The first thing that hit Soma wasn't the cold—though Manchester's October wind cut through his thin jacket like a blade—but the silence. No hawkers shouting prices, no okada engines revving, no music bleeding from every corner shop. Just the hum of cars and the occasional footstep on wet pavement.
"Welcome to England, small boy," Aunty Kemi said, loading his single duffel bag into the boot of her battered Toyota. She looked older than in the photos she'd sent, her face carved with lines that spoke of double shifts and dreams deferred. But her smile was the same one he remembered from his childhood.
The drive through Manchester felt like traveling through a different planet. Everything was gray—the sky, the buildings, even the people bundled in coats that seemed impossibly thick. Soma pressed his face to the window, watching rows of identical houses flash by, each with its own small garden, its own fence, its own perfect isolation.
"This is Moss Side," Kemi said, turning into a neighborhood that looked marginally more familiar. Dark faces appeared on the streets, some wearing hijabs, others in colorful African prints that reminded him of home. "Lot of our people here. Nigerians, Ghanaians, Somalis. You won't be completely alone."
She parked outside a three-story brick building that looked like it had been built when the Queen was young. "Home sweet home," she said, but there was no irony in her voice, only quiet pride.
The flat was small—two bedrooms, a kitchen barely big enough for two people, and a living room dominated by a massive television. But it was warm, clean, and through the window, Soma could see a patch of green that Kemi called "the common."
"You'll sleep in the spare room," she said, showing him a space that was smaller than the entire room he'd shared with his mother in Lagos. "I work nights mostly—cleaning offices in the city center. But Mrs. Patterson next door, she'll keep an eye on you."
Soma unpacked his few belongings: three shirts, two pairs of jeans, his fake Barcelona jersey, and a football so worn the panels were barely visible. Everything he owned in the world fit on a single shelf.
The first night was the hardest. He lay awake listening to sounds he couldn't identify—the hiss of radiators, the distant rumble of trains, voices speaking in accents that twisted English into shapes he barely recognized. He pulled out his phone and watched a video Bayo had sent: kids playing football on their old pitch, dust clouds rising with each tackle, pure joy on every face.
The homesickness hit him like a physical pain. He buried his head in the pillow, trying to muffle the sound of his own tears.
The next morning, Kemi found him sitting by the window, staring at the common where a group of kids kicked a ball around with none of the passion he was used to.
"Missing home already?" she asked, setting a plate of fried plantain in front of him.
"Everything's so... quiet here," he said. "In Lagos, you could feel the life everywhere. Here, it's like everyone's sleeping."
Kemi sat down beside him, her uniform already pressed for another double shift. "I felt the same way when I first came. Took me months to realize that the quiet wasn't emptiness—it was space. Space to think, space to grow, space to become something more than what the streets would let you be."
She stood up, grabbing her keys. "The academy visit is tomorrow. Coach Thompson wants to meet you at ten sharp. Don't be late—first impressions matter here more than back home."
After she left, Soma spent the day exploring the neighborhood. The streets were clean, organized, predictable. He passed a small football pitch where a few boys were playing, but when he approached, they looked at him with suspicion and continued their game without invitation.
By evening, he was convinced he'd made a terrible mistake. This wasn't the England he'd imagined—the England of Premier League highlights and roaring crowds. This was cold, isolated, and lonelier than any street corner in Lagos had ever been.
He called his mother that night, the international rates eating into Kemi's phone credit.
"Mama, maybe I should come home," he said, his voice small.
"Soma," Grace's voice was firm despite the crackling connection. "You've been there one day. One day. You think greatness comes without discomfort? You think legends are born in familiar places?"
She paused, and he could hear the sounds of Lagos in the background—his Lagos, the one that suddenly felt a lifetime away.
"Your father, God rest his soul, used to say that a tree planted in rich soil grows stronger than one that stays in familiar dust. You are that tree, Soma. Let England be your rich soil."
That night, he slept with his worn football clutched against his chest, dreaming of goals that would bridge the gap between two worlds.