The sky brooded over Benin City, its gray underbelly swollen with the promise of rain. A languid wind stirred the treetops, and the air held that electric tension peculiar to West African thunderstorms—quiet, simmering, and expectant. On the outskirts of town, nestled behind tall neem trees and a wall overgrown with purple bougainvillea, stood a weather-worn two-story home that had once belonged to colonial civil servants. Its bricks were faded, and the verandah creaked under the weight of memory.
Seventeen-year-old Alex Obasi crouched beneath the low-sloped ceiling of the attic, his long limbs folded awkwardly among forgotten boxes and dusty crates. Cobwebs clung to the wooden beams above his head like fragile curtains, and the scent of old paper, mothballs, and time itself wrapped around him. The electricity had flickered out that morning—again—and his phone had died shortly after. His siblings had seized the last bit of entertainment, and the sitting room downstairs was now a battlefield of cartoons and shrieking laughter.
Left with few options, Alex had climbed the attic stairs in search of something—anything—to kill the boredom. What he found instead was a small pocket of the past, sealed away by neglect and silence. Light streamed in from a narrow window, highlighting swirls of dust in the air. Old family photo albums lay in a pile, and a stack of newspapers dated back to Nigeria's independence. A cracked chessboard sat on a box labeled "Papa's Things." Underneath it, half-hidden and weighed down by a shoebox marked Football '64, was a thick, leather-bound journal. The cover was worn but intact, the color somewhere between dried mahogany and forgotten blood.
Curious, Alex brushed off the dust, sneezed, and opened it.
The first page greeted him in dark, elegant ink:
> "To the one who finds this—know that football is more than a game. It is history, war, peace, and passion. Walk where the greats have walked. Hear the roar of crowds long silenced. And remember: the ball never stops rolling."
There was no signature. No author. Only the faint impression of a whistle etched beneath the final line—a sketch, simple but unmistakable.
Alex's pulse quickened.
He turned the pages slowly, each one a portal. The handwriting varied—some entries penned in tight, scholarly loops, others in bold, erratic slashes. There were sketches of boots with iron studs, diagrams of primitive stadiums, notes in Arabic, Latin, Chinese characters. Dates ranged from the familiar—1966, 1930—to the fantastical: 700 A.D., 300 B.C., 12th Dynasty Egypt.
One name surfaced again and again, scribbled in margins or boldly titled at the top of pages: "M. Adamu."
He paused at a chapter titled "Cuju — 300 B.C." The ink shimmered faintly, as if it had just been written.
Then the wind stirred.
It began as a breeze, rustling loose pages and unsettling the stillness. The narrow attic window creaked open with a groan. The scent of the coming rain slipped in. And then—sharp, clear, and impossible—a whistle blew. Not from outside. From within the journal.
Alex flinched and dropped the book. A strange pressure built in his ears. The attic blurred like a smudged lens. Light bent. Shadows twisted.
Then—nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
---
He landed softly, feet kicking up a small cloud of dust. The air was dry, warm, and heavy with the scent of sandalwood and clay. Around him stretched a vast, open courtyard surrounded by high stone walls, their surfaces etched with faded characters. Red silk flags fluttered from tall poles. The sky above was impossibly vast, tinged gold by a setting sun.
On the ground before him, a group of children—barefoot, clad in loose robes—kicked a round, feather-stuffed leather ball with practiced ease. They moved like dancers, swift and purposeful, passing and striking without using their hands. The ball slipped through a small square net made of bamboo and rope, to the loud cheers of their peers.
Alex blinked in disbelief.
A voice, calm and melodic, broke the silence. "Are you here to learn Cuju, traveler?"
He turned. A man stood nearby, tall and serene, his posture both disciplined and relaxed. He wore armor made of overlapping bronze plates, his hair tied in a topknot, and a scroll hung from his belt.
"W-where am I?" Alex stammered.
The man smiled kindly. "You stand in the imperial city of Linzi, in the Kingdom of Qi. The year is 302 before the common era. The emperor has called for a grand tournament in honor of the harvest moon."
"Cuju…" Alex whispered. "The ancestor of football?"
The man raised an eyebrow. "You know the game?"
"I—I read about it. In a book. A journal."
"Then you are more fortunate than most. Come." He extended a hand. "The rules are simple. The spirit? Eternal."
Alex hesitated, then followed.
The children welcomed him without question. For the next two hours, he observed and eventually participated. The game demanded agility, creativity, and balance. The players were quick on their feet, their laughter contagious. There were no referees, just mutual respect. One boy taught him how to deflect a pass with the outside of his foot. A girl—barely ten—scored three goals in under five minutes, her focus sharper than any player he'd seen on TV.
In those moments, under the glowing sky and with dust coating his bare legs, Alex forgot everything else.
No power outages. No dying phones. No exams. Just the rhythm of the ball, the rise of joy in his chest.
As dusk painted the courtyard in hues of orange and shadow, the armored man approached once more.
"Your journey has only just begun, Alex Obasi. The journal chose you. When you return, do not stop reading. The world forgets its stories too easily. But through you, they may be remembered."
Another whistle.
This time, he did not flinch.
The wind rose again.
And darkness returned.
---
Alex awoke with a start.
He was back in the attic. The sun had fully set outside, and the only light came from the journal, glowing faintly on his lap. The page now read: "Cuju — 302 B.C." Beneath it, in fresh ink, was his name: A. Obasi.
His fingers trembled as he reached to touch the ink. It smudged slightly—real. Tangible.
He sat still for a long time, heart thudding, trying to make sense of what had just happened. It couldn't have been real. And yet... he could still feel the dust on his skin, the ache in his legs, the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.
This wasn't just a book. It was something else. A relic. A guide. A key.
Alex looked down at the journal, its pages still rustling with unseen wind.
There were hundreds more entries. Hundreds more games. Hundreds more lives.
And he had just begun to play.