Kenya football has lost a remarkable man, a giant among men, and I have lost a piece of myself.
Austin Oduor was my brother, my friend, my companion through the journeys of childhood and manhood.
As I grapple with this sudden loss, I am taken back to Ziwani, where our story began—an era filled with laughter, dreams, and the simple joy of kicking a ball around in the streets.
Growing up in the Eastlands suburb of Nairobi, we didn’t have much. But Ziwani was more than enough for us. It taught us that happiness isn't tied to material wealth but to the bonds you form and the dreams you dare to chase.
After school, we would play football in the neighbourhood streets, and as I look back, I realize how formative those days were.
I started a club, calling it Santa Fe — a name I borrowed from reading a map of the United States, though I had no clue what it meant. Santa Fe played other estate teams, and even if things sometimes got a bit rough, our hearts were in the game.
We were just boys, driven by an insatiable love for football, unbothered by the troubles that often came with being kids in Eastlands. Austin, Chao, Davie, and I — our lives revolved around the field. We had dreams beyond the streets of Ziwani, yet we never thought we’d achieve the heights we eventually did.
For many, Ziwani was just an estate; for us, it was the beginning of something that would carry us beyond our wildest imaginations.
The Ziwani of our youth was a different world. The roads were well-kept, the garbage collected regularly, and water flowed without interruption. In August, the jacaranda trees would bloom in a magnificent purple, and buses ran with a punctuality unknown today.
Every few years, our homes received a fresh coat of paint, and our social halls were bustling hubs where kids like us found purpose.
And there, in Ziwani’s open fields, we first kicked a football, sometimes made from scraps of cloth bound together with polythene and nylon string.
The game consumed us and became the language that bound our brotherhood. Austin was special even back then. His ambition, focus, and dedication set him apart. We all worked hard, but he had that spark — something that told you he was destined for greatness.
I still remember the day I recommended him to Gor Mahia, convinced that his talent and leadership were something they couldn’t pass up.
And as fate would have it, Austin went on to do what no other Kenyan had done before: he led Gor Mahia to the 1987 Nelson Mandela Cup aka Africa Cup Winners Cup, a feat that etched his name in the annals of Kenyan football history.
Austin’s journey wasn’t just about football, though. Our bond went beyond the field; we were brothers in life. We roomed together, shared stories, and leaned on each other as we navigated the challenges of our youth. In a world that often tried to pull us down, we found strength in each other.
Austin, Chao, and I took our paths seriously. We stayed clear of the pitfalls —alcohol, smoking, anything that would distract us from our dreams.
Today, my heart is broken. I am taken back to the days of my child and boyhood and I cry for my lost friend. It has been all so sudden; there was no warning, no hint of anything wrong. And just like that, my brother is gone.
Small things become big things, especially when the point of no return has been reached. I am remembering that day when I was playing goalkeeper in Ziwani.
They called me James Siang’a after the legendary Harambee Stars goalkeeper. We had a neighbour, known for his powerful kick and a bit of a fondness for drink. He who would challenge us kids to save one of his thunderous shots for 50 cents.
That was a fortune for us then! That day, I managed to save his shot, and my friends lifted me up in celebration as though I had just scored a winning goal. Austin was there, cheering and laughing, his grin as wide as mine. The innocence of childhood, the pure happiness, I will never experience that again.
These small victories meant the world to us, as did the occasional gift from family. When I performed well in my final primary exams, my father gave me a Seiko watch, a luxury I never expected. Receiving that watch was like being handed a badge of honour. I felt the pride in my father’s eyes, the same pride I felt when I watched Austin lift that Africa Cup Winners Cup.
We grew up knowing that, though we came from little, we were rich in love, respect, and hope.
The men who guided us also deserve remembrance. People like Pirate Landino and Otti Father dedicated themselves to moulding the next generation. They showed us what it meant to be disciplined, focused, and honourable.
It’s a tragedy that grassroots heroes like them often fade into obscurity, uncelebrated for their invaluable contributions. It was they who saw potential in boys like Austin, shaping him into the man who would captivate Kenya and make history.
My own career took its path, thanks to the coaches and friends who believed in me, and Austin was always by my side. Even when our club, Umeme, didn’t make it to the Super League, we found success and recognition elsewhere.
I went on to play for Luo Union and, eventually, Gor Mahia, where Austin and I shared not just the game but our dreams. Together, we took the lessons of Ziwani onto the national stage, carrying with us the spirit of that dusty neighbourhood where it all began.
Austin’s passing reminds me of the fleeting nature of life, but his legacy will live on. He showed us what it means to be dedicated, resilient, and humble. He showed an entire nation that a boy from Eastlands could become a hero, that hard work and heart can conquer even the greatest of challenges.
His story will remain a beacon for generations, a testament to the power of friendship, family, and community.
Rest well, captain. We will keep playing, keep dreaming, and keep fighting, just as you did.
