The ball came at Soma like a bullet, spinning through the dusty air of Mushin with the kind of pace that would send most boys scrambling for cover. Instead, Soma Adebayo planted his left foot, cushioned the leather with his right instep, and in one fluid motion that seemed to defy the laws of physics, flicked it over the advancing defender's head.
The crowd of street kids erupted. Bottles clinked, someone's transistor radio crackled with Afrobeat, and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the makeshift pitch—a strip of hard-packed earth wedged between two crumbling apartment blocks in Lagos.
"Soma! Soma! Soma!" they chanted, but he barely heard them. His world had narrowed to the goal twenty meters away, guarded by Kachi, a boy three years older and twice as broad. Between them stood two more defenders, their bare feet planted wide, ready to tackle.
Most players would pass. The sensible play was obvious—Bayo was unmarked on the left, screaming for the ball. But Soma had never been interested in sensible.
He pushed the ball forward with the outside of his right foot, sold the first defender a dummy that left the boy grasping at air, then nutmegged the second with a delicate through-ball to himself. The technique was pure street—no coaching manual would teach you to bend your knee that way, to shift your weight like water flowing around rocks.
Kachi rushed forward, all muscle and determination. "Not today, small boy!"
Soma's grin was pure mischief. He waited until the goalkeeper was three steps away, then chipped the ball with the subtlest touch of his toe. It arced over Kachi's outstretched hands, struck the crossbar—a rusty iron pipe balanced between two concrete blocks—and dropped into the goal.
Game over. His team had won 7-4, and Soma had scored six of those goals.
"Ah, this boy na pure magic!" shouted Papa Tunde, the old man who owned the provision store that served as one goalpost. He clapped his weathered hands, gold teeth gleaming. "But you know, Soma, football is eleven men. Not one man and ten passengers."
Soma shrugged, already walking away from the celebration. "Goals win games, Papa. Not passes."
He collected his reward—fifty naira and a bottle of Coke—and found his usual spot under the baobab tree at the edge of the compound. The other boys were still replaying the goals, their voices rising with each retelling, but Soma's attention had drifted to the horizon where glass towers caught the dying light. Somewhere beyond those buildings, beyond Lagos Island with its traffic and chaos, real footballers were training in real stadiums.
"You think you too good for us now?"
Soma looked up to find Emeka standing over him, still sweating from the game. Emeka was seventeen, captain of the area boys, and had never forgiven Soma for refusing to join their daily hustle of washing cars and running errands for tips.
"I think I'm good at football," Soma replied, taking a slow sip of his Coke. "Nothing more, nothing less."
"Football?" Emeka laughed, but there was no humor in it. "This is not football, small boy. This is just running around in the dust. Real football is in Europe. Real football is money, big houses, fine cars. What you have here is just dream."
Soma stood up, dusting off his torn Barcelona jersey—a fake one bought from Alaba Market, but the closest thing to a professional kit he'd ever owned. At fifteen, he was still shorter than most of the boys his age, but something in his eyes made Emeka take a step back.
"Dreams are all some people have, Emeka. Don't try to steal mine."
He walked away before the older boy could respond, weaving through the narrow alleys that led home. Home was generous—a single room his mother rented in a compound house, shared with seven other families. The walls were thin enough that he could hear Mrs. Adunni's baby crying, the Johnsons arguing about money, and the constant hum of generators when NEPA decided to restore power for a few precious hours.
His mother, Grace, was sitting on their small veranda when he arrived, her nurse's uniform still pristine despite a twelve-hour shift at the general hospital. She looked up from the letter in her hands, and Soma saw something in her expression that made his stomach tighten.
"Soma, come sit."
He remained standing. In his experience, nothing good ever started with those words.
"Your Aunty Kemi has been watching your videos," she said, holding up her phone. "The ones Bayo posts on Instagram. She says you have... potential."
Soma's heart began to race. Aunty Kemi lived in Manchester, England. She'd left Lagos fifteen years ago, back when he was just learning to walk, and had built a life cleaning offices and sending money home when she could. But she'd never shown much interest in football.
"She wants to bring you to England," his mother continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "She says there are academies there. Real training. Real opportunities."
The letter trembled in Grace's hands. Soma could see the visa application forms, official stamps, documents that might as well have been written in an alien language.
"When?" he asked.
"Three months, if everything goes through. If we can raise the money for the plane ticket, if the embassy approves, if—"
"It will work," Soma interrupted, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "It has to work."
His mother looked up at him, this boy who'd been kicking anything round since he could barely walk, who'd worn out countless plastic balls on these same streets, who dreamed in English Premier League highlights every night.
"England is different, Soma. Cold. Difficult. The people, the culture, the football—everything will be strange."
Soma thought about Emeka's words, about the glass towers in the distance, about the Barcelona jersey that hung loose on his small frame. He thought about the goal he'd scored today, and the thousand goals before it, and the million he still had left to score.
"Maybe," he said, sitting down beside his mother and taking her hand. "But goals are the same everywhere, Mama. The net doesn't care what language you speak."
Grace squeezed his fingers, rough and calloused from fifteen years of grabbing concrete walls to celebrate, and together they watched the sun disappear behind the Lagos skyline.
Three months later, Soma Adebayo would be on a plane to Manchester, carrying nothing but a duffel bag, his fake Barcelona jersey, and a dream bigger than the streets that raised him.
But first, he had three more months of goals to score.