Editor’s note: Ali Mzee shares thrilling throwback scenes from ghetto football tournaments in Mombasa.
This has been one of the slowest weeks in my life, and to say I’m bored to the core is an understatement.
I’m trying to see how I can stretch a shilling to get to the end of the month.
Every cloud has a silver lining, and the boredom has got me feeding on the memories of the rudimentary football I grew up watching back in the early and mid-90s in Mombasa.
Nothing beats the drama of football matches at Chaani Primary School grounds, Mwijabu, Bomu within Changamwe, and on the rugged fields of Kisauni.
As a little rascal, I immensely enjoyed watching the matches for their edgy nature, characterised by the eclectic display of karate, drunken master Tai Chi, and, of course, a pinch of soccer skills; all of which I hoped to employ in the future as a professional soccer player.
I still recall how a referee would be “disciplined” if he messed up the game. I remember like yesterday how a fellow named Job was notorious for storming the pitch with a twig to whip a referee at the slightest suspicion that the latter had been compromised to favour a rival team.
Job was said to have a double bone somewhere in his arm, and picking a fight with him was considered tantamount to courting a dislocated arm, a sick leave from work (from the beating, of course), or even death.
As such, a referee officiating a match that involved Job’s favourite team (and for which he suspected Job did not like the results) would blow the final whistle at a strategic corner of the pitch and would only return to exchange post match pleasantries after making sure Job had left.
Kung fu
There was also another character by the name of Bakari aka Beka who, whenever he sensed his team was losing, would tackle players of the rival team with a Kung Fu kick without minding the decision of the referee.
After all, few referees had the audacity to show a red card to a member of the team backed by Beka and Job.
A rival team would be intimidated off the field if they survived Beka’s Karate kicks and went on to win.
Beka would approach the stockiest player of the rival team and challenge him thus:
“Mmetushinda uwanjani sasa nataka nione kama sparring pia mtatoboa,” Beka would challenge. (You beat us in the game; now let’s see if you can beat us in a physical sparring match.)
But it was worthless casuistry trying to stop the fist exchange, as a player would most likely be reeling on the floor in pain from Beka’s devious blows by the time he was completing the statement.
I remember how goalkeepers would “sell” their teams whenever Beka was tasked with taking a penalty kick for his team. Most feared the consequences of arousing Beka’s anger with a save.
In those days of wanaume ni kuonana (men fight in open challenge), Beka, Job, and co. were a law unto themselves, which left referees and rivals with only the hope that the former would one day lose while playing against GSU or Ulinzi Stars.
But Beka’s team, headquartered in a huge tractor tire at a place called Cairo Base, never made it to the Kenya Premier League, rendering the GSU and Ulinzi hopes invalid.
But it is a Kisauni experience that has stayed with me to this day in the most vivid images.
Stuff stronger than tobacco
During one of the games, I saw players sipping Dundu (coconut brew) and puffing on something stronger than tobacco, ostensibly to boost morale.
A few minutes after the second half had kicked off, one of the players walked to the touchline and urinated as if he were at the urinal.
And when the referee reprimanded him for behaving in such a crude manner, the player, in a fit of rage, warned the referee against overstepping his boundaries.
” Mi nakojoa nikiwa ndani ya uwanja.. haya nambie nimefanya makosa gani?” posed the player in a slurred speech. (I’m urinating inside the pitch. So tell me what I’ve done wrong.)
The referee’s efforts to reach into his pocket for a card to book the player were thwarted after players and supporters of the drunk’s team booed amidst warning chants of “jaribu kutoa kadi uone.” (If you dare to give him a card, we’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.)
The clever referee, having read the mood of the crowd, reached for his handkerchief instead.
The first incident seemed to have set the pace as players from both teams would stop at the touchline for a few puffs of Stuff Stronger Than Tobacco or a few sips of Mnazi in the same way players in top leagues stop for quick advice from the team coach or a sip of water.
And because bhang is not amaranth and palm wine is not porridge, I remember the goalkeeper of one of the teams ducking in the opposite direction of the goal post and therefore gifting the rival team with a goal.
Lion’s head
The goalkeeper, who was called Golilo (from a dubious corruption of goalkeeper), would later disclose he had dived in the opposite direction after seeing “the approaching head of a lion”—what sober people call a soccer ball.
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During the post-match analysis, the players were divided, but the coach backed Gorilo, saying he had long suspected his opponents were into black science, also known as witchcraft.
“You never know what could have happened if you didn’t duck the lion’s head,” he said as he received a smouldering joint from one of his players.
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