Wings of Aba
They said he flew on borrowed wings,
A flash of promise in crowded rings.
Midfield’s crowned jewel, a wizard on the wings,
Till Enyimba fought to claim the spring.
A scramble, a signature, a dream in blue,
Our Elephants knew what he could do.
But year one whispered — a silent tune,
No thunder, no lightning, no afternoon.
Yet hope is patient, and form, a flame,
With Eguma’s hand, he rose again.
A blur on the wing, defences undone,
Joseph Atule — our chosen one.
He danced with the ball like it owed him grace,
Cut inside, then vanished, left no trace.
With feet like fire and lungs like drums,
He ran till the final whistle comes.
A touch, a turn, then came the cheer,
A player reborn, the storm was here.
Game after game, our shining star,
The brightest light in Enyimba’s jar.
But on a damp Wednesday pitch,
The rhythm paused, the gears did hitch.
He limped, and time held in its breath —
A gasp from Aba, a prayer against death.
Rest a little, our winger, healer’s care,
The turf will miss your magic flare.
But know this truth, while skies are grey —
We wait for your return, one sweet day.
For legends don’t fall, they only rise,
On stronger legs, with fiercer eyes.
And when next you fly down Enyimba’s lane,
The crowd will roar your name again.
Atule. Joseph. The wind. The wing.
Still one of our best — still everything.
Enyimba Enyi!
