“So,” I said to Koko, “I’ve already told everyone that this week you’ll be throwing light on what exactly ails African football…I mean, you’ll agree that they’ve performed well below what was expected of them at this World Cup. Even Russia, the lowest ranked nation in football, reached the quarter-finals mutt…You guys from Africa lost it man, after all your predictions to me, you owe everyone an explanation…!”

Wrong thing to say to him. At the mention of “African football”, it seemed that he would stretch his snout towards the moon and bay, but instead, he whimpered and slumped into himself, curved into a tight ball, tucking his head almost totally under his back paws. Not that I was in the best of moods. India yet again, was a reminder of how bad we ourselves were at real international football and not just beating The Maldives, or Taiwan.

In fact, you could say that the dog and I had serious problems, finding ourselves burdened by an outpouring of football angst that had taken hold of us, leaving us enervated and not knowing whether we were coming or going. Just a state of existential limbo from where there seemed no escape. I always thought that a dog – with claims to being an African Hound no less – without going into whether he was actually resurrected or not, would transcend this ordinary and avoidable state of affairs.

Not so! He was worse off than me, bunched up at my feet. Lacing his bowl of warm milk with some whiskey did not help.

“So, what are you thinking?”, I asked, as dejected, swirling the ice in my glass. “About African football…”

He unwound himself, shook his head from side to side and stood up, looking me straight in the eye. “No,” he said, “I can’t talk about what ails African football just yet…I am still tracking what my brothers and sisters there feel about this…so tell people I am yet to analyse what went wrong with the African nations this cup; that I believe Nigeria will win the World Cup in Qatar in 2022…”

“For now though,” he continued, “I have to get my head around the fact that my Juju did not work.” Grudgingly, he put on a brave face. “My Juju,” he said, “was no better than the football played by – in this exact order – Nigeria, Senegal, Egypt, Morocco and Tunisia – who all let down my continent. This World Cup was turned on its head for me…”

“And it did not stop there,” he added, “my Juju still failed after the African teams were reduced to tears like me. I knew it, I should have grabbed a chicken and bitten off its neck. I was ‘civilised’, living as I did in Pune, and look what happened??”

“I said that Uruguay would lose to Portugal because Ghana’s curse would come back to haunt Luis Suarez for his dirty handball in 2014 when I was sure Africa would grab the cup on African soil…did that happen?”

“I was sure that Argentina would beat France because everyone knows that it is difficult to wipe out racism. Did that help? Huh, did it?? Did the Japanese Samurai beat Belgium? Did Denmark beat Croatia and show the world different kind of playful supporters, or did these supporters change from the days they were known as the ‘‘Roligans” and were awarded the UNESCO Fair Play Trophy after the European Championships in France in 1984…the time the Danish media titled them ‘the World’s Best Supporters’??”

“The result that hurt me the most was Colombia losing to England! You people don’t read these days dude, Colombia needed to win…”

His accent became more Nigerian, his voice sonorous, almost baritone…

“Did you know,” he said with feeling, “slavery was only abolished in Colombia in 1851 because they’ve had connections to Africa. Did all you Indians who cheered for England know that Colombia has the third-largest population of black people in the Americas after the United States and Brazil, and with an estimated 26 per cent of the population believed to be descended from slaves brought from Africa?”

“More importantly, this World Cup 2018, has united a divided Colombia. I read somewhere that in 2016 a referendum was held on whether to sign a peace deal with the FARC, the guerrilla group that terrorised the country for over 50 years. The vote split Colombia down the middle – the No vote won by 0.2 per cent. Some found it strange that half the country ‘voted against peace’. But the deal involved giving ex-FARC members, 10 unelected seats in Congress if they handed over their weapons. Many Colombians abhorred the idea of giving parliamentary power to a terrorist group responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths. After the results, President Juan Manuel Santos revised the deal and, instead of conducting a second referendum, sent it straight to Congress, where it was accepted. Santos was then awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“They should have won the World Cup this year,” Koko said, almost in tears, “that would have been the icing on the cake for Colombia. But there was a funny side of things that the Colombians saw…”

He began pacing the floor. “Um,” said, “can I have some more warm milk with some of that amber liquid?”

I refilled his bowl and my glass, and we both savoured the liquid warming our insides…

“And then, the sharpest cut of them all,” Koko continued, “much as I wanted Brazil to lose to Mexico as they did in the Olympics, and lose with honour to a Latin American team that was anti-European, what happened?? They lost to Belgium, a team with quite a few Africans who played like Europeans!!”

I looked a little puzzled. But Koko was not done yet. “Brazil’s football at one time used to be fuelled by something they called ‘ginga’…”

“In Brazilian Portuguese, ginga is a slang word that means to shake the body, to shake with skill. Ginga performs as a search for a balanced form of life represented by flow and rhythm through motion ideas. Ginga is Ronaldo’s fluidity of motion as he slides past three defenders and the goalkeeper before tapping the ball into the net…”

“Its roots are in Africa, in the region that goes from Angola all the way to the Congo,” Koko added. “And now, look what happened, Brazil has lost its ginga. As someone, I was reading after they lost, wrote: ‘Brazil still has swagger, but there is panic in its step these days, a quickened tread from having teams snapping at the heels. Moments of individual skill are still in abundance but there is not enough collectivity. Brazil is caught in a void between its free-flowing past and a more modern, measured approach. Present-day formations are at their most-developed in Europe and hence European teams are shining here. Belgium’s backline was always there, getting bodies in the line of shots, crowding the shoulder of Neymar and others and finding the right positions to parry. It is not lost on Brazil that in part, it has been found out. That’s why all the nonsense of diving and faking and feigning was such a part of its game during this tournament, perhaps like never before. Especially Neymar, who is a gem of the sport when he stays out of acting school, and should know better’.”

Koko seemed to get into his stride. The warm milk had done its trick. “The worst thing that could have happened is that Brazil lost its ginga because they sold it,” thundered Koko, “as I read somewhere, ‘inflation is not something that affects the prices of basic commodities alone. Every passing year brings with it ballooning inflation in the football market too. Over the years, and even more so in the last decade, with increasing popularity and penetration of television and cable network, the Beautiful Game has only succeeded in bringing millions of new followers/worshippers into its fold. That broadens viewership and fandom, logically, spinning more money’.”

“Money is what makes the monkey jump,” Koko says, stretching himself. “You think Neymar is the last of the Brazilians to look at the money and only the money? Check out a new kid on the block who has real ginga, even though the European vultures gather around him…and paid 50 million dollars for him when he’s only 16…was that why he wasn’t even considered for this World Cup??”

I interrupt his flow. I like Brazil, I have always liked them. I am depressed too that they’ve gone out to Belgium.

“I’m off to sleep,” I tell Koko.

“Good night,” yelps Koko, “if you can call such a depressing night ‘good’. We shall meet anon. I shall take up the challenge of analysing where Africa failed in this World Cup. And don’t forget, tell people I know that Nigeria will win the World Cup 2022 in Qatar…for the time being though, let us weep…”

Next: Back to Africa via Europe for the Finals…