Whis runs for dear life at Euro ’96

By WAHOME MUTAHI, July 7, 1996

It was only after my head had been cleared of some of the arrow roots that had been lodged in the place where my brain was supposed to be that I remembered that the song was supposed to go something like “London is burning, London is burning, fire! fire!” I don’t know why we were made to sing it and yet we were not firemen, but that is neither here nor there. The important thing is that I headed for London and in my bag was a good enough supply of Vevequine, alias Kangetaquin, alias Khatquin.
If you prefer a simpler language, I had a supply of miraa in capsule form, which I am trying to sell here in the hope of returning to Kenya as a billionaire from the Slopes of Mount Kenya. If you have been with me in this third-rate column, you will have known by now that my fortunes have not been many as far as turning myself into a mini Kamresh. But a man from slopes does not give up and that is why I got into a plane and headed for the land of the original Thatcher and her husband Dennis, armed with Vevequin London flavour intending to sell the supply there.
Half an hour before the plane landed at Heathrow, my head which resembles the airport on the top started thinking. The goat brain that I normally have took a break and another one capable of thinking took over. It told me that I could do something more profitable in the land of the original Thatcher.

It reminded me that a man called Terry Venables was the coach of the local Harambee Stars. It also reminded me that the local Stars was going to meet the one from Germany to prove who was better at chasing an innocent piece of leather in a field, and who could put it between two posts better.
They called the whole business Euro ‘96 but I called it foolishness as I cannot understand what 22 men would have against a piece of leather so much as to chase it all over the field. If the gods of the two teams had gone out for supper, the Son of the Soil would have been past tense by now. He would have been in a box being transported back to Kenya to be planted in the Slopes of Mount Kenya where he was born and brought up.

Luckily, the gods of football teams do not go to supper too often so I am not past tense. I am alive and back to this land of 8,000 Jeremiahs of the Ruaraka type. It is the land of Slowenes, Hungarians, Croats, Czechs and other tribes in the country called Austria where a city called Wien, alias Vienne and alias Vienna behaves as if it is under a curfew the moment cocks are locked inside.

Local Jeremiah

It is a country of 8,000 Jeremiahs because the Croats in some slopes called Burgenland want to drink what is brewed by their local Jeremiah. The Slowenes in some local slopes called Carinthai want to drink what is brewed by their local Jeremiah and not by the hops and stabilizers worked on by the Jeremiah in some valley called Rosen.
What I am saying is that the grandson of Nyaituga, meaning the Son of the Soil, is back to where the irrigation of the throat is possible through hops and stabilizers worked by a thousand times eight Jeremiahs. I am lucky to have a throat at all because in my foolishness, I got into a plane last week and headed for the land of the original Thatcher and her husband Dennis. I was not going to tell the original Thatcher one or two things about her namesake, or ask Dennis whether he gets problems when he sneaks home after a few for the road with friends at the local pub.
I did not head for London simply because Damiano taught me a song about that city. The song went something like: “Landabana! Landabana! Faya! Fayaa!”

What was in my head told me that I could make real money if I became a consultant on what happens after 22 men have chased a piece of leather for 90 minutes. What happens is that the tribe of the people called fans express their joy or sadness. They prefer to do it with missiles mostly aimed at people who have no idea why a piece of leather must be chased all over the field. I come from a land where such happy activities as throwing missiles after a football match is an art that has been perfected, so I decided I was going to be a consultant on how to aim a missile and get the victim. It was such an inspired Son of the Soil who landed at Heathrow, his own Heathrow glistening with sweat at the thought of becoming a Kamresh not through precious stones but via quarry stones.
It was the same Son of the Soil who was heard to tell some Englishmen; “where I come from, you don’t need to carry stones to the stadium. We just think about stones when the time to throw stones comes and there they are. I got some hearing particularly when I was decorating my talk with such instructions to the local Rhoda. “Another ale for my pal Jones there . . . Another bitter for my pal Pete here.” I got ears to listen to me when, out of sheer inspiration from the lagers that had gone down my throat, I said I had previous experience in stoning Germans. I claimed that if there were international stone throwers, then I was one. Somewhere in the course of downing ales, bitters and lagers, I claimed that I was an accomplished rainmaker and that if by some miracle it looked like the Germans would massacre the Britons by chasing the ball better, I would order the heavens to bring forth the kind of rain seen only in Noah’s days.

We were in a pub called Dog’s Hair in that country of six million dogs and when I mentioned the bit about rainmaking, all the heads turned in my direction.

Something to drink

In a moment, the local Rhoda, a woman with a moustache, was being ordered to give the “Ol’ pal from Kenya” something to drink. Something to drink came in the form of ales, lagers and bitters enough to drown a dog. Soon I was telling the fellows in the Dog’s Hair that I would not just make rain if the Germans looked as if they would win.
I promised tropical storms, hurricanes and even a good measure of acid rain to make sure that the match was abandoned so that Venables could go and revise his tactics. By the time the English cocks crowed, I was still battling with ales, bitters and lagers and by then, I had created floods, thunder and lightning, typhoons and all manner of disasters from the sky enough to outshine God with his Noah’s floods.
I saw the bed nowadays, meaning when the sun was already up which was okay since I was not alone in doing so. I was just doing what other soccer fans were doing: Celebrating victory even before the first whistle had been blown for the afternoon match.
I was woken up a few hours later by half the crowd that had been at the Karumaindo called Dog’s Hair. They had come to collect their official rainmaker who had already received half of his fee in form of ales, lagers and bitters.

IRA bombers

Even if I had been a rainmaker, I could not have made even a drizzle. A rainmaker could not make rain feeling the way I was feeling. The lagers, the ales and the bitters had worked on my head so much that it felt as if the IRA bombers were practising in it. It was as if a thousand crazed English soccer fans were screaming for the blood of the Germans in my head.
On top of that, my stomach felt as if it was full of warm North Sea oil.
The soccer fans who had hired me refused to fire me even when they could see that my hands were trembling, not with fear but on account of too many ales and lagers downed into a stomach that had nothing else but two fried eggs. They insisted that I wake up and carry my rainmaking equipment with me to Wembley Stadium.

I almost said something to the effect that I had no rainmaking equipment and that as a matter of fact I was just a third rate scribe turned into a Vevequin seller, when I remembered that I had real British pounds to earn by pretending to be a rainmaker. That is why I grabbed my bag and said what I needed was in it. Off we left for Wembley and soon whole English men were trying to outdo whole Germans in the name of chasing an inflated piece of leather that was formerly a part of a cow perhaps.
I slept through most of the game although the Englishmen were cheering and booing as if they had horns inside their mouths. I was woken up by a fellow who looked like Andy Capp. The fellow was shouting that there would be penalties and something told him that the hands of the English goalkeeper were not steady enough to catch the bombs that were going to be shot by the Germans.
Most of the fans near me agreed with the Andy Capp fellow. I agreed with them for the sake of it and that was the biggest mistake of the day. They said if I agreed with them, then it was time to make some really heavy rain in the few seconds to come.

I said I wanted to change my mind about the hands of the English goalkeeper but the fans said they had no time for that. All they wanted was instant rain.
The gods of Mount Kenya were not anywhere near so I could not plead with them for help; so I turned to the gods of legs and said a very simple prayer. I asked them to give me the legs of Wakiihuri, John Ngugi and Henry Rono combined. I asked for a bit of Carl Lewis and Ben Johnson as well as a bit of Kipchoge Keino.
Then I rose and said some words in Ki-Slopes hoping to convince Andy Capp and company that I was about to make rain. Then my legs, which were also suffering from a hangover shot into a sprint. In the meantime, the British team had scored the first penalty meaning that the fans were too busy cheering to notice I had done a Wakiihuri.
I did not have total luck because Andy Capp saw me disappearing and raised the alarm that I was abandoning them. The next thing I knew was a mob of soccer fans who sounded as if they were suffering from mad cow disease. They wanted nothing but my blood and I was not willing to give them any. I managed to get out of Wembley with the mob now growing and getting madder than the maddest of the British cows.

Garbage truck

Then I saw a garbage truck. It slowed down to pick up some litter and I saw my chance. I translated myself into a garbage collector and jumped onto the lorry. I think as it sped off, I gave a victory sign to the soccer fans.
That made them madder but it was no longer my business. I ended up at Heathrow smelling like a mad cow that had been dead for a number of days but that was better than being turned into past tense by mad soccer fans.
I owe it all to the gods of Gor Mahia and AFC Leopards.