The ball was flat. One side torn, the other patched with brown tape. But to ten-year-old Joshua Oghenekevwe, it was everything.
Under the sweltering Delta sun, on a field of cracked earth and stubborn weeds, he danced around three boys twice his size. His bare feet kicked up dust, and the smell of sweat and red soil filled the air.
"Pass now, Kevwe!" shouted Uche, his closest friend.
But Joshua didn't hear him. His eyes were locked on the makeshift goal—two broken bricks set five feet apart. With one final feint, he cut inside and chipped the ball softly. It soared like a feather… curved mid-air… and dropped neatly between the bricks.
Goal.
"Messi! Messi!" the boys shouted, lifting him off the ground in celebration.
Joshua grinned wide, teeth bright against his dusty face. "I told you. Messi is the greatest. I'll be like him one day. Even better."
The boys laughed, but Uche didn't. He looked at Joshua like he was seeing the future.
---
That night, the old TV crackled in their small living room. Lionel Messi was on the screen—number 10, gliding past defenders in Barcelona blue and red.
Joshua sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide, holding his breath every time Messi touched the ball. Behind him, his father snored gently on the couch, exhausted from the day's work at the construction site. His mother hummed in the kitchen, peeling yams under a dim bulb.
Then came the goal.
Messi took the ball from midfield, danced past four defenders, and curled it into the top corner.
Joshua's heart raced. His tiny fists clenched. "That's it. That's what I want to do. That's who I want to be."
He whispered the words again and again:
"Joshua Kevwe. World's greatest footballer."
---
The next morning, life returned to normal.
His father handed him a plastic bowl of garri and soup, kissed his head, and left for work before sunrise. His mother gave him a list for the market after school. His younger sister, Ejiro, asked him to walk her halfway.
"Kevwe," she said while skipping beside him. "When you become Messi, will you buy me a big pink bicycle?"
He smiled. "Two. One for you. One for me."
Ejiro giggled. "But you don't know how to ride!"
"I'll learn when I'm rich."
---
Later that week, something unbelievable happened.
Coach Emeka—the man who ran a local training center and sometimes visited schools—came to their field. He was tall, serious-faced, with a whistle that never left his mouth. Rumor had it he once trained with real professionals.
The boys paused their game when they saw him approach, clipboard in hand.
"You," he pointed. "The small one. What's your name?"
"Joshua… sir."
"You play like your feet don't touch the ground," Emeka said. "I've got something for you. A chance."
Joshua blinked. "A chance?"
"I'm taking five boys to try out for the Pepsi Football Academy in Lagos. I've never seen you, but… that goal you scored today? That was no accident. You've got talent."
Joshua's heart nearly exploded.
"You want to be like Messi?" Emeka asked.
"Yes, sir!"
"Then show up at Liberty Field this Saturday. Be there by 8 a.m. Sharp."
---
When he got home, he burst through the door.
"Mama! Mama! I've been picked! Coach Emeka wants to take me to Lagos—to Pepsi Academy!"
His mother stared at him, yam still in her hands. "Lagos? You?"
"Please! It's my chance, Mama. I swear I'll make you proud."
She dropped the yam.
"You're only ten," she said, her voice shaky. "And you want to run off to a city you've never been to?"
"It's not like that, Mama. Coach Emeka is going. It's a trial!"
His older brother, Osaze, walked in from the other room, shirtless, arms folded. "You think life is a movie, Kevwe? You think dreams put food on the table?"
Joshua's face fell. "I just… I want to try."
His mother looked between her sons. The silence stretched. Then she sighed.
"Let me speak with your father tonight."
---
That night was long. Joshua couldn't sleep. He kept picturing Messi lifting trophies, kissing the golden Ballon d'Or, the crowd chanting his name.
Then he imagined himself…
Joshua Kevwe.
Wearing the green jersey of Nigeria.
Scoring the winning goal at the World Cup.
Mama and Papa watching from the stands, tears in their eyes.
When morning came, he met his father outside as he prepared to leave.
"Papa…"
"I know," his father interrupted, tying his boots. "Your mother told me."
Joshua held his breath.
"I'm scared," his father admitted. "Lagos isn't here. It's not the bush. But you have a gift, son. And gifts must be used."
He placed a hand on Joshua's head.
"If you go, you don't just carry our name. You carry our hopes."
Joshua's eyes welled up. "I won't disappoint you."
His father smiled. "We know. Just don't forget us when the world screams your name."
---
Saturday came like a flash.
Joshua wore his best clothes—old boots with torn laces, shorts two sizes too big, and a yellow jersey with "MESSI" scribbled on the back with marker.
He arrived at Liberty Field and found four other boys waiting. Coach Emeka stood tall with a clipboard.
"Only one rule," Emeka said. "Play like it's your last game."
They boarded the bus. It rattled, smoked, and coughed through every pothole. But Joshua barely noticed. He stared out the window, watching the world change as they left Delta State behind.
He held his boots tightly, like they were magic.
And in his chest, a dream burned.
---
That night, as they reached the edge of Lagos, and the city lights glowed like stars on earth, Joshua whispered to himself again:
"One day, they'll chant my name."
"One day, they'll say… Joshua Kevwe is the greatest."