hospital at eleven at night, my back against a wall that smelled of bleach and old ceiling, and I listened to my brother cry from a country that had taken him so completely there was now a time zone between us even when we spoke.
Herh. I told him she was fine. I told him not to worry. I walked back into the ward and held my mother's hand while the IV dripped, and I thought about the waakye, and the red plastic bowl, and how he was laughing at his phone, and how I never asked him what was funny.
He is coming home in March. That's what he said in January.
It is April.