In the sun-baked expanse between Voi and Kibwezi, where Kenya’s old colonial railway once thrummed with the promise of progress, time moves at the pace of a forgotten freight train. The tracks, laid by the British in the late 19th century to connect the Indian Ocean port of Mombasa to the Ugandan interior, now lie mostly dormant, supplanted by the sleek Standard Gauge Railway that bypasses these dusty outposts. But in towns like Voi, Makindu, and Kibwezi, the railway’s legacy endures not in steel and steam, but in the collective memory of football—a sport that arrived on those very trains and has since become a lifeline for communities grappling with economic stagnation and cultural erosion.
As the world gears up for the 2026 FIFA World Cup, co-hosted by the United States, Canada, and Mexico, these small towns along the old corridor are stirring with a ritual as unique as it is unheralded: the “memory leagues.” Here, elders—many of them retired railway workers—gather with younger fans to orally recount every World Cup since 1970, match by match, goal by goal. It’s a form of living archive, where precision is prized like a striker’s shot, and debates over a half-remembered offside call can stretch longer than extra time. In an era of instant replays and streaming stats, these leagues preserve something more profound: identity, storytelling, and the intergenerational bonds that hold these marginalized places together.

Voi: The Archivist’s Domain
Voi, the southernmost of the trio, sits at the edge of Tsavo National Park, where elephants roam and the air hums with the distant roar of lions. The town’s old railway station, a faded relic with peeling paint and rusted platforms, doubles as a communal hub during World Cup season. Here, 78-year-old Mzee Juma Mwakio reigns as the undisputed “living historian.” A former ticket clerk who spent decades punching holes in paper stubs for migrant laborers, Mwakio can recite the 1982 World Cup final between Italy and West Germany with the cadence of an epic poem: “Paolo Rossi’s header in the 57th minute—ah, the way it looped over Schumacher like a bird escaping the savanna.”
Mwakio’s gatherings begin at dusk in the station’s abandoned waiting room, lit by solar lanterns salvaged from disused train cars. Younger attendees, like 24-year-old Aisha Otieno, an unemployed graduate navigating the town’s sparse job market, arrive with notebooks and smartphones. “Football isn’t just a game here,” Aisha says, her voice cutting through the evening chatter. “It’s how we remember who we are. My grandfather came on the railway from Kisumu in the ’70s, chasing work. He brought stories of Pelé from the 1970 Cup, and now we pass them on.”
The memory league in Voi isn’t mere nostalgia; it’s a competitive arena. Participants quiz each other on obscure details—the color of Zico’s boots in 1986, the exact minute of Maradona’s “Hand of God” goal. Winners earn bragging rights and small prizes: a cold soda or a patched football. But the real reward is continuity. As Voi contends with youth migration to Nairobi and the decline of small-scale farming due to erratic rains, these sessions foster a sense of belonging. “The new railway forgot us,” Mwakio laments, “but the World Cup never does.”

Makindu: Pitchside Revival
Further north, Makindu’s landscape shifts to arid scrubland dotted with acacia trees and roadside kiosks selling chai and mandazi. The town’s railway quarters—crumbling bungalows once housing Sikh and Indian workers who built the line—now host impromptu screenings powered by jury-rigged batteries from old locomotives. At the heart of Makindu’s memory league is 82-year-old Balbir Singh, a retired technician of Punjabi descent whose family arrived in the 1960s amid the influx of migrant labor.
Singh’s narratives blend football lore with personal history. “The railway brought the ball,” he explains, gesturing to a faded photo of himself in overalls beside a steam engine. “Workers from Uganda, Tanzania, even Europe—they’d play on breaks, sharing tales of the ’66 Cup final. Geoff Hurst’s ghost goal? We debated it over campfires.” Today, his league convenes on a red-earth pitch beside the abandoned tracks, where goats graze and children kick a deflated ball. Younger fans, many idled by the closure of local sisal plantations, use these gatherings to channel frustration into creativity. “We rebuild the games in our minds,” says 19-year-old Kelvin Mutua, who dreams of becoming a sports commentator. “It’s like fixing a broken rail—piece by piece, we make it whole again.”
The surprise in Makindu lies in the league’s improvisational flair. Debates erupt over forgotten moments, like the 1990 Cameroon-England quarterfinal, with participants acting out saves and fouls. Laughter mingles with heated arguments, but resolution comes through consensus, strengthening social ties in a town where infrastructure decay has isolated families. As preparations for 2026 ramp up, Singh’s group is compiling a “mental bracket,” predicting outcomes based on historical patterns—a blend of superstition and sharp analysis that keeps the global spectacle intimately local.

Kibwezi: Inheritance on the Margins
In Kibwezi, the northern anchor, the memory league unfolds in a converted railway godown (warehouse), its walls echoing with the ghosts of cargo long gone. Leading the charge is 75-year-old Mama Fatuma Nzomo, a former tea vendor who catered to train passengers in the 1980s. Her recall is legendary: she narrates the 1994 World Cup with vivid detail, from Roberto Baggio’s missed penalty to the sweltering heat of the Rose Bowl. “Football is our inheritance,” she says, her eyes sparkling under a headscarf. “When the trains stopped, so did the jobs. But the stories? They keep rolling.”
Kibwezi’s youth, facing high unemployment and the encroachment of drought, find solace in these sessions. 28-year-old Joseph Kilonzo, a mechanic tinkering with salvaged train parts, credits the league with rekindling community spirit. “We screen old matches on a projector run by car batteries,” he explains. “Then Mama Fatuma fills in the gaps—what the commentators missed, how it felt in Kenya back then.” The gatherings double as support networks, where elders share wisdom on resilience, and youngsters discuss dreams deferred by economic hardship.
The humanity here is palpable: tender moments when a young fan stumbles on a fact, only to be gently corrected; funny anecdotes of past World Cup parties disrupted by power outages; heartbreaking tales of loved ones lost to the railway’s dangers or urban exodus. In Kibwezi, football memory isn’t escapism—it’s a bulwark against erasure, weaving global narratives into the fabric of local survival.

A Global Game, Local Echoes
These memory leagues trace their roots to the railway’s heyday, when migrant workers—drawn from across East Africa and beyond—carried football in their satchels alongside tools and dreams. The sport, introduced by colonial administrators and amplified by radio broadcasts, became a communal ritual in the 1970s, as World Cups coincided with Kenya’s post-independence optimism. Today, in the shadow of infrastructural neglect, they serve as emotional anchors, redefining belonging amid decline.
As 2026 approaches, with its expanded 48-team format promising more African representation, these towns buzz with anticipation. Will Senegal repeat their 2002 heroics? Can Morocco build on 2022’s semifinal run? In Voi, Makindu, and Kibwezi, such questions ignite not just predictions, but preservations—of history, place, and people.
Photographer’s note: Captured along the corridor are images of weathered faces lit by flickering screens, youth silhouetted against rusted rails, and dusty pitches where the past plays on. In these quiet margins, football isn’t watched—it’s remembered, ensuring the game, like the railway’s whistle, echoes forever.