By the Idler-in-Chief
If you think the Nyagenkeans are just ordinary villagers, you clearly have never seen them on a Saturday night at the Nyagenke Extra Time Bar.
These are not mere fans; these are self-declared billionaires, club owners, managers, coaches, and FIFA presidentsâat least until the final whistle blows.
They troop in wearing jerseys of European clubs as if they were born while wearing them.
Manchester (dis)United, Arsenal, Chelsea, Barcelonaâyou name it.
Even Juventus, which some Nyagenkeans confidently pronounce as âJew-Ventures.â
The jerseys vary in quality: the rich and those who imagine to be rich wear originals, while the rest adorn what I suspect are mosquito nets dyed in team colours.
Once seated on stools with long legs, the serious business begins.
They declare, with the conviction of prophets, which players to buy and which to sell.
âWe must offload Lukaku immediately!â shouts one, banging the table so hard his Tusker spills.
Another, sweating with urgency, announces: âNext season we are signing MbappĂ©, mark my words.â
The only thing this man has ever signed, by the road, is a loan guarantee for his replica of Eve that went bad in 2009 and messed up their relationship.
When the game begins, emotions rise higher than cream riding an elevator of steam.
A goal in London sets off ululations in Nyagenke, as though someoneâs bride price has just been negotiated successfully.
A missed penalty in Spain is enough to plunge the pub into prolonged mourning.
By the final whistle, half of my kinsmen are angry, the other half are drunk, and everyone is broke.
It does not stop there.
After losses, they walk home in silence, faces tight as if attending a national exam (with)out a (fake) Mwakinya.
Wives are greeted with grunts, children are barked at, and even innocent crickets singing on the roadside get blamed for poor defending at Old Trafford.
Blood mercury (known in other lands as blood pressure) shoots to dangerous levels.
Meanwhile, the goalkeeper of Nyagenke FC remains an unsolved mystery.
No one knows his name, his face, or whether he is even still alive.
The man could be digging trenches in the replica of Kazi kwa Vijana; Pesa kwa Wazee project, and not a single Nyagenkean would notice.
Yet these same villagers can tell you the tattoo design on Haalandâs leg, the favourite pizza topping of Messi, and how many braids Pogba is likely to add next week.
It’s a crazy Nyagenke!
Some of people do not know the price of kangumu in Nyagenke Market, but they can recite the value of Hotdog in euros to the last decimal, and can’t explain if one can order Colddog too.
Some pronounce football as âfoodball” but they argue transfer clauses with the simplicity that can make governmentâs economic (mis)advisors appear to be quacks.
But my friends, football is just a game. It was not created to make you insult strangers on Facebook, or to make you collapse like a punctured yellow wheelbarrow when Arsenal loses.
The players you fight over are millionaires in Europe, unbothered by the fact that you skipped supper after they lost.
So, dear Nyagenkeans, remember this: football is a sport, not a source of migraines, ulcers, and marital breakdowns.
If you must argue, argue about our own Nyagenke FC but first, please find out if the goalkeeper is still among the living.
Until next week, keep your blood mercury calm and update your SHA, and don’t tempt your government to declare football insults a taxable income.
-babahezel@gmail.com