There are occasional sightings of him around the city. A face is glimpsed; perhaps climbing out of a car, perhaps stepping into a mosque. A phone is surreptitiously brandished. The rumour spreads like fire. Pretty quickly these sightings take on the status of urban myths; brief brushes with the divine. There was the time he was at a petrol station and decided to pay for everyone’s fuel. There was the kid who chased after his car, went smack into a lamppost and now boasts a photograph of himself with a lavishly bloodied nose, and Mohamed Salah’s arm tenderly clasped around his shoulder.
Mohamed Salah: a bridge between worlds in Liverpool
