Cry, my beloved Joe!

Joe was from Ghana.

We met in class, and even had our graduation picture taken together.

Then on my summer trip to West Africa, we had our reunion.

He took me home for a visit: wife , kid, and hot spicy food.

People from Ghana got shiny skin (I knew this because I could compare them to people from Monrovia and Cote D’ Ivoire where we had previously stopped in).

And when they sang, or danced, the rhythm was not only tribal, but distinctly Ghana’s. Ladies were on their Sunday best for church.

And Joe, always at his wit end, told me he called everybody ” chief” (the culture is such that you need to get along and that’s what it’s like to live in Ghana). Togetherness, as one.

So when the Captain of the Ghana team missed his penalty kick, they huddled as if he had just scored. I thought to myself “Wow”.

Here was a leader who made a blunder, and blew the team’s chance for Gold.
Yet they took it as a group. (At this edit, I read that Mandela invited them to his home to cheer them up. I am sure they called him “Chief”).

What antithesis to Western individualism.

And tears behind fan’s  painted faces say it all: Ghana’s upset was Africa’s upset .

It’s hard to see grown men in tears on shattered hope and dreams.

World Cup in Brazil won’t see many of them again, because some will be too old for the game.

Put all your eggs in one basket, and see them cracked.

I am sure my friend Joe was watching with a broken heart as well.

Cry, my beloved Joe. I am sure your son shared your disappointment. So did I. Although my face wasn’t color-painted,

my heart was and it was out for you.