In the 1990s, village sportsmen were the biggest magnets for green, naïve village girls, with some even attracting the attention of the most sought-after village "humdingers," and many went as far as pinning down married women due to their prowess on the field.
Village footballers were the equivalent of today’s music stars, drawing women in like moths to a flame. They had the easiest time during that era. These men were the village "bulls," siring children with reckless abandon. Their physique, hairy chests, and wild, aggressive energy were irresistible to women, and even married women were not immune to the attraction during the weekend derbies. Whispers of secret affairs and whispered rendezvous became part of the fabric of village life.
Their capital and investment in courting the village beauties were minimal. It mostly consisted of showcasing their machismo on the pitch, their dribbling skills, and their ability to raise dust on those godforsaken village football fields.
Village forwards and strikers were in a class of their own. Scoring two goals was the ultimate badge of honour, placing the scorer among the best and most desired in the village. Pulling off a somersault after scoring was the equivalent of a romantic candlelit dinner today—a surefire way to win a woman’s heart.
The goalkeepers of the day were also not left behind. As dozens of village fans crowded the dusty fields to watch the games, goalkeepers would catch hot curves and shots from the opposing team with exaggerated ease. Their dramatic falls while holding onto the ball would send the women into a frenzy.
Many quieter sportsmen, who had little or no verbal power to woo women, would use the open space of the field to their advantage, and it worked wonders.
Village derbies were typically held on Sundays, often after church, when the village fields would come alive with joy and anticipation, much like today’s Premier League matches. The carnival atmosphere was the same.
There were even instances where women would fight over a particular footballer while he was busy dribbling on the field. The girlfriends of the players were easy to spot—they were the custodians of the players’ gear, as the village fields had no changing rooms. It became a way of marking their territory: if a girl had a particular player’s clothing, it was naturally assumed that he was her man.
After the match, tired footballers with sweaty, smelly armpits could be seen walking around, either still in their soccer uniforms or in the then-popular Freezer 1.5 and Tokyo brand jeans. Walking hand-in-hand with a footballer was seen as a privilege, and for the girls, it was a symbol of status.
With no other forms of entertainment—no modern TVs to watch, cinemas miles away in urban centres, electronic gadgets unheard of, and no drinking sprees or road trips—the only option left for fun was football. It was the dominant source of excitement.
Ndeiya, my village, was no different. Many men from the village have since married their fans, women who cheered them wildly as they showcased their talents on the field.
Fans would walk for miles to watch the games, as good transport was scarce, and walking was often the only option. This gave the sportsmen ample, undisturbed time to chat with their fans, who would often end up as girlfriends.
After the game, they would walk back home, their soccer boots hanging over their shoulders. Some girls would sneak into the footballers’ small houses, perhaps for a continuation of indoor soccer, which often led to marriage.