Chapter 18.5: The Stone and The Flower
After the final victory, most students were either resting or telling their own renditions of what happened during the game, not Yaw, though. Even after such a monumental win and the fatigue from the match, the St. Augustine's captain picked up two textbooks and moved into an empty classroom, far from all the noise and celebrations.
He definitely didn't want to study, but he had no choice. If football failed, he needed something else to fall back on; banking everything on just one path was not his style. As time passed, he closed the book and rested his head on the desk thinking about how far he'd come.
Three years ago
The morning sun crept over the crowded roofs of Nima, painting the rusted zinc sheets in dull gold. Fifteen-year-old Yaw Boateng sat on the edge of his uncle's workbench, tying the laces of his worn-out sneakers. The smell of solder, oil, and burnt wires filled the small shop they called home.
"Yaw," Uncle Kojo said, peering over his glasses as he fixed a broken radio. "School starts soon. Go fetch water before your siblings wake up."
Yaw nodded and stepped outside, grabbing the yellow jerry can. Behind him, on a thin mattress, his younger siblings — Esi, ten, and Kweku, eight — slept side by side, their arms curled around each other. Seeing them made his chest ache a little. He was the eldest now, ever since the day a speeding truck ended their parents' lives seven years ago.
Kojo had taken all three children in, though his shop barely earned enough to feed one. Some nights, dinner was nothing but rice water. But Kojo never complained, and so neither did Yaw. They had each other — and they had hope.
When Yaw returned from fetching water, Esi was awake, ironing Kweku's uniform while humming an old lullaby their mother used to sing.
"Big brother," Kweku said with a grin, "are you playing football again today?"
Yaw smiled faintly. "After school, maybe. If Uncle says yes."
"Score one for me," Kweku said, holding up a tiny fist.
That afternoon, the boys gathered on the dusty field behind the market. The air was hot and dry, the earth cracked and hard. Their football was an old plastic ball tied together with a string, but to Yaw, it was everything. When he played, the hunger, the noise, the pain — all disappeared.
He weaved through defenders, passed like he could see the future, and struck the ball with precision. The game drew cheers from children perched on walls and vendors resting from the day's work.
As the game continued, Yaw's team was just about to concede, but the young boy ran from the other side of the field to land a clean tackle on the opposition striker, sending the poor guy and the ball flying. Yaw stood up, bleeding on his knee and covered in sand but he had a wide grin on his face.
Then, a van stopped by the field. A tall man in a green tracksuit stepped out — Coach Mensah from Accra Academy, one of the best schools in the region.
The boys whispered and nudged each other. The coach watched quietly for ten minutes, his expression unreadable. Then Kwame took the ball near the halfway line, dribbled past three players, and curved a perfect shot into the corner.
After the game, Mensah walked straight up to him.
"What's your name, son?"
"Yaw Boateng," he replied.
"You've got talent — real talent, we lack defenders like you. Accra West is holding trials for football scholarships next month. You should come."
Kwame hesitated. "Sir, I... I don't have the money to travel."
"Come anyway," Mensah said, handing him a card. "We'll be watching."
That night, Kwame told his uncle everything. Kojo sat silently for a long while, the light from the lamp flickering across his tired face. He had always taught Kwame to dream with one eye open. But when he saw the spark in the boy's eyes, he sighed softly.
"You'll go," he said. "We'll make it happen."
For weeks, Kojo worked late, fixing extra radios and saving coins. He even sold his old bicycle to pay for Yaw's fare. The night before the trip, Esi and Kweku clung to their brother tightly.
"Don't forget us," Esi whispered, her eyes wet.
"I'll never forget," Yaw said, holding her close.
"Will you send money?" Kweku asked innocently.
Kwame laughed softly, his throat tight. "I'll send more than we've ever seen.
When dawn came, Kojo handed him a pair of old boots — cracked, faded, but sturdy. "They may not look like much," he said, "but play with your heart."
At the trials, the competition was fierce. Dozens of boys, stronger and taller than him, filled the pitch, and the fact that he was lying to play out of position as a defender made him feel like a fish out of water. By the end of the trials, though, he had managed to establish himself as the best defensive player in the trials.
When the results were posted, he scanned the paper with trembling hands, he'd only get a part scholarship. Luckily, Coach Nyarko saw him and brought him to St. Augustine's on a full scholarship, and now here he was. The boys called him a stone with no feelings but he wasn't here for them. Yaw shook himself awake and opened his book.
Elsewhere on the school campus
Ama lay on her bed; her mom was probably asleep, her dad was still out with the school's football team, and her younger siblings were staying with their grandparents for a while. She sighed thinking about Kweku, "Timothy", she whispered to herself. She'd found out that was his name earlier today and couldn't stop thinking about him.
She was a nerd, through and through, she liked writing and drawing. She'd only focused on her books, her whole life and managed to get into a good secondary school. She'd be in university next year, and she was daydreaming about a fifteen-year-old. "Ughh, what's wrong with me?"
She'd had crushes before, but never like this. This was so different, but she had to let him go. The age gap and her father getting suspicious of how close they were were factors, but the real reason she distanced herself was for his future. At this point, she was the last thing he needed, football should come first.
Her father told her about Kweku and what going pro would mean; he needed that, but she... he would be just fine without her.
She picked up her book and a pen and began writing; her thoughts, dreams and aspirations could come alive here with no remorse and this much was enough.
(A/N: Hope this gives more depth into the things they do and why they do them).
The dorm was quieter than usual the morning after the final. Most boys were still nursing sore legs, laughing quietly about near misses and heroic saves from yesterday's match, it would take about a week before the buzz died down. Kweku sat on his bunk, notebook open, pen hovering over the page, replaying the winning goal in his mind.
Yaw appeared in the doorway, boots in hand, face unreadable. "Coach wants to see you in the office. Something about your performance yesterday."
Kweku's stomach flipped. He had expected praise, maybe a congratulatory word, but the serious tone in Yaw's voice made him uneasy. He nodded, grabbed his bag, and followed.
The principal's office was surprisingly busy. A man in a neat tracksuit stood at the back, arms crossed, clipboard in hand. He was tall, with sharp eyes that seemed to scan everything at once.
"Good morning, boys," the man said, his voice calm but carrying authority. "I'm Mr Davis — I work with the Under-18 national team, the Black Starlets. I watched your final yesterday."
Kweku's jaw went dry. The national team? His mind raced, remembering Ama's letter tucked in his pocket, then quickly brushed it off; this was more important than any letter.
"You," the man said, pointing to Kweku, "the one who scored the second goal — excellent awareness, solid technique, and composure under pressure. Very promising boy."
Kweku swallowed. "Thank you, sir," he said, meaning to sound confident but it came out in a squeaky tone.
"I don't just praise, though," the scout continued. "I also look for players who can handle challenges — someone with discipline, mental toughness, and the right attitude. From what I saw yesterday, you've got potential."
Coach Nyarko added, "He's dedicated, sir. Always the first to arrive at training, last to leave too."
The scout nodded. "I like that, hard work is a must. I'll be visiting the field tomorrow afternoon for a short session — just to see how he moves in training and interacts with the team. If all goes well, I'd like to discuss the possibility of inviting him to our Under-18 national camp."
Kweku's chest swelled, heart hammering. He couldn't believe the words he was hearing. Ama's encouragement, Yaw's guidance, all the hours running drills in the rain and sun — it was starting to matter; he was getting recognition from the national coach.
"Thank you so much," Kweku said again, voice firmer now. "I won't let you down."
The scout's eyes softened slightly. "Good. See you tomorrow, Mensah," he said, nodding to the coaches, "keep pushing him. It's a big step, but the right kind of challenge."
After the office, Kweku stepped out into the dusty morning air, letting it fill his lungs. The sun felt warmer somehow, brighter. He pulled Ama's letter from his pocket and read it once more.
"Don't worry about anyone but yourself and your team. Just remember to enjoy every moment — you belong on that field."
A slow smile spread across his face. He had dreamed of playing for the national team, but he hadn't imagined it would come this soon though it wasn't the actual Black Stars, it was a chance— a real, tangible chance.
Back in the dorm, his mates bombarded him with questions. "What did he say? Did he like your goal? Are you moving to the national team?"
Kweku laughed, shaking his head. "Not yet. He wants to see us train first. But… It's a start."
Yaw clapped him on the shoulder. "Start or not, you've got work to do. National team or no, we keep training. You're not done yet, Starboy."
Kweku nodded, determination settling in his chest like a steady flame. This was the next step — bigger, harder, higher. And he would meet it head-on, just like he always had.
That night, before lights out, he wrote in his notebook:
Goal: Impress the Under-18 scout.
Then beneath it, he added quietly, almost as if Ama could read it from afar:
Goal: Make everyone proud.
For the first time since the tournament, he felt the weight of the future — but it was thrilling, not frightening. The journey was only beginning.