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Preparation
I was never a fan of sports. I would sit in a corner while my house erupted in noise over the African Cup of Nations, or the World Cup, or the Premier League. I rolled my eyes whenever my father cited old match scores like they were Bible verses. I would assert authority over the remote control when my younger brothers watched people jumping on diving boards, gym mats, or towards basketball hoops. I’m a fan of archery, however. But only when Shola Ajayi plays. I am mesmerised by the way he places his toned legs apart; the way he holds the bow taut in his left hand and draws the string with his right. The way the line presses his cheek as he squints at the target. How still he is, how focussed, before he releases, reaching, almost inevitably for yellow. In those moments, I can imagine that focus on me, can remember it.
I’ve followed his journey for 8 years now. Initially, I just wanted to see what happened after his eyes left mine, but I couldn’t stop watching. I saw when he first joined an archery club in Lagos in 2017. I watched his stance, his grip, evolve. I noticed how his posts on this sport started to overwhelm everything else. I cheered for him when he would win at competitions, and I almost screamed the first time he put on the green and white for Nigeria. I smiled when he presented his coach, a former champion from South Africa. And in the last year, with gathered breath, I watched as he racked up the points for qualification, praying for his travels and his success as he went from Berlin, to Nabeul, to Accra, and everywhere else. I was there on his Live when he announced he would be coming to Paris, competing for Nigeria in the summer. I squealed in the university library and fended off evil looks, knowing that he would come soon, to where I was. He must have known too, must have heard that this is where I ended up.
I decided to reach out to him. Spent hours thinking of the right balance between cool and interested, deleting some words and re-arranging others, till I arrived at something that seemed to work.
Hey Shola! Long time! Well done on making it to Paris 2024 — that’s amazing! I live here now, so we should meet up when you come. LMK. xxx
My thumb was hidden in my mouth when I sent it on Instagram, and it stayed there every time I checked to see if he had read it. But he hadn’t, even weeks later. It must have been the state of his DMs. While I had supported him diligently for years, he had a sudden surge of fake fans that joined his journey when they heard he was going to the Olympics. For a country so large, we didn’t have that many contenders, so obviously he made the news. I watched his interviews, listening to his words trip out in quick succession, still charmed by the way he always seemed so excited to communicate his thoughts. His archery club was excited too, putting up ads to celebrate the first time that a Nigerian had gotten so far in this sport. Ads which showed him tall, chiselled and smiling. And soon, it seemed that more Lagosians were opting for a Saturday afternoon shooting arrows instead of sip and paint, pottery, or whatever else. So, obviously, Shola’s DMs were drowning. Obviously, he couldn’t recognise real from fake.
I had to help him, so I reached back into my past. I scrolled through my contact list, landing on Ikechukwu. We were in the same uni study group in Lagos and he had been friends with Shola. I squeezed my eyes shut while the phone rang.
“Oh wow”, he said when he picked up, his voice still as heavy as I remembered. “Blast from the past”. There were questions in every syllable.
“Hi Ikechukwu”. My eyes were still closed.
“I haven’t seen you since…”
“–– I’m in Paris now”, I offered hurriedly.
“Ah okay, I heard different things. Hope you’re doing better”, he said, speaking slower than before.
“Yes, I’m great, thanks”. My voice sounded squeaky. “I was actually calling to ask for Shola’s number… I heard he’ll be in Paris soon.”
“Ah Shola. The Bow Shaker. Mehn, I wish I could, but … I don’t have it”.
“Okay… Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
I thanked him and got off the phone, pretending I had to rush off, avoiding the questions I knew would come — the curiosity shamelessly veiled as concern. I didn’t have time for all of that. There had been a couple of challenges already, but I needed to stay on target — Shola.
Competition
25/07/2024
Even from my flat in Strasbourg Saint Denis, I’ve noticed the change. In the last week, there has been a multiplication. From my first-floor window, I hear a medley of accents and languages, staying animated late into the night. I hear sirens of police bikes and ambulances rushing past. I see the sharp contrasting colours of flags on people’s backs, in shop windows, painted on faces. The hair salons down the street are plastered with Cameroonian, Senegalese, Ivorian, and Congolese flags. I have never seen space so saturated with colour. The excitement is palpable. I am excited too. Shola is here. He arrived a week ago. And today, he plays for the first time. I don’t get why archery starts before the opening ceremony. That is when I first want him to see me — spotting my face in the crowd as I know he can. Smiling even more brightly when his eyes meet mine. So, I’m watching the ranking round from my bed, both my stomach and sheets in knots.
I’ve made myself available for him. The marketing company I interned with wanted to extend my stage till September, but I politely declined. And then there was Hassan, whose boulangerie on Rue Saint-Martin I have worked at between terms for the last two years, because there is only so much help my parents can give me — Paris wasn’t part of the plan, after all. I told Hassan that I would start work after the Olympics, and his eyes got larger than I had ever seen, his voice too, but finally he grunted his agreement, following it with jibes in French he knew I could understand. I feel bad when I think of him and Leila sweating as they attend to a long line of tourists who all want croissants, who slow down the queue by trying to practise their app-taught French.
Finally, it starts. The camera zooms in on the golden dome of Hôtel des Invalides, and then pans out to the expansive green field. I once had a picnic in this space with one of my Masters’ classmates, and now, Shola is there. When the men’s round begins, I watch them stream in. My breath catches when I spot Shola, a black man in a sea of lighter colours. He is taking deep breaths and wiping his face with his hand as he finds his spot. I can’t imagine the pressure — his first Olympics, alongside seasoned champions. I read about them — the top-ranked contenders from Korea, America, France. His stance is not as assured when he starts shooting. His hand seems to tremble as he pulls back and sends the arrow flying. He looks into a camera lens after, shaking his head. I watch like this, not sure how it’s going, irritated whenever the camera leaves him. I gasp when I see an arrow in the black area of his board, hoping it was one of the others. At the end, he gets a pat from his coach while he hangs his head. I wish I was there to rub his back and tell him it’ll be fine, that this doesn’t decide anything. When the scoreboard comes out, I scan each page for his name and find it at the end. He ranks 62 out of 64. I know he’ll be devastated. I imagine he’s thinking of his grandfather.
A few days ago, he did a Live from the Olympic village. He showed his room, and the view from the window, with all the little sports people walking about below. His voice shook when he sat on his bed and said how much it meant to him to be here, and how grateful he was to his grandfather, how he wished he could have been around to see this. There were tears in my eyes as I listened, sure that most of the others had no idea what he was talking about. Sure they didn’t know how his mother’s father had taught him to shoot with a bow and arrow, and then with a gun, during holidays in Abeokuta. Sure that they had no idea that his grandfather had named him Ọdẹ́bọ̀, which means the hunter has returned; or that he would tell him tales of Ọ̀ṣọ́ọ̀sì, a Yoruba deity with a steady hand. I know all this well. He told it to me himself with his head on the pillow. Girls dropped their “aww” and “he would be proud” in the chat. I rolled my eyes. He needs to hear those words from someone who knows his story — he needs to hear them from me.
26/07/24
I am waiting for the Opening Ceremony to start. I did a lot to get here. I walked into a crowd and pressed my body against bright colours drifting towards the Seine. I had people step on my white trainers as they spun around and took pictures. I was almost made deaf by music from portable speakers and nearly lost an eye as little flags were waved in my face. But then, I got here and I found a spot, even though a young Spanish couple with a toddler had found it first. They were sitting on a picnic mat by the side of Pont du Carrousel, next to the sculpted lady that faces away. And I steeled myself as I walked past them and sat on the concrete ledge, responding to the woman’s Spanish with the only Yoruba I know till I confused her. And now, they have pushed their bodies next to mine, have sent many pointed glares my way. It is not my fault — there are people in every crevice along the river. And I’m doing this for Shola. I got dressed for him too. I am wearing a green-patterned Ankara skirt, and a glittery dark-green tank top which shows my cleavage. I have tied it at the back to emphasise my waist. I twisted green thread around some of my braids and painted a little Nigerian flag on my cheek. I am so excited for Shola to see me. I know he will find me with his hunter eyes, the way he did at that uni party. He walked straight up to me, not breaking his gaze, and I knew I was trapped. He is not like other guys who lack focus, who look left and right. He is not like these French boys who speak of a “feeling” as an excuse for a wandering, unsteady gaze. Not like men who want what isn’t theirs. Nothing like the one who almost ruined my life.
I look around and watch as even more bodies fill the space. As the ticket-holders claim their seats on the bridges and by the river. As children mount shoulders, and the large screens come on. The interlinked circles will be seared in my memory after this. I don’t think I have ever witnessed such a gathering of people from so many countries. It is amazing to me, even a bit crazy, that most of them have come here to shout for people they don’t know. For people they are only bound to by borders. My dad is jealous that this is happening in my city. He would be surprised to see me in the thick of it — would have expected me to escape to the South like most of my classmates did. Across the river, I can see Nigerians, a big group in blocks of green and white, carrying drums and trumpets. I can hear them too. I always wonder how they manage to bring all these instruments; if they are specifically called to attend these events to intimidate quieter countries. It finally starts. There is the president and the anthem and performances and cheering, but all I can hear is the thudding in my chest. The boats for each country start sailing past, and the shouts move across the space. I start to regulate my breathing from Mali. By Mexico, I check my face with the phone light, reapply lip gloss with shaky hands. By Mozambique, I unknot and re-tighten my tank top. When Namibia comes up, my stomach is whirling. And then I hear the announcement for Nigeria. The band across the bridge bursts into music. There are screams everywhere, and I crane my neck, looking from the screens to the river as I try to spot him. All the athletes are waving and carrying little flags, smiling in their green and white outfits, and then I see him. He is facing my side. As the boat approaches, I start to shout his name, but everyone is screaming. I lean forward, dangling my hands in front of me and waving. The Nigerian band plays louder and louder, and Shola turns to the other side, dancing to their drumming. I am seething. Perhaps I should have stood with them — I didn’t think this through. As the boat glides under the bridge, Shola is still distracted, and I know I have missed my moment. I push my way out of the crowd that has formed behind me, tumbling into the night.
30/07/2024
I was so relieved when I managed to secure a ticket for the elimination round. I refreshed the page for days, looking for those words “tir à l’arc” till I finally saw them and I pounced at my screen with my wallet at the ready. I am grateful to the person that couldn’t make it. Shola needs me here. My palms are sweaty as other players are called out first. They go head-to-head, with each round of play ending with one head hanging and the other lifted in victory. Shola is up against the number 3 ranked player, a Korean prodigy, and I’m sure this terrifies him, but I have spent the last few days praying for him, shunning food and shouting my requests to God. “Nothing is impossible”, as they say, and it is in one day that a champion is made, after all. There are other Nigerians in the audience again— their faces are painted, and they are carrying instruments. Honestly, I wonder how they manage to get in everywhere. When he finally comes out on the field, and is just a few blocks of rows below me, the memories start to flood in. I remember making out behind bookshelves, going to a restaurant near campus and sharing jollof rice; sneaking into his bed at night. The last good moments I had with a man. Maybe if he hadn’t left school when his grandfather died, I wouldn’t have experienced the bad ones.
It is time and I say silent prayers as I watch him turn towards the target. He takes a deep breath, parts his legs, lifts the bow, pouts, squints, and then draws. The crowd screams and the drumming starts as the arrow finds the yellow, almost like there is a magnet at its tip. He grins and relaxes his shoulders. His contender responds with little hesitation and a straight yellow. They are pretty balanced for the first 2 sets, and Shola gets a set under his belt after his contender falters on one shot. I squeeze my hands as the third set begins. This time, Shola shoots into the red and releases a sigh at the same time as I do. His contender hits a perfect yellow. I start to mutter fire prayers, that God will confuse the other guy’s bow, will send his arrows flying into the distance. He can still come back from this. Shola loses the third set, but it is not over. In the fourth set, Shola adjusts himself. He inhales deeply and begins to aim at the target when the Nigerian drumming suddenly starts. He snaps his head towards them, shooting them an evil glare, like I do. They stop, but when Shola puts his hand back up, it is shaking. When his arrow leaves him, it lands in the blue. He drops his head and doesn’t see his contender’s shot at yellow. He goes through the motions with his remaining two arrows, but I can tell he knows he has lost. There is a heaviness in my chest. When the other guy is announced the winner, Shola shakes his hand and turns to wave at the audience. This is my moment. I wait as he scans the crowd. I see his teary gaze approaching where I sit, and my heart is drumming louder than the insistent supporters club. He blinks right before he reaches me, bends his head and marches away. I want to shout his name, but the syllables are stuck. I feel like my insides have been scraped, and I am deflated and useless, like avocado skin.
I sit there, stunned for a long time. I can’t believe it has ended like this. After all my preparation and planning, after all the ways I showed up and dedicated myself to this. It is over, and I get up to leave, with nothing. I am not sure where to go or what to do next, and I find myself heading to the Olympic Village in Saint-Denis. I know I can’t go in, but I navigate the bodies, the noise, and sit on the bank of the Seine. I stare at the block of buildings in the distance and try to imagine where he is, try to picture him inside, try to send some waves of comfort his way. But even in this, I am not alone. There are others, not least of all this older woman, pale and skinny with knobbly knees and an angel wing tattoo peeking out from under white jeans. She is facing the same direction and waving her hands, acting like a crazy person. I get up to leave, wiping my tears and accepting that my dream is over.
Transition
For many days, I found it hard to eat, to leave my bed, to stop unfurling the layers of my defeat. I muted Shola’s profile — it was too hard. But after a week of moping, I have decided to get back into the world. I take a shower and pull on some joggers and a t-shirt, tying my braids back. I come out into the volume and the heaving streets on a bright evening. I walk past packed restaurant terraces, bars playing Olympic events, huddled tour groups, impatient cyclists trying to get through crowded streets. I don’t have a destination in mind, but I find myself heading upwards. I weave through Rue des Martyrs with its bookshops, flower shops, cafés and boulangeries, all full, all loud. I get to Anvers and zero in on the Sacré-Coeur, pushing past throngs of people as I climb up steep stairs. I am happy when I reach the top, glad to have decided and then achieved — a comforting cycle. I stand in a corner of the packed viewing platform, ignoring the break-dancing and renditions of “La vie en rose” and “Bella ciao”, as I look out at the cream-coloured city and try to forgive it for letting me down.
I decide to take the metro back home, in a hurry to have Indomie noodles for dinner and watch trashy TV. As I head towards Abbesses, I force my way past people looking in shop windows or taking photos of overtly decorated restaurants. In the distance, I see someone familiar. Recognise his arms, his legs, even from the back. I shout Shola before my brain fully computes, and he whips his head round, takes off his shades and squints in my direction. As I near him, my mind explodes with thoughts. About my shaky legs, my bare face, my dry lips, but no matter. I stop before him and his gaze softens. He stays for a while like this, with a half-smile, and I smile too, basking in his focus on me.
“Do you want a selfie?” He motions for my phone.
I laugh. He’s obviously joking. “No, it’s me”. He squints again and raises a finger. “Adesuwa”, I add, although I know he remembers. Although I’m sure he’s just trying to act cool.
He swirls my name in his mouth a few times and I love hearing it. Now he is nodding, wagging his finger. “Oh yeah, Addy… from uni, right?” He’d never called me that, but I like the way it sounds. “Those were a fun few weeks”, he says, smiling. “What are you doing in Paris?”
This game again. “I live here now”. I’m trying to act casual.
“I just came for the Olympics, but I’m done”, he says, biting his bottom lip like he does when he is sad.
“I know. I watched you. Those foolish drummers threw you off.”
His eyes brighten at this. He nods and smiles. “Exactly… do you want to catch up over dinner?”
I manage to let out a casual yes.
We sit inside an oak-walled café on Rue des Abbesses. I find it hard to process the words on the menu. Every now and then, I look up and catch him gazing at me with his hunter eyes. And it fills me with joy, to be reminded of how it felt to have him look at me so intensely, to have me forget about everything outside of that gaze and all that went before it. To feel safe there. He seems to have been reminded of things too.
“I heard about what happened to you at uni. About that dirty professor that tried it. I’m so sorry”, he said. I wasn’t planning to discuss this. Had even avoided therapy so I would never have to talk about it again. I didn’t want to think about the harshly marked paper, the complaint during office hours, the room that locked with me in it, the hands that reached for my jeans, the shouting, kicking and running that followed, the scandal that somehow made me the target.
“Thanks, I’m fine now”, I manage. “It brought me here. I’m almost done with my Masters”, I say as he nods. He glances over me like he did that day at the party, for whole moments before words passed between us, before he asked me to dance. I am waiting for what words will come next. Something else happens — His eyes lift from mine and scan the room. I notice them stop, fixed on a point. I turn to follow his gaze, to a girl in a black dress who is dining with another girl. She is now twirling her hair and smiling in his direction. He is smiling back, and I can feel him about to take aim. The noise that rattles me reaches my ears, it reaches my teeth as I clench them, and suddenly it leaves my lips.
“Look at me!” I scream, pounding the table. I can’t stop it — the screaming or the pounding. The restaurant goes quiet around me, and I’m quiet too, watching myself. Shola turns again. He is looking at me. I take my eyes off him for a moment, to compose myself. And when I look again, there is money on the table, but he is gone.
Ehae Longe is a writer of prose and poetry. Alongside her passion for words, she is an accountant working in International Development. She grew up in Lagos and now lives in Paris after 15 years in London. The constant tension between multiple cultures and vocations forms an important part of her identity and inspiration. Her writing has been published on the platforms of AFREADA and Márọkọ (of the Lagos International Poetry Festival), amongst others. She shares her words and wonders on inktippeddreams (substack) and hopes to inspire others to do so too.
