Micah ObieroDad, I remember you first telling us stories about your football history in Kenya, right where it all began. You told us about kicking around a homemade ball crafted from plastic bags and string, dreaming of playing in England even when you didn’t know how that dream could ever happen. Then you showed us those old pictures of yourself in the classic green Gor Mahia shirt—young, fit as a fiddle, and living the game you loved.
Looking at them, I remember thinking: maybe football really does run in our blood.
They say your first hero is your dad, but for us, there was something different about that bond. You weren’t just our father; you had already walked the exact road we were setting out to chase. You had been a professional footballer and experienced everything we hungered to achieve for ourselves. Football naturally became the thread that pulled all of us together. Over the years, I met people who had played alongside you, and they would tell me what a ruthless, dangerous striker you were.
I just wish I could have seen it for myself.
Yet there is something even better about knowing you got to watch me play in my prime.
Throughout that journey, Dad, you were consistently our biggest supporter—and our sharpest critic. You used to say, “When you have done well, I will tell you, and when you haven’t, I will also tell you.” And you meant every single word. If we played badly, you told us straight. If we made excuses, you shut them down on the spot. If we thought we had done enough, you demanded that we give more. At the time, we didn’t always know how to appreciate that. We would look at you sideways and think, surely our dad is supposed to tell us how good we are!
You weren’t trying to make us feel good; you were trying to make us better.
You taught us accountability, responsibility, and the hard truth that nobody was coming to save us. You showed us how to channel the energy and time of our youth into daily improvement so that one day we could enjoy the fruits of our labour. Your criticism was never about tearing us down; it was about building something durable inside us.
And one thing you said has stayed with me forever: “If you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will.”
I think I needed that foundation far more than I realized as a boy.
Because there came a point in my career when my self-belief completely vanished. My second and third seasons at Wealdstone were probably the hardest I had ever experienced. I had joined from Huddersfield and my debut campaign had gone well, but then I started being played out of position. Every week seemed to bring something different. I couldn’t find rhythm, I couldn’t find consistency, and slowly, almost without me noticing, my confidence disappeared.
I still remember you coming to our FA Cup tie against Bromley and telling me straight afterwards: “You don’t look yourself.”
You were right.
I was feeling sorry for myself, letting the lie creep in that I simply wasn’t good enough, and I reached a point where I genuinely wanted to walk away from the game.
When I told you I wanted to quit, your response cut straight through the noise: “Quit and do what?”
That simple question forced me to look in the mirror.
I had worked too hard to get there. I knew the talent was in me, and I knew I was born to play football. Walking away would never make everything we had sacrificed suddenly disappear.
So I kept going.
Ironically, those darkest seasons became the ones where God’s light shone brightest. Jesus gave me comfort when I was uncertain, peace when I was doubting, and clear direction when I felt completely lost.
And Zech, my brother, you were just as vital in keeping me going.
I have always felt a responsibility to carry myself as someone you could look up to. I wanted you to learn from my mistakes and become better than me, and I refused to let you look at your older brother and see somebody who threw his hands up when things got difficult.
So I dug my heels in and kept fighting for both of us.
Before last season at Wealdstone, I made a definitive decision: this is where things change. No more excuses, no more feeling sorry for myself, and no more waiting for somebody else to save me. Dad had been preaching that for years, and finally, I understood it. That mindset transformed my season into the finest I had at Wealdstone, and I even got to live out a boyhood fantasy under the arch at Wembley.
Through every high and low, the greatest blessing of our journey has been our total refusal to let comparison destroy our bond.
The football world constantly tells you to look sideways. Who is doing better? Who is earning more? Who is further ahead? But God’s Word taught us something deeper. God doesn’t give everybody the same path. The moon doesn’t compare itself to the sun; they both shine at different times.
And that is how we looked at the “Obiero” name on the back of our shirts.
It was never just mine, and it was never just yours—it was ours.
If you were succeeding, we were succeeding. If I was succeeding, we were succeeding. Your success never needed to become my insecurity, just as my progress never had to become yours. We knew our journeys were completely different.
The person who loves walking will always walk further than the person who only loves the destination.
Mum, you were such an important part of that journey too. After Dad’s strictness and discipline, we needed your softness. You made sure we had eaten, that we never went to training hungry, and you gave us the emotional reassurance we desperately needed after bruising days on the pitch.
And Dad, you gave us your life.
You drove us to training, you drove us to games, and you stood in the freezing rain and driving snow watching us play. You sacrificed so much to give us the chance to chase a dream, and I don’t think I will ever fully understand the weight of that sacrifice until I have children of my own.
Then came the Harambee Stars call-up.
Representing Kenya—our dad’s home country—was an honor so surreal it took my breath away.
When I finally came back home and handed you that national shirt, covered in the players’ signatures, you didn’t give a grand speech. You just smiled, pulled me into a hug, and said, “Well done, son.”
That was it.