Sarjo.

 

    Sarjo is the lovable lad I would have wanted on my team in the epic garden football matches of my childhood.

       Harvesting every possible white T-Shirt from every source and, with a tin of silver airfix paint, usually earmarked for a model aeroplane I was building, I handpainted my bespoke 'Silver Bullets' logo on the chest of every shirt. 

       Me; my Brother, a schoolfriend or two, our housekeeper's kids and many more than any conventional team comprised of the most enthusiastic lads from villages roundabout played matches that lasted all day at the bottom of our very big dry garden. At 'half times' my Mum made us all sandwiches; a jug of orange cordial and with a piece of fruit there was no expense spared for this premier outfit!!
   'Proper' matches against other teams - the team of a schoolmate who perhaps lived up the road were all within the remit of our organisational zeal -  I recall a match being held on the manicured pitch of a local Country Club  - the organisation of which was a coup of epic proportions to our young driven minds! The equivalent of an International surely!! 

I also recall that we got epically drubbed too, but we all slept well that night; knackered by the glory, and of course from the fact that it had been played on a full sized pitch - a serious upgrade from the garden of dreams 'Maracana.'
    
     When the World 'Locked down', Twitter took on the role of a window upon it, and it was during this time that a particular profile came into my line of vision.
     Picture-postcard-posts displaying a pride in the beauty of a country called The Gambia that I loved instantly - the scenery of a former life - and I smiled with the joyous familiarity. I 'liked' all the images unreservedly ... a mutual follow and a hello. An introduction - Sarjo. He sent me some photographs of his home and family - the images were immediately poignant. Village houses in Malawi came to mind.
    I was taken aback initially, and struggled with the lapsed time from my last interaction with anything 'Africa'. I'd effectively ignored communication with the past. I'd been on Facebook for a short while and located a collection of former schoolmates; but not the main gang I'd knocked about with. Smaller than small talk really. People had moved on, moved away, like myself - had small incursions into Malawi for holidays perhaps - but the strength of the experience had diminished to wonderous nostalgia - real life had taken over.   I looked for a theme from my memories - grasping for that continuity of conversation. I tried to recall something from childhood that we all did - something to unite us- Sunday school?  Growing up with Canadian and American families; missionary families who'd go went into into the villages to teach the Scriptures.
    I asked Sarjo if he attended church regularly by way of being curious about the structure of his life. He didn't go to church, he said.
 
    But then, football!! The World game!  The conversation opened wide and the boy Sarjo was revealed; Chelsea - his idol, Frank Lampard!  I'd forgotten about football, but I'd recently found the connection again through a book written by my mate Dave Proudlove titled 'Ballad of the Streets.' Football and Life and the coming of age. We had a metaphorical ball to kick between us, and I was out of shape!

      Our conversations grew and I was hooked with the visual and emotional parallel to my childhood life. Photographs of his Brother Ismail,  the youngest of the family. Two Sisters;  and Mother. His family are the family of my team, but in my team there was Roderick of my age, and Bernard, my Brother's age.

    All mates in our vastly different worlds but children all together.
   
    Sarjo was showing me photographs of my own childhood. He was showing me back to the world I had stopped talking about.
 
I'm back!  Thanks to Sarjo,  I'm back ...

Twitter: @SarjoTouray18