Twin Ambitions - My Autobiography Read Online Free Page A

that although I’d be scarred for life, I should consider myself extremely lucky. If the cooking oil had scalded me one or two centimetres further up my arm, the nerves would have been irreparably damaged and I wouldn’t have been able to move my arm properly for the rest of my life. I came within two centimetres of never being able to run at all.
    Despite the occasional freak accident, Hassan and me couldn’t resist joking around. It almost became a competition to see who could draw the biggest laugh. When we weren’t hanging out at the local cinema, we’d be chucking stones at people’s doors or throwing balls around the streets. We never deliberately set out to hurt or upset anyone – we were just regular kids. And if we ever stepped out of line, we could be sure that word would get back to our grandparents or our mum. We lived in a close-knit neighbourhood where everyone knew each other. Being identical twins makes you instantly recognizable to passers-by. We were forever annoying the neighbours. ‘I know who you are!’ one of them would shout at us. ‘I’ve seen you two around. I’m going to tell your grandparents what you’ve been up to, mark my words!’
    ‘Please don’t!’ we’d beg. ‘We won’t do it again. Just please don’t tell on us.’
    Usually our pleading did the trick. We’d be let off with a few stern words and a warning that if we dared step out of line again, they’d be straight round to our house to tell Grandma and Grandad. We’d agree to behave, of course. Then the next day we’d be out causing yet more mayhem.
    We were restless. We needed an outlet for all the energy we had. Playing football was pretty much the only thing that kept us out of trouble. When we weren’t at the madrash or escaping the heat, Hassan and me would join the other kids playing in the streets. (Wahib and Ahmed were too young to join in.)Football was my passion. I fell in love with the game as a young kid when I saw my first-ever football match on TV. It was the World Cup in Italy in 1990. Brazil were playing Argentina, wearing their famous yellow shirts. I knew next to nothing about the game or the players. But there was something about the way the Brazil players moved, playing with incredible skill despite the fact they were running at such a fast pace, the huge crowd inside the stadium, the immaculate green pitch – the sheer scale of it all. I was hooked. Hassan too. From that moment on, we both played football whenever the unforgiving Djibouti weather allowed. Street football was our thing. There were no pitches. We lived for those street games. We didn’t have a proper football, so we’d make our own by gathering up a load of old socks and tying them together, just like the kids do in Brazil.
    I never had much skill with the ball at my feet. My ability was in my ‘engine’: I was full of energy, and I’d chase that ball around all day if I had to. I had a bit of pace on the turn too. But I was football mad. I wasn’t interested in anything else. We’d play for hours on end: me, Hassan and the other kids from our neighbourhood. We’d arrive home covered in cuts and bruises from diving and sliding around the streets. Grandma would inevitably get angry with us both for getting our clothes dirty.
    Life wasn’t easy in Djibouti, but it wasn’t desperately hard either. We experienced the same ups and downs as anyone else. Perhaps we didn’t have some of the things that children in other countries take for granted, but for us this was never a big deal. In some ways, it was an advantage. In Djibouti everybody had to work hard for what they had. No one got given anything on a plate, but you wouldn’t find people sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. Everyone rolled up their sleeves and got on with it. We learnt to appreciate what we had. We learnt that you didn’t get anywhere in life without putting in the work. In that sense, Djibouti made me tough. I saw a lot while growing up there.