Chapter 14: Between Goals and Glances
The night before the interschool football competition began, the campus felt heavier than usual — as if every gust of wind carried the weight of tomorrow. The field lights glowed faintly in the distance, stretching the boys' shadows across the grass like ghosts of every dream they'd ever had.
Kweku stayed behind after practice, juggling the ball in the dim light until his thighs burned. His heart was pounding, not just from exhaustion but from everything unsaid. Ama hadn't spoken to him in two weeks — not since he'd turned away outside the dining hall.
Yaw approached quietly, tossing him a water bottle. "You'll wear the pitch out if you keep going."
Kweku caught the bottle but didn't drink from it. "I need to be ready."
"You are ready," Yaw said. "You just need to stop fighting yourself."
Kweku dropped the ball and finally sat down. The cool night breeze brushed his face. "She won't even look at me anymore," he murmured.
Yaw hesitated, then said, "That's not your biggest problem."
Kweku turned to him sharply, but Yaw's expression wasn't mocking — just steady. "You're about to play the most important tournament of your life," he said. "If you walk onto that field tomorrow with her in your head and guilt in your chest, you'll lose before the whistle blows."
Kweku wanted to argue, but the words refused to form. Yaw was right — and that hurt more than anything.
"Hey, Yaw, Kweku said, how're you so mature?". The quietness that followed was palpable, everyone knew Yaw barely spoke about his past or home.
"Well, my parents died young, Yaw replied, my uncle took me in, but he's not very well off, so I had to grow up and help how I could ".
"I'm sorry "
"It's not your fault.. let's go back, it's getting late".
---
Later that night, the dorm was silent except for the hum of the ceiling fan. Kweku sat on his bunk, staring at the page of his notebook. He'd been keeping lists since childhood — dreams, scores, promises to himself. He wrote slowly:
Goal: Win tomorrow."
He paused, then added below it:
"Goal: Make things right with Ama."
He closed the book, sighed, and lay back. He didn't know which goal scared him more.
---
Morning came too fast.
The school bus was already rumbling, students piling in with boots and nerves. Kweku moved through the noise like someone underwater — distant, heavy, half-focused.
That's when he heard her voice.
"Kweku!"
He turned. Ama was standing by the walkway, her hair pulled back, her sketchbook hugged to her chest. She was breathing fast, like she'd run to catch him.
For a moment, time paused. The other boys shouted for him to hurry, but the world had narrowed to just her eyes — worried, searching.
"I didn't want to leave things like this," she said. "You've worked too hard to play with all this noise between us."
He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I thought… I thought staying away would help."
Ama smiled faintly — sad, but proud. "You always think you have to carry everything alone."
Kweku opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she reached out and squeezed his hand. "Just play your heart out, Kweku. No matter what happens, remember why you started."
He blinked, words failing him.
Then Yaw called from the bus, "Mensah! Let's go!"
Kweku nodded to Ama, eyes holding hers for one more second. "I'll make you proud," he said softly.
She stepped back, her hand falling to her side. "You already have."
---
As the bus pulled away, Kweku watched her through the window until the school disappeared behind the trees.
For the first time in weeks, his chest didn't feel heavy — it felt full, not with confusion, but with purpose.
Yaw glanced at him and smirked. "You look like you've just figured out who you're playing for."
Kweku smiled faintly. "Maybe I have."
Outside, the road stretched ahead, long and uncertain — but this time, he wasn't running from anything. He was running toward it.
The field in Pedu felt wider, louder, and brighter than anything Kweku had ever played on. The grass shimmered under the midday sun, trimmed short and sharp as expectation. White lines gleamed fresh, banners fluttered in the wind, and the smell of dust, sweat, roasted plantain and many others floated together — the scent of Ghanaian football at its purest.
In the stands, every school's colours screamed for attention. Boys from rival academies beat drums, waved flags, and chanted names like battle cries. Somewhere up in the bleachers, men in crisp shirts and dark glasses — the scouts — watched quietly with notebooks in hand.
Kweku stood at the halfway line with his hands on his knees, his pulse pounding in his ears. The badge on his chest felt heavier than ever.
"Mensah," Coach Ofori called out. "You lead midfield today. Keep the tempo steady, play wide when they press. Trust Yaw — he'll read you."
Kweku nodded. He could feel Yaw's gaze from the other side of the circle, calm and unshakable.
The whistle blew.
---
The first minutes were chaos. The opponents — University Practice Academy— came with pure aggression, sliding tackles, long balls, and raw power. Kweku got clipped early, his shin stinging, but he didn't slow down.
He moved like water through a forest fire, weaving past defenders, looking for rhythm. Every time he touched the ball, he remembered Ama's words: Just play your heart out.
And he did.
A one-two with Yaw, a lob across the field and a steal from a careless winger.
The crowd began to roar his name.
"Mensah! Mensah!"
It started small, then spread through the stands like a spark in dry grass.
By halftime, the score was 0–0 — tense, tight, like a story waiting to break. The boys collapsed on the bench, gulping water, their shirts clinging to their backs.
Coach leaned in. "They're trying to frustrate you but don't let them. The game's in your hands — your mind. They'll tire before you do."
Kweku nodded, though he barely heard. His thoughts were already ahead — mapping space, feeling where the passes should go before they existed.
---
The second half began more slowly. U.P. Academy dropped deep, defending in waves. Yaw shouted instructions, directing traffic like a general. Kweku found his rhythm again — a steady heartbeat in the storm.
Then, in the 72nd minute, it happened.
The ball broke loose near the centre. Kweku pounced, slicing between two defenders who both thought the other had it. He didn't even think — his body knew what to do. One touch. Then another.
The keeper rushed forward.
Kweku faked left, cut right, and fired a through pass to Abu, his striker, who immediately jumped to meet the ball with his head, reminiscent of a certain Dutch legend.
The sound of the net rippling was almost drowned by the eruption that followed. The stands shook. The drums thundered.
Goal.
He fell to his knees, eyes wide, breath gone. Yaw sprinted to him and pulled him up, both laughing through exhaustion and disbelief. "You did it, brother," Yaw said.
But Kweku shook his head. "We did."
---
The final whistle came twenty minutes later. 1–0. Victory.
Coach Ofori hugged his players, his face shining with pride. "That's football! That's heart!" he shouted.
From the bleachers, Kweku saw two scouts nodding to each other, writing something down. His pulse raced. Could this be the beginning?
Yet even in the celebration, his mind flickered back to Ama. He could almost see her, sitting under that mango tree with her sketchbook, smiling that quiet smile that made everything feel possible.
Yaw threw an arm around his shoulder as they walked toward the bus. "You played with soul today. That's rare."
Kweku smiled faintly. "Someone reminded me what I was playing for."
Yaw didn't ask who — he didn't need to.
As the sun dipped low behind the hills, the bus rumbled homeward. The boys sang victory songs out the windows, but Kweku just leaned back, eyes half-closed, listening to the wind.
He wasn't just chasing a dream anymore.
He was starting to live it.