Chapter 16: The Silence Between Cheers
The victory over Sammo SHS changed everything.
The match wasn't anticipated, a sure win for St.Augustines, and Kweku delivered once more
By Monday morning, Kweku's name was everywhere.
On the dorm noticeboard, someone had taped a printed article from a sports blog owned by a student, aimed at reporting less popular sports news:
"Fifteen-Year-Old Midfielder Lights Up Central Region — Scouts Eye St. Augustine's Prodigy."
Teachers stopped him in the hallway to shake his hand. Students whispered his name in the dining hall like it was something sacred. Even the headmaster smiled when he passed.
But with the attention came distance. The same boys who used to joke with him now spoke carefully, like he was made of glass. And when he trained, Coach Ofori pushed harder, shouting not with anger but with expectation.
Every goal he scored now felt like a promise — one he was terrified of breaking.
---
Kweku tried to find Ama after the win, but it was as if she'd vanished. She no longer came to watch practice. She didn't wait near the fence anymore, the spot beneath the mango tree — their quiet place — was empty.
The first few days, he told himself she was just busy.
By the end of the week, he couldn't lie to himself anymore.
One evening, after prep, he gathered his courage and walked toward the staff quarters. The lamps flickered, moths circling the yellow glow. He stopped near the Nyarko home — a modest bungalow with a garden full of flowers.
Ama was there, sitting on the veranda steps with her sketchbook.
His heart clenched.
"Ama," he said softly.
She turned. For a moment, her face lit up — then fell. "Kweku. You shouldn't be here."
"I had to see you. I needed to explain."
She shook her head, closing the sketchbook. "There's nothing to explain. My father told me everything."
"He's right," Kweku admitted, voice trembling. "I've been distracted. But I don't want to lose what we—"
"Kweku." Her tone was gentle, but final. "You're about to have everything you've ever dreamed of. Don't throw it away because of me."
"It's not because of you," he said quickly. "You're part of what keeps me going."
She smiled sadly. "Then let me be a good memory, not your mistake."
He didn't know what to say. The night air was cool, and the sound of crickets filled the space between them.
Ama stood and walked to the doorway. "Go back before anyone see you. Please."
He hesitated — then turned and walked away, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. Behind him, the door closed quietly.
---
The next morning, training hit him harder than ever. Every sprint, every shot, every shout from the coach landed heavy in his chest. Yaw noticed, of course.
"She told you to let go, didn't she?" Yaw said later, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Kweku didn't answer.
Yaw sighed. "She's not wrong, you know. You can't hold the whole world in your hands — something will fall."
Kweku looked up, eyes burning. "Then I'll just learn to hold tighter."
Yaw gave a small, sad smile. "That's not how life works, brother."
---
When the final practice match before the tournament continued came the following week, Kweku played like a storm. He ran with fury, each kick charged with something raw and aching. The crowd saw brilliance — lightning footwork, impossible control — but none of them saw the pain behind it.
His team won. 2–1. Kweku scored one, assisted the other. The students clapped. Coach Ofori beamed with pride, Coach Nyarko smiled like he was advertising his toothpaste but something wasn't there.
He could feel it — that strange silence in the middle of all the noise.
It wasn't emptiness exactly. It was the space where something precious used to live.
---
That night, back in the dorm, Yaw found him sitting by the window.
"You're on the list for the national academy trials," Yaw said. "Coach told me. You did it."
Kweku nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"You should be happy."
"I am," Kweku said — but his voice didn't sound like it belonged to someone who'd just reached a dream.
Yaw looked at him for a long moment. "You can't chase two things, brother. One will always get dropped first."
Then he left him alone with the sound of the rain tapping against the glass.
Night before the semifinal, silence ruled the dormitory. Even the ceiling fans seemed to turn slower, blades not daring to make noise above the restless boys. Kwaku lay on his bed, hands folded behind his head, eyes tracing the faint cracks on the ceiling. The match tomorrow wasn't just another game — it was the one that decided whether their small-town school would ever be taken seriously.
Yaw's words replayed in his mind like a coach's whistle cutting through sleep: "Talent will take you far, but discipline keeps you there."
He turned on his side. The locker beside his bed creaked open — Ama had instructed a junior to slip a folded note through the slats earlier that evening, before lights-out. He hadn't opened it yet. His heart raced a little as he reached for it, the paper soft from being handled too much.
"Don't overthink tomorrow. Just play your game. The rest will follow. — A."
He smiled faintly in the dark. A simple note, but it spoke louder than any pep talk. Ama had been quieter lately — no more waiting by the training field, no long talks under the mango trees. It wasn't anger; it was something else, something Kwaku couldn't name. The closer he got to his dream, the farther away she seemed to drift.
---
Morning came with the noise of a thousand birds. The air was heavy with humidity and nerves. Boys hurried to the dining hall in half-buttoned shirts, laughing too loud to hide their fear. Kwaku moved slower, his boots swinging from one hand.
Yaw was already waiting by the field, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"You look like someone who hasn't slept," he said.
Kwaku managed a grin. "I dreamt we lost."
Yaw snorted. "Good, then you know what not to do." He tossed him a bottle of water. "Remember, tough matches bring out everyone's weakness. Don't let yours be her."
Kwaku stiffened. "Ama?"
Yaw's gaze softened, if only for a second. "We're young, Kwaku, we shouldn't let our hearts play the match for our legs."
---
By midday, the small city park was electric. Students filled the stands, waving old banners, chanting the school anthem in a mix of English and Twi. The rival team — Cape Coast Technical — had arrived in bright blue kits, tall boys with confident strides. Their captain, Kusi, was rumored to have scouts watching from the crowd.
Kwaku's team gathered in a tight circle, sweat already glistening on their foreheads from the sun.
"Remember what we practiced," Yaw said. "Short passes. Space. Patience." His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked to Kwaku. "And no hero moves, we're a team."
Kwaku nodded. But deep down, he could already feel the fire — that hunger to prove himself.
---
Kickoff.
The ball rolled across the dusty pitch, catching bits of light. The first ten minutes were chaos — tackles flying, adrenaline everywhere. Adonten pressed high, their midfield tight, suffocating Kwaku's rhythm. He could hear the crowd shouting his name, the syllables blending into one continuous hum: Kwe-ku! Kwe-ku!
He danced past one defender, then another, the ball glued to his feet. But Kusi was waiting — strong, calm, reading his every move. Kwaku's shot was blocked easily.
"Too early!" Yaw shouted from the sideline. "Don't force it!"
The pressure built. Adisadel College scored first — a clean volley from a corner. The stands erupted on both sides. 1–0.
Kwaku clenched his fists. He could feel the sting of sweat in his eyes, the burn in his chest. When halftime came, he dropped onto the bench, breathing hard.
"You're chasing ghosts out there," Yaw said quietly. "Slow down. Think."
Kwaku looked toward the stands. For a second, he found Ama — sitting amongst the teachers, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wasn't smiling. Just watching. Waiting.
---
Second half.
This time, Kwaku didn't rush. He let the game come to him — simple touches, quick passes. His team moved as one now, like a current finding rhythm. When the chance came — a loose ball bouncing near the edge of the box — he didn't overthink it, a sly back heel sent it to Abu who run at the ball, striking it like it owed him money.
The sound was sharp, clean — like a drumbeat splitting the noise. The ball curled past the goalkeeper's gloves and into the top corner.
The stands exploded.
Kwaku's teammates swarmed him and Abu shouting their names. He glanced toward the crowd again — Ama was on her feet this time, eyes bright, clapping before catching herself and sitting down.
---
The rest of the game was a blur of sweat, tackles, and desperate defending. Adonten attacked in waves, but Yaw's drills paid off — every player held their ground.
When the final whistle blew, it was 1–1. A draw. Penalties next.
The crowd hushed. Even the wind seemed to still.
Yaw called them in. "No panic," he said. "One shot at a time."
Kwaku was the last kicker. The score: 4–4. Everything on him now.
He stepped forward. The field was silent except for the rustle of banners. He could feel every heartbeat in his chest.
He struck.
For a split second, the world froze. Then — the net rippled.
Goal.
They'd won.
The stadium erupted. Yaw exhaled hard, smiling for once. Kwaku looked toward Ama again, but she was gone — her seat empty.
The noise faded around him. Victory tasted sweet, but something inside him ached — the kind of ache that even winning couldn't fix.
---