Chapter 12: Between the Fence and the Field
The days grew softer after that. The harmattan dust had begun to fade, replaced by the lush green promise of rain. Practice sessions stretched longer, and laughter from the field often drifted toward the staff quarters.
Kweku had found his own rhythm, but an unexpected variable was present: Coach Nyarko's daughter. He would finish training just as the sun began to dip, wiping sweat from his brow, and there she would be — sometimes with a small basket of oranges, sometimes with her father's clipboard, pretending to "check on the team."
One afternoon, as he sat tying his boots, she leaned against the fence and said, "You look tired, Starboy." He opened his eyes in surprise; they'd never spoken before. "Please, don't start calling me that too." "But everyone else does," she teased. "You might as well get used to it." He grinned. "I'd rather hear it from the crowd." She laughed, tossing him an orange. "Then you'd have to deserve it." He caught it neatly, peeled it with his thumb, and offered her a slice through the gap in the wire. Their fingers brushed — just for a second — and it startled them both. Ama looked away first. "So serious about football, eh? My father says you have talent." "Your father's just being nice," Kweku muttered, but there was pride hidden under his shy smile. Ama tilted her head. "You don't believe him?" He hesitated. "I believe in trying, not in talent." She studied him quietly, then said, "Maybe that's why you'll make it."
The words hit him harder than he expected. No one had ever said it like that — not even his mother. --- Their small meetings became routine. When classes ended, she'd wander near the fence, pretending to sketch the hills behind the school or write something, and he'd pretend he was practicing, though half his attention was on her laughter. She told him about her dreams — to study art, to travel, to see the world beyond their town. He told her about his mother, about Yaw's advice, about the nights when homesickness made it hard to sleep. Ama listened the way few people did — without judgment, without rushing to fill the quiet. "You miss her a lot," she said one evening. "Every day," he admitted. "But I think she'd like you." Ama blinked, caught off guard. "Why?" "She likes people who make me smile." She blushed, glancing away. "Then I hope I get to meet her one day." --- But not everything was simple.
One evening, while Kweku was walking back from the pitch, Yaw stopped him. "You and the coach's daughter are getting close," he said, not accusing — just observing. Kweku stiffened. "We're just friends." "I know," Yaw said. "But be careful. People talk, and coaches listen." Kweku nodded, though his heart sank a little. He knew Yaw wasn't wrong. Ama's father already kept a close eye on the boys — especially him. That night, as the dorm settled into quiet, Kweku stared at the ceiling again, listening to the rain tapping the window. He thought about Ama's smile, her orange-scented hands, her soft laugh that always made the day lighter. He knew he had to be careful — but part of him also knew something else: He didn't want to lose this, not even for football.
The next afternoon, Ama was waiting by the fence again. When she saw his worried face, she said softly, "What's wrong, child?" He raised an eyebrow in question. She smiled, "Don't you know, I'm three years older than you." Kweku was stunned but quickly composed himself, "That doesn't really mean anything though." He hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Anyway, nothing's wrong. I'm just… trying to balance things." She leaned closer, her voice warm. "Then let me be your balance, child." And for a moment, with the wind moving through the tall grass and the setting sun painting everything gold, he believed she could be.