I
speak football, soccer, whatever you want to call it. But we stand on a common
ground about this one thing. It is opium of the masses that enjoys massive
uptake of what it stands for. Then there is the climax of it, the boiling point
of the partakers of this noble sport played by gentlemen and followed by
hooligans. It is the coveted moment that defines whose opium is more dope than
others. The clash of the titans, when the mighty crashers in the form of men in
small pants with hems above their knee cups regardless of their ages and sizes,
meet for the battle of men against the boys, all of their eyes set on the
golden trophy. Well, you ask how I know about all this. I’m refraining myself,
in fact I’m inclined to calling you dumb at this juncture, but then, I’m couth.
I know manners. It’s because I too partake of this good opium. That does not
mean I’m anything near a hooligan. I won’t say what team of boys I support but
I hear people wag their tongues cursing them for not winning a trophy for like
immemorial. I already gave a hint. It’s upon you finding out.
If
you’re a partaker of this opium, then you know what I speak of. For thee that
pretend soccer is your worst event that life had to offer, I shall disclose
that I speak of the World Cup. Then you pop the question, what a monster in the
name of a cup. For a football fan, the World Cup is the ultimate moment. It
comes every four years according to federation’s calendar and finally, the
ultimate icing in the cake, year 2014! This year we’re headed to Brazil, the
home of soccer. It is the epicenter, the arena of dreams upon their dreamers,
where the men shall sieve out the boys. For those of us who only know the
boundaries of where we live and call the extremities of our own country,
Diaspora, we shall step into Brazil in style. Like kings who own it; the
trophy. Oh! Hell yeah! Step into Brazilian soil, into the arena and thrive in
the moment. Yes! On my television set, that’s how! This time not the Jabulani, but chasing the Brazuca, left, right, centre all the way
into the net until the fat lady ululates.
But
then, cometh the lunatics, them who ingested too much opium in form of soccer,
an overdose of it! Those who eat, spit, sleep with boots on whenever their team
wins, who can go any length in defending their team including hanging on a
sheet upon their necks, or jumping from a skyscraper. They hoist flags embodied
by their team’s colors in the homesteads. Those that keep mementos and other
accessories associated with the game such as the famous vuvuzela in their rooms. Those with bed covers striped with the
colors of their favorite teams. They forfeit sex with their wives for the love
of the game. Those who ape what their big stars do in the pitch including
naming their sons and daughters after the wizards in the pitch. Of my friend’s
and neighbor Mwaura’s ilk.
I
can’t imagine how life would have turned out to be without people similar to Mwaura crowning it. It would’ve been one
vast hell, jungle. I’ve been around for a while. At least I have seen decades
culminate to the age that is upon me today. I’m that old. I have also been
around the capital city for a while too. You know, in search of greener
pastures and such ironies of life, found me adding to the capital city’s list
of least woes. I have therefore known Mwaura
for as long as I have been in Nairobi walking on the face of it. World Cups
have also come and gone, at least a sizeable number to know Mwaura has forever been saving to his
way to the World Cup. He dreams big, setting his foot into an arena where the
coveted trophy would find its way to the podium up for grabs for the men to
have their way. He has had enough of sitting at the front couch, his eyes
fixated to the small screen that we call television.
Mwaura
was headed for the World Cup in South Africa. That’s according to the words of
the hoarse. He had set a date of departure. How better would it have been
having the tournament closer home than ever before than South Africa? He had saved money. A lot of money! So he
said. I however doubt how much money is a lot according to Mwaura’s version. Please note. He’s a truck driver within and
without Nairobi and earns what he likes calling ‘jugu’ or peanuts in English. I’m not saying truck drivers are
money deficient, but this particular driver? To add to his woes, besides having
to part with a thousand shillings for a full week’s household consumption to
his beloved Wangeci, which he thinks
it’s too much while his wife thinks otherwise, he also has a dozen of children
enough to make a volleyball team on rotation. Wangeci, his wife, hails from a county that boasts of women
tigresses who purr and devour men who do not yield. I need not tell you who’s
the head of the house in Mwaura’s
family unit and who’s tail.
On
the auspicious moment, on the eve of ‘departure’, when the D day was neigh for
this noble man to realize his dream, hell hath no such fury. His wife had
marked the calendar for a D day in her own making. Mwaura staggered out of Mama
Pima’s shrine with bragging rights up
his chest having spent every dime of his week’s earnings on an illegal hard
drink served by Mama Pima herself. He
as usual, ‘parked’ at his doorstep upon reaching his house after the spree. Let
me explain what I mean by ‘he parked” for I mean not a car. He literally dims
and leans upon his door before snoring hard to prompt his wife to literally
drag him into the house before setting him up against the bathroom walls and
running cold water upon him consistently drenching the man on tap’s gush as a
way of neutralizing whatever it is in his blood in the name of alcohol. On this
particular day, it was the eve of his voyage to the south and I bet he dreamed
of the coveted trophy as he snored away his blood oozing of alcohol.
He
didn’t make it to the World Cup I tell you. On going, he erred, and still it remains
a dream. He was right about one thing alright. The World Cup had never been closer
home than ever because his wife for sure had made arrangements to bring it live
in their house. Talk of being fried and turned over and over in deep bubbling
frying oil then scooped by a tined spoon. Hell hath no fury than a woman
scorned, and Wangeci testified to
this upon her husband’s entire body anatomy. By the time she was through with
him, Mwaura had no money for the World
Cup voyage. It was ‘depleted’! I do not know how, but his savings had
diminished in a flash. I can only speculate what happened on that fateful day that
saw Mwaura’s dream thwarted by his
beloved wife of many children. He had made her, mother again by scoring goals
in other quarters other than the net.
The
pain of being called a mother one too many times didn’t auger well with Wangeci this time around. She was
pregnant again, a circus. For the umpteenth time, Mwaura had done it again. Perhaps, Mama Pima had told a lie that her ‘kanyauji’
aka drink had the ability to substitute what family planning pills do in taming
the number of issues in a family and perhaps, Mwaura and wife bought the idea. A flop it is! Considering that they
were ‘proud’ parents of many and that at any one given time they either have a
national examination candidate in either primary or secondary levels, in the
education cycle, Mwaura’s wife had it
up to here! You know, to her throat. Mwaura
had chewed more than he could swallow this time altogether. Technically,
Mwaura’s dream had come to pass, though he may never discover in his lifetime.
The arena was set in the house and the trophy was upon him in the form of
another pregnancy for his liking. He however insists this time, it’s for real,
all the way to Rio de Janeiro. I want to discourage him by telling him to lower
the bar a little bit and not to set his hopes too high but then I remember
Lupita’s line about valid dreams. I also remember that he’s not alone in this
quest. Our national football team Harambee
Stars is with him hand by hand. I dare not tell him also, when the trophy
made a tour around the world and happened to pass by, I had a ticket invitation
to attend a photo shoot beside it, which I declined to attend. He would turn
all his misery towards poor me. Meanwhile if you own a pub or a khat kiosk like mine, embrace yourself
for the derby because you will smile all the way to the bank when the tourney
begins. Just make sure you have a television set for them who are forever
headed for the World Cup like Mwaura and
our national team. Forever to the World Cup!
Compiled by tickler,
Son of ‘the unquenched’
Kevin Murungi
©Rights Reserved
murungikevin@yahoo.com
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