Church, football and syncretism.

Where I’m from, everyone played football. And no, it’s not "soccer"—it’s FOOTBALL. The girls, of course, played ampe. I won't pause to explain the rules of ampe now, but I can tell you this: back then, we had no "gender problems" whatsoever; everyone had their game and played it with passion.

I played for a team called Soccer Revivals (Colts Division) in Mile 7, New Achimota. Our home ground was the St. John’s Grammar School Park. Looking back, we didn’t just have a childhood; we had a series of mystical encounters.

The Rituals of the Pitch

Before every match, we would crowd into a room with a spiritualist named Hangba. He would ritualistically throw eggs; depending on how many broke, he would "read" the scoreline of the upcoming game. From there, he built our strategy. He’d tell us exactly how many goals we needed in the first half to avoid a "lost course." He was right often enough to justify his permanent seat at the table.

Hangba would give us oils to rub into our feet for luck and protection against injury. Our Number 9 always received a double portion of the oil—after all, the weight of the goals rested on his boots. Hangba was more than a mystic; he was a "super-coach," appearing at training grounds to give instructions to players and technical staff alike. I’d tell you we had great players, but that goes without saying. In those days, I didn’t know a single footballer who wasn’t legendary in his own right.

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The Fracture and the Prophecy

Eventually, I left Soccer Revivals for a local team in Dome. During training one afternoon, I fell and snapped my radius. My mother, frantic and disturbed, took me to see a spiritualist. The verdict was swift and chilling: I was never to play football again. The seer claimed the witches in my family would use the sport to destroy my "bright future."

With one sentence, that dodgy, grey-haired oracle terminated any hope I had of becoming the next Abedi Pele. In hindsight, I’m not sure she did much damage—many of the guys on my team who were infinitely more talented (including the real Ayews) never made it to the professional stage either.

The Fallen Mystic

Years later, as an adult, I was driving past the ABC junction when I spotted a familiar face. It was Hangba. He had gone mad. He was barefoot, unwashed, and wandering aimlessly. A wave of nostalgia hit me; I wanted to stop and relive those glorious years when we toured Accra playing for nothing but the thrill of the game.

But I kept driving. I couldn't stop wondering: how does a man who supposedly summoned spirits from the netherworld, a man who held our destinies in his hands, end up like this? Had the spirits deserted him?

In Ghanaian society, stories of spirits retaliating against those who fail them are common. In my own spiritual wanderings—and I have wandered more than most—I have found few traditional deities driven by forgiveness. If you fail, you pay the price in blood or sanity. Perhaps Hangba missed a step, and the spirits "did their thing."

The Reality of Syncretism

I only found the answer to this African dilemma when I found Christ. Looking back at the vibrancy of Colts football, it’s staggering to think how many young boys were initiated into spiritism. Many never outgrew it.

We were "Christians" who went to church every Sunday, yet we lived in the pocket of syncretism. The reason is simple: a lack of depth. For many, Christianity is just another tool in a spiritual toolbox. If one ritual fails, they turn to the next. This is a challenge the modern church rarely acknowledges, let alone addresses. Consequently, the pews—and even the pulpits—are often filled with people who claim to follow Christ while still tethered to the idols of the past.

A piece from the coming autobiography; I & I testimony in support SD-21—the Sound Doctrine Conference.