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“But damn it, you saw that he kept provoking me, that son of a bitch! He’d just insulted my mother again! Fuck! That’s disgusting!” The pygmy had risen up in rebellion against the punishment he considered had been wrongly inflicted.

He was tempted to reply that his own mother, although she had but just passed away, had not been spared that afternoon either, but there was no point in arguing. Deaf to the indignant cries of the offender, he continued to wave the red card at his face for a few seconds, before peremptorily directing him to the “locker rooms”, a ramshackle hut adjoining the corrugated iron “grandstand” under which supporters from both sides huddled, to escape the north wind that swept across the plain. In response, illustrating his words with a horizontal movement of his thumb at the level of his Adam’s apple, the suspended for the next match stared him straight in the eye: “You’re dead.”

He attempted an ironic and detached “No problem!” but, in truth, he was scared stiff and was the first to blink and it wasn’t because of the sun.