Five Goals and Seven Assists Later
One day of unrecorded victories
I had a friend called Machang’a.
I don’t speak as if he’s dead, but I haven’t seen him since 2006 when we last left Komarock Sector 1, back when my schedule was completely controlled by my teachers and darkness. We would hang out with Machan’ga because you see, Machan’ga had a goal.
He wanted to make at least 100 goals before the year ended.
To adults, goals differ from what they mean to a boy. An ambitious boy. And Machang’a was ambitious. He would always top his class. Had praiseworthy handwriting. And he knew people. One time, because of an essay he had written to NTV, Nimrod Taabu visited our school.
Those were not the goals he feverishly wanted.
We didn’t have to board a bus to get to school because it was in the same court, today known as a gated community. Tender Care Academy was the school. Mwalika Court. We lived directly opposite it. Cross the road and I’m in school. Yet, I would still be late on several days.
But not Machan’ga.
During the weekend or on holidays, he wanted to increase his goals from where he previously left them, to crossing that 100 threshold. You know someone is serious at a young age when they quote figures and set steps to achieve them.
Not me though.
I was all about fun.
Tell me what do you see
Goals, for a young boy, are just that.
It’s not about losing a certain number of kilos before taking a trip to Diani. It’s not about getting that car you’ve been eyeing for years. It’s not about proposing.Â
It’s plain and simple.
A goalpost and a goalkeeper who couldn’t stop the ball from crossing the goal line.
Machang’a wanted to have 100 goals before the year ended.
On the flip end, I wanted to have as many sessions as I would play before dusk settled. Or before the teachers gave the bellringer instructions to signal the end of break time. Our teachers and darkness ruled our lives.
It was difficult to defy the teachers. especially when every other boy was running back to class. In our grey shorts, hanging shirts halfway buttoned, and sweat dripping inside our hidden vests. The girls didn’t miss out on the fun too. You couldn’t defy the teachers. But…sometimes we defied the darkness.
Machan’ga and the rest of us would defy the darkness to have more goals.
Cleanliness was not nearly as important as winning. Not nearly as important as having goals showing your team was ahead. During these moments, time froze. But it moved swiftly in our houses, where our elder guardians and siblings ruled. You knew it was time to leave and replenish your energy — which, in all honesty, wasn’t depleted at all — when you discovered the number of players had subtly reduced.
Not even the weather could stop us from having a good time. Or the soccer balls that found their way into a neighbour’s compound because someone didn’t calculate their shot well. Or a mistaken deflection.
We would climb the gate, sneak past the window, and climb back out. The game had to continue. The saviour, let’s call him Zorro, who leaped over the gate would set the precedent for the rest to do the same in Zorro’s absence. Nothing mattered more than more goals.
And assists.
Assists are not simply seen by pressing the triangle button when playing FIFA. Assists are today seen in clubs when a friend gives you a through-pass to approach that dude or dudette you have been eyeing. In the same spirit, back then, an assist could be monumental.
Leaping to get the ball is like giving every member of the team an assist. An assist to get more goals. An assist before the house owners find the pesky ninja who defied the barring intention of a gate and a fence. An assist before they get the ball and stick a knife through it. An assist for the owner of the ball who somehow was always the less timid one in taking this much-needed leap. An assist to continue playing the game because there was nothing more interesting to do at home when it was neither lunchtime nor nighttime. An assist for the one responsible for kicking or deflecting the ball into someone else’s compound, and having everyone forget this ‘mistake’.
All the above
All these can happen in one afternoon.
Usually between 3 pm and 7 pm.
People like my friend, Machang’a, had gone out to play after having a bath. The skin would glow from the after-effect of petroleum jelly, Vaseline. We were not initiated into using lotions. Vaseline was the evidence we would use to know someone was just from taking a bath.
By the time we would go back home when darkness settled, that evidence would be nonexistent.
We wanted goals. A glowing skin and a recent episode of showering couldn’t stand in our way.
For most of us, we would only count these goals for the moment, but not cumulatively, the way Machang’a did. He was a breed ahead of his time. He knew the importance of compounding. The rest of us lived in the moment.
So when the angry neighbour interrupted their afternoon show to find out what caused an unnecessary bang on their roof, we had to act fast. I remember one of them took our ball and kept it to herself. For some reason, it was always mothers. They would take our tubeless balls and keep them or sadistically puncture them. But remember: only our teachers and the darkness ruled us.
The game needed to go on.
Nothing that a long piece of sisal rope and a couple of polythene bags wouldn’t fix. That was another assist. An assist for someone like me who didn’t have much to go back home for since the only channel we had was KBC. An assist for someone like Machang’a who had a target he had to achieve by the 31st of December. An assist for all of us who didn’t have the money to contribute to buy another ball which might again fall into the compound of another angry lady. Plus, the money would have been better used to shock our palates with tasty trinkets. An assist because this ball, if wet and muddy, could hardly leave imprints on cars in the way a manufactured one would. An assist because the polythene bag version of a soccer ball was way more fun than the manufactured one.
And when darkness settled, you know you would have made enough assists and goals to deserve a good rest.
And a second bath.
What I’m trying to say is…
By the time you got back home, your legs would have taken a souvenir sleeve of dust. Your face could have done the same, but nobody cared.
On average, for a poor player, you would have clocked around five goals and seven assists. It would be a productive day. Machang’a would have added some goals to his cumulative tally. If you would have asked your siblings:
Tell me what do you see
When you looking at me?
They wouldn’t know. They’d only be mad. At times. Why? Only because you got back home with stained clothes, sweaty, dirty, and that sleeve of dust you would take back home as evidence of your victory. Your unrecorded assists and goals. In less than an hour before sleep comes knocking.
Tomorrow, we would hope to do it all again.
This song inspired some of the lines used in this article. Source — YouTube