Nigeria, Dec. 21 -- Mother, please, don't call me home now.

The game is just starting, and I have spent my whole life in the tunnel.

I am almost at the field. I know I am close, because I can hear it- the dull, heavy thud of leather on foot, like a banana tree falling; and the small, sharp cry of the air when the ball is finally set free.

I took the wrong path, I know. The forest tightened its wooden teeth around me. The thorns held my trousers like debts, and the stones kept a tally of my bones. My feet are split, Mother; they are swollen, but they are warm. They have not forgotten the religion of running.

Mother, please, don't call me home now.

I am tired. I am so tired. My legs shake like a broken fence when I stop. But I did not ...