I woke up yesterday to a white sheet of paper staring at me like a ghost of words; the phrases seemed to have shriveled off, and I couldn’t come up with a coherent clause except the refrain from the previous night, as I watched Argentina unsuccessfully defend their world title against Spain. 

And on and on, the refrain went, 

Watatii, (finale) watatup-

enda (finale), eh referee

(finale) puliza kipenga (

finale)

“Sasa unataka kutoa speech?” Came the snigger of a champion as I tried to go down swinging. 

I had been bantering the Spanish fans from the beginning of the game to the final minutes. Once a champion, always a champion!

Despite coming into the game with the best defensive record in the tournament, against an Argentine team that had mostly survived on comeback wins and magic from their talisman, Messi, they couldn’t remind us enough about being little kids and lesser darlings to FIFA. 

Now, I won’t delve into the intricacies of the refereeing, coz if you watched the tournament, you pretty much enjoyed every second of it from the action on the field to the politics. 

So, I waved the AFA flag the entire time, through the close shaves of a dominated side, to the dirty plays.

Oh, and nerves were struck by banter fueled by a buffet and an assortment of liquids, from whiskey to soda. Sorry, I forgot to mention, it was TikoHUB’s watch party. 

“Nyinyi watu wa Argentina ata hamna shot on target, mlifikaje fainale?” One shouted.

“We are the defending champions; pressure was on you,” I returned.

“Where is Messi?” Came another. 

“FIFA Princess!” Thick and fast, they came.

When the room erupted into laughter, off I was driven with slaps on the back towards my fellow Argentine fans, from whom I had sat apart the whole game, intentionally galling the opposition. 

The cup belonged to Spain. The stories belonged to everyone in that room.