By Tony Mochama
Today being the UEFA Champion’s League final between Borussia Dortmund and Bayern Munich, and best watched at Carnivore, courtesy of Heineken, I better tell you about the day I met Didier Drogba, a genuine Champion’s League hero from last year, in Dubai.
It was three weeks ago. The plane from Italy we had been in had just landed, and we all filed into the giant lobbies of the Dubai International Airport.
In one of them, Samsung was hosting an international mobile phone exhibition. And guess who, no doubt for a multi-million shilling fee, was putting in an appearance?
That’s right — Didier Drogba.
I was determined to shake hands with my current second greatest international living hero of all time, Didier, being a huge fan of dear Chelsea FC.
Just in case you are wondering who my number one living hero in the world is, it is the recently retired Pope Benedict.
I am like so kidding!
That would be the one and only Barack Obama. I would run through a tornado in Oklahoma just to shake hands with this great son of K’Ogelo.
I wish the ICC would simply transfer the Hague cases to Arusha, just so that when Barack visits Tanzania during the hearings, our dear digital leaders can at least get to shake his hand.
Anyway, so there I was, pushing my way to the front of the Samsung mega stand past other fans and some reporters taking pictures as the great man juggled a ball, posed and mugged for the cameras and flash phones going off.
Finally getting to the front line of fame’s fans, I yelled: “Hey, Didier! Thank you for that night last year at the Allianz Arena. We will never forget.”
Drogba looked up, and to my delight, yelled: “Hey, you Jamaican?”
“I’m from Kenya,” I said, not believing my ears, that this icon of global football had actually spoken to mere me.
“Africa,” Didier declared. “Come over here.”
He had that deepish, drawling voice, just like from his television interviews, but was as perfectly audible as clear water.
Walking on air, (this being a pun you’ll figure out later and not a metaphor), I went over to Drogba. Beaming, he reached over behind him, and then his hand re-emerged with a thousand Euro Samsung mobile phone in it.
“Here,” he said, “take! A gift for African from Drogba.”
“You gave us two great gifts in the Champion’s League final in May last year, dear Didier,” I whispered. “The first one was that 88th minute header against Bayern that drew us level …” I jumped into the air in imitation of glorious goal.
“And the second one was your winning penalty that erased memories of Terry’s miss in Moscow, five years ago.”
As a bemused Didier watched, I stepped back, ran forward to imitate his penalty kick, skidded and slid on the shiny floor of the airport like a cartoon character riding a banana peel, then fell flat on my backside, on the floor… just like John Terry.
I woke up on the plane to Dubai to see a concerned fellow passenger lean the one seat across us, ask: “Are you alright, mate?”
“Yeah,” I said, still dream-groggy.
“And you are a Chelsea fan?”
“Yup,” I said. “How did you know?”
“You kinda yelled ‘Drogba’ in your sleep.”
When not writing about women, Tony M is dreaming football.
