Morning sunlight slanted through the slits of our window, painting gold lines across the peeling blue wall. The air smelled of rain-soaked dust. I lay staring at the Arsenal poster above my bed—Bukayo Saka frozen mid-run, chasing a ball and a dream. The red shirt looked brighter than it really was, maybe because I wanted it to be.
Today was match day. My first real one since that strange voice entered my head—the "System," or whatever it was. I still didn't understand it fully. Sometimes it whispered numbers, sometimes advice. Sometimes it sounded like my own heart talking back.
"Joseph," Mama called from the small kitchen. "Eat before you go."
"I'm not hungry," I said, tying the frayed lace of my boots. They were secondhand, the leather cracked near the toes, but I polished them so often the black almost shone.
Mama leaned on the doorframe. "Then take banana at least. Empty stomach, empty energy." She smiled, the soft kind of smile that could stop a storm.
I took the banana, kissed her cheek. "Pray for me."
"I already did."
---
Benin City never really sleeps; it just hums softer in the morning. I cut through narrow streets lined with stalls. Generators coughed, traders arranged tomatoes, children chased plastic balls tied with string. Every bounce reminded me of how I started—barefoot, dust between my toes, pretending every stone was a defender.
By the time I reached Uselu field, the place buzzed. The pitch wasn't grass, just packed brown earth with patches of green fighting to live. Still, it looked beautiful to me. Spectators leaned on old tires serving as barriers, some with chilled sachets of water pressed to their foreheads.
Our jerseys—Benin Blazers—were faded orange, but we wore them like armor. Across the field, the Edo Warriors stretched and shouted, their white shirts gleaming in the sun. They looked bigger, older. My stomach fluttered.
Ayo jogged up beside me, a grin splitting his face. "Captain Oyas ready?"
"Don't call me that," I said, laughing.
He winked. "You're the brain. I'm just the legs."
---
Warm-up
Coach Felix gathered us. "Play simple. Keep the ball on the ground. Joseph, link midfield and attack—no Hollywood passes."
I nodded, though my fingers tingled. The System, I thought, you there?
A faint echo answered, not words exactly, more like feeling: Focus. Breathe. See everything.
I closed my eyes, inhaled the dusty air. My heartbeat slowed, my vision sharpened.
---
Kickoff
The whistle cut through the noise. The first few minutes were chaos—boots, dust, shouting. I touched the ball for the first time and nearly lost it to a sliding tackle. Laughter erupted from the sidelines.
Shake it off.
I adjusted, passed back, moved into space. The ball came again, and this time I turned with it, body between man and ball. Everything slowed—the way the defender leaned, the way sunlight flashed off his forehead. I slipped the ball through his legs. The crowd gasped.
"Ehn! Na small boy wey sabi o!" someone shouted.
Ayo collected the pass and sprinted down the flank. Cross. Miss. Cheers and groans mixed.
Inside my head, the quiet voice hummed: Good rhythm. +Small confidence. Keep scanning.
We played hard. Warriors tackled harder. One clipped my ankle; pain shot up my leg. I bit my lip and kept moving.
Halftime arrived with the score still 0–0.
---
Halftime
I sat on an overturned bucket, wiping sweat from my neck. My chest rose and fell like a drum. Across the field, the Warriors laughed, confident.
Ayo nudged me. "You're playing well, Joe. Just need one spark."
I nodded but barely heard him. My thoughts drifted to the night before—the glow of a tiny TV outside Ayo's house, the power out again, mosquitoes whining. Arsenal vs City replayed on the screen.
Saka darted down the wing, cut inside, curled the ball past the keeper. The crowd on TV roared; the small group of us in the dark did too. Something had burned inside me then. That's it. That's the kind of player I want to be—fast, fearless, creative.
In that moment I'd felt a flutter in my head, like the System smiling.
Dream aligned. Creativity boost active.
Now, sitting at halftime, I remembered that warmth. I wanted to feel it again.
---
Second Half
When play resumed, everything looked different. The sunlight seemed sharper, the field wider. It wasn't magic—it was clarity. I could see runs before they happened, gaps opening like breathing lungs.
The Warriors pressed high. I drifted behind their midfield, invisible for a second, then received the ball. One touch to steady, another to glide past the first man. My heartbeat synced with the rhythm of the crowd.
Now look up.
Ayo was sprinting diagonally between two defenders. I didn't think. I just felt the angle. My foot met the ball, not too hard, just enough to bend it around the nearest leg.
Time slowed. The pass slipped through the smallest pocket of space. Ayo's foot met it cleanly. The keeper lunged—too late.
GOAL.
The sound hit me like thunder. Dust flew; people screamed my name. I dropped to my knees, laughing, half in disbelief.
Inside, the voice whispered: Vision awakened. Confidence +5. Overall up.
But it wasn't numbers that mattered—it was knowing I had seen it before anyone else did.
---
The Last Minutes
After the goal, the Warriors attacked like wounded lions. Tackles flew, tempers rose. I stayed calm, passing simple, keeping shape.
A heavy challenge sent me rolling once more. Pain stung, but I gritted my teeth. Get up. The crowd clapped when I stood. The referee blew for full time seconds later.
1–0.
We'd done it.
---
After the Whistle
For a while I just stood there, letting the noise wash over me—the shouts, the dust, the smell of sweat and roasted corn from a nearby stall. My legs trembled, but my heart felt light.
Ayo threw an arm around my shoulders. "Assist king! You see that pass? Na professional level!"
I laughed. "You just finished it."
"Maybe," he said, "but you created it."
Coach Felix approached, his usual frown softened. "Good vision today, Joseph. Keep your head."
"Thank you, sir."
When the others drifted off to celebrate, I sat on the sideline. The field looked peaceful now, footprints everywhere like signatures.
Mama's voice called from behind. She'd come, standing with her wrapper tied tight, a sachet of water in hand.
"You played beautifully," she said, handing it to me.
"Did I?"
She nodded. "Even your father would have shouted if he saw that pass."
Her words caught me off guard. I blinked fast. "Thank you."
---
When everyone left, I lay on my back in the center circle. The sky stretched endless above, clouds moving slow like tired players. Sweat cooled on my skin.
My mind replayed the assist again and again—the decision, the weight, the result. For the first time, I didn't doubt it was real.
Inside, the System's tone softened, almost human:
Every great player sees before others believe. Keep seeing.
I smiled faintly. I will.
Then another thought drifted through, more like intuition than command:
Next step—prove consistency. Find real coaching. Find scouts.
I didn't know where that would lead, but I felt the pull—like a compass pointing north. Maybe Lagos. Maybe farther. Maybe someday the Emirates.
The sun dipped lower. I picked myself up, slung my bag over my shoulder, and started home.
---
Evening
Back at our compound, kids played barefoot in the fading light, shouting "Goal!" every time someone hit the wall. I joined for a minute, laughing, juggling the ball until it rested on my foot. The younger ones stared wide-eyed.
"Oyas, show us that pass again!"
"Next time," I said, smiling.
Inside, Mama was already boiling rice. The smell filled the room. She hummed a church song; I hummed along absent-mindedly, feeling something between exhaustion and peace.
Before sleeping, I glanced at the Arsenal poster again. The edges curled from humidity, but Saka still ran eternally forward.
"One day," I whispered. "I'll wear that shirt."
In my mind, the voice answered gently: Then keep training, Joseph Oyas. The world is waiting.
Sleep took me with the sound of distant laughter and the faint echo of a cheering crowd I hadn't met yet.