Rugbydicted Magazine

Big shout out to my new rising fans! Andrew Kiyen, Rëî Kê

The mighty bankers once stood like an iroko tree in the forests of East and Central Africa, unshaken by storm or season. Men spoke their name with the quiet respect reserved for power that does not announce itself. They were strength. They were order. They were certainty.
But even the iroko, it is said, does not grow beyond the reach of the axe.
Today they have fallen to our neighbours, and the earth has not yet decided whether to mourn or to remain silent. For such things are not easily understood. A man who has only known the lion as king does not quickly accept the sound of its cry in pain.
My pen lingers above the page like a hesitant elder. It knows the weight of what must be said, yet it refuses to betray the pride of its people. The words of my ancestors, once sharp and certain, now wander like spirits without a home.
What is defeat, if not a test of memory. A reminder that even the strongest must one day answer to time and chance.
And so we sit in this moment, not broken, but searching. For in every great fall there is a story waiting to be told, and in every story, the beginning of a return.

Our son never hung up his boots—he simply changed the battlefield. From the pitch to the touchline, the mission remained the same: to elevate the game.
Now, through Kenya Rugby, he shapes warriors not just with his feet, but with his mind—guiding men on how the game should be played, how discipline builds champions, and how legacy is forged.
Matungulu doesn’t just celebrate a player—it honors a teacher of the game.

Darwin was a fullback, number fifteen to be precise, a man who understood the language of the game the way elders understand the wind before the rains. He stood at the rear like a watchman of the village, seeing what others could not, waiting, patient, until the moment came.
When the ball fell from the sky, he did not fear it. He gathered it as one gathers what is his by right, and when he ran, he ran with purpose, as though the earth itself had sent him. For club and country, he gave not only his strength, but his spirit, and the pitch bore witness to his sweat and to his blood.
Now he walks a different path, from the field of play to the place of guidance. And though his boots may rest, his voice will rise among those who follow. We wish him well, for a man who has given so much to the game does not leave it behind, he becomes part of its story.

The weekend came and went like a noisy market day.
Some men stood by the roadside to watch rally cars wrestle with the mud, cheering as engines roared and tyres spat the earth back to the sky. Others made the long pilgrimage to Kakamega, where the forest people waited patiently and, like good hosts, accepted the points that visitors had carried with them.
In Athi River, another story was being written. There the minors were reminded, gently but firmly, that rugby is a game played by men who do not ask for permission before they take the field.
But the land itself also had a say in the affairs of the weekend. The rains came with the stubbornness of an elder who refuses to be ignored, and the rivers swelled until some men found themselves travelling unwillingly with the floods.
Such is the way of our days.
Joy here, defeat there, mud on one field and laughter on another.
And now the market has closed.
Monday stands before us like a fresh path through tall grass. The talk of the weekend fades, and the mind turns to the road ahead — to Uganda, where another chapter of this stubborn, beautiful game waits to be written. 🏉

The Bald King was doing the kids bad pale Athi River. Hauwezi piga watu wameinama hivi. He was dishing out punishment like a man who had carried the anger of a whole village on his shoulders.

But the truth is the blows meant for the Villagers landed on innocent kids. They had bent low to stop him, and he rose above them like a storm over dry land. One after another they felt the weight of a man who refused to go down easily.

Yet in that chaos there was something strangely entertaining. The crowd laughed, shouted, and held their breath at the same time. Because rugby has always been a theatre of courage where pain walks side by side with joy.

And on that field in Athi River, the Bald King reminded everyone that sometimes the game is not gentle, sometimes it is raw, but it is always unforgettable.

Oilers, you are a worthy competitor. In the seasons when the voices around Nakuru grew quiet and your neighbours lost their way in the tall grass, you, the younger brother, rose and carried the name of the town upon your shoulders. In this way you have kept the fire burning for many years.
Now another task stands before you.
The forest is not yours. It belongs to Kabras. It is their ground, their trees, their shadows. But even a man who owns the forest must fear the stranger who walks in with fire in his hands.
So go there and torch the forest.
Let Kabras learn that even a king in his own land must sometimes fight for the crown upon his head.
We would have wished to travel with you and stand beside you as the sixteenth man, singing and beating the drum of courage. But it is not yet Christmas, and we have no business in the village.
So the duty rests with you.
And when the smoke rises above the forest, Nakuru will know that her sons have spoken.

Big shout out to my newest top fans! 💎 Cyp Sultan, Frank Dogo Mochy, Young-hubby Nixie Reill, Hesbon Obutu

Drop a comment to welcome them to our community, fans

The last game before the playoffs always carries a strange kind of weight.
Hopefully Kabras Sugar bends the knee to Menengai Oilers this coming Saturday, and KCB drowns the Daystar Falcons on that dry pitch in Ukambani.
If that happens, the title race will stagger into the playoffs like a wounded giant.
What the gods refused to deliver at the Den might arrive quietly on a silver platter.
This is the final bend of the road.
After this weekend there will be no more calculations, no more whispers about points and permutations. Only the playoffs will remain.
In Kakamega, the sugar men defend their empire against men who have learned how to drill oil out of stubborn ground.
In Ukambani, on a dry and unforgiving pitch, the Falcons will try to fly against the bankers.
Sometimes rugby writes its own stories.
And sometimes the final chapter before the playoffs begins with an upset no one expected.
If fate decides to be mischievous this weekend, the table will shake.
And when the table shakes…
the playoffs begin smelling blood.

Shiasi remembered the days when rugby was played under angry skies. The rain would fall without mercy, turning the field into a brown river of mud, but to him the game only became sweeter. There was a certain joy in hearing the splash of his boots against the wet earth, a joy that only those who loved the game deeply could understand.
He had always lived close to the gym, close to iron and sweat, so the rain had never frightened him. What was water to a man who had already wrestled with pain, with fatigue, with the quiet loneliness of discipline? The rain could only wash the field. It could never wash away his hunger for the game.
When the referee called off the second half, Shiasi felt the boredom of a warrior whose battle had been cut short. His body was still ready, his lungs still burning with fire. He had been waiting for the moment to stretch out his right arm, that arm he jokingly said he had borrowed from Thor himself, and send defenders flying with the kind of hand offs that made the crowd rise like thunder.
But the rain had spoken louder than the game that day, and Shiasi walked away knowing the storm had stolen what could have been a beautiful second half.

In the villages, journeys are never small things. A road is not just a road. It is a story that leaves and returns.
We are grateful the villagers arrived home safe and sound. The farm had been waiting for them. The soil does not speak, but it remembers the hands that till it. And sugar does not grow from wishes. It grows from sweat, patience, and mornings that begin before the sun has fully opened its eyes.
Soon the fields will be alive again with the sound of machetes cutting cane. The sweet stalks will travel from the earth to the mill, and from the mill to our cups.
But to some of us, Kabras sugar is not only for tea.
It is also for rugby.
For the men who run with the ball across dusty fields. For the players who travel many kilometres so that the game may live another Saturday. For the supporters who stand by the touchline believing that beauty can still exist in a good pass, a clean tackle, and a try scored against all odds.
So when I say I only use Kabras sugar, it is not a small joke.
Because somewhere in that sweetness is a bus heading to Uganda. Somewhere in it is a player’s allowance. Somewhere in it is the stubborn heartbeat of the game we love.
And in villages like these, everything begins the same way.
With the farm. 🌾🏉

This league is not equal.
This fight is not fair.
This story is written on uneven ground.

But courage still lives here.

The bicycle knows the road is tilted.
It knows the gap in strength, nutrition and training.
It knows its journey is carved by disadvantages older than its players.

Yet it pedals anyway.

Because dignity demands presence.
Because dreams refuse to die quietly.
Because disappearing would mean surrendering everything.
Full story on rugbydicted.substack.com