The Manchester City Academy rose from the Etihad Campus like a gleaming monument to football perfection. Glass and steel stretched toward gray clouds, and through the windows, Soma could see perfectly manicured training pitches that looked like green carpets.
"Don't let it intimidate you," Kemi said, but her own voice carried a note of awe. "Remember, they invited you here."
The reception area smelled like new leather and disinfectant. Trophies lined the walls—FA Youth Cup winners, Premier League champions, photographs of players who'd graduated to the first team and now played in stadiums Soma had only seen on television.
"Soma Adebayo?" A man in a tracksuit approached, his hand extended. "I'm Coach Thompson. We've been looking forward to meeting you."
Thompson was tall, white-haired, with eyes that seemed to catalog every detail. His handshake was firm, professional, but Soma caught him glancing at his clothes—the same jeans he'd worn on the plane, his Barcelona jersey faded from countless washes.
"Impressive videos," Thompson continued, leading him down a corridor lined with photographs of academy graduates. "Raw talent like yours is rare. But talent is just the starting point here. Let's see how coachable you are."
The kit room was a temple of perfect organization. Rows of training gear hung like soldiers at attention, everything in exact sizes, everything pristine. The kit manager, a cheerful man named Dave, measured Soma quickly and handed him a stack of Manchester City training gear.
"Welcome to the big leagues, lad," Dave said with a wink.
In the changing room, Soma stared at himself in the mirror. The City training top fit perfectly, the shorts were the right length, even the boots—actual Nike boots, not the knock-offs he'd worn in Lagos—felt like they'd been made for his feet. For the first time since leaving Nigeria, he looked like he belonged.
The other boys were already on the pitch when he emerged. Fifteen of them, all around his age, going through warm-up drills with mechanical precision. Their touches were clean, their passes crisp, their movements coordinated like a dance he didn't know the steps to.
"Right then," Thompson called, gathering them around him. "We've got a new player joining us. Soma Adebayo, all the way from Lagos. I want you all to make him feel welcome."
A tall boy with perfectly styled blonde hair stepped forward. "I'm Marcus Henderson," he said, extending his hand. "Team captain. Good to have you aboard."
His accent was what Soma had learned to recognize as "posh"—the kind of English that sounded like it came from BBC newsreaders. His handshake was confident, his smile practiced, and something in his eyes suggested he was already measuring Soma as competition.
"We'll start with some basic drills," Thompson announced. "Passing, movement, getting a feel for how we play here."
The first drill was simple—pass and move in groups of three. Soma found himself between Marcus and a stocky boy with a Liverpool accent who introduced himself as Jamie. The ball came to him, and instinctively, he took a touch, looked up, and saw space.
In Lagos, space meant opportunity. Space meant goals.
He pushed the ball forward, accelerating past the first defender with a touch that sent the boy stumbling. The second defender approached, and Soma dropped his shoulder, selling a dummy that left the boy grasping at air. The goal was thirty yards away, the keeper off his line, everything screaming at him to shoot—
"ADEBAYO!"
Thompson's voice cracked like a whip. Soma stopped, the ball rolling harmlessly toward the sideline.
"This is a passing drill, not showboating practice. When your teammate calls for the ball, you pass the ball. Simple as that."
Heat rose in Soma's cheeks. Around him, he could feel the other boys watching, some with sympathy, others with barely concealed amusement. Marcus jogged over, his expression carefully neutral.
"Just need to get used to the system," he said quietly. "We play as a team here."
The rest of the session followed the same pattern. Every time Soma tried to express himself—a skill move, a run at goal, anything that resembled the football he'd grown up playing—Thompson's whistle would pierce the air. Pass. Move. Keep it simple. Follow the system.
It was like trying to paint with only gray colors.
During a water break, a boy with dark skin and familiar features approached him. "I'm Tunde Okafor," he said, his accent carrying hints of home. "Born in Kano, been here two years now."
"You're Nigerian?" Soma asked, relief flooding through him.
"Was. Now I'm just another academy player." Tunde's smile was knowing. "Word of advice—forget everything you learned back home. Here, they don't want African flair. They want English discipline. The sooner you accept that, the easier it gets."
"But what about creativity? What about—"
"What about staying in the program?" Tunde interrupted. "Look around, Soma. How many players like us do you see in the Premier League who still play like they're from the street? They all learned to adapt."
The session ended with a small-sided game. Soma found himself on Marcus's team, and for the first time all day, he felt the familiar surge of competitive fire. This was football—real football, not drills and systems.
The ball came to him in the penalty area, two defenders closing in. In Lagos, this was simple—fake left, go right, shoot. But as he prepared to make his move, he heard Marcus calling for the ball from an unmarked position.
Pass or shoot? Trust or score?
Soma chose score.
His shot was perfect, curling into the top corner with the kind of precision that had made him legend on the streets of Mushin. The net bulged, and for a moment, he was home again.
But the celebration he expected never came. Thompson's whistle had already blown.
"Selfish play, Adebayo. Marcus was in a better position, and you know it."
"But I scored," Soma protested.
"This time. But football isn't about one goal, it's about building patterns, creating systems that work every time. Individual brilliance might win you street games, but it won't win you championships."
In the changing room afterward, the atmosphere was polite but cool. The other boys chatted among themselves, their conversations stopping when Soma approached. Only Tunde lingered as he packed his bag.
"You'll learn," Tunde said quietly. "Or you'll go home. Those are your options."
Outside, Kemi was waiting in her car, engine running against the cold. "How did it go?" she asked as they drove home.
Soma stared out the window at the Manchester skyline, thinking about perfectly manicured pitches and perfectly executed systems that left no room for the magic he carried in his feet.
"They want me to play football," he said finally. "Just not my football."
Kemi glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing, Soma. Maybe it's time to learn something new."
But as they pulled into their street, Soma was already planning. Tomorrow's training would be different. Tomorrow, he would show them what Lagos football really looked like. System or no system.