The first thing Sebuka felt was the warmth.
Not just the humid heat of Bujumbura's dry season, but a different warmth—familiar, soft, almost nostalgic. Cotton sheets, not hospital linens. The faint scent of maize porridge drifting through the air. Birds chirping outside an open window, and the muffled chatter of women in Kirundi and Kiswahili from the street below.
(Yeah even if it's Burundi , Swahili is the most language used in Bujumbura and buyenzi is n⁰1 in Bujumbura in that language.)
His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling was a faded peach color. There were tiny cracks above the fan, the same ones he used to trace with his eyes while pretending to sleep.
His heart pounded.
He sat up.
Everything felt... small. The bed. His legs. His arms.
He looked down and gasped.
Tiny hands.
Warm caramel skin. The soft, rounded fingers of a child.
"No way," he whispered, his voice high and young.
He stumbled out of bed and nearly tripped over a toy truck. The floor was hard and cool, reddish cement. There was a cracked mirror by the wooden wardrobe. He hurried over and stared.
A six-year-old boy stared back.
Curly black hair. Wide brown eyes. A slightly chipped tooth. His own face—his real face—but much younger. He touched his cheek and the reflection mirrored him.
"I'm... I'm back?"
A sudden knock shook the door.
"Side! Wake up! You'll be late for school!" his mother's voice rang out. Not hoarse and tired like in her final years—but full, strong, and youthful.
Tears welled in his eyes. He wiped them away and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily.
He was back. 2015. Buyenzi. Bujumbura.
And then he remembered everything.
Black Star. The void. The five objects. His choice.
"Ball?" he whispered cautiously.
Nothing.
He scanned the room. Nothing golden. Nothing glowing. Just the old posters of footballers, the mosquito net hanging from the ceiling, and the patched-up window curtain.
But then, from under the bed, came a light shuffle.
He knelt and peered below.
A black-and-gold football rolled out on its own.
It stopped by his feet. Perfectly still. Gleaming faintly.
"You came back too," Sebuka breathed.
The ball pulsed.
And then, from its surface, a small projection rose—like smoke turning into light. A black-grey hologram shimmered mid-air. It showed a basic interface:
!!!
#Ball
Name : Sebuka
Fate: footballer
Age : 6y
Position: none
Overall attributes' stats : F
Stats:
Stamina(Rank F): 4/20
Speed(Rank F): 5/20
Control(Rank F-): 2/20
Vision(Rank F+): 6/20
Reflex(Rank F-): 2/20
Mental(Rank A-): 1/20
Skill : none.
Quest : none
Sebuka blinked, mouth agape.
The ball spoke—its voice smooth and clear, neither robotic nor human, but something in-between:
"Welcome back, Side Sebuka. You've selected the path of Max. The journey begins now."
"Ball?" Sebuka whispered. "You're... real?"
"I am real as your choice. I am Ball. I am your path."
He knelt beside the ball and touched it with trembling fingers. The surface was warm. Almost alive.
"Why can't anyone else hear you? Or see that interface?"
The ball answered calmly: "Because no one else is meant to. Only you can see and hear me. To the rest of the world, I am just nothing. Your mission is yours alone."
A chill ran down Sebuka's spine.
He got dressed slowly, pulling on the gray shirt and matching trousers of the École Jumuia uniform. The cloth felt scratchy, new again. A sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him. It had been decades since he last wore these clothes.
When he stepped outside, the world greeted him with chaos and color. The 8ème Avenue in Buyenzi buzzed with life. Sellers calling out their wares, children chasing chickens, the smell of chapati and beans, bicycles weaving through muddy alleys. Life hadn't changed.
As he walked toward École Jumuia, Ball stayed silent but rolled at his side when no one was watching. When people came close, it stilled and pretended to be lifeless.
Sebuka felt his heart drum in rhythm with each step. He knew the road ahead would not be easy.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
And this time, he had a chance to write a different ending.
To be continued...
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