Men Also Cry – Part 1

Dear God,
I honestly don’t know what you had in mind when you created humans, but it can’t be in
your image and likeness.
Hear me out…. Goat no dey born dog…..No ways!
Something is wrong somewhere…..
If we were created in your image and likeness….. there must be some resemblance of
divinity in the way we do things……., but No!
Wait, Lord, don’t roll your eyes yet…
The level of wickedness and deceit in humans is too high……except you are confirming
that that too is within your image and likeness….Yes?
Wait for it…
So, I have this noble Ghanaian gentleman, a very good friend and we got chatting
specifically about something I wrote in my blog one time…. and to confirm the level of
evil humans can swing, he told me a story with proof of it to booth…
Just to be sure, I did some diggings, pressed some Ghanaian buttons I have, and yes,
the story is live and true…
Nigeria is not the only weird country, at least…. “Weird” is African by nature.
You know Lord, they say love is like football, sweet in the beginning, fierce in the middle,
and sometimes, heartbreaking at the final whistle. If only men knew that when it comes
to women, some goals in life will be scored against themselves (own goal).
This is the story of a man who gave his heart when the world only saw his fame, a story
that teaches that not every smile is sincere, and not every hand that claps for you wants
your success.
His name? Let’s just call him Lamby, but he is a popular Ghanian footballer, a star
whose boots once kissed the green grass of Europe. In the early nineties, when the
world still adored black-and-white televisions and radio commentators screamed his
name across Ghana’s airwaves, Lamby was the pride of the nation. He played football
with the passion of a poet and the discipline of a soldier. When he scored, the stadium
thundered with joy, mothers danced, fathers lifted children up in the air, and every girl
watching fantasied.
And one of those fantasisers found her way into Lamby’s heart.
She was beautiful, not the kind of beauty that shouts, but the one that sneaks up on
you, like perfume in the breeze. She had a smile that could melt the pride of any man.
She approached him first, confident, charming, knowing what she wanted. You know, in
this world, some women chase dreams, and some chase dreamers. She did both.
He met her while driving his brand-new Granada car, the kind that turned heads in
Accra traffic. She waved. He slowed down. The rest, as they say, was history. Love
bloomed faster than harmattan fire. He called her my queen, and she called him my
world. The newspapers called them the golden couple. When he returned from his
football travels abroad, she was always there at the airport, waving, smiling, shining.
One day, she told him she was pregnant. And like every man whose heart is already
kneeling, he didn’t ask too many questions. He just said, “Then let’s marry.”

His mother, may her soul rest in peace, warned him, “My son, all that glitters is not
gold.”
But why would he listen to the old woman when love is dancing azonto in his chest? He
married her anyway. Glitters or not, silver or bronze.
My people will say that “Dem no dey tell the deaf say war don start, if you no hear
am….you must see am”
At the wedding, people whispered blessings, “They are made for each other.” The
photographers couldn’t take enough pictures; the laughter was loud and genuine.
Lamby believed he had scored the goal of his life, a beautiful wife, fame, wealth, and
now a family on the way.
Years rolled by like football seasons. There were victories and defeats, but mostly
peace. He bought her a house, cars, and even sent the children to some of the best
schools in Ghana. He used to say proudly, “What I didn’t have growing up, my children
will never lack.” And truly, he gave them everything, from education to love. He didn’t
just build a home; he built a fortress of trust.
Yet, sometimes, my Lord, when the house is too quiet, the walls start whispering.
There were small signs. Late-night phone calls. Sudden changes of mood. Strange
friends who smiled too hard when they visited. But love is blind, not because it cannot
see, but because it chooses not to. Lamby saw, but he ignored. He believed in his wife,
the same way he believed in his game, give it your all, and it will give back.
Unfortunately, not all games are fair.
She became restless. She wanted more, a child abroad, another property, another car.
He tried to please her. When she said their first child should study in the UK, he agreed,
until the bills came. £26,000 in school fees. He hesitated, gently suggesting they find a
good school in Ghana instead. That single suggestion lit the match that burned down
the marriage.
“You don’t love your own child!” she screamed at him in the heat of the argument one
night, her voice trembling with rage.
Lamby stood there, confused. “It’s not that,” he said softly. “It’s just too much right now.
Let’s plan.”
But she was already packing, pride heavier than reason.
From that day, the house was no longer a home. Love turned to out-of-court
negotiations; tenderness turned to divorce paperwork. She demanded half of everything
he owned, his houses, his land, even alimony worth billions of Ghana cedis. His lawyer
called it “unreasonable.” He called it “heartbreaking.”
Still, Lamby didn’t fight back. He wanted peace. He said, “If money can buy peace, let
me pay it.”
But peace doesn’t come cheap when betrayal sits at the table.
The die was cast. She was never there for the long ride in the 1st place; it was her time
to clean out. And she was hell bent.
By then, the whispers had begun. Friends muttered things he didn’t want to believe.
One of them, bold and concerned, said, “Lamby, my brother, you should check.
Something doesn’t add up, all these rumours about your children. Try a DNA test.”

He laughed nervously. “DNA? For what? Those are my kids.”
“Just to be sure,” the friend insisted.
He brushed it off at first, but the words stuck in his heart like a thorn. Days passed, and
curiosity became fear. What if? What if he was living a lie all these years?
And so, one quiet morning, he went to his lawyer and said, “I want to do it.”
The lawyer looked up, surprised. “Are you sure? This could change everything.”
Lamby sighed. “Everything has already changed.”
He arranged the test quietly, like a man planning his own downfall. He took the children
to the clinic under the pretence of a check-up. The doctor smiled, unaware of the storm
behind Lamby’s calm face. “Just a small saliva sample,” the doctor said.
As he watched the cotton swabs collect the truth, he whispered a silent prayer: “Lord,
please, let them be wrong, please.”
It took a month, thirty long nights of waiting, of pretending to be normal, of hoping. He
couldn’t sleep; he couldn’t eat. Every time he looked at the children, his heart fought his
mind. “They are mine,” he told himself. But his soul was not sure anymore.
Sometimes, Lord, you answer prayers with tears, not triumph…., maka why?
The call from the hospital came one morning. “Mr. Lamby, your results are ready.”
He went to the clinic alone. The doctor hesitated before speaking, his eyes full of pity.
“I’m sorry… Mr Lamby, none of the children are biologically yours.”
Silence. Heavy. Endless.
Lamby said later that he didn’t cry, not immediately. He just sat there, staring at the
report. It felt like someone had blown the whistle on his life, ending the match he didn’t
know he was losing.
He called his lawyer, voice shaking. “It’s true,” he said simply. “They’re not mine.”
Hmmm.
Dad, losing is very painful. Very. No matter what you have lost. But it is one thing to lose
money, another to lose love, or even a very lucrative business opportunity, but to lose
your children to betrayal, that is a wound that no medicine can heal.
That day, the sun still shone over Accra, but for Lamby, the world went dark.
As we say in my tribe, “When trust dies, even laughter sounds like thunder.”
And it dawned on him that the real battle in his life has begun, not just for truth, but for
his soul.
And he cried. No, he wept. No, he sobbed.
Hmmmn.
This is your daughter, Lord, don’t go away yet, I am just checking in.