Losing Ourselves: Football, Faith, and the Spirit of Chilenga

By Kenneth Manda

Being a Manchester United fan has taught me that football is far more than just a sport. It has the power to move people — to lift spirits, build friendships, and, at times, breed rivalry. The Bible says that whoever wants to come to Jesus must forget himself, and I often think of that when watching or playing football. Sometimes, you surrender to the game so completely that you lose yourself in its rhythm, its joy, its heartbreak.

There’s a Malawian song by Skeffa Chimoto titled Ofuna moyo wake awutaye — “whoever wants to save his life must lose it.” I’m not a deeply religious man, but that truth speaks to me. In football, as in life and faith, we often must lose ourselves to find who we truly are.

Chilenga Primary School, where I studied, sat at the centre of several villages — Chikoloka, Gaga, Mudyelagola, Kafisi, and Chikomba — about nine kilometres from Chadiza BOMA. When I was a learner there, the school had only five teachers. I won’t mention their names, but their characters remain vivid in my memory. Each, in their own way, shaped that chapter of my life. In those five teacher houses, football wasn’t just a pastime — it was a way of life. If a teacher wasn’t on the pitch, their children were. How they managed to divide themselves into teams is still a mystery. Maybe they tossed a coin, or maybe fate chose sides, but somehow the balance was always right.

My brother Simbocho played for Chikoloka alongside Zulu and Ndlovu. Miti — whose father had just been posted to our school — represented Chikomba. Phiri played for Mudyelagola. Miti, with his flashy dribbles and overconfidence, called himself Ronaldinho. Of course, none of us really knew who Ronaldinho was then, and looking back, comparing his skills to his idol’s doesn’t quite hold up — but it made perfect sense to us at the time.

The football culture around Chilenga Primary was intense. Rivalries were fierce but filled with youthful energy. Every match mattered; every goal was a triumph. For us, those dusty encounters were our own version of the El Clásico.

Then came August — tournament season. The excitement was tangible as the big match approached: Chikoloka versus Chikomba, known as the clash of big elephants. Villagers gathered from all directions, children climbed trees for a better view, and even the teachers’ wives abandoned chores to watch the drama unfold. Each team carried its own reputation. Chikoloka was famed for its pitch — nicknamed Old Trafford — much larger than the standard village field. Visiting teams often gasped at its size, but for the home side, it was familiar ground and a tactical advantage.

Chikomba, on the other hand, had a more mysterious reputation. Situated near the Katantha border, their team was known for being unpredictable — wild, unstructured, but strangely effective. Local whispers claimed their match ball was kept at the graveyard. I didn’t believe it until years later, when a former player confirmed the tale. In Chikomba, facts and folklore often blended until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

One story, though, still stands out — unbelievable, but true. A player named Pendako, after falling out with his family and teammates, defected to another village. Knowing the “secret chamber” where the enchanted match ball was kept, he decided to sell this knowledge to Chikoloka, who were scheduled to play his former team. The deal? Twenty Kwacha. “Judas betrayed Jesus with coins,” one player told me.

With help from friends, Pendako stole the ball. The next morning, when Chikomba’s players went to the graveyard to retrieve it, they found it gone. Panic spread like wildfire. “It was like a funeral,” one player recalled. Some players refused to play for fear of what would happen. Others were courageous; “Let’s go ahead and face whatever comes.”

Chikomba, weighed down by superstition and fear, borrowed a ball from the nearby Phula village. The match ended in a goalless draw, and though relieved, the team remained unsettled. To them, the omen was bad. A bad moon was rising. Rumour had it that had they played with their own ball, victory was guaranteed — a “seven-odds win,” as the locals put it.

A week later, the issue resurfaced. The team agreed to buy a new ball — not for football, but for reconciliation. The local ng’anga (traditional healer), known as Shaka Zulu Ilembe, declared that the culprit would reveal himself once the new ball was inflated.

When they began pumping the new ball, Pendako’s stomach — where the magic of guilt and belief met — began to swell. “They’d pump, stop, then another would take over,” one player told me. “Meanwhile, he was groaning, his belly growing, and not a single piece of Hungry Lion chicken inside it.”

Realising things had gone too far, Pendako’s family intervened. They were told the only solution was to return him to the team to apologise. He was made to pay fifteen village chickens as a peace offering — no small price in the year 2000. The village’s faith in their football magic was restored. No one was hurt but the superstitious lingered on.

That moment — suspended between football and faith, myth and memory — reminded me that in our villages, the game was never just a game. It was a mirror of who we were: believers, dreamers, and sometimes, like Pendako, people who had to lose themselves to find their way back.

Pendako is still pictured through to today — frail, sweating, his stomach distended, the new football lying beside the pump as he stood before the village, ready to speak. It is reported that Pendako stood up with the help of his uncle and said…

…and that is where the next chapter begins.