Rugbydicted Magazine

Every rugby player remembers that one tournament.

The one that changed everything.

The first road trip. The teammates who became family. The conversations on the bus. The dreams that felt impossible until they weren't.

As Prinsloo 7s kicks off tomorrow, I found myself going back to where it all began for me.

The Seventh Seven: Heaven isn't a match report. It's a story about the culture, the people, and the memories that make Kenyan sevens more than just 14 minutes on the pitch.

If you've ever pulled on a jersey, travelled with your team, or fallen in love with this game, this story is for you.

Read it here: https://open.substack.com/pub/rugbydicted/p/the-seventh-seven-heaven?r=62xysj&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

See you in Nakuru.



Hisani

My G, a lot has changed since you left. You left us as three-peat champions. These days the cup found its way to ushago. Most of the boys have hung up their boots, and Lonzo is now a Chesco. We even trained in the artificial rains, but wapi.
Anyway, ubaba checked in and the bodies became slow. The sherehe isn't as lit anymore. Mwamba vs KCB doesn't have the same sparks. The banter after the game is gone. These Gen Zs don't even know the songs we used to sing after the final whistle.
But one thing has never changed. We still remember you. The King of Kang Kang. Rest easy, my G.

My pen has been silent for a while, but some losses are too heavy to ignore.

In just a matter of weeks, we have lost three members of our rugby family. The Princess we cherished, and two African warriors who gave us memories, pride, and moments of triumph on the fields of Kampala and Impala.

As I search for the right words, I realize there are none that can truly ease the pain. All I know is that the game feels a little emptier today.

You wore your colours with pride, fought for every inch on the pitch, and left pieces of yourselves in the hearts of teammates, friends, supporters, and everyone privileged enough to watch you play.

Your names are now carved in stone, your stories woven into the fabric of African rugby. Long after the final whistle, you will still be remembered.

Tonight, we light three candles. One for each of you.

🕯️ For the Princess we lost. 🕯️ For the impala warrior. 🕯️ For the Kampala warrior.

May their light remind us that while life is fleeting, legacy endures.

Rest easy, champions. We will remember. Always.

Salute.

My heart is full. Even the juogi that usually allows me to write is holding my pen hostage. The wisdom of my forefathers seems to be slowly sinking away, and for someone known for words, my English has vanished.

At this rate, I might start writing in Swahili like that legendary Lurambi admin. 😂😂

Some days the pain is so deep that even the words refuse to come out.

This journey began many moons ago, when the dust of Matungulu still clung to your feet and the dreams of a young boy were bigger than the fields he ran across. Today, that journey bends toward honour. Son of Matungulu, congratulations on your Level 2 Coaching Accreditation.

You are now both coach and analyst, a man with two eyes upon the same game, one that sees the sweat on the grass, and another that reads the silence between movements. Few men are given such balance. Fewer still carry it with grace.

Matungulu is proud, for the child of its soil has returned not empty handed, but carrying knowledge, discipline, and the quiet proof that patience bears fruit. Greatness does not arrive like rain in the night; it is built slowly, like a homestead, stone upon stone.

Rest in peace coach.
The whistle may fall silent, but the lessons remain marching across the fields of Nakuru like footsteps after rain. You gave your strength to the game, your wisdom to the young and your heart to a community that will carry your name long after the final whistle.
Go well son of the soil. The rugby family stands poorer tonight, but richer for having walked with you.

There was a time when the Kenyan rugby player travelled like a wandering hunter with no compound to call his own. He carried strength in his shoulders and thunder in his legs, yet the world looked at him the way rich men look at a village drummer: entertaining but forgettable.
Then the Indians came with their Rugby Premier League.
Not with muskets like the white man of old, but with cameras, floodlights, franchises and money. They looked upon the game and saw what many unions had failed to see for years that rugby could be sold like music and worshipped like cinema.
And when they searched for warriors to run upon their fields, their eyes travelled across the Indian Ocean and rested on Kenya.
For Kenya has always produced a certain kind of rugby player. Men who run as though chased by hunger itself. Men who tackle without fear because pain is an old relative in African homes. Women who carry the ball with the stubbornness of mothers carrying water uphill.
Patrick Odongo.
Kevin Wekesa.
Samwel Asati.
Nygel Amaitsa.
John Okoth.
Sheila Chajira.
Grace Okulu.
These names did not rise from soft places. They rose from dusty pitches where the crowd stands without seats and the players return home with bruises instead of riches.
But now the world has begun to clap for them.
India, a nation that can turn even cricket into religion, has opened its gates to rugby sevens and placed Kenyan players at the centre of the spectacle. Not as beggars invited to decorate the feast, but as hunters whose spears are needed in battle.
And there is something beautiful in this.
For many years Kenyan rugby has lived like the proud elder whose wisdom is respected but whose pockets remain empty. Talent was always there. Glory appeared now and then like rain in dry season. But money and structure often escaped through the fingers of the game’s custodians.
Now a new road has appeared in the East.
A boy in Kakamega may watch Kevin Wekesa in India and believe the world is larger than his village. A girl in Nairobi may see Sheila Chajira and Grace Okulu beneath foreign lights and understand that the body of an African woman can also become a flag carried across nations.
This is how journeys begin.

Kabras have gone far without falling.
More than fifty times they have stepped onto the field, and each time they have walked away unbeaten. It is no small thing, and people have started to speak of them with a certain respect, some even with quiet fear.
But many still remember Ruaraka.
That day, the rain came without mercy.
It did not just fall, it took over. The field turned heavy, almost stubborn, and the game changed. The ball would not move the way it should, and the players had to fight not just each other, but the ground beneath them. In that kind of game, you do not win with beauty, you survive.
Kabras survived.
Now they go back home.
To the forest.
To the place where the crowd is not just watching, but pushing you forward with every shout. It is familiar ground, the kind that gives a man confidence before the whistle even blows. And leading them is George Nyambua, calm but firm, the kind of man players look at when things get hard.
But KCB are coming.
They are organised, disciplined, men who know their job and do it well. Their leader, the bald king, does not need to say much. You can see it in how they carry themselves, they have come to win, not to admire the moment.
So this final will not be easy for anyone.
Not for Kabras, with all their victories behind them.
Not for KCB, with all their order and belief.
Because when the whistle goes, it will not be about the rain, or the past, or the stories people have been telling.
It will come down to who wants it more,
and who is ready to take it.