I fled wearing only my vest and kaptula, running faster than I have ever run in my life.
Every World Cup year, I do everything possible to make money from the tournament. This year was no different. I planned to invest in a big TV, a tent for my place, power backup and all the other necessities. My plan even included serving food during the matches, although Mwisho wa Lami people are not particularly talented when it comes to paying.
Until I talked to Tito, our resident prophet. "Do you foresee anyone coming to your home at midnight or 4am?" he asked. "You must be joking," he added.
He explained that this World Cup was not one from which anyone would make money. If people came to your home in the middle of the night, don't expect them to pay a cent. In fact, plan to serve them supper at your own expense. So I shelved the plan and decided to simply watch the matches from home. Or rather, the matches that I could. I wasn't going to wake up at midnight or 3am just to watch football.
Surely there are better things to do at that time. Besides, there is always the opportunity to watch the replays. When the tournament began, there were matches played as early as 7pm. I welcomed people to my house, but I soon realised they were not coming for football. Alphayo, Rasto, Tito and Nyayo were actually coming for supper. Football was merely the excuse. Many would leave after eating.
Fiolina, the laugh of my enviable life, was accommodating during the first few days. She played the perfect hostess, served food, provided tea and water, and made everyone comfortable. Too comfortable. She must have thought it was a one-off event. When it became a daily affair, she first withdrew the supper, then the tea, then the water, and finally her own presence.
"Must these people come here for football?" she later asked me. "A few years ago, we were the only home with a TV. Today, almost every home has one. Why should people still come here?"
"Why can't we just watch alone? Must we invite everyone?" she wondered.
I explained that football is best watched together and that I had to invite others so we could enjoy it collectively.
"But you can watch with me, can't you?"
I knew that was a trick question, so I wisely chose not to answer. Had I answered honestly, I would have said she had no clue what football was all about, and we wouldn't have had much to discuss. Then she asked something I had secretly been waiting for.
"Why don't you also go and watch at other people's homes? Must it always be here?" I told her I would happily do exactly that. The following day, she simply closed the gate and refused to allow anyone in. We watched together, although she slept through most of the second half. That very night, at a quarter to midnight, I left the house and told her I was going to Tito's place to watch the match. I added that I needed someone to discuss football with during the game, and she was clearly not that person. I returned home well past 3am. That became my new schedule. Since she didn't know the World Cup fixture list, I could leave home at almost any time, claiming I was going to watch a match, and return in the wee hours of the morning.
"World Cup itaisha tu," she told me last weekend. "Soon you will have no excuse for where you have been going at night. And I am also happy not to have people leaving my house dirty and smelly."
Over time, I watched matches at Tito's place, at Eric's house—Eric being a teacher at our school with a large TV—or at Madam Ruth's house, provided her husband, Juma, the headmaster of a neighbouring school, was around. And we did a lot of crisscrossing.
You could watch the first half at Tito's, then the second half at Juma's place, or vice versa. In short, the World Cup offered people an excellent opportunity not to know exactly where they were. Kuya, in particular, would only watch the first half before disappearing, claiming he would watch the second half elsewhere. I did the same. On one occasion, I visited Bensuda while everyone who knew me believed I was watching football. It was an innocent visit. We only talked about academic matters.
Last Tuesday was a big day. France was playing Spain. I was certain France would win, so I arrived at Tito's place early. My plan was to watch the first half, then disappear and finish the match elsewhere. Earlier that day, I had spoken to Sella, a colleague from the staffroom. I had promised to visit her that night. The first half was boring. Saphire, Kuya and Nyayo were all there, arguing over which team they supported. Kuya and Nyayo were backing France while Saphire and Tito were supporting Spain. Towards the end of the first half, I pretended to feel dizzy and, at half-time, announced that I was going home to sleep. Instead, I quietly walked to Sella's place. She welcomed me warmly.
She had instructed me to come quietly so as not to wake the house girl or the child. She had deliberately left the door unlocked and told me not to lock it behind me to avoid attracting attention, both when entering and when leaving.
"Don't call. Just come," we had agreed.
I found her seated on the couch and joined her to continue watching the match. For obvious reasons, our attention gradually shifted from the France versus Spain game to other matters. I won't go into details, but let's just say we ended up sitting very close to each other and, somewhere along the way, one or two pieces of clothing found themselves on the floor. I don't know exactly what happened, but at some point we heard the front door open.
"Nani huyo?" Sella asked, startled.
"Ni mimi," replied the person entering.
The voice sounded familiar, although I couldn't immediately place it.
"Unataka nini?" she asked sharply.
"Nimeona nipitie tu. Maybe hujalala," he replied as he reached for the light switch. Clearly, he knew her house well.
"Zima taa! Utaamsha watu!" Sella whispered, although rather loudly.
"Huyu ni nani? Na anafanya nini hapa?" the visitor demanded on seeing me. It was Kuya. My nemesis.
Rumours had once linked him to being the father of Sella's daughter, although those stories died after he showed interest in marrying Nzomo, even travelling to Nunguni for dowry negotiations, which unfortunately failed.
"Dre! Ni wewe? Siku hizi unasema unaenda kulala, kumbe ni hapa ulikuwa unakuja?" he exclaimed.
Sella switched off the light, and Kuya shone his bright torch directly at me. I was only wearing my vest and torn kaptula. In the darkness, I desperately scrambled for my clothes.
"Na wewe unafanya nini hapa?" I fired back, reminding him that I had left him watching the match.
"Nyamazeni! Mtaamsha watu!" Sella hissed.
Too late. The house girl was already at the sitting room door. She froze when she saw two grown men in the sitting room. With the lights off, she had no idea who we were.
"Wezi! Wezi! Wezi!" she screamed.
We immediately realised the neighbours would soon descend on the house. All three of us bolted. I didn't even manage to collect my clothes or shoes. I fled wearing only my vest and kaptula, running faster than I have ever run in my life. We could hear neighbours opening their doors and joining the chase. Kuya was running just as fast, equally determined to save his own skin.
"Uwachane na Sella," he warned me once we had reached safety. "Ama nitaambia Fiolina na County Director. She is your staff member."
I said nothing. When I eventually got home, luck was on my side. Fiolina was fast asleep and never noticed I had returned barefoot, carrying my shoes and suit. While this incident may not be spoken about openly, the France–Spain match successfully reopened the old bad blood between Kuya and I.
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