Painting grand old Hez’s life from a starry-eyed intern’s perspective

During the celebrations to mark 50 years of the Nation Media Group, young television reporter, Ferdinand Omondi, asked Hezekiah Wepukhulu: “So, Hez, when did you join the Nation?”

Hez, as we all called him, replied: “1961.” Omondi gashed: “Oh! That was before my mother was born!”

I shifted in my sofa as I watched that conversation on live television. And I thought to myself: “Good Lord, have the years passed this fast? The mother of the guy conducting that interview had not been born when grand old Hez’s career had long started!”

I watched that interview from beginning to end. Hez spoke haltingly – not that he ever was a motor mouth. But I thought his age was showing; he recalled dates with difficulty and paused uncomfortably long. Still, it was a joy to watch the Old Man of Kenya’s sports journalism, the father of our trade, accorded his place in the sun.

It was as rare as a total solar eclipse, and I remember being happy that the organisers of the fete had thought about Hez, whose career had spanned all modern means of communication from the telegraph to the iPad.

From the day, in Form 2, when I had decided I wanted to become a sports journalist, Hezekiah Wepukhulu was my hero. In those days, he was a reporter with the East African Standard (today The Standard) and, in my school compositions, I started imitating his writing style.

Almost 40 years later, I can remember his description of a scene that so captured my imagination that I knew at once that sports writing was a lot more than what happened on the pitch, the court, the pool or the ring. Hez’s narrative begun: “Away from the arguments of agitated officials and the busy pencils of sportswriters...” With that line alone, my imagination took flight.

Later, of course, I discovered other giants of Kenyan sports journalism – Polly Fernandes, Cyprian Fernandes, Norman da Costa, Monte Vienna and Peter Moll.

Further afield, as I approached joining Hez in the newsroom, I explored Hugh McIllvaney, Brian Glanville, Danny Blanchflower and Arthur Walmsley.

‘YOUNG ROY’S’ CONSTANT NORTH

But of all these and others that I have ever admired, Hezekiah Wepukhulu was the reference point; he was my constant North. I was starry-eyed when I first joined him at The Standard’s Likoni Road newsroom in 1977 while awaiting the results of my O-Levels. Hez took to calling me “young Roy”.

Each time a correspondent phoned in a story that needed to be taken by wedging the dial-phone earpiece between the ear and the shoulder while banging the copy on the Olivetti or Facit typewriter, Hez would say: “Give it to young Roy.” Or: “Let young Roy do it.” It was always said with fatherly affection.

I loved Hez.

Of course, I rapidly outgrew that chore and it became something of a nuisance. I wanted to be “the ace” who wanted to be sent to cover AFC Leopards versus Gor Mahia, just like Hez himself. That was the eternal process of growth, with all its joys and pains.

That time eventually came. And one day, I covered Harambee Stars playing Tanzania’s Taifa Stars. Taifa had an accomplished right winger, Zamoyoni Mogella. As I write this, I see Hez beaming broadly. Each time we mentioned Zamoyoni’s name, Hez would say, “He has a very good name.” Truth be said, I sometimes conjured up a topic that brought up Zamoyoni’s name just so that I could get the amusement of listening to Hez say: “He has a very good name.” Oftentimes, that line was his only contribution to the discussion.

In 1978, Kenya Breweries (today’s Tusker) won the Kenya National Football League. AFC leopards were long out of contention but anyone between Gor Mahia and Tusker could have taken it. Leopards’ fans were desperate for Breweries to win, just to spite their archrivals. And it happened exactly like last year’s Premier League; Gor failing at the tape. The entire Standard Sports Desk was at the ‘Press Bench’ at the City Stadium.

A SPRING IN HIS STEP

On our way back to Likoni Road, I knew better than to utter a word to Barrack Otieno, our colleague. His eyes were bloodshot with tears. But Hez was beside himself with glee. Normally, he wasn’t one given to show too much excitement. But that day was different. He even walked with a spring in his step, which is saying a lot.

“Young Roy,” he said rather than asked me, “I am sure you want to have a good drink tonight!” I wondered why Hez thought I was celebrating. What made him think that I was happy with Gor Mahia’s loss, I asked myself? But it was even more complicated than that: I took alcohol but Hez didn’t.

For personal indulgence, he preferred something else, which I prefer not to mention here, but suffice it to say it wasn’t drugs. So Hez was inviting me to celebrate Gor Mahia’s defeat by Tusker with a drink at my own expense. I just looked at him in amusement.

Hez was generous. One day, I found myself having to write about witchcraft in football. Hez was the only authority I could turn to. I asked him about the story he had once written about Sheriff Abubakar Omar. I had read that story when I was in High School. Omar was a high net-worth witchdoctor. He is the man who had offered England’s Sir Alf Ramsey a life line. Ramsey had coached England to victory in the 1966 World Cup but lost the Cup to Brazil in 1970.

When he faced a do-or-die qualification game against Poland for the 1974 World Cup, that’s where Omar came in. He famously offered his charms to Ramsey and warned that failure to take up the offer would result in England failing to qualify. Ramsey gave Omar short shrift. And, what do you know, Poland forced a 1-1! England failed to qualify and Ramsey was sacked.

Omar was Hez’s friend. He had written a lot about him. In writing this mourning piece for Hez, I am looking at the orginal 1974 typewritten story about Sheriff Abubakar Omar that he generously gave me so that I could write my story. I kept it in my archives and I never knew that I would one day use it to eulogise him.

My heart bleeds as I quote from it. Hez wrote: “Perhaps the best-known practitioner of the charms to help teams is Sherriff Abubakar Omar. Last year, the baby-faced soccer witchdoctor hit world headlines when he wrote to Sir Alf Ramsey and offered his services to the England team manager. Sir Alf turned down the request and England, soon afterwards, failed to qualify for the World Cup finals in West Germany in 1974. ‘Had England responded to my suggestion,’ Omar said, ‘I would have ensured victory for them. But they ignored my offer and now they have paid dearly for it.’”

Hez quoted Omar as saying that some of the things he would have required of England players were to abstain from sex and sweet things before the match, “as demanded by the angles.” I am almost certain that I am the only person with this original typewritten story by Hez – and I feel enormously grateful and privileged for it.

Early Tuesday afternoon, Allan Buluku, the Sports Editor of the Nation, called to ask me how the rest of my day looked like. It was occupied, I said, but why was he asking?

“Mzee Wepukhulu,” he began, and in a split second, in the silence of my mind and my heart, I said: “Please Buluku, don’t tell me what you are about to tell me.” From the deepest reaches of me, I felt ‘this is it.’

I knew because I knew Hez hadn’t been well lately. He was in failing health. His neighbour in Bungoma, James Siang’a, the great Harambee Stars goalkeeper of the Independence era, had told me: “Hez is very weak.” I regularly consult Siang’a and I took his assessment with resignation.

Buluku told me that Hez had died and requested that I write a tribute for him. I cancelled the rest of the day’s engagements to struggle with this piece. I felt utterly exhausted, just thinking that the idol of my boyhood days was gone. Sports writing in Kenya has crossed an epochal rubicon; the last remaining link to the era of the telex is gone. The father of indigenous sports journalism is dead.

HE WHO INSPIRED US

The new generation of sports journalists may not appreciate what they have lost. But I knew Hez and admired him; I know what we have lost. I will endure the pain of his loss on their behalf. If ever they propose a Hall of Fame for Kenyan sports journalism, I will forward his name, he who taught us, he who inspired us and he that we should never forget.

The news of his death was a heavy blow to me. I observed some silence in his honour and in heartfelt sympathy for his family.

I wish to condole with the sports writing fraternity – whether or not they comprehend the magnitude of the loss – and wish Hez a peaceful rest from his earthly labours.

As soon as I finish writing this remembrance and email it, not to “the busy pencils of the sports writers” but to the busy iPad of the Sports Editor, I will take the next day off. Our father is dead. My world must take note of that.