I lock my apartment door behind me, the cool morning air brushing against my brown face and the sun reflecting on my fawn eyes.
The world outside smells of dust and dew, a mixture of early-morning freshness and the faint scent of street food sizzling in corners nearby.
The quiet hum of Jane Furse is alive even before most people are awake—the distant roar of a motorbike, a dog barking somewhere, the rhythmic clatter of shutters opening for the day.
I take a deep breath, feeling it fill my lungs and sharpen my senses.
Today is the day I step closer to something bigger, something that has been building in my blood for years.
I adjust my backpack and start walking toward Saint Marx College, my boots tapping against the cracked pavement in a steady, confident rhythm. Each step echoes with a mix of anticipation and purpose.
The streets are familiar but still hold little surprises—a stray cat darting into an alley, a paper fluttering across the road, the metallic taste of sunlight reflecting off the rooftops.
My mind drifts as I walk, imagining the green pitch of the school's football field, the roar of the crowd, the precision of every touch, pass, and strike.
"Name's Bapala Modiri," I tell myself—and anyone listening, really.
"Just moved to Jane Furse. Not much I know about this place, except one thing: it produces star football players. Diski[1] isn't just a game here… it's everything to the locals."
The words echo in my mind like a drumbeat, filling me with pride and a sense of belonging before I've even arrived.
I remember my past—the makeshift goals, dusty streets, and worn-out balls—but nothing compares to the chance of proving myself here, at a place that breeds talent.
I grin, standing on my tiptoes and pumping my chest, feeling the familiar fire in my veins. It's the fire of anticipation, of competition, of raw hunger.
The thrill of the unknown mingles with the certainty of purpose, and it pushes me forward faster than my legs alone could manage.
The wind brushes through my hair, tousling it just slightly, as if nature itself is urging me onward.
I imagine the moments ahead—the first glance at the field, the first touch of the ball, the first challenge that will test me.
As I round the corner and approach the school gates, I see everyone moving in the same direction.
Students in crisp uniforms, their shoes clattering against the stone, chatter mixing with laughter and the occasional shout.
Their energy is a wave, pulling me forward, and I let it carry me closer.
Curiosity tugs at me. Why is everyone headed this way? What is it that has stirred the entire school into a rush of motion?
And then I see him.
A short kid, no older than me, perched on a football like he owns it.
Every movement he makes is deliberate, precise, commanding. There's a sharpness in his gaze, a clarity in his posture, a confidence that doesn't need words to assert itself.
Behind him, four intimidating individuals with a heavy presence stand like statues, guarding him as if he were a fortress in human form.
Their eyes sweep over the crowd, measuring, calculating, ensuring that no one dares challenge the order that has been established.
The sight alone makes my heart beat faster—not out of fear, but excitement, the kind that makes your stomach tighten with anticipation and your mind flare with possibilities.
He raises a hand, quieting the crowd instantly. His voice cuts through the chatter like a whistle, precise and commanding:
"Listen up, everyone! Think you have what it takes? Think you can become a star—a Saint[2]? You have to go through me first. From now on, you play my game, with my ball, in my field."
The crowd goes silent, tension thick in the air.
The words hang, weighty, electric, and every eye is on him. The field feels like it shrinks around his presence, the morning sunlight bending to illuminate his figure.
I can hear my own heartbeat, a rapid drum that seems to sync with the pulse of the moment. My grin spreads wider.
This… is going to be fun.
I can already picture it: the ball at my feet, the first pass, the first feint, the first sprint. Every fiber in my body tingles with the thought of movement, strategy, and the raw challenge ahead.
This kid, this gatekeeper of dreams, has no idea what he's waking. Every lesson I've learned, every touch perfected on the streets, every stolen minute with a ball is about to collide with his world.
The students around me murmur, some hesitant, some eager, but I don't hear them. I only hear the beat in my chest, the call of opportunity, and the whisper of destiny brushing against the edges of reality.
I feel my body coiling, ready to spring, to join the challenge, to stake my claim among the young warriors of Saint Marx College.
I tighten my backpack straps, adjust my stance, and take another step forward, feeling the cracked pavement under my boots press back like a reminder of where I come from, the streets, the dust, the practice that has sharpened me without mercy.
Every scar, every blister, every misstep has led me here, to this singular moment where I am no longer just a newcomer but a contender.
The sun climbs higher, catching in the sweat on my brow, warming my skin, and turning my fawn eyes into twin flames of determination.
The air smells faintly of grass, paper, and breakfast cooking somewhere near the dorms. Even the distant shouts from nearby streets fade into insignificance because this moment, right here, is all that matters.
I step closer to the circle, feeling the invisible line between spectators and participants. I sense the challenge, the unspoken rules, the trials that will test every ounce of skill and spirit I have.
My muscles tighten, ready to spring into motion. I picture the ball rolling at my feet, the pressure of defenders closing in, the rush of speed, the sharpness of instinct guiding my choices.
My mind races with possibilities, plays, and maneuvers. The thrill of competition courses through me, turning nerves into anticipation, doubt into focus.
I can see it all, feel it all—the first sprint, the feint to the left, the sudden shift in direction, the perfect pass to an open teammate. The game is alive, and it hums with energy, waiting for those bold enough to join.
I take a deep breath, savoring the smell of morning, the distant chatter, and the palpable tension in the air. This is the moment I've been preparing for, even if I didn't know it.
The moment when skill meets opportunity, when instinct is tested, and when the fire inside me is demanded to burn brighter than ever before.
I smile again, wider this time, feeling the heat of excitement in my chest and the familiar adrenaline surging through my veins.
The ball is out there, the challenge is set, and the game is calling me forward with a voice I cannot ignore.
I step forward, boots tapping with precision, ready to answer. The city, the streets, the early sun, and my past—all of it fuels me.
Every movement, every thought, every heartbeat is tuned to one purpose: to play, to compete, to rise, and to prove that I belong.
The challenge waits. I am ready.
Verse of the Chapter
Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:
-- Matthew 7:7
[1] Diski - Kasi way of saying Football
[2] Saint - a member of the Saint Marx School Team