When a footballer is injured

After a smooth eight-hour flight aboard Kenya Airways’ Boeing 787 Dreamliner in February 2024, I touched down at the iconic Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. The air was freezing. Snow fell like Biblical manna from the sky, a gentle yet biting welcome to the land of Emmanuel Macron. Behold, I was in France.

Once cleared by immigration, I slid into a waiting executive Mercedes-Benz S-Class, chauffeured by Carlos, a driver contracted to the then Ligue 1 side Stade de Reims. In less than two hours, we had covered the 130 kilometres northeast of Paris, and I found myself in Reims.

Carlos glided effortlessly through the historic Champagne capital before pulling up at a facility that housed the club’s offices and its training ground — the Raymond Kopa Centre de Vie, named after their legendary attacking midfielder and first Frenchman to win the Ballon d’Or in 1958.

There, at the heart of Reims’ footballing home, I met my host: Kenyan international Joseph ‘Crouch’ Okumu, fresh from training. “Jafwambo umefika finally. Karibu. Wasee wako aje home (You have finally arrived, how is everybody at home?” he asked. I smiled and replied, “Nimefika Galilaya bwana. Wasee home hawana neno, Jatugo (Yes, I have arrived safely and everyone is okay back at home”. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, we drove off in his SUV toward his residence. And with that, this story truly began.

Holding the Line at Auguste-Delaune Stadium

A few days later, it was match day. Stade de Reims were playing host to RC Lens at the Auguste-Delaune Stadium. Okumu, calm and commanding, lined up at the heart of Reims’ four-man defence. From my seat — number 179, Ring D, Block 5, in the Tribune Henri Germain section of the VIP stand — I had the perfect vantage point to watch him marshal the backline.

The winter chill hung in the air, but inside the ground, the atmosphere was fiery — drums pounding, scarves waving and chants that seemed to rise and fall with every touch of the ball. In the end, the match finished 1-1. As the final whistle blew and the players made their way toward the dressing room, Okumu drifted close to my side of the stand. With a grin, he shouted: “Mseya… si utaishia hivo kwa lounge (My friend, let’s meet in the lounge).” I nodded in agreement.

Later, sipping my fourth glass of champagne in the lounge, I noticed the lanky centre-back step in, a subtle signal that it was time to leave. We slipped back into his SUV, the speakers humming with Wuod Fibi’s Ng’amoloyi Oloyi — a Luo classic, loosely rendered in Karim Mandonga’s Swahili as “Kilichokuzidi kimekuzidi tu.”

We arrived at his residence and walked into the living room. Silence. Heavy, unbroken silence. We sat on the couch, the stillness stretching between us. Then, breaking it at last, Okumu turned to me:

“My guy, football can kill you. You can die a real death.”

The words hung in the air, raw and familiar. They were not originally his. Back in August 2017, Baroka FC coach Kgoloko Thobejane had uttered them after dropping points against Orlando Pirates. The line went viral, more than a meme, almost folklore. In a follow-up interview, when asked if he still felt the same, Thobejane sighed deeply before replying: “Yeah. This one is a real, real, real, real death.”

Now, years later, in a quiet living room in Reims, Okumu borrowed those very words — not as banter, but as a glimpse into the invisible weight footballers carry.

Blood, Silence, and the Weight of Injury

My mind raced. I thought he was echoing those words because the draw had drained him. But as he slipped off his boots, I realised otherwise. Blood seeped from his right foot; his big toe had been stamped on. Without fuss, he reached for his recovery kit — handkerchiefs doused in warm water, compression gear, a massage cupping set. I watched in silence, then told him: “Many dreams of living your quality life, but I doubt they envy what you go through to achieve it,” he murmured inaudibly.

The next morning, we were at the hospital for scans and tests. Three hours later, the results were out: sidelined for a month. For a player with almost no injury record, it was a gut punch. My heart sank. So did his.

During this period, I accompanied him everywhere: hospital visits, the Raymond Kopa Centre de Vie, the cafeteria, even stores in search of a cooking stick for ugali. How he survives without ugali, I still wonder. Not me. Not me. The routine grew monotonous — he admitted as much. What he longed for was the pitch, doing what he enjoys most, but he simply couldn’t.

Two weeks later, Stade de Reims hosted Lille. Okumu, still sidelined, was required to sign autographs and pose for pictures with season-ticket holders. I tagged along. For the first time in a while, I saw people truly living large: reserved tables, champagne flowing, and fine food laid out. The place oozed class.

After his session with the fans, we were ushered into an executive box above the Reims bench. There I was, sipping champagne as the game unfolded. Okumu, though, was restless. Finally, I asked why.

“Man, I do not enjoy watching my team play. It makes me anxious because I have no control of what’s happening. But when I’m on the pitch, I’m calm — because I can influence the game. I can stop an opponent from scoring. I can score at a corner. Off the pitch? I’m just helpless,” Okumu said.

I understood him. The match ended 1–0 in favour of Lille. We left quietly for the house.

Lessons and Farewell

Yet in these weeks of frustration, he found room for reflection. And I found perspective. Beneath the glory, footballers are human. They battle the same doubts, the same loneliness, and the same need for love — true love, not the conditional kind tied to money or status. Their art is cruel. One off night erases months of excellence. Confidence is fragile. And all this unfolds in foreign lands, far from family, often in solitude.

I left France carrying with me the first-hand feel of a professional footballer’s life. As Carlos drove me from Reims to Charles de Gaulle Airport, bound for Nairobi, I leaned toward Okumu and whispered: “Merci, brother. You are a winner.”

And just like that, I was gone, back to Nairobi, leaving behind a man so famous, yet so humble, so human, so focused — a man determined to shake off his injury.

Status Report of the Unforgiving Game

As I glided through the skies back to Nairobi, the truth was clear: injuries weigh heavily on footballers, cutting deep into both mind and pocket. For Okumu, the toll was sharp.

Interest from European giants that once circled Reims dimmed and quietly disappeared. Reduced game time meant reduced impact, and the team’s results reflected it. Stade de Reims, once steady in Ligue 1, slipped into the unforgiving depths of Ligue 2.

On the international stage, too, the cost was real — Kenya missed his towering presence in key 2026 World Cup Qualifiers matches against Ivory Coast, Gabon, and Seychelles. And now, even as he fights off yet another knock, the struggle remains the same: to heal, to return, and to rise again. He will once again miss the upcoming fixtures against Burundi and Ivory Coast.