Rich, timely, poignant.
Gimba Kakanda Wrote: “I have been in Stockholm, caught between two starkly contrasting moments—celebrations of the Nobel laureates and the weight of a rape allegation against my dear ‘cousin’, Mbappe, after his visit to this Swedish city a few days ago, which I hope is false. Reflecting on the cost of fame, a burden even heavier than the Nobel, I couldn’t help but craft a quick poem to explore its price. Enjoy:
An Unusual Prize in Stockholm
(For Kylian Mbappe)
I know your memory dribbles past the things they say,
You’ve stepped on Alfred’s invention, they whisper.
Your story is being printed in tongues unfamiliar,
At the mercy of interpreters unkind,
Who wear wigs to announce
What you did in stadiums with no spectators.
Your biggest matches, brother, won’t be at the Bernabéu,
They unfold in the shadows of your rooms,
No Vini or Bellingham by your side,
Neither Modric nor Rodrygo,
But the shifting angles of your gaze,
The klieg lights burn too bright for you to see,
Not every smile is an invitation,
Not every opening is meant for a nutmeg.
Some honeycombs are best left untouched—
Their stings disqualify you
From the runways of Paris.
You’re more famous than all October guests in Stockholm,
Yet this gathering isn’t yours.
The light on your face is a newsman’s glare,
Eager to catch you offside, away from the pitch.
From Rio to Las Vegas, you are marked,
But pause, brother, and ask:
Why would anyone,
Not wearing the colours of your jersey,
Give you a through pass in a game of opposites,
A match with no spectators?
The worst stories to tell are always those we face alone—
The ones born in places untouched by sunlight,
In the company of those we’ll never meet again,
Of those who desired us but never had us,
Of those we sought but could not dribble.
— Gimba Kakanda,
Stockholm, Sweden
October 16, 2024.
