My First Love

Photo Courtesy: Ultra Tribun/Twitter

Here’s a little background information about me. I started watching football in 2006. And it was by happenstance. That does not mean our family got the luxury of a TV set in 2006- if there’s one thing I am sure of, it is that my dad has always evolved with the screen industry. I always suspect that one day I’ll travel home and find that he has the 219” inch screen Samsung has started making noise about.

I used to watch TV before 2006. Just not football. I only watched wrestling, and those funny ads that came in between news during prime time. There was that mama fua with her Sabuni ya jamaa, sabun maber kabisa. Then there was Kimbo. And Cooperative Bank’s Jumbo Junior. Those were the only things that could get me to sit before a screen.

My childhood poster boy for badassery.

Then one fine Tuesday of 2006, everything changed.

That Tuesday, I got into a squabble with my deskmate. I called him Simon Makonde. His real name was Simon, and he hated people adding Makonde to it. But when you piss me off, I piss you off back (equal rights, equal responsibilities). So I called him Makonde just for the piss. It wasn’t even that the name was ugly. The issue was that he was superstitious and believed that associating him with a guy who was born on a Monday and got buried on a Sunday was akin to wishing him death. And he did what you would do to anyone wishing you death, punch daylights out of the person.

I don’t fight. At least when it comes to physical fights. In class six, someone challenged me to a fight. I ended the fight in 0.001 seconds, by hitting him with a brick. A full brick. Landed squarely on his stomach. Dude went out of breath for like a minute. Knockout. Sting like a bee, Ali said. Haters will say it was all the wrestling I was watching. But I believe that when you are given soft and gentle hands like mine, they are meant for caressing soft boobs and playing with a woman’s hair. Not panel beating fellow men. So when Simon Makonde beat the shit out of me, he had it coming. When you are in a village school, all manner of crude weapons is at your disposal because you are always asked to carry all manner of farm tools to school. And on that particular day, a jembe (I would have said a hoe, but I know you people are perverted af) was readily available to fight my battles.

Long story short, as Simon Makonde was being taken to the hospital to get sewn up on the wrist, I was heading home. Suspended for three days. With instructions to come back with either of my parents on Saturday. Saturday came, I went back to school accompanied by my dad. The headteacher met us at the door of his office, told us that there was no freaking way he was solving such a serious disciplinary issue on a weekend. We should come back on a weekday. And he walked away, like a boss. Classic Peter Adika Kojwang’. The problem is that my dad is not the type of person you try to be a showoff to, he believes in dying on his feet rather than living on his knees.

“Go home, Adika will call for you when he is ready to deal with the case. I’m going to work,” Dad told me.

That was the beginning of a four-week long holiday. And that was how I fell in love with football, because I would spend the entire day watching the World Cup. I watched Zidane headbutt Materrazi, my mates only heard about it. And it broke my heart when Italy won the match on penalties.

That is where I fell in love with Drogba. That is where I first watched the Brazilian magic of nho’s- Ronaldinho, Robinho, Juninho, Cicinho, Ricadinho. Do you remember Clint Dempsey and Landon Donovan? I first saw them from the WC. Hernan Crespo. Juan Riquelme. David Villa. Arjen Robben. Dirk Kuyt. Mark Van Bommel. John Heitinga. Oliver Khan. Michael Ballack. Lahm. Claude Makelele. Florent Malouda. Barthez. Lillian Thuram. Gallas. Joe and Ashley Cole. John Terry- Captain, Leader, Legend. Wayne Bridge. Fell in love with them for the first time in the 2006 World Cup.

Moral of the story: You are free to call me a bandwagon fan and a glory hunter because I started supporting Chelsea after the arrival of Abramovich money at Stamford Bridge. Because you are right. Before 2006, the only football I knew was that which I played with my mates.

Another fun fact. I was named the best goalkeeper in Siaya county for two years straight, and was already my school’s best goalkeeper only at Form Two. So I can actually play football. I have more sports certificates than academic certificates. Not to brag.

Anyway, unlike you, I’ve stayed through with my first love (Chelsea). Through thick and thin. When we won back to back titles, and when we finished 11th on the log. Through Di Matteo winning the Champions League with Romeu and Bertrand, and then Andre-Villa Boas holding rock concerts on the touchline every other game. From Drogba, to Alvaro ‘The Salonist’ Morata. And I’ll stick with it through Higuain.

Confession: This post was originally meant to be about sarriscam. But then he got us into a cup final and he is temporarily forgiven. Sorry Curtis, you’ll have to wait a little longer. I, however, maintain that he is a scam until he gives back Kante his CDM position.

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