by Frank Coates
‘He hasn’t told you,’ he said.
‘Hasn’t told me what?’
He was again silent.
‘Kwazi? What is it?’
‘I’m not here because I enjoy football. I think it’s a stupid waste of energy. No, I’m here to see if my friend is foolish enough to play to win.’
‘Of course he’s playing to win! As you said, he’s waited his whole life for this chance. And I know him well enough to know that he will give everything he has. He wants to win.’
Kwazi shook his head despondently. ‘Yes, you’re right. Football has been his whole life. But if he plays too well tonight, it might be the end of it. Koske has told him he must lose and Joshua has agreed. But I know him better than Koske does. And I think I know him better than you do. He says he will do what is sensible, but there’s something in that head of his that will not let him lose the chance he has been waiting for all his life.’
She leapt to her feet. ‘I must speak to him. He mustn’t—’
There was a tumultuous roar from the crowd. Mayasa looked down at the arena. The players were emerging from the race. Near the end of the line of men was Joshua—tall, proud and looking magnificent in his gold and black guernsey.
Joshua felt sick. In horror, he imagined vomiting in the middle of the pitch where he stood with his team-mates as the national anthem played through distorted speakers. Somewhere in the grandstands was Mayasa, among forty or fifty thousand fans—die-hards not able to wait for the start of the season proper before seeing their first game of the year.
The pre-game warm-up was a confusion of lights and movement. A football flashed past him, he took an ineffective stab at it, and then a siren sounded and he was on the bench beside the manager, fidgeting and willing one of the Leopards’ players to be injured.
This continued until the manager sent Joshua on as a substitute for one of the defensive players. As he ran to take his position, the crowd erupted in response to a goal attempt at the far end of the field. The sound set a flock of small birds fluttering in Joshua’s chest cavity. The remainder of the half was a blur, including his only touch of the football as the siren sounded half-time.
At the start of the second half, he was again on the bench, watching play while keeping an eye on the clock. The Leopards’ defensive squad was skilful, deflecting every Buffalo charge. On the other hand, the Buffalos’ defenders were sloppy, but the Leopards’ strikers were failing to take full advantage of that. They passed back and forth before ultimately losing the ball.
In the thirty-ninth minute, with the score nil all, the key striker in the Leopards’ attack went down from a brutal tackle in midfield. He was in the hands of the trainers for some time before the manager signalled to Joshua to take the injured player’s place on the field.
Joshua ran onto the pitch, unable to feel the ground beneath his feet. Around him the night pulsed with energy. The spectators—a seemingly single organism whose raw emotions electrified the air—roared and hooted. The glaring lights blinded him. How could he possibly see?
And then the ball was in his half. He took a poorly directed pass on his non-preferred left side, but quickly managed to gather it under his control before he was tackled. He fended off the Buffalo challenge and passed to a midfielder. Joshua broke into an open space that offered a clear path to goal, but the ball didn’t return to him, going instead to the other wing where it was lost to the Buffalos.
Another ball came into the attack. Again he received it wide and in good position, but he was bailed up with nowhere to go. He passed to another player, but the ball didn’t return and was soon sent downfield again.
Joshua gratefully took the respite, but noted that the game was now into injury time. He moved into the defensive part of the pitch and stole a well-directed Buffalo pass, dribbling it into his attacking zone while defeating a number of spirited challenges.
The Leopards’ midfielders offered support. Joshua ignored them, realising that he was not the only player not playing for a win. He was in full flight, charging into the forward half. Thirty metres from goal, a vicious kick from a brutish Buffalo defender caught him on the right ankle, taking him to the ground. He was winded and in pain. The mercury-vapour lights drilled into his brain. The referee hovered above him, yabbering that he had won a direct free kick. A trainer stood over him, yelling at him to let a substitute take it. His team-mates and opposition players crowded around.
He was somehow on his feet. The referee took the ball and placed it in position for the penal foul.
The crowd was whistling and yelling. Joshua could see nothing because of the glare, but his thoughts went to two people in that vast crowd: Mayasa, who would be praying for him to score; and Koske, who would damn him if he did.
Thirty metres. The referee held up his hand and blew full-time. Opposition defenders shuffled into position in the wall, and there was much shifting and changing while they strengthened it with additional men.
Joshua knew he could make the shot if he could use his right foot, but he was barely able to stand on it.
The referee sounded the whistle to signal that the shot could proceed.
Nil all.
Joshua studied the defensive wall. There was no way through, and even a high top-spin shot, if it were able to avoid the goalie, would be unlikely to get under the bar. There was clearly no disgrace in missing such a difficult shot. He could make an honourable attempt, satisfy Koske’s orders and hopefully keep his chances alive to join the regular Leopards’ squad.
Do you think I don’t have a hundred boys like you? You only get one chance with the Limuru Leopards. And this is it.
Joshua started his approach, setting up to take the ball on his left side, but in mid-flight he changed to his right, punching the ball hard and wide. It careened off in a wide, sweeping curve.
A bolt of pain shot up his leg and burst in his brain.
Mayasa climbed out of the overcrowded matatu. Joshua followed, taking care to keep the weight off his injured ankle. When he offered to hold Kwazi’s sticks as he alighted, his friend ignored him and stumbled down with them under his arm.
At the turn-off towards Mayasa’s house, Kwazi said goodbye to her, but ignored Joshua. They watched him hobble down the alley with his painful, jerky gait until he was out of sight.
‘Kwazi’s annoyed with you,’ Mayasa said, feeling sympathetic with at least some of his sentiment.
‘Yes. He’s an old woman.’
‘And am I an old woman too?’ She had been torn between sharing his elation and fearing the outcome. Now the cold reality of their situation displaced the last of the euphoria. ‘When he told me about Koske, I couldn’t believe you would shoot that goal.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘What are we going to do, Joshua?’
‘I leave tomorrow for the Serengeti.’ He turned to her. ‘You will meet me there?’
She chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘I…I can’t.’
‘But why, Mayasa?’ he pleaded.
She wanted to tell him it was because there was a serious matter they needed to discuss, but she couldn’t handle the expression she imagined she’d see if she told him about her father’s condition. Certainly not at that moment, when he was so happy about his achievements on the football field.
‘There are things I have to do,’ she said. ‘Then I can come.’
Mayasa had spoken to her sister about taking over the responsibility for their father’s care. She was hopeful that something could soon be arranged, but regardless of the practicalities, her first duty was to inform Joshua that her father had the dreaded disease.
‘Then if you can’t leave Nairobi, will you be safe when I’m gone?’ he asked. ‘Can you stay at your sister’s house?’
She nodded. ‘I can. And you must keep out of the way until tomorrow. You know that Koske has his thugs everywhere. He’ll kill you if he has the chance.’
Joshua nodded, but she could tell his mind had drifted away.
‘Joshua?’ she pr
essed. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
He smiled. ‘It was a great goal, wasn’t it?’
CHAPTER 20
Simon sat surrounded by ecstatic Limuru Leopards’ fans. He was probably the only man in the matatu who wasn’t a football fanatic. And probably also the only one who didn’t actually care who’d won the game. Simon was happy because he’d seen his son shoot the goal of his life. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face all the way from Kasarani stadium.
It was fortunate that he even knew about the game. A parent of one of Joshua’s team-mates had mentioned it, never suspecting that Simon knew nothing about it. In fact, Simon was probably the only Kibera resident who hadn’t heard about Joshua’s debut well in advance of the game. He’d made it to the stadium in the nick of time.
Although Simon wasn’t a fan, he naturally knew of the Limuru Leopards—one of the best football teams in the competition. He also knew that Joshua had for many years dreamt of playing with the Leopards.
Simon had often been tempted to moderate his son’s idealistic aspirations, but he recognised something of himself in his boy. Joshua had the right amount of nerve and audacity to make a good sportsman. And in Kibera, dreams were a lifeline that had to be nourished at all costs.
It was a dream that had drawn Simon Otieng and his young wife to Kibera in the first place. He should have realised at that early time that no matter how hard he tried to make a life for them, Kibera would refuse to yield for him.
1989
Like ghosts they moved through the cool mist and pre-dawn darkness to be first in line at the factory doors and construction site gates, all seeking a day’s work. Simon often failed to find work and wondered if it were because of his Kisumu accent. Try as he might to lose it, it unerringly returned to give him trouble—even after five years in Nairobi. It was a source of great amusement for many, and particularly troublesome as it marked him as an outsider, possibly naïve and therefore an even better target for exploitation.
‘And how are things in Nyanza Province?’ they’d ask soon after he opened his mouth to speak. Or, ‘You’ll have to talk a little slower. I can’t keep up with you.’
None of these comments was particularly humorous or original, but each aspiring comedian would ensure everyone within earshot could hear him. If the comments came from a potential employer, Simon could do nothing but smile at such dazzling wit. It was difficult enough to find a labourer’s job in Nairobi without giving vent to his anger or making it worse by standing on his dignity.
The battle for work began at the entrance to the premises. Building sites had gatemen; factories had security guards. There was always more than one step to win a job, and there was always someone demanding a little something to allow a man to the next step. And then there was the foreman. Any man who could lift a bag of wheat, or push a broom, or carry a crate of beer, was a potential employee for the day. The foreman therefore expected something for his trouble.
Simon would typically have to hand over a hundred shillings to the man at the gate, and another hundred to the foreman for the privilege of carrying cement bags from seven to five. At the end of the day, he might take home one hundred shillings for ten hours’ hard labour.
He was nineteen, and might have given up and returned home if it hadn’t been for Patience.
Simon was shy in the company of women his own age and would stumble over his words when attempting conversation. He felt awkward, and his few bumbling attempts to find a girlfriend came to nothing. In despair, he put women from his thoughts. When his testicles ached, and he used his hand for relief, he had no particular girl in his mind as he raced towards his mind-numbing climax.
When he saw the girl in her tight jeans and snug white tee-shirt, she was sweeping the dirt outside a duka on the alley that ran down to the putrid Mathare River. His greeting fell from his mouth before he had time to think. ‘Habari,’ he said, and when she looked up she had the eyes of a gazelle—deep brown pools framed by long lashes. She smiled and he couldn’t find words to speak again. She was more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen.
Although she hadn’t spoken, her smile gave him courage, but before he could recover she completed her sweeping and moved inside.
He looked at what the duka had on display on the outside shelves. There were a few canned goods, toothpaste, a jar of rubbery snakes for the children, cigarettes in singles or packs, and a row of dog-eared magazines and newspapers. And a sign that said Fresh Tea.
He chose a seat at one of the three small tables and agonised over his next words. His mind was a blank. In that moment, it appeared that Habari was the limit of his entire vocabulary.
Suddenly she was at his table, wiping it with a damp cloth.
‘Habari,’ he said, inwardly cursing himself.
‘Mzuri,’ she replied, and the steel bands on his chest made it difficult for him to breathe.
‘Would you like to order something?’ she asked.
He nodded.
She smiled and raised an exquisite eyebrow.
‘Oh! Tea…please.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
He marvelled at her command of words.
‘Yes.’
She was still smiling at him. ‘Milk or sugar or both?’ she asked patiently.
‘Milk, please,’ he stammered. ‘And sugar.’
She turned and her bottom wobbled as she returned to the duka.
Haki ya mungu, he whispered to himself irreverently.
After his second cup, her father appeared at the doorway with a face of stone.
A further two cups forced him to move on with a bursting bladder, but not before he knew her name. It was Patience.
He also knew he wanted her more than anything he’d wanted in his whole life.
It took Simon many days and countless cups of tea while dodging her father’s scowls to gather the courage to ask Patience to go out with him. When she readily agreed, he wondered why he’d taken so long.
‘I thought you were never going to ask,’ she said, recalling his tentative early approaches.
‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘I was.’
It was Sunday, and they were in City Park, which was either a long walk or a cheap matatu ride from Mathare. The matt grey sky, typical of Nairobi in July, kept the temperature down, so they had walked there.
The park had once been the pride of Nairobi. The city planners had set aside a generous portion of the wooded slopes above the town as a recreational area. It was some time, however, before the park was safe. For many years, lions and other predators continued to occupy their traditional territory, making a visit to the park a hazardous activity.
From its heyday in the mid-twentieth century, the park had fallen into disrepair. It had again become the hunting ground of predators, but this time it was foreigners and the wealthy who were the prey as the predators became more interested in cash than flesh. But the thieves recognised Mathare residents when they saw them, and Simon and Patience knew they could stroll the overgrown paths with impunity.
In a deserted corner of the park, they found a small clearing among the overgrown shrubbery. It was concealed from the path in the unlikely event of an intruder entering their domain. Simon smoothed away the leaves for her to sit down.
‘And, of course, there’s your father to think about,’ he said, sitting beside her on the grass.
‘He’ll get to like you when he knows you as well as I do.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and a brief cloud of uncertainty threatened to spoil the happiness he felt having her by his side.
‘But how about you, Patience?’ he said, teasing her with feigned seriousness. ‘Do you like me?’
‘You know I do,’ she replied, before stealing a kiss. ‘There, I’ve shamed you in front of all Nairobi.’
He looked up into the trees and laughed. There was only a troop of Sykes’ monkeys for company. ‘I don’t think the monkeys will mind,’ he said, and took her into his arms.
Her lips were soft and full. He tentatively touched his tongue to her open lips. She responded. It made his head spin.
‘Ninakupenda mingi,’ he said, hovering over her. ‘Patience…I love you very much.’
She pulled him down on her and he kissed her, long and hard.
‘Simon…’ she whispered into his ear.
Her hands went to his belt and he fumbled with the zipper of her jeans. In a tangle of trouser legs and underwear, he pressed his body into hers.
It had never crossed his mind, neither then nor previously, that she was a Kikuyu and he was not. And that their love might offend people of both tribes.
‘You are a Luo,’ Patience said. ‘We are Kikuyu.’
‘I know that,’ Simon said with some exasperation. ‘But that’s no reason for your father to hate me.’
‘He doesn’t hate you, he just—’
‘He just wants to take that panga he keeps under the counter and cut me into small, small pieces with it.’
She smiled. ‘In time he will learn. What I mean is, you are a Luo and I am Kikuyu. We are different.’
‘What does it matter? We love each other.’
‘Of course we do, Simon. What I am trying to say is that when we marry, well…Some people don’t like to see mixed marriages. They will tease us, or…maybe they’ll make it difficult for us.’
‘We know what we are doing.’
‘I know what I’m doing, Simon. But do you?’
‘Of course I do.’ He lifted his cup and dabbed his finger into the puddle of tea on the laminated table top. ‘It sounds like you’ve changed your mind about getting married.’
‘I haven’t. I’m just trying to think of everything we need to think about. Things that you don’t know about. You haven’t seen how things can be. It’s different in the smaller towns. People are among family there. They know everyone in town. But here in Nairobi, we’re all strangers.’
‘What do we care about strangers?’
