It wasn’t in the dress code; the costumes and regalia of different hues that stole the show.
It wasn’t the face painting, tattoos and hennas that did it either.
It wasn’t in the pretty (I didn’t say beautiful) ladies who were half-naked trying to sell you a beer, sprinkles water or juicy fruit.
It wasn’t either on meeting Larry Asego and both of you knuckle hands together. That felt good but it wasn’t.

It was something bigger: bigger than the chests of the players.
It was something fast-speed: faster than juggling a can of Tusker in 10 seconds.
It was something unbelievable: 5 men leading a whole stand in a resounding cheer.
It was something phenomenal; phenomenal like seeing thousands dance to a particular style in harmony without a choreographer.
It was something crazy: crazier than seeing one wipe his shoes with a 1000 shilling note that left us standing looking at him with our mouths agape but reading the words at the back of his t-shirt, “Odinga. Obama. Oliech. Omondi. Lupita,” we understood and forgave him.
It was something sick: sickening by seeing someone old enough to be one’s father trying to seduce a young girl in white hot-pants.
It was something legendary: legendary in the sense of chanting, “Let’s go Kenya! Let’s go!”

But what was it?

One could not really tell but my curiosity remained insatiable.


It was something that one couldn’t really fathom: the fact that there are people who would spend a lot of money and others who would make a lot of money. There are some who would leave begging for bus fare and one who would leave with a BMW 316i courtesy of Samsung and Safaricom. That there are some who would break up with their spouses by finding out that it wasn’t only they that were receiving the kisses and others who would meet their soul mates. That…

There was something about Safari Sevens that I couldn’t really tell. Couldn’t really figure out. Couldn’t grasp as it slid off my hands. No. Not what you’re thinking. That those ‘naked’ girls are our sisters and daughters. Not that one. Not the world’s ongoing folly and hypocrisy. Not the ‘bend over’ village or the brawls that would arise over a girl, knocked beer or one standing on the seats that we weren’t able to watch the play. NO!

But maybe I came across it when I found myself shouting and singing aloud when the referee crossed our (Kenyans) path, “Who’s your mother, who’s your mother, who’s your mother referee?” And minutes later, take it back, “We are sorry, we are sorry, we are sorry referee!” That you could see people with jugs of beer and a cigarette but still you could have much a fun as they, without any intoxication.

And as I was in The Village, leave alone seeing Bob Collymore in 3-D, I found it. I think so. Yes I did. A group of about 10 people held hands in a circle, bowing their heads down for a word of prayer, thanking the Almighty for the weekend and for the souls they’ve touched, changed, brought to Him. Is when it hit me, all came for different reasons as this group came for a mission: The Great Commission.

At that instance, it appeared how unfair we were on judging Masaku Sevens. No, hear me out. It might be compared to that great renowned doctor whose son dies of a sickness or that pastor whose daughter is ‘clubbing’ or that employee of De La Rue who is deep in debt or even that ‘relationship coach’ who gives advice to people on the dates they should or should not pursue but never really took time to look over his shoulder to foresee the abrupt end to his relationship. I understand but paradoxical as it may sound, there was that small percentage of beings that went to help, save our girls. And boys too. Those that changed the tires and ensured one didn’t sleep in the ditch BUT none was recognized – light wasn’t shone on them. The media kept hush and the bloggers experienced a writer’s block.

The group is called the Rugby Players Fellowship (RPF) and they do meet every Sunday at the University of Nairobi sports ground, 4:00 pm.

Knowing that was way better than knowing the Shujaa, Morans and Simba-Saba squads.

I found what makes the Sevens, the Sevens. Not the revelers – okay maybe a little – but a community that has been brought together by a sport and it goes the whole way of emphasizing the role of sports in uniting us, Kenyans.



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