Chapter 13: Unspoken Crossroads
By the time the term reached its midpoint, Kweku and Ama's friendship had become something strange — both soft and sharp, like the edge of a blade wrapped in silk. All who knew about it could feel it, even when nothing was said aloud. At first, they'd meet by coincidence — at the tap near the dorms, or the mango tree behind the art block. Then the coincidences began to look suspiciously like plans. She'd come early with her sketchbook; he'd "forget" his boots after practice. The quiet moments they shared had begun to stretch, filling with words they didn't quite know how to say. But lately, that quiet wasn't so peaceful. "Are you sure this is smart?" Ama asked one afternoon, eyes darting toward the open field where a few students lingered after prep. "People talk, you know, we haven't done anything but there's no smoke without fire." Kweku leaned against the tree, breathing in the dry wind. "They've always talked but, we just don't listen." "That's the problem." She closed her sketchbook, clutching it to her chest. "You don't think it'll reach my father?" Her voice was gentle, but Kweku heard the edge of worry in it. He wanted to tell her that he didn't care — that no rumourrumor, no angry teacher, could stop him from seeing her. But the truth caught in his throat. He did care. Because one wrong step could cost him more than a short suspension. SomrSome scouts were coming soon. The coach had mentioned it — men from Accra looking for the next generation. The best players from across the region would gather at a tournament next month. And Kweku had been training for this chance since he could walk. But lately, when he closed his eyes at night, all he saw was Ama's face, not the ball. Yaw had noticed the shift too. He didn't scold or mock this time. He just watched. During practice, his eyes followed Kweku with quiet worry, the way a big brother might. And one evening, after everyone had showered and the dorm had gone still, he spoke. "You've got something special, Kweku," Yaw said. "But if you split your heart between two things, neither will grow right." Kweku frowned. "You think I'm not serious?" "I think you're too serious," Yaw said softly. "About her, we're kids y'know, y'know." That stung. But Kweku couldn't argue. Every time Ama smiled, he felt like he was chasing something impossible. Every time Yaw shouted his name on the pitch, he remembered who he was supposed to be. The next day, Ama tried to talk to him again near the dining hall, but Kweku hesitated. Too many eyes. Too much whispering. He gave her a small nod instead — quick, distant. She looked down, her fingers tightening around her sketchbook, then walked away without another word. The space between them grew after that. It wasn't anger or rejection — just a quiet distance filled with all the things neither could say. At night, Kweku lay awake listening to the rain tapping on the dorm roof, wondering if she was awake too. He missed her laugh, the way she made the world seem slower. But he also knew — the world wouldn't wait for him to figure himself out. So he told himself this was what focus looked like. He trained harder. Ran faster. Even the coach began to notice his intensity again. But sometimes, when he scored a goal in practice and the field erupted in cheers, he found himself glancing toward the fence — toward the spot where Ama used to sit and draw. The spot was empty now. And for the first time, victory didn't feel like enough.