The Enyimba I Once Knew

It has been a while since I last put pen to paper here.

Not because I had nothing to say. Not because I was tired of writing about the only club dear to my heart. And certainly not because I wanted to stop writing.

I simply became tired of always bringing bad news, gloomy updates, or offering hope that never seemed to last.

To be honest, this is no longer the Enyimba I grew up knowing.

The club has become a shadow of itself.

I started following Enyimba in the early 2000s. Then came the glory years, and like many young supporters, I fell completely in love with the club.

Supporting Enyimba was not just about football. It was a badge of honour.

I still remember one of the players living on Uzoigwe Street, close to my primary school. Merely seeing him around was enough to make your day. We walked with pride because success has a way of attracting relatives.

Everybody wanted to identify with Enyimba.

But somewhere along the line, we became prisoners of our own past. We celebrated yesterday’s achievements for so long that we failed to notice football had moved on.

While others kept building, improving and evolving, we remained stuck admiring old trophies. Football has a cruel way of humbling clubs that refuse to move with the times, and after three straight seasons of decline, Enyimba eventually found itself celebrating survival instead of success.

Enyimba Football Club celebrating survival.

Sad.

After escaping relegation on the final day of the season, the first question should have been simple: how do we make sure this never happens again?

Recruitment should have become more deliberate. The club’s structure should have been reviewed. Management should have asked hard questions. Every decision should have reflected the lessons of such a humiliating campaign.

Instead, it feels like nothing has changed.

We comforted ourselves by pointing at other big clubs that also found themselves in difficult situations. But the real question was never whether others struggled too. The real question was whether Enyimba understood the danger it had escaped.

Kano Pillars, who also survived, have already made changes that suggest they recognise the seriousness of the situation.

At Enyimba, there is still no officially appointed head coach after the contract of the coach brought in for the rescue mission ended with the season. Good and experienced players continue to leave, and nobody seems certain whether suitable replacements are being lined up.

Rather than hearing about plans to rebuild, we are hearing stories that expose even deeper cracks within the club.

More worrying is the fallout from the meeting between the players and the Deputy Governor at the stadium.

Two of the three players who openly challenged management have since found themselves at the centre of fresh controversy. One was merely mentioned, but the other—a player respected not only at Enyimba but across the NPFL—has refused to remain silent.

Imagine that.

A respected player openly challenging Enyimba’s official rebuttal and daring the club to produce proof of payment.

That alone tells you how badly trust has broken down.

These are not the stories associated with Enyimba.

This is yet another painful low for a club that once set the standard for everyone else.

There was a time when everybody wanted to claim Enyimba. Success gave us many relatives. Everyone wanted to be associated with the People’s Elephant.

Today, years of failure on and off the pitch have left us looking like an orphan, abandoned by many who once proudly called themselves family.

Instead of people rushing to identify with Enyimba, many now keep their distance and mock from afar, as though our problems are contagious.

And the painful truth is that it can still get worse if we refuse to learn.

I do not miss winning trophies as much as I miss recognising my football club.

That hurts even more.

I weep for my Enyimba.

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