The One Attempting To Link A Prodigious Football Team To An Agency Passing Bouncing Cheques Et Al

Here where he stood, Gor clasped his buffalo-hide shield;

There where he dashed, he wielded a spear and danced for war

And there where he danced, he waged war.

~ Adrian Onyando, The Epic of Gor Mahia, p.76

The story is told of an astonishing and at once extraordinary and numinous child from Kanyamwa in Luoland, Kenya—in the wildernesses of yesterday where magicians dwelled and humans met beasts and ghosts—contained in a locale designated Ramba in antiquity, then later Milambo and, not desiring to be left out of this primordial exercise in nomenclature altogether, the British pejoratively renamed it District of South Kavirondo, but we now know it as South Nyanza; born Gor Okumu, the Mysterious One was son of Ogada and grandson to the esteemed Ogalo; the only begotten son of his mother Atoka, daughter of Jema, the great magician of Kanyada, he descended from a long line of mystical but on the whole momentous gentlemen stretching back to the foundations of time: Chwanya Ragwar, the Fork, to Onyango Rabala, the Rebel; then to Obunga Osewe and Ologi, the great brothers, and finally to the Great Chief Ogalo Ng’injo, the Crumbs; although Gor’s birth is shrouded in the mists of time, it is believed to be inside the first half of the 19^th century.

But Gor Mahia—Gor the Wonder Maker—was no humdrum infant. Steeped in awe and amazement, the child displayed gobsmacking otherworldly abilities and impossible feats of miracle and wit and great wonder from a tender age, thereby seamlessly growing into the responsibility of Ruoth, Paramount Chief of the South; greater even in stature and deed and accomplishment and marvel than was his all-towering grandfather, Ogalo the Hero, son of Obunga Osewe. It is variously whispered that Gor was blessed with magic and cunning and wit by way of both his paternal and maternal grandparents who were famous magicians in ancient Luoland. Plenty of my insights into the life and primacy of the almighty Gor Mahia are gleaned from Adrian Onyando’s The Epic of Gor Mahia (Pangolin, 2005) and from it I will attempt to reconstruct, as best as I can recall, just one of a myriad of exploits of this eminent Luo protagonist in verbatim and ode:

The Contest of Two Babies

Omoro of Kanyadoto came to Chief Ogada feigning respect.

‘Son of Ogalo,’ he said, ‘for long,

Our people have lived together,

But now is not the time to live together anymore

For we shall soon begin to contempt each other.

Let my people also own land.’

‘Which land, fellow elder?’ asked Ogada quietly.

‘This land!’ replied Omoro loudly.

‘This land we occupy is ours!’

‘Fellow elder,’ said Ogada, ‘let’s not quarrel.

The land you occupy is right at the heart of Kanyamwa.

Let it not be said by the ancestors and the future generation

That Ogada allowed tenants to grab the ancestral shrines.

However, if you can go far and occupy land elsewhere,

I shall not pursue you.

The land is vast

Go and occupy it like the others have done.’

But Omoro creased his face, tensed his muscles

And stamped his feet on the ground vowing,

‘I shall not move!’

The Kanyamwa land was fertile,

The Luos call it ‘the female soil’.

‘This land we occupy is ours!’ cried Omoro.

‘Fellow elder,’ said Ogada coolly, ‘let us not fight.

Let the ancestors decide for us who owns this land you want.

Bring your child Onduru

And I too shall bring my child, Okumu.

We shall tie ropes around them

And whichever child breaks the rope

Shall win land for his people.’

Omoro happily consented to the contest and went away.

Truly, he thought, anticipating victory,

My four-year-old son is exceptionally strong

And can even break a rope made of metal!

Truly, he thought again, that child Gor,

Even though he is Onduru’s age-mate,

Is too weak to even break a rope made of cobwebs!

Two ropes were made and their strength tested

By having ten strong men at both ends pull at them.

The ropes were long like rivers—

The stalwarts at one end

Could hardly see those at the other end.

Then they were tied to the kang’o tree.

People of our homestead, the kang’o tree is hard

And well rooted in the earth.

It does shake in the wind, but does it break?

Does it break with the blows of axes

Or yield to the persistent million mouths of termites?

People of our homestead, the kang’o tree is strong.

Drums beat, whistles and horns blew

And praises showered on the contestants.

Monkeys shrieked in trees;

The omoro Rhone antelope bellowed.

Spectators moved to the arena.

‘The Contest of Two Babies’ was underway.

Omoro’s child was a giant,

But Ogada’s child was only clever.

Oh Gor was clever!

The rope was tied to Omoro’s son’s waist

And the referee shouted, ‘Pu-u-u-ll!’

Onduru ran and ran and ran

And when the rope finally tautened, he failed to break it.

He collapsed and was carried away to drink potfuls of milk

And to eat all the grains from his father’s granaries.

Oh, what a shame to eat after defeat!

But when Gor was brought to the arena,

The Black One turned wild.

Even when they were tying the rope to his waist

They could hardly hold him down.

The child had the strength of a hundred well-fed bulls.

When the referee said, ‘P-U-U-U-LL!’ Gor dashed forward

Like lightening, like the flash flood!

The eyes of the spectators could hardly trace him

As he licked the length of the rope in an instant.

Before the eye could adjust to the speed

The rope sounded ‘NDING’!’ and was broken.

And the kang’o tree also broke, ae Gor!

A song broke out,

                Gor is the tornado that breaks the kang’o tree,

                Ae the Tornado!

                Gor is the Earth Shaker that turns the earth,

                Ae the Shaker!

                With the roots of the kang’o tree,

                He uprooted the plants,

                Ae the Uprooter!

Omoro gathered his belongings and his people

And migrated far away to Nduru.

There they put up shelters and claimed it for their own.

Ogada said: ‘Let them exist too.’

But Ochieng’ Ratego’s stomach rumbled and he burst out,

‘War is in my stomach!’

‘Let it remain in your stomach!’ people replied.

‘For us, the child Gor has won a war.’

It was as though Gor had won,

Not against an enemy, but against Ratego.

Jealousy ate Ratego’s stomach

Like hunger eats up our intestines in famine.

Yet, if it were not for the wisdom of our forefather

This land would have gone.

If it were not for the wisdom of Gor

We would be having no land.

For there are dangerous vultures

Waiting for you to make the kill

And then when you settle to eat it,

They grab and make away with it

Leaving you exhausted, hungry and poor.

The anecdote concerning my acquisition of this book is as intriguing as the treasures I found buried in its pages. I was deep into a lengthy chat with mother during a visit to Kendu Bay as I often times do on such occasions—if only to tap into the long oral tradition of my people, folklore that captivated me ever since I can remember (and mother is particularly adept at these things)—when the conversation veered to Gor Mahia; I don’t quite recall the circumstances of that detour in banter but I was riveted, more so when she made it plain that I was maternally descended from this celebrated progenitor—this mysterious man who, as a child, would blink both eyes and confuse his playmates and the whole land; who danced with his fingers instead of his legs; who, when jokingly challenged by his father Ogada to a duel in a bid to assess his strength, disappeared into thin air and in his stead stood a bull elephant presaged by a whirlwind; who, when heaving a sigh, trees and grasses would shake and dust would rise by force of his breath, forming a tornado, the stamp of his presence; this man who would wake up early in the morning and lie down at midnight but refuse to sleep and even if he did sleep, his eyes would remain wide open like a rabbit’s—Gor Mahia, the Mysterious One, the Miraculous One, the Cunning One.

Piny’ dung’ buru / Piny’ dhi aywaya / Piny’ dhi ariwa / Yamo oloko / Jo K’Ogalo kalo k’uneno!

Gor Mahia at the 1987 Africa Cup. From right: Bassanga,
Breakdance, Hezbon Omollo, Pierre, Magongo, Fundi,
Sollo, Dawo, Mwidau, Nyangi, Jua Kali, Maira, Janabi,
Ndolo, Kamoga. (Photo courtesy of gormahia.net)

Onyando elucidates in the introduction to his pièce de résistance: “Gor has at various times become the symbol of the Luo nation within the republic of Kenya. Consequently, in 1969, when the Luo’s political fortunes were on the wane, they formed a football club and named it Gor Mahia Football Club. As Professor Atieno-Odhiambo argues, the myth of a heroic past represented by Gor became the means of the community’s political and social assertion in a state where they felt increasingly marginalised and oppressed.” My familiarity and obsession with the legend of Gor Mahia is primarily rooted in a longstanding association with the eponymous football club. I recall my father—who himself played for Luo Union in the 60s, a precursor to Gor Mahia Football Club—and uncle, zealots for the club, planning long trips to Mombasa and everywhere else around the country in support of the team in the early 80s, and records in praise of both prodigy and prodigious team playing on loop in both homes. It is from these songs that I started to get a glimpse into the enigmatic man after whom the famous club was named and my curiosity was flamed. When Gor died on May 9, 1920, the Luo nation mourned heavily, wondering whether there would again be such a hero. And now here was mother presenting me with the book that would ultimately unlock the riddle and answer all my questions, with a bird’s-eye view into the annals of this my supernatural ancestor. I was bedazzled.

And then it suddenly came together.

Now anyone who knows me knows that I’m a thousand choices from being a Believer: I’m not at all spiritual—not on any level or by any definition—and I’m certainly not a purveyor of fairy tales or kingdoms come; as a matter of fact I abandoned all imaginary friends by the time I hit class one, save for the constant trio who hung about the household longer than I contemplated or dared anticipate—I singularly and sorely rely on facts and the facts are these:

1. I have worked at more than a few agencies in my career as a Creative.
2. Among those, the ones that chose to fall foul of my favour found themselves on the back foot, confined to the pungent compost heap of history, lost in distant memory and eternal irrelevance. (See me in camera for a definitive list).
3. Only two are left.
4. Among these, one is now disbursing bouncing cheques and has fired the entire Accounts Department in consequence; the other, as of Friday 24^th of February or thereabouts, dropped a record 8 employees like hot potatoes, including an unprecedented 3 senior managers. Obviously a reckoning is afoot.

Go figure.