I Wanted To Take My Country To The World Cup
But my dreams got crushed along the way — here’s the exclusive story
Effortlessly.
If there’s one sport I can play effortlessly it is football. Anyone in my family, nuclear or extended, can attest to this. Heck, anyone who has known me from primary school knows this.
I don’t think there was ever a sport I loved so much when I was young. My mother knew this and she fueled my ambition however she could.
To this end, she:
1. Ensured I attended the Musa Otieno Foundation when I was in lower primary.
2. Moved me out of a school once she discovered there was no big field to play football
3. Enrolled me to Ligi Ndogo and Ujuzi Football Clubs
And these are mere highlights.
My mother has always supported me and my siblings whenever it was sports-related. She would even chase us away from home to go play because somehow, she knew the value.
Give me a ball, and a week to build my stamina, and I can play on any pitch, any league, any time. That’s how confident I am in myself when it comes to soccer.
I was so confident, I believed I was the one destined to take Kenya to the World Cup.
But along the way, my dreams got crushed.
With every dribble, I be askin’ the masses to tune their hearts to me
I loved telling my friends that I’d juggle the cooked meatballs my mother ate.
This was before I learned about the human anatomy and how stupid the idea was. It had some truth to it though. I could juggle the ball to the point where it could only fall if I wanted it to, or if I was tired.
You see, I grew up watching only one channel — Kenya Broadcasting Cooperation (KBC). In black and white. My friends had the pleasure of the other TV stations, in colour.
My somewhat little exposure to KBC showed me a world of international news, documentaries, and football. I would watch Football Mundial, the Africa Cup of Nations, The World Cup, the Bundesliga, the English Premier League, and documentaries on football legends. You name it.
If KBC brought it, I saw it.
I was not a fan of any football team, I was a fan of the game.
There was a time when I could list all the first eleven players of the top five teams in the English Premier League. I even knew some of the super subs. Darren Fletcher was Manchester United’s super sub when the game was around 15 minutes to the end.
In short, when it came to football, I’d always ask anyone around to tune their heart to me.
My mother knew this.
She allowed me to stick photos of Ronaldinho in her bedroom. She would never miss buying the Saturday magazine in case there was an issue of Super Strikas, a locally produced football magazine I loved.
And when it came to playing the sport, I didn’t want it to stop.
Watching the David Beckham documentary brought all these feelings, which I thought had long been buried.
Beckham’s mother talked about how he would only eat, sleep, and drink football. That was me.
I was not that bad of an artist. But I have a drawing book with my attempts at capturing the Shakes Makena whisk the ball past goalkeepers. To me, Shakes was Dennis Oliech.
These were the local heroes who made me believe in my dream because I wanted to take Kenya to the World Cup.
I wanted it so bad, I convinced my friends in my estate to have a mini-world cup tournament. This is how we did it.
We took a one-liter plastic bottle, and cut the upper quarter of it, flipped it so that it looked like a funnel. We then filled the upper end of the funnel with crumpled paper and sealed it with cello tape.
We then used the Blue Band foils, which always had a yellow side to cover our World Cup Trophy. You should have seen it. It was the complete replica of the original trophy!
The tournament was set.
My team won.
My team always won.
I’d do anything to make my team win.
Throughout my passionate years, I have played the goalkeeper, the striker, the defender, the winger, and eventually settled on the middle fielder. I loved the midfield. I’d control the pace of the game, and create chances for scoring.
Thus, if push came to shove, I’d occupy any position.
Funny enough, I never aimed to score. I wanted to hit the posts. I loved how it would scare the keeper to have a persistently ringing post. It was my way of threatening him.
Then one week, it seemed like everything took a turn for the worse.
Fightin’ back tears, I promised to switch gears
I remember I was in class 6.
I was the captain of my team, self-appointed but also unanimously selected by my team players.
Mwangi was our number 5, Sam our number 4, and Eriko our amazing goalkeeper. I was in the midfield, on the left wing we had Mwendwa with his killer left leg, on the right was Collins AKA Collo, and our striker was Evans Mwaniki alias ‘Sampy’.
The seven of us had stamina. We had drive. And we loved the game.
We were so good, I remember one chemist asking me if I had continued with my dream to play football when I revisited the neighourhood as an adult. He mentioned it because, among us, some of the older players got sponsorships.
We called it ‘selections’.
There were a lot of rumours about it. One of them was that when the scouts were around, you should never pick the ball using your hands — it showed a lack of skill.
I had good footwork. Both left and right feet. I was always prepared for selections.
MYSA was the sports ground. MYSA stands for Mathare Youth Sports Association. During this particular week, there was word that selections would happen.
I was almost certain I’d get picked. Those chosen would go to Norway for training and possible selection by other European teams. I was pumped.
It was supposed to be on the weekend, so I couldn’t wait for Friday. Somehow, some Greek god was working overtime, because, on the eve of the day, we were moving house.
We moved from Komarock to Old Racecourse.
I could not express my disappointment, because nobody among us liked moving house. The work was usually too much. The sad face I hung, one might think, was because we were moving.
It was not.
I was missing out on a near-certain ticket to Norway. I was beyond affected. But somehow, over time, I forgot the incident. But a second blow was waiting.
I told you, some mysterious cosmic creature just had a grudge against me, for some reason.
Maybe it was because I loved Arsenal’s game. Maybe it was the fear I liked to give goalkeepers my aiming at the bar. Or maybe they wanted me to choose another path.
I was dumb about all that.
I wanted to take my country to the World Cup.
Period.
The second blow
The second strike came when I was in class 7.
My very supportive mother yet again took me to another field, rich with opportunity. Ligi Ndogo.
I had brought my hood football to a cohort who only understood fancy soccer boots and shin guards. Heck, I didn’t even know what shin guards were.
I put only my boots, which I had bought for roughly 200 shillings, a throwaway price if you know your way — and time — around G-mall, alias Gikomba. After the first game, I decided I needed to make myself some shin guards.
I could not afford to buy them.
I searched for one empty, Kasuku plastic can and cut out the edges. I used a hot nail to make the perfect outlines I wanted. Wide on the upper end and narrow below as it tapered towards my ankles.
On the side, I fashioned slits. I then slid the black rubber used to seal brooms around these slits. Separating these plastic ends from my shin was a piece of sponge from my mattress. To hold the sponge intact, these black rubber bladders ran in through one slit, straddled the sponge, and then out through the other slit.
I’d then tie the rubberband around my calf.
When I covered them with my knee-length pair of socks, I’d feel like J. J. Okocha.
The next time I showed up at the venue, my shin guards were the highlight of the talk that evening. Everybody locked how precise, well-abutted to the shins, and steady they looked. If only they knew it was only makeshift Kasuku projections.
Now I looked like I fit in.
Then came a time when people were to head to Manchester.
It was not my favourite team, but who wouldn’t want to jump at the chance? But one had to cough a large sum of money. Back then, we needed to raise 150k.
I was so used to 20 shillings that 150k felt like one’s entire life savings.
Enter my mother.
She created these small voucher booklets of 50, 100, and 200 shillings apiece. She would then walk around telling everyone about this opportunity for me to go play abroad.
She did what she could. But the money was too much. I stayed while those I knew, who I knew I was better than, flew. One of them got selected to play for Everton under 16. I knew I was better than him. But hey…life.
One opportunity, however, which cropped was the East African Tournament. It came after my missed chance to go to Manchester.
This one just had to yield. My mother made sure I had a temporary passport to take me to Uganda for the event. She then made plans of securing a permanent one, in case another opportunity arose.
Off we went to Kampala.
We crushed it.
I was the assistant captain. I was the tallest. I was the midfielder.
Just as we had won our quarterfinals, our coach came and told us that we had been disqualified. The reason? Me.
Why?
The other teams thought I was poached. I was tall for my age and gave my team an unfair advantage. This was despite the issuance of my official documents.
We had to accept our fate.
I had to accept my fate.
But it affirmed one thing to my young self — my skills and height did not match my age bracket. I’d soon find this out when I moved from Ligi Ndogo.
The third and final blow that made the difference
I said to myself, “Whatever you do, you won’t do it partially” — J. Cole
I went to another football club in Parklands.
Remember, we had moved to Old Racecourse. So we could walk through several shortcuts to Parklands.
The first impression the manager had of me was that I was on a bursary. My vocabulary was not as rich back then, but my brother laughed. He knew what the word meant.
It didn’t bother him as much, because he knew we came from a family of proving people wrong.
Eventually, I joined the team.
The kind but stern coach had one eye blinded by a cataract, but the other was as keen as E. O. Wilson’s. He was the kind of coach who looked at the different abilities and put you in the field based on your aggregate score, and his individual assessment from the regular training.
As a fan of Alessandro Piero and Andrea Pirlo, I grew to relish killer passes. It landed me in the midfield. At the same time, I was a master juggler.
Even when I was younger, I’d juggle anything that was spherical in any way. A pair of socks wrapped into a ball, a tennis ball, a golf ball, a ball made from waste plastic paper, and the ones we bought in supermarkets.
I loved juggling so much, I have a picture of myself juggling inside our home in Komarock, at night, during a blackout. I can see the pic.
We had placed the kerosine lamp on the other end far from my long legs, and my aunt, Mama Win, was sewing. I had placed the ball under my neck when the photo was taken.
Ball control came easily to me.
So I was placed in the middle with Cwa Rugumayo where we’d alternate as defending and attacking middlefielders.
The time came when we were to be selected for the Sweden Children’s World Cup. This was it. I had wanted to take my country to The World Cup. Going to Sweden would have been the clincher.
But the manager had other plans.
All the coaches had forwarded my name, to be sponsored for the global event, but the manager decided to pick the striker.
I was so surprised, that it exceeded my deep-founded sadness.
How could he not see that I was the one supplying the striker with my passes?
Furthermore, the striker could fund himself to attend the tournament. I couldn’t.
I was so confused, distraught, and heartbroken.
People often remember the ones who score the goals, not the ones who create the plays.
My coach tried to console me. He wanted me to continue with my ambition, but these blows were too much. Every big opportunity was thwarted.
Smack! Right in the face.
He offered to include me in his local team, while my team members flew to Sweden. I never had the time. Their training schedule clashed with my classes.
But that was not the final blow — this one was
I was around 13 when I was about to join my final year in primary.
The coach had told me that there would be tryouts to join Thika United and Tusker FC. He had forwarded my name because he felt I was not gaining as much experience as I was with my agemates.
Me? To join the then two top teams in Kenya? At my age? I didn’t think I had that ability. But all my coaches agreed on this. I should give it a shot.
I was tall enough. I only needed to build the muscle which would come with time. But I never showed up. The schedule for class 8 students took over most of my time.
That’s how I slowly began to watch football on the sidelines. I’d only watch or play for the fun of it, but never with the energy I once had.
Later that year, I saw a newspaper cover of a player I had trained. He was in England. He had several trophies to his name. I only had a birth certificate. How amazing, huh?
That’s how I transitioned to basketball. And funny enough, I started teaching myself the game using a soccer ball.
Old habits die hard.
From this day forward, I move with a new ferocity
I have only had such a belief in myself once.
I was confident I could take Kenya to the World Cup. But I might have been naïve. I never got the chance to know.
Maybe I would have been signed up by a team in the English Premier League. Maybe I might have played in one of the local teams, the same way my high school teammate, Yasin, was.
Again, maybe I would never have pursued my studies with as much vigour as I did in the final term of high school. I did not want to let go of the things I had control over. I passed extremely well that year.
Maybe I would never have met the amazing friends I have now. Or my girlfriend, the amazing lady who supports my dreams not just verbatim but in so many practical ways. Maybe I would never have developed this new theory of Evolution I have grown to love so much.
Watching David Beckham’s documentary brought all this back. But it also reminded me to chase what I wanted deeply.
Presently, I love writing. A day does not pass without writing. I also love talking about my ideas about evolution. All these can be summarized through teaching.
I love teaching. For that reason, I have a bigger goal.
Supposed to be relaxin’, this passion makes that impossible
Now I can’t relax.
I want to build a school.
Not the school we are used to. Nowadays, schools have so many pitfalls. Thus, for the longest time, ever since I was on campus, I’ve always wanted to start a school.
Soon, I’ll be launching it. It makes me sleep late into the night even when I have shifts the following day. I call it The One Alternative Academy. I am so excited and fearful about it. But most of the time, the excitement dominates.
Up until I have secured enough funding to turn it into a physical space, it will be online. I will have actionable steps in various fields for anyone who’s interested.
But for now, I’m reminded of a song by The Game, about dreams:
Blushin’ in this 40 ounce
Lettin the ink from my pen bleed
Cuz Martin Luther King had A “dream!”
Aaliyah had A “dream!”
Left Eye had A “dream!”
So I reached out to Kanye And “brough You All My Dreeam!” — The Game.
I let my dream of taking my country to the World Cup slip. Maybe it was because I did not have control over some of the levers at the time.
But I will not let this one go that easily.
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