The Game – Alvin L. Kathembe

It is 3.30 on a Saturday afternoon and the sun is high in the sky. The boys are playing football in the estate playground. The ‘playground’ is really just a patch of grass a hundred meters long and maybe sixty meters wide, surrounded on three sides by blocks of apartments and on the fourth by the estate parking lot. The boys are nine or ten years old, and each team has three players. It’s a close game, a hot afternoon: tempers flare and tackles fly up and down the little pitch. In front of the estate parking lot, is a little clear patch where the old men of the estate sometimes come to sit and talk and watch the boys.

The goal, for each team, is the space between a pair of stones measured by Syoks’ feet lined up heel to toe twice. Whenever one of the players complains that the opponents’ goal is too small, or the one he’s defending is too big, Syoks must trudge up or down the pitch, grumbling, and recalibrate it. There is no goalkeeper allowed. Four more stones serve as the corner flags, outlining the field of play. The score is 2-2, somehow, considering Oti and Kamau are on the same team today, and they are easily the two best players in the estate.

Oti is tall (taller at least, than the other boys), strong, and fast. He’s by far the best dribbler in the estate: he spends most of his free time – and whatever money he can save or swindle – down at the cybercafé in the nearby shopping center watching YouTube clips of Ricardo Quaresma, Ronaldinho, and Robinho, then practicing their moves on his own using a little ball he’d made from plastic bags. He likes to showboat, pulling off his latest trick, flick, or step-over with smug ease. All the other boys admire and envy him.

Kamau is not as skilled in the technical sense, but has a different set of attributes that make him a formidable opponent: his tactical awareness is astute, and his great sense of positioning and timing make up for his lack of pace. He admires players like Juan Román Riquelme, Patrick Vieira, and Claude Makélélé – midfield generals who win games through grit and sheer force of will. His father owns a car, and for his birthday Kamau got a pair of new football boots. He plays barefoot in the playground with the other boys, but whenever someone kicks or steps on him accidentally, he’s quick to remind them that if he wanted, he could run home at any time and change into his studs, and how would they like to play that kind of game then? He rides a school bus to St. Dominic’s, the private school up the way, where they teach table manners and cricket and the Queen’s English.

Oti plays with a smile – on any team, with anyone. He deems it a good game if he had fun and got in a couple of nutmegs, and maybe a kanzu. Kamau picks his teams much more intentionally, carefully considering each player’s strengths and weaknesses. He plays with a scowl, every muscle taut in concentration – winning is all that matters to him.

They never, as a rule, play on the same team, but today Nico came late, and Sam is still nowhere to be seen, so the boys had to play two-on-three for a while, and the only way that could be remotely fair would be if Oti and Kamau paired up against Syoks, Willy and Salim. Earlier on, Oti and Kamau were down 2-0, each blaming the other, before Nico finally showed up to even out the teams. And now, the tide has begun to turn.

Salim sends a speculative shot well wide of the goal, and out of play. Nico runs to get it and jogs back with the ball under his arm. He restarts the game with a short pass to Oti, then runs off to the left flank, where he is marked by Syoks. To Oti’s right, Kamau is open, beckoning for the pass. Willy rushes up to challenge Oti, who feints to the right and fakes the pass. When Willy stretches his foot to try and intercept the phantom ball, Oti deftly pokes the ball between his legs, and Nico hoots triumphantly – ‘chobo!’ –as Willy groans, embarrassed.

But Oti has hit the ball a little too hard, and when he skips around Willy’s body to get to it, Salim is already there, all alone in front of the unguarded goal. A simple poke of the ball, or a gentle side-foot would more than suffice to score but Salim means to make a statement – he smashes the ball low and hard, right down the middle of the stones, and it zips across the grass and into the nearby parking lot, which is empty this time of day.

Syoks, Salim and Willy are celebrating; Oti and Kamau are arguing.

‘You, si you pass the ball, unado?’ Kamau yells, livid.

‘You, si u-open vizuri, I didn’t have a clear pass!’ Oti shoots back.

Salim knows where this is going, and he wants no part of it. As he begins to jog after the ball, he sees Malcolm and Evelyn emerge from behind the apartment building and walk into the parking lot. The ball is right there, smack in the middle of the gravel. Salim lets out a warning howl, and dashes for it, too late.

Malcolm and Evelyn are not from around but are always hanging about the estate. They’re from one of those posh neighbourhoods across the river. They are much older than the rest of the boys – they’re maybe fourteen, or fifteen. They are vicious little tyrants who spend most of their time playing pranks, or breaking into people’s houses, or catching and killing small animals. If they catch one of the boys out alone, they will tease him and smack him around. Now Evelyn has the ball, and he knows that Salim wants it. He is smiling, but his eyes shine with malice.

Salim tries to poke the ball from the crook of Evelyn’s arm. Evelyn pushes him easily away, and Salim falls hard, scraping his backside on the gravel. By this time the other boys have heard and seen what is happening, and are running up to the parking lot. They huddle around Salim, who has begun to cry.

‘Hello lads, can we play?’ says Evelyn, baring his teeth.

‘No. Game’s full,’ Kamau answers forcefully, glowering at the bigger boy.

‘Says who?’

‘Says me. The ball is mine.’

It’s not really true – they have had the ball from as far back as any of them could remember. Perhaps it had been gifted them by older boys who had outgrown the game or moved away. At some point Kamau claimed ownership of the ball, and began to take it home with him every evening. His claim went unchallenged, and now, by the universal, immutable law of playgrounds everywhere, he gets to legislate the rules of the game.

‘Is that so?’ Evelyn sneers. ‘Mac, whose ball is this, do you think?’

‘Looks like it’s ours, mate,’ says Malcolm, grinning, ‘we found it, didn’t we, lying undiscovered right here in the middle of the parking lot.’

‘Give it back!’ Kamau says.

‘Come and get it.’

Kamau lunges for the ball, but Evelyn holds the ball high, out of his reach, with one hand. With his other hand he slaps Kamau smartly across the face, as he is jumping for the ball. He throws the ball to Malcolm.

‘Hey!’ Salim runs up, his fists balled. He looks like he is about to run right up to Evelyn, who hesitates, and a flash of something very much like fear, or at least doubt, flits across his face. However, at the crucial moment Salim falters and Evelyn has the upper hand once again.

‘Yeah, you little kaffir, I thought so.’

Kamau is staring daggers at him, rubbing his smarting cheek. He looks from the gloating bullies to the cowering boys huddled together opposite them.

‘There are six of us, and only two of them!’ he shouts. ‘Come on, GET THEM!’

With a howl of rage, he launches himself at Evelyn, unleashing a flurry of kicks and punches. Oti, seeing this, takes up the cry and lunges at Malcolm, who promptly turns tail and heads toward the exit of the parking lot. Oti, Syoks and Willy chase him all the way down the driveway and out the estate gate.

Evelyn has recovered from his initial shock and is fighting back. At first, it looks like he might win, even against Salim and Nico who have joined in the fight: the two boys are too furtive, too careful, getting weak shots in. Evelyn is on the defensive, holding off the furious Kamau while snapping and snarling at Salim and Nico. But when the other three come racing back after driving off Malcolm, he knows the game is up. With a curse and a final kick, he runs off, and the boys chase him all the way to the gate.

The boys walk back to the playground, talking excitedly.

‘Did you see how I –’

‘– then I kicked him, like this – ’

As they pass through the parking lot, they pick up the ball and carry it back onto the football pitch, Kamau holding it aloft like a centurion at the head of a Triumph.

‘Now, where were we?’ he asks.

‘Getting your butts kicked!’ Syoks says. ‘We were 3-2 up!’

All the players, however, know that the teams as they were made up could never work. After a short argument, the teams reconstitute thus: Oti, Willy and Syoks versus Kamau, Nico, and Salim.

On the side of the pitch, a group of old men have been watching all the while. They sit on stools set in a semicircle around a pot from which they drink through long straws. Two of them stand out: Ramogi is a dark, fierce elder with 6 parallel lines cut into his face. He wears an ornate headdress made from ostrich feathers. His six lower teeth have been removed, and this is noticeable every time he speaks or opens his mouth to receive the straw. He wears an amulet made from hippo tusk on his right bicep.

The other, Ndemi, wears a long githii made from tanned gazelle hide. Over this, he wears a cloak made from the black and white hide of a colobus monkey. He holds a flywhisk whose handle is made of exquisitely carved ivory.

‘My son is strong and fast,’ Ramogi says proudly. ‘He runs like the wind, and cuts through these other boys like a spear.’

‘Yes,’ Ndemi says, ‘but my son is cunning, like a fox, and brave, like a lion. He is a leader. You son defers to him.’

‘My son defers to no one!’

‘He does, to his betters.’

‘You two have been at this for too long,’ one of the other elders says wearily. ‘Why don’t you settle this once and for all? Are you afraid? Pit the boys against each other, and let us see who is a man, and who is a mouse.’

‘Yes, it is time.’ Ndemi says.

‘Agreed,’ Ramogi says, ‘but what are you willing to stake on your boy?’

‘This.’ Ndemi holds aloft the flywhisk. ‘I know you covet it; your eyes linger upon it whenever I put it down.’

‘And I will stake this,’ says Ramogi, tapping the hippo-tusk amulet. ‘It is a powerful talisman, of great value.’

‘It is well,’ Ndemi murmurs, and the bet is sealed.

Sam finally shows up, but the game is full and there is nobody else coming.

‘So now, what do I do?’ he asks.

‘Be the referee,’ Oti shouts, chasing down a loose ball.

The sun is setting, and it is almost time to go home. The game is poised at 4-4.

‘Golden Goal!’ Kamau shouts. The next goal will win it. If nobody scores, they will have to go to penalties, like Liverpool and AC Milan did in the Champions’ League final two years ago. The memory of it makes Kamau shudder, how Liverpool were 3-0 down at half time yet came back to draw the game and force it all the way to spot-kicks.

Oti picks up a pass on the left wing, and skips past Salim’s feeble challenge. He bears down on Kamau, who is the only obstacle between him and the goal. Oti feints left, then right, stepping over the ball deftly, drawing circles around it with his feet. Kamau is concentrating on the ball – he knows he must not let Oti’s body movements confuse him, he has only a split second.

He lunges for the ball, and misses. Oti shoots towards the open goal, and the ball rises and flies between the stones, or was it over one of them, the left one…

‘GOAAALLL!’ Oti peels away, stripping off his shirt and swinging it around wildly.

‘No way! It went over!’ Kamau says hotly, and all hell breaks loose.

First, they make Syoks measure the goal again, and it turns out that it was heel-to-toe, then heel-to-toe… and an inch, maybe an inch and a half.

‘See!’ Kamau says, triumphant, ‘it was even too wide!’

‘It still went in,’ Oti insists. ‘Even us, our post is too big!’

So the boys run up to the other side of the pitch, and Syoks discovers that the other goal is at least two inches too wide, and Oti roars in jubilation, as if that settles it.

‘That proves nothing!’ Kamau says, grabbing Sam by the hand. ‘Here’s the referee, let him decide. Ref, was it in or not?’

Sam is in an awful position – he is a quiet, retiring boy, and he really does not appreciate being put on the spot like this. The boys have all surrounded him, and are pushing and jostling and shouting – ‘leave him alone, let him decide!’ ‘Was it in or not?’ ‘What’s the matter, kwani you’re deaf?’ Sam does not know what to do. His father works as the gardener in Kamau’s father’s house; he knows that crossing Kamau could have dire consequences. He breaks down in tears, screams ‘it went over!’ and runs off home, wrenching his arm from Salim’s grip.

‘There, you see, it was over.’ Kamau says, smug.

‘No way, it went in! Why did he run away, if he was telling the truth?’ Oti retorts, and the issue is still very much up in the air.

Everyone is arguing with everyone else, and in the hubbub Kamau runs up to Syoks and whispers something in his ear.

‘Everyone, keep quiet,’ Syoks shouts. ‘I said, keep quiet! I saw the whole thing.’

Syoks has their attention now. He looks at Oti warily, positioning himself out of reach, near Kamau.

‘I’m going to tell the truth, and ashame the devil, I saw the whole thing.’ He continues, pausing for effect. ‘The truth is, it went over.’

‘You lying little –’ Oti jumps at him, his eyes nearly popping out of his head, but Kamau leaps across and puts his body in the way, and now the two boys are face-to-face.

‘He’s lying!’ Oti howls, his eyes watering at the injustice of it all.

‘Hehe, look at you,’ Kamau taunts, ‘you even have balancing tears!’

Oti throws the first punch, catching Kamau squarely in the jaw. Kamau’s reply catches Oti in the ear and before any more damage can be done the other boys have rushed in and separated them.

‘You cheating dog!’ Oti screams, clawing at Salim and Willy, trying to get at Kamau.

‘You pig!’ Kamau screams back, struggling against Nico. Syoks sees what is happening and weighs his options. He silently slinks away.

 ‘Bastard!’ Kamau continues, sputtering, a gurgling in his throat. He is not satisfied with the viciousness of his words thus far, and he is racking his brain for a more devastating insult. Ndemi is there, at his elbow, and he whispers it into Kamau’s ear. Kamau’s eyes light up, and he says, in his most venomous voice –

‘You’re a coward and a loser, you, you, you… kihii!’

With a superhuman effort, Oti throws off the two boys holding him. Blind with rage, he picks up a stone from the nearest goalpost and swings it at Kamau, smashing open his head. Nico, covered in blood, runs away screaming – Willy and Salim hoof it, too. Oti stares in horror for a moment, his orange shirt speckled with crimson. He realizes what he has done, and he begins to scream, clutching at his head in horror. Then he runs across the playground, through the parking lot, and down the driveway, howling all the while. He runs through the estate gate and keeps running, and running, and running.

Ndemi reluctantly hands over his flywhisk, which Ramogi takes wordlessly. They glare at each other for a moment, then Ramogi nods grimly, and hobbles off after Oti.

Ndemi stares down at Kamau, at the soul struggling feebly to slough off its broken and leaking shell. He is crying for his mother, for help, for God. Ndemi, the only god he will ever know, reaches out and yanks the spirit free, roughly tearing it from its body. The boy howls in pain. Ndemi can see that the boy is frightened. Confused. Weak. He spits in the boy’s face, and strikes him hard, twice.

‘You have disgraced me,’ he snarls. ‘You have disgraced yourself, and brought shame upon our people.’

He turns, and walks away. After a few steps, he looks back at the trembling, sobbing boy.

‘What are you waiting for,’ Ndemi says. ‘Come!’

Kamau looks around. The playground is empty. He is alone. It does not occur to him that there is anything else he can do, or anywhere else he can go. He staggers after Ndemi in a bewildered daze.

Ndemi walks ahead, muttering to himself. He is angry that he has lost his flywhisk, and is making plans to win it back again. It is a pretty flywhisk, and he has many sons.