June 1st, 2024…
England, London. Wembley Stadium.
(UEFA Champions League:)
(Final:)
(Real Madrid – Dortmund)
…
That is that, this is this.
Here is Lagos, Nigeria; one of the bustling streets of the famous city.
The air was thick with anticipation, heat, and the smell of roasted suya drifting in from the roadside.
Inside the cramped viewing center no larger than a classroom, plastic chairs creaked beneath restless bodies, all turned toward the flickering plasma TV mounted crookedly on the wall.
The noise was deafening. Generators hummed outside like angry bees, fighting to drown out the frenzy within.
"Abeg shift! You dey cover screen!" Someone barked in pidgin, elbowing a neighbor who leaned too far forward.
Sweat trickled down faces, shirts clung to backs. The small standing fan in the corner spun lazily, offering mercy to no one.
"Ehn! That was offside! See am now!" A man in a faded Dortmund jersey shouted, slamming his bottled malt on the floor.
Beside him, two friends wearing Real Madrid white grinned and high-fived after every clean pass their team completed. The Madrid fans were cocky, loud, and unbothered by the rising tension from the opposing side of the room.
An old man with a toothpick stuck between his teeth muttered prophecies of doom for Dortmund in pidgin. "Dem go collect. Madrid no dey joke for final. You no see their white? Na burial cloth be that".
The entire place swayed like a powder keg ready to blow. The TV flickered briefly. A collective gasp, then it resumed.
The 82nd minute of the game ticked in.
Ken sat in a quiet corner, separate from the chaos but fully immersed in it. His lips moved before his voice did.
"C'mon, do something Dortmund, do something," he muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the noise around him.
It was the Champions League final. Real Madrid, the 14-time champions against underdogs, Borussia Dortmund.
The 82nd minute had just ticked in. Marco Reus, Dortmund's captain and legend had the ball at his feet. It was his final professional game for his beloved club, and what better way to send him off than with a UEFA champions league win?
Not only would winning the champions league on his last night be the perfect ending to his career, but it would also be a glorious sight for every Real Madrid hater, especially Ken.
Reus scanned the field and passed the ball to Ian Maatsen. The left back, under pressure panicked and gave it away to Madrid's Jude Bellingham.
Ken's heart seized.
Bellingham received the ball and drippled past a midfielder before slipping a perfectly timed pass to Vinicius Junior who burst down the left wing lie a demon unleashed. Ken didn't even dare breathe.
Vinicius took one touch, then fired a rocket with his left foot.
Bam!
The ball kissed the back of the net.
"GOALLLL!" The viewing center exploded.
People leapt, drinks spilled, someone threw a chair all in the sudden excitement. The Madrid fans danced wildly.
Ken? He sat frozen, spine stiff, soul cracked.
2-0.
The final nail. He didn't even wait for the replays.
He stood, head low and left the viewing center without a word. He knew what would come next; mockery, trolls, whatsapp messages filled with smug jabs comparing Madrid's fifteen titles to Barcelona's five.
By the time Ken got home, he was too exhausted to even be angry. He walked into his room, switched off his phone, and collapsed on the bed.
"Real Madrid has won it again," he muttered in the darkness, full of bitterness. "Someone has to stop them".
"Their European dominance over the years is alarming, Barcelona can't compete with them anymore. We've been rubbish in the Champions League for nine straight seasons".
Tears stung his eyes.
He thought of the disastrous 2023/24 season Barcelona had endured; losing every El Clasico, a rivalry game between Real Madrid and Barcelona. Not just that, a humiliating 4-1 defeat to PSG in the quarterfinals of the Champions League, and finishing the season without a single trophy.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Vinicius Jnr. Celebrating.
Was this how it would be forever? Madrid dominating, Barcelona disappointing. A bitter taste lingered in his mouth as he drifted into sleep, the pain of another failed season swallowing him whole.
…
Weeks later…
Sunlight spilled into Ken's room through slanted blinds.
He stretched with a yawn and rolled off his mattress, energized and excited. The memory of Madrid's triumph had faded, replaced by a new focus; today's final.
It was the grand finale of the Ikorodu Community Football Tournament. Elepe Tornadoes versus Itamaga Lions.
Local bragging rights were on the line, and Ken, Elepe's star left winger was the tournament's leading goal scorer with 13 goals and 11 assists in just 5 games.
He went to wash his boots, a smirk crossing his face. "I have to figure out how to bribe my sister again".
It was a routine. Every matchday, his younger sister demanded a fee to keep his football outings a secret from their parents. She'd lie, cover for him, and pretend he was out running errands.
"Its 1:30pm already, Ken. You need to get moving," said Precious, his girlfriend, packing his backpack with boots, shin guards, and a sachet of water.
Precious had been with him since secondary school, his biggest supporter and sometimes, his only one. She was there at every training session, massaged his calves when he got cramps, and believed in his dream more than anyone else.
"Alright, let me quickly go see my sister," Ken said, grabbing some naira notes and darting to her room.
"Don't stay long o! Daddy and Mummy will be back around seven," she said, grinning as she counted the money. He waved it off.
The commercial bus ride to the field was bumpy, the sun unrelenting. They got off in front of the Ikorodu Local Government Field.
A barren, uneven surface full of grass patches, sand, and dry earth. The goalpost nets were torn, there were no corner flags or proper line markings; just the raw beauty of grassroots football in Nigeria.
Ken's heart dropped.
"They've started training already," he said, his eyes scanning the pitch.
"Apologize to Coach John-Bosco. He likes you; I'll be watching from the stands". Precious said, giving him a quick peck before heading toward the crowd.
Ken jogged to the edge of the pitch. Coach John-Bosco, a tall, bald man in his fifties with a belly that stretched his shirt buttons spotted him immediately.
His voice thundered across the field. "What's the time?! Why are you just coming?!"
"Sir, I'm sorry. The bus broke dow…"
A heavy slap landed on Ken's cheek before he could finish, interrupting him.
He staggered, silence falling over the players.
Coach John-Bosko's voice roared again, slicing through the air. "If you mess up today, just forget this team!"
Ken rubbed his face, burning with shame. He looked over at Precious in the stands; she gave him a small nod.
It was the final.
And no slap, no humiliation was going to stop him from making it count.