I hate the Blackstars.

I hate the Blackstars of Ghana.

I hate them more specifically every four years.

I hate that I have dual citizenship.

I hate the Super Eagles of Nigeria.

I hate those talented green bastards even more specifically now than normal

I hate their audacity to not qualify for this World Cup.

I hate that their failure to qualify has reduced my options for emotional indifference.

I hate that the Blackstars are now my sole option.

I hate that even though I swore I'd be unaffected emotionally by them in this WorldCup, guess what?

I hate the fact that I bought this stupid yellow jersey.

I hate that I know Partey's status.

I hate that I spent money on an original jersey. It's not even nice.

I hate that Partey won't be on pitch or bench.

I hate that judge.

I hate that my jersey is prepped and awaiting tonight's match.

I hate that I know the time of the match.

I hate that I care.

I hate Google for sending me the live updates that i requested it to.

I hate that even now, my adrenaline and anticipation are building along with the hopes and dreams of many other Ghanaians.

I hate that we have to trust these boys with all our emotions.

I hate those Super Eagles for not qualifying. They should be called the Super endangered eagles.

I hate that these dancing boys will decide my mood for tomorrow.

I hate that Asamoah Gyan fellow.

I hate his dancing.

I hate his smile.

I hate his personality.

I hate that he said a cheerful hello that one time I waved in traffic.

I hate that he was brave enough to take that penalty kick knowing the risks.

I hate that he and that team took Ghana that far.

I hate the malaria half my office got as consequence of missing that kick.

I hate that fellow with the teeth. I refuse to remember his name.

I hate the bloody Blackstars.

I hate that you never know whether their aftermath is black, or starred.

I hate that they can cause malaria without mosquitoes.

I hate how they trigger high blood pressure at will.

I hate that they can cause so much joy one minute and despair the very next.

I hate that we allow them to persist with this nonsense.

I hate that people are already sending me messages.

I hate that stupid Kivo advert.

I hate fan parks.

I hate my friend’s wife.

I hate that she’s already cooking for the watch party.

I hate that she’s Ethiopian and doesn’t really care about outcomes. Just pastries.

I hate her enthusiasm.

I hate her "it's not that deep" philosophy.

I hate her stews. The ones in my freezer. Tsew.

I hate the name watch party. It should be called watch uncertainty.

I hate Dstv.

I hate that's it's on my iPad as well. Just in case. And phone.

I hate you, Super Eagles.

I hate that you dashed Nigerian hopes.

I hate that you have robbed me of indifference.

I hate that you put me in this pit.

I hate that photo of the last Ghanaian Veep with the ball.

I hate that I have to write to relieve my anxiety about tonight.

I hate that I had to put you through this ordeal in prose, before you deal with the real ordeal to come.

I hate the WorldCup.

I hate Supersport. I hope canal+ throws them away. After the tournament.

I hate all of you who've been wearing Ghana jerseys since morning.

I hate body odour.

I hate my Nigerian family who have no cares in the world today.

I hate that we have exactly 7 hours to go.

I hate my impending sore throat.

I hate the fact that I probably shouldn't say WorldCup because it’s probably trademarked.

But as I was saying,

I really do hate these Blackstars.