By Ikenwa Nnabuogor
I got to go back in time to tell a story that gladdens my heart each time I press my recall button.
I know I have met sharp teenagers but one of the sharpest I’ve ever encountered was the then 13 year-old Brazilian, Felipe Abramovay, from Sao Paolo at the 2009 Dana Cup competition in Denmark, I’m still in awe at the intelligence level of Felipe, whom I quickly made my first ever Oyibo son.
Now a full grown man, out of University, and most probably in the United Kingdom for his master’s (I remember he told me so, haven’t spoken to him for some time), Felipe was a quintessential kid, who should pass for a parent’s hopeful and perhaps, a future important figure in the Brazilian society.
Our paths had crossed in the little sleepy town of Sindal with about 3 085 inhabitants, in the northern region of Jutland in Denmark, where he camped with his Sao Paolo U-13 football team for the year’s Dana Cup competition, the youth football tournament that brings together 25, 000 youths from all over the world.
Sindal, just 10 minutes drive from the host city of Hjorring, was home to thousands of youths that participated in the tournament because Hjorring, same sleepy town as Sindal, had been filled to the brim with youths, with the remaining spilling over to nearby Sindal.
Felipe and his mates and two officials, a coach and a medic had roomed behind our camp, the victorious 2009 Dana Cup U-19 champions, which also housed yours’ truly, the team’s Media Manager.
Handsome, smart, clever and expressive Felipe led out his “men” he wasn’t the captain though, but the only impeccable English speaker among the bunch of his age mates, Daniel, who was later in the Israeli Army, only managed a smattering English, Felipe was the unofficial Admiral of the Fleet of the poor U-13 Brazil team.
I never noticed the kid because there were hundreds of them camping together with us, kids from Europe, Asia, America, Caribbeans and the Oceania, but Felipe and his mates who were the closest to my boys, simply was the connection.
Felipe walked up to me and opened a chinwag with me and I was amazed at his spotless English language that I couldn’t help but ask what nationality he was. “I am Brazilian, from Sao Paolo,” he fired confidently at me, smiling, his hairs well combed backwards, looking like former Chelsea star Oscar.
“Ahhhh!” I bellowed back at the smartie. “How are you,” I greeted. From then we became friends.
Smart Felipe was quick to tell me he was the only one that spoke English as I tried to get friendly with the other boys, their coach, as they returned only smiles and gesticulations to me, communicating their non verbal English disabilities back to me.
I knew right then the lovely new friend I had and pronto, Felipe warmed his way into the hearts of the boys whom he admired and predicted they would be great footballers. I just couldn’t help but agree but knowing full well my boys could father Felipe and his mates, I just helped with a laboured affirmative.
Felipe and his “men” had been bundled out of the tournament in the first round but stayed back in Denmark and became our official supporters’ club members and followed us everywhere we went including their Portuguese-speaking coach, even to the rest rooms.
Felipe didn’t stop there, he drummed up more support for us, involving other South American and European kids whose teams had been eliminated to cheer on to the final where we encountered a tough African opposition from Cote D’Ivoire.
“Ikenwa,” he would always call me. “We still got some time to spend in Denmark after which we leave on ship to Sweden to play in another youth tournament.”
Felipe comes from a well-to-do white family in Sao Paolo and the father wanted him to become a top professional in future, a lawyer or something, I cant recall now, and had plans to send him to the United Kingdom for further studies.
Felipe would fondly tell me about his English teacher, a Briton, with Jamaican descent, Mr. Sidney dos Santos, whom I became friends with.
Back to the Dana Cup, I would recall several times Felipe would lead his men into our open room, looking for me and telling stories of his school, life in Sao Paolo and most especially the blacks in Favela in Sao Paolo.
I noticed there was no single black kid among their contingent and I can’t recall if I did ask Felipe why it was so.
Smartie sauntered into our room clutching two Brazilian national team jerseys and walked straight to me and hollered, “Ikenwa, my good friend, these jerseys are for you, these are commemorative jerseys that you would always remember me with.”
I couldn’t help but marvel at this kid’s maturity, he was damn 13, for God’s sake! My boys swarmed around him asking for their jerseys, I just couldn’t help but shake my head how a kid far younger than their younger brothers could exhume so much uncommon confidence and maturity that the boys were not even dreaming about in many years to come.
Off the pitch was a smart dresser Felipe spotting designer’s shorts, T-shirt and most times, a bowler hat, cutting a New York-born Hollywood figure of Italian descent, drawing admirations and awe from my boys who saw Felipe as the son of Brazil President, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva.
“You know they can’t speak English, you gotta understand Mr. Ikenwa,” Felipe would get mischievous whenever he wanted to. “Tell me what you wanna tell them, I will relate to them, you know?
Part of the smartie’s interpretation from English language to Portuguese language to his mates was rubbish and would wink at me but I would catch he had interpreted whatever he chose to and the responding laughters which had no links to what I said were evidences smartie had got smart again with his mates whom English language was their nightmare.
His coaches were mostly at the receiving end of his mischief, he would trick them I had called for him to sneak out to come and have a time with me and my boys. Felipe was a complete smart kid!
Whenever he smiled without something bluesing, according to our dear Bob Marley, I know Felipe was up to something, I had just played a fast one to his non-English speaking mates again.
“It’s not their fault, Mr. Ikenwa, I’m in charge here, talk to me,” smartie continued.
I would laugh and laugh till I was tired but I must confess Felipe was a great kid.
He led them to our room again, announcing to us they were leaving for Sweden that day, hugging me and assuring, “Mr. Ikenwa, we shall see again, have my mobile number, feel free to call me anytime, my dad would be glad to receive you.”
Daniel Levy, he had a bandaged arm, Rick Chilvarquer and others I couldn’t remember their names hugged all of us and left Sindal, which we remained for a day more and left for Vejle, one hour train ride from Sindal.
Felipe is a full grown man now, about 26 or thereabouts, should be working or pursuing further education by now. I have not spoken to him for some time now.
