Rebel bodyguards escorted Prime Minister Soro into the stadium, but his official salute was given by the Republican Guard, a branch of the government army in charge of ceremonies for the president, who was in Libya on business. At midfield before the game, Drogba presented Soro with a special pair of soccer cleats that had the prime minister's name, the game and date, and the words together for peace painted on them. When the national anthem began and the crowd thundered out the words in unison, Drogba closed his eyes and placed his right hand over his heart. The goalkeeper stood next to him, his eyes welling up as he sang.

I remember watching the World Cup when I was young and marveling at Diego Maradona and the furious passion of the players and fans. But it wasn't until I saw kids playing soccer in my Peace Corps village—barefoot, on grassless fields, with anything that might roll or bounce a bit—that I began to understand the game and its impact. As I stood on the edge of the Bouaké pitch and watched Salomon Kalou score the game's first goal in the 18th minute with a header off a perfect cross, I couldn't help but join the cheering. Kalou, who is 21 years old and from a government-loyal town in the South, was born around the same time as the kids I used to watch play in my village. Somehow that fact, in that instant, convinced me that the war really might be over.

Drogba scored the fifth and last goal with a few minutes left in the game. The stadium exploded in celebration, and several fans jumped the fence near him and sprinted along the sidelines before being caught by security forces. Once time had expired and Drogba and his teammates had been escorted from the field, I climbed into the stands to wait out the crowd. I found Geoffrey Baillet, the spokesman for the Ivorian minister of sports, leaning on a rail, watching the scene. "We, the politicians, we went to the best universities; we're the intellectuals, the supposed leaders of the country," he said. "But when it came to making peace, we failed. It's a group of soccer players that brought us together. Didier Drogba came from nothing. Now he's a worldwide star and a hero for us. He's done a great thing for his country."

Madagascar deserved praise as well, Baillet said. "They could have refused to play here. But they told us they were our brothers, and wanted to help reunite our country.… This was no mere game. When I saw the government troops here in Bouaké, saluting the prime minister, it brought tears to my eyes."

I was back in Abidjan the next day. The front-page headline of the country's main newspaper read, five goals to erase five years of war. Another declared, drogba brings bouaké back to life. A few players were hanging around the Golf Hotel, but most of them had checked out and were staying with family and friends in town. Drogba, meanwhile, had a couple days to relax before a festival in his honor in Guibéroua, a town near his father's village, located about 185 miles northwest of Abidjan. Drogba has never lived there; he was born in Abidjan and moved to Europe with his uncle when he was very young. He hadn't even visited the village in more than 15 years.

On the morning of the festival, shortly after nine, Drogba drove up to the front of the Golf Hotel in his dark-blue Porsche Cayenne S.U.V. I had been worried that I might not get a chance to talk to him; my flight back to New York was that night. I followed him down a hallway and tried to get his attention, but he was busy on his cell phone. So I ran back to the lobby and had my driver park behind the Porsche, ready to go. When Drogba returned to his car, he was still lost in his phone conversation, so I tried the back door of his Porsche. It was open. I got in. If he didn't want me there, I figured, he'd kick me out.