Well we're back to this. My first story wasn't a hit but 18k views as an amateur is amazing, thank you so much. It's on hiatus so I can focus on this, please support as much as you can and I promise to do much better on this one. Alright let's go ( I've always wanted to write a football -not soccer- story). Chapters will be shorter initially, getting progressively longer and match narrations get better as s he progresses to give a realistic view on the difference between the levels of football
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Chapter 1 – The Boy with No Boots
January, 2023
The morning sun couldn't press hard against the corrugated roofs of Amanful, Takoradi, courtesy of the fog and dust in the air from the January harmattan. The streets were already alive — the smell of fried kelewele, the shouts of trotro mates calling for passengers, and the hum of a restless city that never really slept.
Timothy Kwaku Mensah tied the frayed laces of his worn-out sneakers — the kind that had seen too many games and too few victories. The soles were thin, the left one flapping slightly when he ran, but he treated them like they were golden boots. They were all he had.
He was fifteen now, tall for his age, with lean legs built from running on concrete and sand. Sweat clung to his forehead though the day had barely begun. In his small compound house, his mother's voice rose above the radio — sharp, tired, loving.
"Kwaku! You haven't eaten!"
"Later, Ma," he called back, tucking a half loaf of bread into his bag.
She appeared at the doorway, hands covered in flour from the bofrot dough she was kneading for the market. Her face was soft, but her eyes carried years of work and worry.
"You can't play on an empty stomach, my son."
"I'll be fine. Today is the scout match. Coach said some people from Europe are coming."
She smiled faintly, wiping her hands on her cloth. "Then make sure they see you. Play like you were born with the ball."
He grinned, that confident half-smile she both loved and feared — the same one his father had when he promised he'd come back with money from Kumasi eight years ago. He never did.
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The field was a patch of uneven dirt behind a school compound, surrounded by crooked goalposts and the noise of boys chasing their futures. Kwaku arrived early, as always, juggling his old ball — the leather cracked, the panels faded — but to him, it was sacred.
Another boy arrived, a fair short boy with short curly hair. His best friend, Kojo, showed up late, a bag of sachet water slung over his shoulder.
"You again with that tired ball?" Kojo laughed. "One day, it'll burst mid-match and you'll still try to dribble it."
"Then I'll score with the burst one," Kwaku shot back.
Kojo cackled. "That's why you're crazy — and why you'll make it."
They practised until the sun climbed high. The coach, an ex-player who only played in some lower level leagues, with a whistle that never stopped shrieking, made them run drills, passes, and sand prints. Dust filled their lungs, sweat poured down their backs, but Kwaku thrived in it. Every touch of the ball felt like breathing.
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During water break, Kwaku drifted toward the fence and stared beyond — at the city skyline, the promise of somewhere bigger. His thoughts wandered to his childhood, to a small boy barefoot in the rain, kicking a mango seed because he had no ball. He remembered his mother cheering from the doorway, clapping as though he'd scored at the World Cup.
He had been seven then, full of dreams and innocence. That same night, he told her he'd play for Ghana one day. She laughed, thinking it was a childish fantasy. But he meant it, he always meant it.
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The whistle blew again. This time, it was for the scout match. Two teams lined up — boys with mismatched jerseys, hearts pounding like drums. A few men in sunglasses stood by the sidelines, murmuring to each other, notebooks in hand. One of them wore a suit — a rare sight here. Everyone noticed him.
"European scout," someone whispered. The rumour spread like wildfire.
The game began at a furious pace. Dust rose with every tackle. Kwaku barely touched the ball in the first ten minutes — too many nerves, too much noise in his head. Then, in a heartbeat, the chance came.
Kojo intercepted a pass and handed it to Kwaku near the centre. Three defenders ahead. One behind. He didn't think — he moved. A faint left, a quick turn, a step over — one man gone. Another lunged for a tackle; Kwaku pushed the ball forward and slipped past like wind. The last defender came hard, he had to leave an impression; Kwaku chipped the ball over his leg, caught it midair, and shot.
The goalkeeper dazzled by how he'd gotten there and the power behind the shot could only watch as the ball hit the net, and the crowd exploded. Dust and cheers filled the air. His mother's voice echoed in his mind — "Play like you were born with the ball."
The man in the suit lowered his sunglasses slightly. His eyes followed Kwaku as he jogged back to midfield, breathless but glowing. The scout said something to the coach, who nodded and smiled.
Kojo slapped Kwaku's back. "You see that? He saw you, chale. He saw you."
But Kwaku didn't smile right away. He looked at the sky, at the burning Ghanaian sun that had watched him grow, and whispered quietly, "Let them see me. Let the whole west side see me."
For a young boy with a dream, football wasn't just a game. It was a way out of his family's current circumstances and he'd grab any chance with both hands.
The rest of the match continued without any more action, one nil was the score.
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End of Chapter 1