Biko Adema. The baby-faced assassin who always looked innocuous until it was time to convert a try. Rarely missed a kick between the two sticks. 5 plus Biko’s 2. Try time Kenya. Biko, Nairobi’s smile-hailing pretty boy, the mercy killing expert who neatly put opponents away with a chef’s kiss.
At fly half, he was the guy who twisted the knives wedged in their backs. But one had to be cognizant of the man who lodged them there ab initio.
Glance the flank and spot Collo. The mean machine who landed 279 daggers touching down that oval ball. Donning that crimson stained jersey, fronting Kenya Airways on his belly. Collins Injera, the pride of Africa, flying high, had the feet of a tap dancer, swift off the deck and was a needle in a haystack once he got past a defender. Hard to find. Collins had wheels for days. His beaming eyes and grimace were often the signal for need for speed. That it was time to change gears, to stick shift, to accelerate. Once that happened, it was only a matter of seconds before you were roadkill clutching at whiskers. Staring at a muddy pair of cleats. Try time Kenya.
It would be an injustice to forget Innocent. Innocent Simiyu. Mr night night. Dude had the forearm of a foreman, dishing out stool tests straight from the lab. He was a motorman off the rails ramming over everything in his path, a train-wreck in his wake. Something tacklers couldn’t tackle. Something you conceded to in lieu of contending with. Something you couldn’t indemnify yourself against. Innocent was the equivalent of what the insurance corp call , ‘an act of God.’ Woe if he befell you.
Ohh and the grubbers, the line breaking Sidney Ashioya grubbers. Leon Adongo loved those Willy Ambaka would have loved those any winger would be hot on his heels for those “hot grubbers”.
Even today I can’t call them apart, who was on radio and who was on the pitch? Or who wasn’t on any of them? Was it Larry or Lavin? Maybe it’s just another Asego affair.
Before his newly found discipleship on social media and destiny on chopping boards, he was the “panga man”. He was not a roaming culinary back then but Dennis Ombachi. Whom hell hath no fury. Whom except for injury no other hamstring in the world had as much flurry. He mowed swathes of grass and men with thunder in his thighs .How unfortunate we didn’t see too much of him. His time with the team aped his style of play. Thunder and lightning, brief but striking.
When it came to Tall there was no telling. The skyscraper of a man who had as much range in his game as he was rangy. A lineout and a maul here and a number of tries there. Locking horns in a scrum here and dismantling a ruck there. He was all the rage. The skipper who led Kenya’s infantry from the front in victory and loss. Our highest vantage point at the height of defeat and triumph was always Humphrey Kayange.
I still remember the sweet ring of Singapore 2016. When the entire nation of Fiji couldn’t match Nelson Oyoo in a footrace. Oyoo running amok, running for our dear virgin title and breaking our duck while at it. I still remember Augustine Lugonzo bouncing around like a yoyo, the commentator’s disbelief and Sammy Oliech’s biceps jut out in the air, in relief.
The gaffer was a sight to see. Having done all, Ayimba stood. He just stood. He had procured Kenya’s safe passage into silverware from the land of trophy laden bareness. No more Misri. He gave away little or no emotion yielding not to the fanfare nor celebrations. His mien was revealing of someone who had fulfilled his divine duty. And was now ready to commune with the saints having banished Kenya from rugby’s gates of hades. The late great, Benjamin Ayimba.
I stood pitchside at the finals of the 13th edition, 2008-2009 Safari sevens competition. Kenya vs the Emerging Boks. I was hardly eleven years but I could swear I recall everything I saw. My left hand held in my father’s warm wrapping palm. There was a real propensity about that day, that game and that place. RFUEA rocked on its hinges with fans lacquered and raucous inspired by liquid courage. Proudly sponsored by EABL. The stands, rafters and even Woodley estates’ perimeter walls were replete with people striving to catch a glimpse.
From the first of the twenty minutes of the final, Kenya’s marching orders were so bare and in full glare.
Leave no stone unturned!
Pull out all stops!
Bring it home!
I would also add, break their bones if you have to! But that would only earn me a minute in the sin bin.
Kenya was having a proper go at the status quo. We were basically letting South Africa know, we know ‘mmetuzoea’ but not in our house. And clean house we did, we won. We beat the Boks and that’s on God.
For a long time, Kenyan rugby had me believe we were headed somewhere as a people. As a country and as the face of the region. It made me feel like we were breaking into something, a breakthrough perhaps? I don’t know what it was but I was truly given to that cause. Lately it doesn’t slap the same but then maybe I’m the problem and not Kenyan rugby. Again, I don’t know.
The names I dropped here are far from exhaustive yet I owe them a good chunk of my best childhood memories. What those guys gave me is larger than life, I can’t fit them all in one story. For instance, the combine harvester who was Oscar Ouma. Ouma, who to my eternal amusement, white journalists insisted on calling Auma. Which was ever tickling because there was nothing lady-like about his rugby.
These guys were my icons, their posters on my bedroom wall and I paid homage to them at every turn. I recently watched Kenya sevens’ highlights(can’t pinpoint which series), on World Rugby’s Instagram page and I heard words in the line of,
“And the lawyer from Nairobi, Edmund Anya….scores a try”
Hearing that was nice. Seeing the Kenyan flag plastered on Edmund’s shoulder blade even better. It awakened a happy child who apart from Shakes Makena had actual human heroes in his life and didn’t mind adding another to that list.
Well my childhood is gone. Water under the bridge. But there are kids who need to be kids today and they can do with memories that brew valiance in them. We need more commentators braying Kenyan names in bright light. It’s a healthy jab for our national psyche.
Safaricom let’s make the circuit a mosh pit one more time. #Tujazestaditena.
