Chapter 42 — The Weight of Attention
The morning after the match, Marseille felt different — or maybe it was just Kweku who had changed. The city was wrapped in a pale coat of winter, rooftops glazed with frost, and the sky stretched in a soft, icy blue. But beneath his jacket, Kweku felt warm, almost buzzing. His first full start of the year, a win, an assist — it was the kind of night every young player dreamed about.
He stepped into school expecting the usual quiet shuffle through the hallways, his head down, his French notebook clutched to his chest. But the moment he pushed open the front doors, a wave of sound greeted him.
"There he is!"
"Ay, it's the Ghanaian midfielder!"
"Hier soir! Ton assist — incroyable!"
He froze. Three boys from his math class jogged toward him, one clapping him on the back.
"You were fire yesterday!" one said, switching to English for emphasis. "Real talent, bro."
Kweku blinked, unsure whether to thank them or hide behind his textbooks. Before he could respond, another voice called out.
"Kweku!" Camille rushed over, scarf wrapped around her neck, her breath misting the frosty air. Her smile was bright, warm enough to break the cold.
"I watched the whole match," she said. "You looked… different. Stronger."
"He carried the whole team," one of the boys joked.
Kweku felt heat rising to his cheeks. "It wasn't only me. Louis scored."
"Yeah," another chimed in. "But you set it up!"
They all laughed, and the sound echoed in the hallway. For the first time since arriving in Marseille, Kweku didn't feel invisible.
He felt seen.
---
At lunch, he sat with Louis and Camille under the fig tree, though the branches were bare now, their leaves shrivelled by winter. The cold crept through the bench, but Louis was talking too loudly to feel anything.
"So," Louis began dramatically, "our very own star boy finally wakes up."
Kweku rolled his eyes. "You're the one who scored."
"Because you passed to me," Louis said, winking. "Coach was buzzing! You should've seen his face on the bus — as someone told him he won a million euros."
Camille giggled. "You must be proud."
"I… I just did my job," Kweku murmured, though he couldn't stop the smile tugging at his cheeks.
Louis nudged him with his elbow. "Don't worry. I'll keep you humble."
"You?" Camille raised an eyebrow. "Humble?"
Louis placed a hand dramatically on his chest. "Camille, I'm the humblest person in this school."
Kweku nearly choked laughing.
For a moment, everything felt simple — just three teenagers sharing jokes under a washed-out winter sun. But the moment didn't last long.
During their afternoon break, a crowd formed near the courtyard. Kweku didn't think much of it until he overheard his own name floating through the air.
"That Ghanaian kid from the match…"
"Yeah, him — the midfielder…"
He felt something tighten in his stomach. It wasn't fear — more like an awareness, a pressure that settled quietly on his shoulders.
People were watching now.
Expecting.
---
On the tram ride home, Louis stretched his legs across two seats, humming a melody Kweku didn't recognise.
"You know what this means, right?" he asked suddenly.
Kweku looked out the window, watching hints of snow tumble past the glass. "What?"
"Coach is gonna push you harder. Maybe even look at you differently." Louis leaned forward, grinning. "You're not just another player anymore."
Kweku sighed. "I just want to play."
"And you will," Louis said. "But now the spotlight's on you. Enjoy it."
He said it as if it were easy. Like attention was something you slipped into like a new pair of boots.
Kweku wasn't sure yet.
---
That night, after training — a brutal winter session where his breath nearly froze in the air — he sat on his bed and finally called home.
"Mama?" he said softly when she picked up.
Her voice came through the speaker warm and bright. "My son! I heard. Your uncle called the whole house to shout your name!"
Kweku laughed, covering his face with his hand. "Uncle always exaggerates."
"Exaggerates, yes," she agreed. "But this time, he is right. You played well?"
He hesitated for a moment, unsure how to explain the strange mixture of pride and pressure that had settled in his chest.
"I think so," he said. "People noticed."
"As they should," his mother replied. "You worked hard. God sees. People see too, now."
He swallowed. "Mama… it feels like everyone expects things from me."
"Then show them you can do it," she said gently. "But remember — you are not playing for them. You are playing because God gave you a gift, and because you love it."
Kweku felt his shoulders loosen.
"And," she added, her tone softening, "no matter what happens… You are still my boy."
He closed his eyes, imagining her face, the soft flicker of the small kitchen light back home in Ghana.
"I miss you, Mama."
"I miss you too. But don't worry. Your place in this world is forming. Step by step."
They spoke for a few minutes more before hanging up. When the call ended, Kweku stared at his reflection in the dark window: a boy far from home, wrapped in winter, learning to stand beneath the weight of new eyes.
He wasn't sure where this path would take him.
But for the first time, he felt ready to climb it.
---