I did not mean to read Ijeoma Anyanechi’s short story, “Our Last Game” the evening that I read it. I had just downloaded it from Selar and meant to tuck it away for later reading since I was extremely busy with deadline-driven projects, but being a sucker for creative writing, I decided to steal a glance at the first paragraph. And that was how I got hooked. Yes, just like that – like fish to bait. Just that I did not die, I smiled with satisfaction at the end, like bees to nectar or moths to flame. What hooked me? The opening paragraph:
“And just like that—it ended. Our last game together. No goodbyes, no second whistle. Just the quiet understanding that childhood was folding itself away like a worn wrapper after morning chores.”
“Our Last Game” reads like my childhood memories — soft-edged, sunlit, and tender. It is the kind of story that pulls you into the hush of dusk, where childhood hovers at the brink of goodbye. Through the eyes of a reflective narrator, we witness friends drift — toward school, markets, marriages, unknown tomorrows. Each departure feels like the slow unraveling of a beloved tapestry, woven with dreams and dust. And I am left digging deep into my own memories, wondering where my friend Sydney is now. And Amina, who was my first competitor in school and of whom Papa would give me an earful whenever she came 1st in class and I, 2nd (“So, you let a girl beat you?”, Papa would ask so quietly that I’d wish he had shouted instead.) And Cecilia, my first crush. And … many more, such as Timi Imomotimi.
In Ijeoma’s “Our Last Game”, characters shimmer briefly, like ghosts of playtimes past. Characters such as Fada, with his priestly aspirations; Dimma, all books and big words; Obiajulu, lightning-footed and fire-hearted. The language is rich with local flavour: okpa in warm leaves, the sting of pepper stew, Gulder bottles clinking like distant laughter. These are not just details, they echo shared memories.
Yet, even beauty must breathe. The story, in places, stumbles through its own richness, needing smoother transitions and a steadier narrative thread. A few grammar slips break the spell momentarily, and the narrator’s voice sometimes fades beneath the poetry. We must forgive Ijeoma, it’s too rich a story condensed into an intimate short form!
“Our Last Game” is a gem, a wistful hymn to friendship, change, and the quiet ache of endings. It lingers, like the dust rising from a final kick on the pitch, long after the game is done. And I ask myself again: where is Amina. Cecilia. And, yes, Timi and Sydney, of course!
Dr. Ken Ike Okere is SlamMaster of the Enugu Literary Society (ELS).
