The Epistle of L. F. Scolari…

This past week I had the awesome privilege of attending Biko Zulu’s Creative Writing Master Class… An absolutely inspiring guy I must say… Here is my best submission for the class…

Image source here

I am annoyed. I am ashamed. I am anguished. How is it that a man of my calibre would bring such disrepute to this great nation? O how I wish it was another day, another time when we did not have the world at our stage. I hear the jeers in their celebration and sneers in their auf wiedersehens. I cannot imagine they will drink from the cup. Our cup! Curse the lineage of the octopus that ever thought to prophesy in their favour! May her eggs never rise to shore again.

Now they say it, that I should have left a long time back. That the 11-man army should have been led by a dark man, a tall man, a handsome man. Nonsense! Utter nonsense! A man is a man is a man. O my stomach churns at the tearful pains of my sons stripped of their yellow grassy blue pride. No more samba, no more choro, just weakened men thirsting for a noose.

But though a man falls 7 times, yet he shall rise again. And so I say to you my Ronaldinho that in the mid of the field your attack will rise again.  And in your defense my dear Thiago, I swear to you that your shoulder will rise again. And to you Julio, my very son Cesar I pray that your very hands will rise again. And to Neymar, my Captain and King, I decree and declare that your golden feet will rise again. I have no doubt, absolutely no doubt that Bresil will rise again.

Tesha Mongi © March 2016

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