When I finally blew the final whistle in the 99th minute, I needed no calculator to know I was in danger.
Every December, there is at least one football tournament in Mwisho wa Lami. In the year immediately after elections, there is usually none. But as elections approach, tournaments multiply like campaign posters.
The MP, the MCA, aspirants, and even the governor suddenly discover a deep love for youth empowerment through football, each launching their own tournament.
If you know me well, you know I have always been a big football fan. I grew up supporting the mighty Manchester United—back in the glorious days of Sir Alex Ferguson and later His Eminence José Mourinho. Back then, I never missed a Manchester United match. My love for football extended to everything soccer: the World Cup, Afcon, Champions League, EURO, the Kenya Premier League, and of course, local tournaments.
I went beyond being a fan. I was involved in organisation. Locally, I supported Green Commandoes against Here we Come, morally and motivation-wise, never financially. When needed, I even refereed matches, having taken a refereeing course back in 2016. Football was part of my identity.
But over time, what Manchester United fans have been subjected to on the pitch broke me. Nowadays, Manchester United win one or two matches, then lose and draw for months—as if winning is a criminal offence. Slowly, I lost interest. When, early this year, United went on a terrible losing streak of over five matches, I resigned from football. I stopped watching. I stopped discussing. I stopped participating. I even refused to train the boys at school or be involved in any football-related activities.
This December, Mwisho wa Lami was unusually busy. Our MP— fearing he will lose the next election—decided to throw money at the youth by sponsoring a football tournament called the Gen Z Cup: to attract young voters who had promised to elect one of their own.
The tournament was well organised and well funded. So much so that even someone who hated football could not miss it. Several teams received new uniforms, many balls were bought, and winners actually received prize money—sent directly to players via M-Pesa, not officials. There were goodies for fans, too. Because of this, there was too much seriousness, too much drama, and too much passion. Even non-fans were drawn in.
As usual, the two old rivals, Green Commandoes and Here We Come, were participating. There were also Mwisho wa Lami Bombers, Duka Moja Strikers, TikTok Bullets, and Handshake Hotspurs. The last four were newer teams attracting a lot of youth, but the first two were historic—existing since time immemorial.
With everyone flocking to Mwisho wa Lami School every day to watch matches, it became impossible to avoid football. Many times, I found myself watching. Based on my experience with a gentleman called Amorim—who has dragged my beloved Manchester United into the doldrums—I decided to enjoy football neutrally.
I supported no team. I did not want to suffer again—going to matches full of hope and returning home empty. With nothing interesting happening at Hitler’s, I would walk to Mwisho wa Lami Pri School, watch a match, then head back to Hitler’s. There were always arguments and fan antics, but I never joined. I simply enjoyed football.
Over time, I earned a reputation as an objective spectator.
Christmas Day was just another day in Mwisho wa Lami. Although Fiolina prepared some nice meals, the fact that she was not speaking to me made the food tasteless. So after lunch, I went to watch the first semi-finals.
As expected, Green Commandoes won their semi-final match. I showed no emotion—no celebration.
Before leaving, I received a call from a man who introduced himself as one of the tournament organisers.
“We have been watching you,” he said. “We like how passionate and objective you are. We may need your help tomorrow as a referee. Most referees have assignments in the Governors’ Cup happening in Kakamega.”
I refused, saying I was not interested and that it was better to use referees from outside. He informed me that the MP preferred using local people. I remained uninterested—until he mentioned the pay. It was good. I accepted immediately and that evening brushed through my old refereeing notes.
On Boxing Day, I woke up early, did some exercises to be fit, then went to Hitler’s in the morning so that I would be sober by the time the match started at 4 p.m. I arrived ready to referee—only to find another referee already in charge. The game was Here We Come vs TikTok Bullets. I almost went home, but something told me to stay.
Towards the end of the first half, the referee fell while running. He was injured and could not continue. I was asked to step in. I did so smoothly. At the time, TikTok Bullets were one goal down. The second half was fast-paced and tested my fitness. The players were happy that someone they knew was officiating. I was cheered by players and fans of both teams.
In the 80th minute, a TikTok Bullets player was fouled in the box. I awarded a penalty. Here We Come players and fans protested loudly, but that is football. TikTok converted. 1–1.
Then came the real drama.
In the 88th minute, Here We Come conceded a corner. They disputed it angrily, but I stood my ground. Knowing how sensitive the moment was, I positioned myself well as the corner was taken, just outside the box, to see everything well.
The corner was well delivered. Chaos erupted. Several players touched the ball. TikTok players missed clear chances. Here We Come failed to clear the danger. Suddenly, the ball came straight towards me. I tried to avoid it. I do not fully remember what happened next, but the ball seemed to hit me and then ended up at the back of the net.
Pandemonium.
TikTok players and fans erupted in celebration. I had no choice but to point to the centre circle. It was a goal. 2–1 to TikTok Bullets. Here We Come players surrounded me, insisting the goal could not stand because I had scored it. I explained it was accidental and, according to the rules, the goal stood.
We still had a few minutes to play. The tension was unbearable. TikTok wanted the match to end immediately. Here We Come wanted extra time and launched attack after attack. I delayed blowing the whistle slightly, calculating my escape route. When I finally blew the final whistle in the 99th minute, I needed no calculator to know I was in danger.
I took off. Here We Come, players and fans chased me. TikTok fans—joined by Green Commandoes supporters—intervened, creating a small corridor for my escape. I ran to nowhere, but the tournament organizers guided me to run to the police post, where i was taken to police cells - or rather, the one cell.
Even in the cells, I could hear fans baying for my blood. The corporal assured me of my safety. Being no criminal, I expected better accommodation—but there was only one cell. I shared it with, among others, Apostle Elkana, who was still inside. He prayed for me and prophesied that I would not stay long.
By 7 p.m., the fans had dispersed, but the policeman refused to release me, insisting my life was still in danger. Even the next morning, he still wanted to keep me in, and I was only released yesterday afternoon after “parting with something small.”
Immediately, I formally resigned—completely—from all football activities, including reading football news.
I know TikTok Bullets is a weak team and hope Green Commandoes, my old team, will thrash them win the Gen Z Cup. And I hope they remember me.
Here we come, can come or go where they wish. Who cares!
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