IN so many ways, he is just like the guy next door — his dark appearance, his chubby facial features, his seductive simplicity, his amazing humility.
And, even his small car.
A true African child, who would look very much at home in Lagos, in Luanda, in Lusaka, in Kinshasa, in Harare, in Blantyre and even in Maputo.
One who won’t look out of place in Dakar, in Bamako, in Accra, in Abidjan, in Freetown, in Monrovia, in Ouagadougou, in Niamey, in Maputo.
He could be Zimbabwean, some even suggest he looks like Max Ruza, both in size and playing style, only that he is the ultimate upgrade of what a football ball carrier should look, and play, like.
And, he could be Zambian, Angolan, Nigerian, Ghanaian or Gambian, the land from where they captured Kunta Kinte, the indomitable slave, who dared to fight back, against his white masters.
Of course, he is Malian, but could probably also have been a Malawian.
Just another boy from Nkhatha Bay, born on the western shores of Lake Malawi, the warm heart of Mother Africa, where Madonna has a fascination of adopting African kids.
He plays for France, has won the World Cup with Les Blues and is now vying to add the European crown, to his glittering collection, of major football honours.
But, if there is any footballer, among those the empire poached for its national services, who really provides a striking reminder, and resemblance, to his roots on this mother continent, then it has to be him.
The one who remains allergic to the lure of the glitz, and glamour, which appears to be the DNA of his city of birth, Paris, the fashion capital of the world.
His name resonates with royalty, after all, he was named after the king of the Bambara Empire, a freed slave called Ngolo Diarra, who reigned between 1766 and 1795.
The one who restored both stability, and prosperity, for his people, in the vast empire he ruled in this West African territory of warriors.
Kalidou Koulibaly, the steely Senegalese defensive pillar, who plays for Italian giants, Napoli, is also a member of the Bambara people.
But, it’s the diminutive N’Golo Kante, the one who received the King’s first name, who is now the talk of the football world and, for a very good reason, too.
It’s hard, if not impossible, to find a professional footballer, in the recent history of this game, who has become a symbol of such genuine affection, across the beautiful game’s heavily fractured family.
Cristiano Ronaldo is loved, by millions of fans, if not for his movie star good looks, then for his unquestionable brilliance, as a footballer.
But, it is also true that, for every Cristiano fan, there is probably another Lionel Messi fan, the rivalry between the two superstars being so pronounced, it has divided, rather than united, this beautiful game.
In sharp contrast, Kante appears to bring the football world into a union, a powerful pact rooted in an amazing love affair with an athlete who, in an age of multi-millionaire celebrity footballers, appears to have been plucked from Mars.
The symbol of humility, the master of simplicity, the agent of providing his team’s security, the one who always plays this game with a touch of maturity, the superman whose game, in recent months, has certainly been touching the edges of purity.
At times, as was the case in the Champions League final last Saturday, his box-to-box excursions looked so effortless, like the movement of a butterfly’s wings and, so comforting, like the beating of a toddler’s heart.
In that remarkable one-and-half show, in which now and again he appeared to make a mockery of fatigue, itself a remarkable feat in the final of the Champions League, every run, every tackle, every battle, such an inspiration, to his colleagues.
A paragon of stability, a picture of reliability, a rock of dependability, a fortress of indomitability, now and again, in that big match, he kept presenting us with an image, so powerful, this must have been how Samson imposed himself, when he had his hair.
Of course, Kante is the bald one, his diminutive frame a human symbol of deception, especially for those who don’t believe that dynamite, indeed, comes in small packages, the one who is a specialist in outrunning everyone on the pitch.
Like the mythical King Kong, the mystical Kunta Kinte, the magical Kaptain Kalu, the incredible King Kante appears to have been plucked from another world.
THE ONE WHO REPRESENTS THE PROMISE OF SPRING, THE BEAUTY OF SUMMER
It’s not like Kante is the best who has played football, let alone this dynamic midfield role, but it’s because, as far as football’s memory can possibly search, it appears there has never been anyone like him, before.
This amazing hybrid of a humble king, the one fated to be loved by everyone because it’s hard to hate nature.
It’s hard for the world to hate itself and, in more ways than one, Kante appears to represent the promise of spring, the beauty of summer and the triumph of man over adversity.
He was young when his father died and, as the first child born into a poor family, which lived on the edges of starvation, he had to collect garbage, in the tough suburbs of eastern Paris, just to get money to help his mother feed the family.
As France was gripped with World Cup-mania, in ‘98, Kante was taking advantage of a city driven into the mood to party, by the exploits of its national team, to collect more garbage, to sell to the recycling firms.
The French triumph was significant, not only in the reality that this proud nation had, at last, won its first World Cup but the impact which migrants, or sons of migrants, had on that success.
Lilian Thuram, Patrick Vieira, Nicolas Anelka, Zinedine Zidane, Christian Karembeu, Bernard Lama, Marcel Desailly and Thierry Henry were some of those stars.
And, for Kante, then only seven, and enjoying his best moments, as a garbage vendor, in terms of profitability as his adopted country partied endlessly, this was a defining moment.
That Zidane, the son of an Algerian immigrant, was now being celebrated as a national hero, in the wake of his demolition of Brazil in the final, gave a new meaning, and a new impression, to the youthful Kante, about the sheer power of this game.
“I was seven years old when France first won it for the country (in 1998) and I was so excited,’’ he told TalkSport. ‘‘I said to my friends: ‘one day I will win it.’”
The rest is history, from defying the prejudice he suffered, in the infancy of his career, where coaches had issues with his diminutive frame, to working his way to the very top.
And, 20 years after that ’98 triumph, he was now part of the French team, which lifted the World Cup, for the second time, with their success in Russia, three years ago.
But, in what should have been his finest hour, in the rain in Moscow, as his teammates celebrated wildly on the pitch, there is an image of Kante, which provides us with an insight, if we ever needed any, of this amazing individual.
“He was so shy to say ‘it’s my turn to hold the (World) Cup, so he just stood and looked at the trophy from a distance, sometimes people came in front of him. At some point, everyone took it and gave it to him saying ‘come on, take the Cup, it’s yours’,” said teammate, Olivier Giroud.
Two months later, after missing his Eurostar train to Paris, following Chelsea’s 4-1 win over Cardiff, he turned to Google on his phone, to locate a local mosque, at King’s Cross in London, and ended up running into an Arsenal fan, Badlur Rahman Jalil.
Badlur was shocked when his invitation was accepted and, for that one special night, they watched Match of the Day, played FIFA and ate curry, a story so unbelievable the BBC had to wait for confirmation, from a Chelsea spokesperson, who said, ’’That’s typical N’Golo, ’’ before they could run it as factual.
When he joined Leicester, in 2015 in a £5.6 million transfer, Kante didn’t even see the need to buy a car and, according to The Guardian’s Daniel Taylor, he felt ‘‘it was possible to run into training, every day, and had to be persuaded that it wasn’t usually done that way in the Premier League.’’
Having travelled to training, during his days in France, on a scooter, Kante didn’t understand the fascination withbig and expensive cars and, when he was forced to get one, to fit into the culture of Premiership footballers, he chose a second-hand Mini Cooper.
He still had his Mini Cooper, at Chelsea, despite a huge boost in earnings and, in January 2018, he was involved in an accident, while driving to Stamford Bridge, for a League Cup match against Chelsea, with his car suffering significant damage.
Remarkably, two days later, he drove to the Chelsea training ground, in his battered Mini, with the wing mirror, which had been broken in the accident, attached to the car by a tape while the front wheel arch was still missing, sending his teammates into laughter.
When he signed his new five-year Chelsea contract, worth about £300,000 per week, he rejected a proposal by his financial advisors for part of his earnings to be paid, just like many other rich footballers, into an offshore bank account because, he insisted, he didn’t want to dodge paying tax.
Of course, he has since changed cars, but rather than going for the Ferraris, the Lamborghinis and all the trendy super cars, Kante again went for the same model, his beloved Mini Cooper.
Now, how can anyone find any fault with such a man?
Someone who is so divorced from the very temptations, which have distracted many professionals and, when the lights are switched off, the tapes which flow with money are turned off, and football turns its back against them, they find themselves sinking into destitution?
IN HIM, WE HAVE A PERFECT EXAMPLE, TO TEACH THE NEXT GENERATION
Chelsea has quite a substantial support base in this country — among my colleagues at super social football club, Mafero Mafero, there is Ignatius ‘‘Ginaldo’’ Farirai and Patrick ‘‘Maestro’’ Mutesva.
We also have a guy who calls himself Dark Child, whose features could pass him for Kante’s brother.
He has a fascinating story to tell, about how white workers, at a JD sports shop in England, refused to inscribe ‘‘Dark Child,’’ on the back of his replica jersey, concerned they could be accused of racial prejudice.
A BBC survey, published six years ago, showed the London club were the second most supported English club in this country, with a 19 percent share of the base.
Manchester United, my club, predictably, topped the list with a 28 percent share of the support base with the Red Devils also topping in South Africa and Zambia, and coming second to Arsenal, in Malawi.
My only close family member, to establish a romance with Chelsea, was my late daughter Mimi.
She was part of a generation of school girls, who were probably attracted by the club’s trendy name, and were then also wooed into fantasy by Didier Drogba’s irresistibility, both as a flying forward, and a powerful African model.
That the Glamour Boys of Dynamos were her first love probably provided a connection to this offshore romance, with the common denominator being found in her favourite clubs’ blue colours.
In a family dominated by Red Devils, she was something of a beautiful, if not necessary, rebel and opposition voice, which this game badly needs, for it to thrive.
And, maybe it was her fate, given her teams’ primary identity appears to represent, when viewed from here on earth, the blue one sees when he casts his eyes into the sky, somewhere up there, where heaven is situated.
There, in that golden paradise, she now lives, sharing a home with angels.
Remarkably, Kante is the first Chelsea player who has managed to crush through the barriers, which have produced a kingdom of indifference, when it comes to the relationship between the Blues players and me.
Maybe, it’s because of his humility, which makes him difficult to hate, even in the madness of the factional battles, provoked by club affiliation and rivalries, where we all become allergic to the value of common sense.
Stripped of the power to think, in the chaos of our battles for superiority, we lose our sense of appreciation and transform ourselves into cold monsters, unable to see beyond the mist created by hate.
So, we lose the very special quality, which separates humans from all the other animals, our ability to reason, to be able to see the true value, in such people like King Kante, not only as a model footballer but, even more importantly, as an exemplary person.
The one whose story should be packaged into a book, which we can use, to teach our emerging footballers, about the virtues of keeping their feet on the ground, even as the millions flow into their accounts, to ensure they have a shelter, when the rains finally come.
The one whose life should be converted into a documentary, which we can show, to all our boys in the ghettos and the rural areas, who find themselves growing up in poor families, plagued by doubts they can one day make it to the very top of this game, to help them understand that yesterday is history, and tomorrow is a mystery.
The one who provides a perfect example, for us, because — just nine years ago — he was playing in the same French lower division side alongside one of our own, Ovidy Karuru.
And, through the power of his hard work and unbreakable spirit to make it all the way he, today, finds himself at the very top of this game. The one who has managed to even make a devoted Red Devil, like me, even find a reason to like him.
There is no doubt about it, everyone in football today simply loves King Kante, and for a very good reason, too.
To God Be The Glory!
Peace to the GEPA Chief, the Big Fish, George Norton, Daily Service and all the Chakariboys in the struggle.
Come on Warriors!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Khamaldinhoooooooooooooooooo!
This article was first published here by the Herald.
