An arsenal fan, a thief and I

He, highly spirited, strode in in a yellow. Yes, that same yellow that soaked in five at the Fortress Anfield. His face beamed with infinitely out of the world expectations as he casually took a seat right behind mine. It was an hour to kickoff and on normal occasions the front seats are usually all taken by this time if a big match is about to happen ( thanks for the lecturers’ strike guys are still being held home by their parents until the planting season is over, watu walime bana). Now this day’s big match would be this fellow’s team- Arsenal visiting Stamford Bridge. I personally don’t affiliate to any of these two teams and no, am not that a football fanatic as to wait for a Chelsea match for two hours. I was actually waiting for the Liverpool-Cardiff game ( yeah, we won 6-3, now you know, thank you). I had my red Stanchart on, enough to explain my impartiality on the now visibly heated exchanges around me. However that’s only but part of the life of a Liverpool fan, trying as hard as possible to say the least when two donkeys rain blows on one another so that somehow you the horse gets to squeeze yourself past.

Beside me sat a rather elderly comrade (his whiskers, friend, whiskers). Now you know those guys whom you’ll never get to know the team they support unless a goal is scored? Or maybe an unfair penalty awarded? That’s my guy right there. Comfortably tucked in his jacket in the afternoon heat, he closely followed the pre-match highlights without a blink. We shall call him my adjacent for lack of a more definitive name. His constant twitching on these comfortable DH seats was however a worry to me right from the start. The last time I watched a match from the front seat I left without my wallet, so I tapped  my pocket edge and the miserable piece of leather was there. I promised myself I’d be tapping my pocket till the game ended, after all this would be Wenger’s 1000^th game in charge, so why not honor him with 1000 taps of my pocket.

With slightly over half an hour to go my friend in yellow behind me already had his vocals all over the hall. Having settled right in the den of no less five Jose Mourinho worshippers, he had to literally scream out his opinions. The moment this argument intruded   and subsequently drew my attention they had bitterly differed on which was greener, the grass at Emirates or Stamford Bridge, literally. Supersport did no good in easening happenings behind me for this is the very same moment they decided to show Arsene Wenger checking the grass at Stamford Bridge. My guy in yellow had it, should they lose they would definitely blame the grass. A tap on my back is all he needed to get me to turn and probably air my opinion on whether Sturridge was a better diver than Suarez. This he asked with a seriousness that amused more than angered me. Couldn’t he see that my t-shirt was written on ‘Standard Chartered’? Could he have confused the word diver for scorer? I mean, these are the top two scorers in the league presently! Avoiding a confrontation, I turned to look at the screen for the whistle would go any second from then. I had made around 369 taps by this time, all while having a visual of my adjacent’s both hands. It would be one long match.   

The match started and much to the delight of either factions, it wasn’t Webb officiating, or Clattenberg. It was some Andre Mariner guy, I don’t know. Now at the first minute or second it usually is practically impossible to say which way the match would go and in this case, Arsenal already showed signs of their tiqui taqua kind of football. My friend in yellow already sensed victory at this stage and even the typical bluemen around him seemingly subdued, went quiet. It would be moments before Eto’o drove home a beautifully curved shot, 1-0. The bluemen went wild, if you understand how first goals are usually celebrated then you will actually see them up and on top of the chairs. In case of a Gor Mahia match, the main switch usually is the first casualty of a score, for or against. So you’ll have to wait for at least five minutes before everyone settles and the screen resumes. If it does resume and an apparent score, a second one went in during the frenzied celebration, the main switch again.   

Eto’o limped off with an hamstring few minutes later and the relief on my yellow friend’s face was simply put, laughable at. Andre Schurrle made it 2-0, before Oxlade Chamberlain decided to pull out a diving save when he felt his keeper failed to do much.  Now I always said these short haired Arsenal players would one day cause confusion but it seems only one Bacary Sagna heeded my warning and locked up his hair. Kieran Gibbs was sent off for looking like the Ox. That’s a defender for you. The miserable night for Gunners should have ended already. Hazard stepped up to the spot and made it 3-0. Nobody in a red shirt was talking by now, save for my yellow guy who tapped me from behind and asked what time it was. That’s when I also realized that I must have forgotten my tapping business and that my adjacent had really moved closer. I must have stopped at 690 or 609, or there about, not quite sure, but who cares, Wenger was already ruining his own birthday party. So I resumed. Oscar made it 4 just before the break and at half time, most red shirts took the opportunity to slip away, a very long evening it would be. By the time second half resumed, quite a number of seats were vacant, we’ll leave it at that. My yellow friend? You could be asking, the brother is brave. He was there, 0-4 down, ten men but still saw revolution ahead.

Oscar again, 5-0. He did not budge. By the time Salah’s went in and made it six I thought to myself I couldn’t bear such to the end. But there he was, face speaking of misery but nonetheless glued to the screen. How cruel fellow you human beings can be at times is beyond me. The final whistle went, and so did my friend here. Quite an opposite person of the one I saw entering a while ago. I watched him walk out and take the nearest exit, after all Michael Jordan said if you get your ass whipped you can leave either way you want. I had tapped my pocket thousand times by now and I couldn’t place my fingers on my wallet. It was gone, my adjacent too was gone only I couldn’t tell exactly when.

As I waited for the Liverpool match to begin I couldn’t help but think about losses, my yellow friend’s and mine. I however felt sorry for the whiskerd adjacent fellow, my ID picture wouldn’t make a good company ( come on, we all know nobody’s usually handsome in those ID photographs) and as it is, he is going to find it hard placing a ‘lost and found’ ID somewhere. I’ll be more elaborate, if they guy really did some work today, he just earned himself a new wallet and a stranger’s ID card.

As for the brother in yellow, I really hope the security department have in the past  24 hours thoroughly combed through the botanical garden trees and the haunted cottages for any signs of a dangling Homo sapien. The Markhamia lutea species especially, am told recent statistics indicate that most suicidals prefer that tree as it has high chances of breaking under weight, so that works better should one change his mind mid air.