YES, LADIES LOVE FOOTBALL

Last year I was sitting with a good friend of mine watching television when the coca cola advertisement about the world cup came up. I noticed that the advertisement was making her angry so I proceeded to ask her what the problem was. She told me that she thought the advertisement portrayed females in a bad light when it came to football games. She said it portrayed them as people who are clueless about football and as people who just watch the game to see handsome footballers with good muscular chests which some of them tend to famously show when celebrating after scoring a goal. 

She went on to tell me how some men irritate her by stereotyping women as people who do not anything about the game or cannot sit down to watch a full match. Suggesting it was high time for those men who stereotype women that way to understand that there are women out there who love the game and understand its dynamics. It got me thinking of the number of times I have received weird stares from some guys after overhearing me discussing something related to football. Luckily for me I stopped getting irritated long time ago and I brush them off as I have loved football from an early age in my life. 

It got me remembering my childhood days when I started knowing about football. My big brother who is almost my age mate used to go with my small sister and I to play around the neighborhood and we got to play. I used to particularly love being a goalkeeper as I used to find it easy. At the end of the day we would go home very dirty but very satisfied.

I started watching football when I was twelve years old back in primary school. I must admit I started watching it for wrong reasons but in due time I got to develop a genuine interest in watching the game. I had seen a photo of Cristiano Ronaldo when he was in Manchester united and I was totally smitten. I started watching the Barclays premiere league particularly Manchester united so that I could watch him play and my interest developed from there. My overzealous father and my two big brothers also contributed majorly to my interest. After developing a genuine interest, I asked one of my brothers to explain the basics of a game, how the teams play and I got to know other teams too. Those were the good old days when Manchester united playing arsenal was a big deal and the rivalry was strong. 

Back in high school my interest started to go down as I was in an all-girls high school and not many of them were fans. By good chance I found out some girls shared my interest and appreciated the game. We became fast friends and frequent discussions of the game were the norm for us. We used to ask our math’s teacher Mr. Thumbi for the scores of the Barclay's premiere league which is played during the weekend or run for the newspapers in the library so as to know the scores. We even ended up convincing our principal to let us watch the world cup final 2010 between Spain and Netherlands and it was on a weekday.

After finishing high school my interest was back in full force as I was back home with my father and brothers as diehard fans. I used to ask my brother to tag along during the weekends in restaurants and pubs to watch the Barclay's premiere league. I used to find myself in situations where I was the only female in a sea of men watching a game while accompanying my brother. I used to endure the weird stares and had to curtail my talk when it came to commenting about the team I was supporting. I have sat in pubs patiently with my brother enduring the smell of beer which I do not like at all and drunkards for the sake of not missing a game.

I particularly loved last year as the world cup was in Brazil and I wasn’t locked up in high school and I could watch the game. My father had also installed a DSTV decoder so I could watch the games from the comforts of my home. I used to hurry up from my judicial attachment, refrain from making any detours so that by seven o’clock am seated comfortably watching the game which would be on. I earned myself a lot of scolding from my mother who expected me to cook supper but I refused to watch the interesting games. As I continue with my love for football I have gotten used to some men stereotyping females as incapable of loving and knowing about football with their weird stares when I discuss about the game. I have learnt to deal with that as I would rather spend my weekends watching the Barclay's premiere league rather than do anything else.

I might not be a fanatic like some people out there, still get confused when free kicks are awarded or when a player is offside but I can still follow a game with ease. I am still learning things when it comes to clubs but all in all football is my favorite sport. To all the stereotypes out there who think females are incapable of watching a football game due to loving the game its high time u change your mindsets. There are females out there who watch the game for the fact that they love it and it’s their favorite sport.

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I Still hear your Voice

Family is the best thing that one can have; it is also the closest thing one can have. If you doubt this, try staying away from yours or ask someone without or has been neglected by one.

A girlfriend or a boyfriend end up being family once married, a friend is family when s/he is closer than a just friend, a brother and a sister is family by blood, in African traditions, fighting communities would settle the scores by marriage hence a family, all human activity leads to making up of ‘families.’ At the end of it all no man is an island.

As a young boy born in a family of more than five I would walk home late after a usual playful day that would get my mother angry as I never had enough of playing, but I knew it wasn’t the playing that was the problem it was the constant dirty clothes that even after changing to clean ones I’d take little or no time to make them dirty, yes I was lucky to be born a time when computer games were for the rich and anything that would keep me running was all that I needed to play, a reason for my dirty clothes.

My older brother, who is my best friend, was the wave that made all this injustice to our mom possible. He would make all sorts of playing materials e.g. a paper soccer ball that would ensure all the kids in our hood buzzing with excitement as they played; only problem is we would be the first to play and still be the last to get home. We were the double dragons a name after our favorite cartoon, one of the many that only kept us indoors.

My younger sister was the center of attention as she was the lastborn for a long time before mom had our lastborn brother. She wanted everything for herself; this was one of the few things that made us tease her when mom wasn’t around only to have a whooping latter as she did her usual reporting of events while mom was away. She is still a darling.

In the evening it was all about mom, her cooking was and is still out of this world. I still believe that she is an angel sent from heaven to make her kids joyous with her cooking; wait until you taste some of her cooking then you will underestimate my words because no one can describe her cooking. She would tell of her Campus life the way she enjoyed going to the disco, we would all laugh as she danced to the lingala tunes mostly from Kofi Olomide, Awilo longomba, Papa Wemba, just to mention a few.

Mom demonstrated what love actually meant rather than just stating it. It was a bright August day several years ago. The schools had closed for the holidays and my brother and I were up to our usual mischief. This time, as most times were, the recipient of our naughtiness was our younger sister. We had decided to practice out yet to be a tapped culinary skill, which was against the rules, in mom's kitchen. Chapati made from a mixture of maize flour, wheat flour and cocoa mixed with sugar was our end result. My sister watched on in silence undoubtedly recording everything with her watchful eyes for reporting. As we sat down to enjoy our mess of a meal, she asked if she could join us. This was met by thunderous laughter as my brother and I assumed she was crazy to even think we would share our illegally obtained meal with her. We chased her away amid assurances from her that 'atatusema'(she will report us).

We taunted her more, cleaned up the mess we had made in the kitchen and went to do more mischief in the neighborhood. After a busy day, we got home late, dirty as usual, only to find out that mum has already heard about our misadventures at home. She reminded us of the illegality and danger of our behavior as a cane was brought to her by our sister, a smile on her face, for punishment to be meted out. I did not wait another second, mum was a professional caner as she was a cook, and soon I was on my heels with my brother in tow. We ran and hid in a thicket around our house and as it got dark our fear turned to regret. Off we returned home but the thought of receiving a few more of the cane, for good measure due to our fleeing, made us decide to spend the night in the chicken house.

It was while there we experienced how much mom loved us. She went door to door and asked if anyone had seen us, as we later learnt, and the light in the house was on the whole night as she sat hoping we would return. While in the chicken house we heard her pray for our safety and express her regret for her anger and the panic in her voice was palpable.

Our return home in the morning was met wish happiness. She never asked a single question. She gave us a meal, clean clothes and prepared a bath for us. There were no speeches. Just a thank you to God and we could see happiness in her eyes.

Sad that we lost her, her voice lingers to each and every one of us like she is always around. She was and is our unifying factor, the glue that keeps us together, guess that’s how things are supposed to be, we have been sad but years seems to take the somber away but we still remember every bit of her as we all took everything that’s beautiful from her, a reason family is always important.

By

Jackson Mulera & Gibson Munai

A copy of this article was first published on Baby Love Network

babylovenetwork.com/index.php/component/k2/item/136-i-still-hear-your-voice#

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Why single parent and not just parent?

A man sits in a baraza where the other men around him sit as usual members. They have always been men with a topic, mostly ranging from sports especially soccer to the mediocre Kenyan politics. Being a mid-week with boring or no politics and soccer to discuss, a woman passes just near the baraza, she unfortunately becomes the topic of discussion. One would think maybe as usual they would discuss the beauty in her, citing their desires for her (it’s a manly thing) but this one was different.

The man says “that woman is with no husband, I wonder what will become of his son. The poor boy will have no values, he will perform poorly in this education, and he might be even a thug. My kids will lead a good life, I’ll always be there.”

That poor boy is the one writing this article, as much as I has been ages since this words were said about my mother and I. I have been strong since, my mother has been a pillar than no man could have ever made. Weak as women may be, single mothers are stronger in all matters pertaining parenting.

I had no male figure in the home but the hustle that my mother did put was enough for me to man up. I wanted to be a man of her life, one that would provide all that she missed taking care of me. That by itself created a leader in me, silent, quiet but always calculating.

With minimal education, I needed to school just for her. Not because she asked but to compensate the time she missed for schooling because of the poor family she comes from. There were no fees for many kids, only her male at least brothers did a bit of schooling but up until it was enough for them to fend for the family and to become men.

She didn’t teach me how to shave, a reason I keep my beards long enough and take it to the barber for my shaving but yes am creating jobs here. I know the value of not doing everything by myself. To share.

As men continue with their talk, my single mom did the actions; as a matter of fact it’s better to have one great parent than two average parents. I may have left the disciplinary part, yes she was tough on me, a reason daily I learn the tough love back then, every day I celebrate my mother, she is my hero.

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USALAMA INAANZA NA MIMI, GIVE ME A GUN

Today (Mashujaa day) being October 20, 2014. A day formerly Kenyatta day, celebrating the heroes of this great nation Kenya, who helped secure our independence through the self-less efforts of groups and individuals who fought to liberate the country (if we have really found this liberation, it’s still a matter in contention). Most of this individuals and people have long been forgotten and if we do remember them, we do so selectively depending on our leaders of today.

This day we are to appreciate how far Kenya has come since independence, a long journey that leaders of today choose to appreciate where it stands today and maybe what the future holds of this nation.

In the wake of this day I got a call from my mother, rather early than usual. A missed call at 0459 that I didn’t hear the phone ring then a second call at 0630 which I picked, knowing my mother I thought she must have wanted to wish me a good day or rather a good week being a Monday and holiday to top it up.

Her voice was rather low and from that I thought she maybe sick given her long fight being diabetic plus the high blood pressure that don’t mix well, this is a deadly combination. She said “Duka imeibiwa, M-Pesa imeenda yote.” (“the shop has been robbed the M-Pesa also.” I calmly asked what exactly has been stolen she says 5Kgs of sugar, Credit cards purchased the previous evening worth Kes 7,000 and now an estimated cash Kes 40,000 plus the M-Pesa phone which had deposits estimated at Kes 50,000 (this one I think is recoverable through Safaricom), all this because she didn’t pick this cash last evening as she is ailing.

The saddest thing is that her shop is located inside a police station, thinking this is the safest place to be in Kenya or rather in any part of the world for burglary to happen. The same place she is has recorded her statement. The thief came in the nights broke carefully the glass window of the door entered swiftly without the shop attendant who sleeps in the next room hearing and took off with the above and carefully placed the glasses in a dustbin. This is classic.

Seriously we did not liberate our country for this kind of happenings, we are not yet Uhuru I think, we are not safe, and surely I couldn’t agree with the President more, Ulinzi unaanza na mimi a reason I need a gun to make sure this is so, it’s not the MCAs alone who are in need of this weapon, when my security and that of my loved one is messed up with then why not have a gun. Maybe the guns at the moment are given to the wrong people (given that the burglary has happened in a police station) and that we have entrusted our safety to this very people whose security is also a problem. Yes Mr. President I need a gun, I trust myself more.

Today I wouldn’t be gnashing my teeth with rage given the helpless situation and the miles of liability bundled to my mother, the thief might have been sending a message that hii pesa si ya mama yako (this money is not my mother’s) a phrase that has become common with our leaders. If I had a gun I would have shot myself a thief, at least at the leg or maybe the buttock to make him immobile so that as we celebrate Mashujaa I’d be a hero to my ailing mother.

They already have a suspect in mind but how fast is our police and justice system, once caught he will plead innocence. No one saw him but then his monetary status has seriously changed to the fact that he is buying alcohol to everyone and has unlimited credit cards, I doubt if has a phone for himself, but simple as this case may be it depicts a serious lacking in our security systems.

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A voice from the village

I walk on the dusty roads of my village, in a region so famous for all the harsh attacks of nature; floods. Roads had never been much of importance to our people than the fishing, dikes, bridges, food reserves and the road comes a distant ‘last’ depending on the writer’s preference.

My heavy strong and woody legs were taking me towards the beach, here many of my age mates had kids and depended on their relatives in the ‘town’ to provide for some cash which they misused with a hope of getting more and a promise by their relatives that they would accommodate them in town so that they may be ‘successful’ as they are.

Inyende a buddy of mine had the best of stories. He was one of the lucky few to have visited the ‘town’ and I always knock on his door for a story or two, but only after buying him a glass of our local brew mlingilo. He had gone to ‘town’ and came back a village hero, smart but poor than most of us. People in the village talked of his failures; that’s why he came back to ‘congest’ the village when he should be there with the rest, who came back to the village to spend their hard earned money mostly in the big occasion ‘Christmas’.

On this day Inyende had promised to reveal the reason why he came back and had lost all interest in going back there. Maybe this would remove the rumour that he had all his ‘property’ robbed in the night leaving him with only his night wears and not even a cent as the job he was working at paid him less as he would occasionally miss most of his meals and he wasn’t in good terms with his landlord either. In pursuit of truth I knocked to his door, a glass of mlingilo at hand and a smile that I wore every time. He welcomed me and took the glass from my hand, took a big sip then said jokingly ‘amalwa kananjira’ to mean alcohol will kill me. He said this often that I stopped relating death with drunkenness.

He started “ never trust other peoples’ successful reality and dream to make them your realities, we must always strive to succeed given the resources we have as whatever that shines has some darkness that’s unseen. I had been invited by my ‘rich’ uncle and he had promised to employ me once we get to his place and if I do better I’d maybe make his successor. This was a dream that I didn’t even think about furthering my education as all was catered for by my philanthropic uncle. On the eve of my travel to the town I had called my cousins and friends who are already in town and told them I will now be their frequent visitor, I haven’t seen them yet up to now. I hopped into the early mbukinya bus to the town and enjoyed my tiring and first travel on a vehicle to Nairobi. I saw the lands past the beautiful lake Victoria that I was used to and all the food that my mother had packed for me got finished halfway the journey, I could only afford a soda that depleted all of my pocket money in hopes that my uncle would pick me up at the bus station.

The town was big, I lost track of the huge buildings and their colours that I was told were critical for me not to get lost. On arrival I waited in vain, the hope I had for my uncle became a wish that I’d fly back home where I had peace of mind. People were not welcoming as those of the village, most of them would associate me with conmen or even a mad man as I kept asking each and every person if they knew my uncle. The night came and I had to sleep on the metallic bench that was cold and I was scared but my heavy sleep wouldn’t let me be. I slept but the shock came as in the morning my bag and other stuffs were no more. Someone took them, and upon asking each and every person walking past me brought me bigger trouble as I was whisked away by askaris.

Inside the police cells I met an ‘entrepreneur ‘who understood my plight and promised to help once we were out there. I was held there for a week until the askaris believed that I had no one to pick me up and no money to give as hongo. They released me for filling their cell and that I was bad for business. The ‘entrepreneur’ had information of my release and sent some guy to come pick me up. Upon reaching his home he welcomed me and with no further time to waste he explained his business; he was a drug lord and a multi-millionaire.

Tomorrow bring enough mlingilo for more of the story” he said as he rushed me out of his hut as he was going fishing, the lake was calling.

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