Mano di Dio (Hand of God)

The Crowd in the bleachers admonished their god as he walked out: "GOAT!" "My Hero!"  "Greatest Of All Time!" "Marry me!" "Let me carry your baby!" "Mano perffeta!" "Mano dị Dio!" "Hand of god!"

It was business as usual for Olusegun Madiba as he walked out of the 41,507 capacity stadium. He was Football Club Juventus number one goalkeeper and had saved two penalties in the just concluded match that leaves the "Old Lady" one point behind league leaders A.C Milan, and with a game in hand. A win in the outstanding match will make them league leaders, and eventually, champions.

Madiba was greeted by his team mates and coaches in the dressing room before stepping into the shower. A cool warm bath was what he needed as he turned up the temperature.

"Nice game mate. Great save this evening," Andrea Pirlo said and patted him in the back as he joined him in the shower.
"mille grazie Papi... You did well with the assist too." Madiba replied.

He got to the parking lot and wasn't surprised to see red and white rose petals sprayed all over his Lamborghini. Red hearts were also drawn on white cardboard and placed on the windscreen with a writing that read: "All heil Mano di Dio!"
Madiba grinned as he took the piece of paper, entered his car and zoomed off to the cheers of some teenage school boys who were watching from afar.
"Mano di Dio!" "the Hand of god!" they yelled excitedly.

Sailboats, yachts, and cabin cruisers all bob up and down in the warm blue water. Two yachts docked ashore bore the name "MADIBA's Pride".
Madiba woke to the sweet smell of jasmine and cherry and water. He saw the silhouette of the shapely body of his drop dead gorgeous girlfriend, Francesca. She had prepared his favorite and brought it to him in bed.

"Rise and shine bluebird. Spread your wings and fly." she said and kissed him.
"Hmmm... Sweet lemonade, is that pasta alla carbonara and cherry juice?" Madiba said, sniffing the aroma.
"Yes honey your favorite." replied Francesca.

Tabloids and papers had pictures of him smiling triumphantly and he was also trending on sports websites with different headlines as he checked his phone: "The HAND of God has no WEAKNESS" "Emperor MADIBA" "All Hail de King of Gloves"

"These people, they won't kill me with these headlines." Madiba said boastfully with a victorious grin spread across his face.
"You are their hero let them adore you" Francesca said, and buried herself under the expensive designer sheets and comforter covers made from Irish Ostrich feathers and German sheep.

Then something caught his attention, it was a headline from an English reporter Emma Churchill. She had always suspected foul play and never ceased to be inquisitive whenever she had the chance to meet him and ask questions at press conferences. Her article was titled: "Pure Blood? Madiba's Mysterious Secret."

Madiba's heart beats furiously as he scans through the article. What d'hell does she want from me? He asked himself again and again as he read to his bewilderment the atrocious things she said about him.

"How can she even be allowed to publish this... this junk?!" he said out loud absent-mindedly to Francesca's surprise.
"Baby are you okay?" Francesca asked, startled.
"Yea sweets... I'm... I'm... Fine. Just one crazy reporter." Madiba replied. He tried to control his anger but failed.
"That Bitch's gone too far and I'm gonna deal with her." he blasted.
"calmati Madiba, non ne vale la pena (calm down Madiba, she's not worth it)" Francesca pleaded, but Madiba was boiling with rage he didn't hear her speak. He really wanted to show the damned reporter what it meant to be the Hand of god. He slid into combat shorts, black hoodie and a golf cap to match, and left Madiba's Pride in his fury.

He dallied ashore as he wrestled with the option of going in his Lamborghini or the Cardiac Escalade; he later opted for his pick up truck instead; he loved to blend in with commoners whenever he drove to his poultry.

People need to know where they belong, and if they do not, we'd gladly show them. He said to himself.

Olusegun Madiba was Nigerian but played for the Italian national team. "Nigeria is full of shit" he said to the scout that first came to invite him to the Super Eagles when he was sixteen.
"You'll regret it if you choose to play for another country but Nigeria." his former agent had told him, but here he was in Turin growing stronger at 31.

"You welcome boss," a security greeted him as he pulled up into the farmland.
"Morning Steve," Madiba acknowledged. "Have you seen Sebastien this morning?"
"No boss..."

Madiba shook his head in disappointment and drove past him into the heart of the farm. He reached for his pocket knife in his backpack at the rear seat and stomped into the poultry.
The fowls flew and skittered all around raising the dust. It was a battle of fastest feathers and feet because they knew what was about to happen. Madiba's weekly visit to the poultry brought about one thing --death.

He caught a cockerel and began to pull its hackle feathers off its neck. He took his pocket knife, slit its throat open and quaffed the cockerel's blood to the last pint.
"Aaarrrggghhhhh!..." he screamed with renewed vigor.

Just then his phone rang, it was Sebastien.
"Hello boss, I'm sorry I couldn't..." Sebastien was saying before Madiba cut him short.
"Shut d'fuck up you faggot. Where d'hell are you?"
"I'm... I'm at the Caa...cas... Casablanca" he stammered.
"Great. Stay right there I'm coming over." Madiba said and hung up.
"Pure blood huh? I'll show you pure blood." he said to himself as he squeezed the dead fowl in his hand.

He heard a beep and looked at the attic and saw a recording device. It blinked green. He stared at it in shock as the light turned red and went out.
"Emma Churchill..." he glared.

~Angel Messi~