Today, in Mwisho wa Lami, all roads lead to my place for the AFCON final: Morocco vs Senegal.
Until last weekend, I did not know that AFCON — the premier African footballing showcase — was underway. Perhaps I have been too busy with school opening. Or maybe I have been busy setting up my 2027 campaign secretariat and “thinking strategically”. Either way, AFCON simply did not cross my mind. I just did not know that my all-time best tournament is on.
I would still be ignorant had I not met Tito at Hitler’s.
It was a slow Saturday, the kind where you already know you will be at Hitler’s until late. Very late. Tito, however, suddenly insisted on leaving early. This worried us. Tito does not leave places early unless the police are coming or football is involved.
“Nigeria mpaka waende nyumbani!” he declared gleefully. “Siwezi sahau when they beat us 3–0 in 1997,” he added, clearly reliving trauma.
“You mean we have World Cup ongoing?” asked Alphayo.
“No, AFCON” said Tito confidently. “World Cup is next year in America. I don’t even know if we will manage watching games at 3am.”
“No, it is this year,” since opening.
“It is next year, Sapphire,” Tito fired back. “At least Mimi na wewe we know more about football.”
There was tension. Tito was clearly the more seasoned football philosopher in the room.
“Next year is which year?” Sapphire challenged.
“2026,” Tito answered triumphantly. “World Cup is every four years. The last one was in Qatar in 2022.”
“But we are in 2026 already,” Sapphire responded calmly.
“Oh… I see,” muttered Tito, suddenly less confident. “Yes, it is this year. I was just testing you people.”
“What is currently on is AFCON all the way in Morocco; it has some interesting matches.”
He went on to say that Nigeria had to fall. He would never support them — not after they denied us the chance to go to the World Cup.
Humiliation
“I support Nigeria,” said Sapphire. “I think they actually protected us from humiliation. Tungetandikwa kama isukuti.”
“With players like Kanu, Okocha, Taribo West, Amokachi, Nigeria is team. They will definitely win,” said Saphire
“Those are wazee players,” Tito objected. “They are now grandfathers. Algeria will beat them.”
“How can you support Algeria? Are they even Africans?” Sapphire wondered.
“They are in Africa,” someone clarified.
“Algeria is different from Nigeria?” asked Nyayo, genuinely shocked. Nyayo is not a football fan. On the rare occasions he watches a match, he is usually asleep by halftime.
“Where are you watching?” I asked Tito.
“At home,” he said. “Alone.”
I left him weighing his life choices.
As for me, I had not decided which team to support. Deep down, I was supporting Nigeria. But how could I openly support the team that the owner of the place we were sitting in was against so loudly? So verbally, I supported Algeria. Spiritually, emotionally, and psychologically — I rooted for Nigeria.
Despite everything said about Tito — including allegations that he has been stealing parents’ money through Busy Bee Academy, that mysterious institution somewhere in Mwisho wa Lami — Tito had done well for himself.
When you look at Tito’s house from the outside, you might not realise how cool it is inside. Plush sofas, a giant colour TV… the kind of place that screams “I might be mean, but at least I have style.”
We were the only ones there — me, Tito, and his wife, who clearly did not approve of my visit. A few people even called me during the match, probably asking if I had survived. I asked Tito if Nyayo, Sapphire, and Maskwembe could come watch. Tito accepted, but one did not need a calculator to see that his wife Sandra – Hitler’s daughter – did not. Well, they came anyway. The first half went smoothly. During halftime, Tito disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a bottle of Hitler’s stauff and glasses. Suddenly, football became a full academic exercise in refreshment management.
We watched the second half. Nyayo, who usually sleeps through a football match, was on alert, while Maskwembe — of course — got drunk too quickly, as always.
“So you want to be an MCA, and you don’t even have a TV? You’re watching football at someone else’s house?” Maskwembe sneered.
People told him to be quiet. “Respect the host,” they said. But we all know that sober Maskwembe and drunk Maskwembe are two entirely different species. One can listen, the other just spills hot takes and insults your football IQ.
“I told you not to let in so many people,” muttered Sandra, Tito’s wife, who had been woken by the noise. “Manyamaze ama mtoke!” As the long-time Hitler’s housekeeper, she knew all of us — and feared none.
Maskwembe apologised for the noise, not for accusing me of being incapable of hosting a match. Nigeria won, and Tito was visibly upset. I, on the other hand, pretended to be sad, but in reality, I was very happy. Nyayo, Sapphire, and Maskwembe didn’t even notice the match had ended — they were too busy talking and debating, oblivious to Tito’s growing frustration.
When we left, I was the only one who said thanks. “Dre,” Maskwembe said, “if you want votes for MCA, you need to be the one showing us football.”
I explained that my TV had died. The next day, I asked my brother if I could use his TV. I would pay him back using my first MCA allowances.
So, on Sunday, I went to pick up the TV. By Monday evening, the setup was complete. I was ready for the AFCON matches… only to find there were none that day. I was crushed. I would later learn from Tito that two great matches were scheduled for Wednesday: Nigeria vs Morocco and Senegal vs Egypt. Of course, I supported Senegal and Nigeria in their respective matches, hoping for a final showdown: Nigeria vs Senegal. What a match that would be!
Once Bedford — my sister Yunia’s son — realised the TV was working, my house filled with chaos and excitement before the match. Mwisho wa Lami’s finest were there: Saphire, Alphayo, Rasto, Nyayo, even Tito himself said watching football at my place was preferable. Maskwembe was there too, as well as many village kids who had wandered in.
Prepared food
During the game, not many people actually watched the match — they were too busy making stories. Rasto even asked if we could switch to the news during halftime. Alphayo kept asking if Grodba had scored. Maskwembe complained that there was nothing else to eat or drink. I had wanted to go to Hitler’s to get snacks, but decided not to.
When Sadio Mane scored in the 78th minute, the room came alive with jubilation. Since I had no drinks and Fiolina hadn’t prepared food, which it would seem is the reason many had come, most people left after the first match. Only Tito and Rasto remained for the second match. I dozed off. Tito woke me up with rough celebrations that Nigeria had been kicked out. I pretended to be happy, yet I was sad.
After the match, Tito left. I let Rasto sleep on the couch as we couldn’t wake him up, and if I did, I had no energy to walk him to his home.
Today, in Mwisho wa Lami, all roads lead to my place for the AFCON final: Morocco vs Senegal. NB: Support Senegal and don’t expect food or drinks — bring your own spirit of chaos.
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