Dust Football

I have started playing football in the evenings with the kids here. The field is rough, extremely potholed, lacking goal posts or sidelines, and definitely not flat. But they don’t care, they just play.

As the sun sets, crowds of students battle in the rising dust. The action stops frequently to restitch the ball due to thorns and sharp broken glass. The kids huddle around and find some way to fix the ball, and then, amid screams and much chaos, play resumes. It’s so much shabbier than any field I have ever seen and I have no response to “Nicko, how do you see our field”? In the end, I guess what I see are kids, too enveloped in fun to notice how much they lack. And for their sake, I hope that this reprieve stays with them, and gives them joy through all the difficulties they face. There is so little here, and the small moments really do matter. Every little bit of enjoyment is squeezed out, reused and savored.

The fading of the light makes continuing almost impossible, and yet, there is always one final goal to score. “Last one is the winner.” At some point an enormous hum comes across the field, and for a minute we are covered in bees—millions of honey bees. They are migrating right through the middle of our match, and everyone is on their knees, shirts pulled up over heads, screaming, laughing. The bees pass, and one enterprising lad scores as the defense is still half-shirtless and cowering. The ball pops for a final time and it’s not repairable due to darkness. We all wander home coated in dust, sweating, and laughing at the bad plays I have made. This is how the games are savored, walking home in the dark, arm-in-arm. “We’ll do it again tomorrow, only maybe you won’t miss. Maybe you can actually send it in the direction of the opponents goal, just a suggestion, nothing personal. Do they have football in America? Do the kids sleep with their cleats on?”

I can see their outlines in the fading light, jumping, sprinting, arms raised, mouths open, eyes wide, chests heaving, feet furiously seeking the ball. They are playing because they can forget about herding goats, or hauling water. They can forget about typhoid, malaria and AIDS. They can breathe in the cold evening air, and exhale all the worries that 12 year olds carry here. The weight is lifted, even if only for a moment, and I can see their gleaming faces in the moonlight. They are children who must grow up fast. But for an hour or so, they are football stars, and I think I shall always remember them this way.