When my childhood friend Binyam Bisrat and I commuted from Geja Sefer Merkato to Sarbet—a familiar daily routine from school to home—our point of farewell was the African Union. Binyam would take the turn toward the Bulgarian Embassy along the old OAU fences, heading in the direction of Kerchele, the now-defunct prison system that gave way to the new AU headquarters. I often imagined him crossing himself at the AU St. Michael Church, then known as Isregnaw Michael—literally “The Prisoner Michael”—so called because it was off-limits to the public during the military regime. It was not the only religious site restricted under the state’s secular policies; Bahta Mariam and Kidist Selassie (Holy Trinity) also faced the same fate.
My route took me up the steep climb toward the iconic Sarbet and onward to the Vatican Embassy. Ironically, the “Key Afer Meda”—a red clay field in the gorge overlooking Sarbet—later became my parish grounds, as I occasionally attended Sunday sermons at the International Evangelical Church there.
Sometimes, Binyam and I would linger at Key Afer Meda, where children and teenagers from the Sarbet, AU, and Lideta neighborhoods gathered to play football. Watching those competitive matches was a feast for our eyes and gave us more moments together as friends. The field was sometimes graced by the most unexpected of guests, drawing steady crowds. His unannounced arrival felt like the surprise cameo of a celebrity on a popular sitcom—much like Julia Roberts, Brad Pitt, or Bruce Willis appearing in my all-time favorite series, F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
The celebrity in question was none other than the legendary Ethiopian national team and St. George Football Club captain and hero, Mulugeta Kebede. I remember him vividly—dressed in a light waterproof hoodie, football shorts, and boots, wearing his trademark humble smile. The crowd followed his every move, holding their breath to see what stunt he might pull. Yet, instead of showing off, Mulugeta often chose to highlight the young talents on the field, training and playing alongside them. It was a gentlemanly gesture, one befitting a hall-of-famer.
To be honest, everyone on that field was simply mesmerized—flabbergasted, even—by the mere presence of such a hero in a neighborhood sporting arena. From time to time, someone would shout “Mule!” or “Enewdehalen! (We love you!)” to which he would respond with a modest smile, tiny beads of sweat forming on his brow, and a vein throbbing on his forehead as he kept on playing.
Mulugeta Kebede emerged on the footballing scene in the early 1980s as a midfielder for St. George Football Club—then called Addis Brewery, the precursor of today’s St. George Brewery. St. George is arguably the oldest and most celebrated football club in Ethiopia, founded in 1935 at the onset of the Italian occupation. Its hall of fame includes towering figures such as Yidnekachew Tessema, Mengistu Worku, Fisseha Woldeamanuel, and Shewangizaw Agonafir, to name just a few.
Mulugeta’s club career reached its pinnacle when he became a key member of the Ethiopian National Team that clinched the CECAFA Championship in December 1987. The tournament’s dramatic twists and turns—nail-biting matches, tense runners-up, and its melodramatic culmination with Ethiopia at the helm—were nothing short of the stuff of dreams. That dream team, featuring the likes of Mulugeta Kebede, Mulugeta Woldeyes, Gebremedhin Haile, Dagnachew Demissie, Mulualem Ejigu, Tekabe Zewdie, and Eritrean stars such as Negash Tehlit and Amanuel Iyasu, was a star-studded lineup of rare pedigree. The only Ethiopian side comparable in stature remains the equally historic squad that won the 1962 African Cup of Nations.
The events of the 1987 CECAFA tournament remain etched in my childhood memory. The team stormed through the qualifiers, scoring goal after goal, delivering drama after drama, and filling the nation with jubilation. Mulugeta was the engine of the side—both a scorer and a playmaker. His decisive assists and clinical goals paved the road to glory, leaving in the minds of fans a trail of beautiful strikes and a colorful style of football.
By the time the final arrived, anticipation was at fever pitch. The atmosphere was electrified as the nation looked to its heroes to deliver the long-coveted trophy. But the final against Zimbabwe began with a disappointing tempo. Ethiopia failed to dominate, showing little of the tenacity that had carried them so far. When Zimbabwe scored first, tension gripped the stadium. Minutes ticked away, and with the deadlock unbroken deep into the last quarter, the dream seemed to be slipping away. The team appeared destined to settle for second place, the vision unfulfilled, as the dying minutes showed no sign of promise.
It wasn’t until the dying moments that salvation arrived. A clinical cross from the right flank, delivered by Mulualem Ejigu, was met by an astonishing leap of faith. Rising high above the defense, Gebremedhin Haile powered a header from over 12 meters out, a bullet of a strike by any standard. The ball tore into the net, sending the anxious crowd into a rapturous frenzy. The equalizer, scored in injury time, forced the game into extra time and then penalties—no less dramatic in their unfolding.
In the shootout, it was goalkeeper Tekabe Zewdie who became the unlikely hero. His string of extraordinary saves set the stage for the final moment. When Dagnachew Demissie stepped up and hammered home the decisive penalty, the stadium erupted into absolute pandemonium. Fans flooded the field, and police had no hope—or perhaps no will—of containing the tide. The euphoria spilled beyond the stadium. I remember leaping out of my parents’ compound, running through the neighborhood, jumping, hugging, even kissing strangers in the sheer joy of victory.
The triumph didn’t end on the pitch. The victorious team paraded through downtown Addis Ababa before being summoned to the palace, led by none other than the intelligent and streetwise Mulugeta Kebede. Colonel Mengistu Hailemariam, then head of state, held a particular admiration for Mulugeta. When asked what he wished for, the shrewd midfielder requested residential plots for the players. Mengistu immediately authorized his request, granting each member of the squad a plot of land, along with a monetary reward of 5,000 birr—equivalent to roughly USD 5,000 today. To crown it all, the team received the coveted NEC television sets of the era, with an additional VCR awarded to goalkeeper Tekabe Zewdie in recognition of his heroic penalty saves.
Rumor has it that Tekabe’s home in Dire Dawa became the center of a spontaneous festival. Residents poured into his compound, dancing and celebrating until dawn, while his family stayed awake the entire night basking in the community’s joy.
Mulugeta’s leadership extended well beyond the national team. With St. George, he added trophy after trophy, winning the adoration of fans and cementing his place as a hall of famer. His glory was matched by his charisma. Universally regarded as a people’s person, he was showered with compliments, gifts, and affection wherever he went. Those who knew him closely recall his wit, mischievous pranks, and spirited conversations.
Urban legend has it that Mulugeta could walk into Africa’s oldest and busiest marketplace, Merkato, empty-handed, and leave fully dressed in suits, sportswear, and shoes gifted by merchants eager to clothe their hero. At first I dismissed the tale as mere fan exaggeration—until I heard Mulugeta himself nostalgically confirm it in one of his rare interviews.
His fame also led to moments of comic misunderstanding. On one occasion, he was mistaken for a thief. In one memorable incident, he was taken to a police station after being accused of stealing money from a passenger on a long-distance bus. Ironically, the very men who accused him had spent the previous night celebrating his goals with whiskey toasts. Once his identity was revealed at the station, their bravado collapsed. One even fell to his knees, begging forgiveness, confessing that he had been shouting “Mule! Mule!” all night in celebration.
I remember a St. George employee’s bus driver from our neighborhood during my childhood who once took us to a match in the thick of St. George fans at Katanga, in Addis Ababa Stadium. The game was a final—St. George facing off against the legendary Ethiopian Coffee Club. After a convincing victory and a trophy celebration, our bus headed to the St. George Brewery Club near Lideta, where the night unfolded in singing, dancing, and unrestrained jubilation.
Entry was limited to those with club membership or those who had arrived on a St. George bus, but once inside, no one paid for a drink. Bottle after bottle of St. George beer seemed to flow endlessly. I still recall one fan, draped in the yellow St. George flag with its iconic red “V,” soaking himself from head to toe in beer. It was no surprise—most were already tipsy or outright intoxicated.
Yet amid the chaos, the same names rose again and again in song: Mulugeta Kebede, Gebremedhin Haile, Solomon Luche, Solomon Cherke, and others. Of them all, it was “Mule” who was invoked most often—and rightly so. His magnetic character, sheer genius, resourcefulness, valor, and passion, both on and off the field, left an indelible mark.
A word of salute—and rest in peace—to the one and only, Mulugeta Kebede.
(Bereket Balcha holds a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology and Social Anthropology from Addis Ababa University (AAU) and a Diploma in Purchasing and Supply Chain Management from Addis Ababa Commercial College/AAU. His extensive professional background encompasses decades of experience in the aviation industry in diverse roles, complemented by a two-year engagement at the Ethiopia Insurance Corporation. He can be reached at [email protected])
Contributed by Bereket Balcha