The first racist comment came during a match against Arsenal's academy, whispered from the stands just loud enough for Soma to hear as he prepared to take a corner kick.
"Go back to the jungle where you belong."
Soma's hands tightened on the ball. He'd heard worse in Lagos—street football wasn't known for its politeness—but those insults had been about skill, about territory, about pride. This was different. This cut deeper.
He delivered the corner with extra venom, whipping it in so hard that their own striker couldn't control it. The ball sailed over everyone and out for a goal kick.
"Concentrate, Soma!" Thompson shouted from the touchline.
But concentration was becoming harder to find. Over the past month, the incidents had been subtle but persistent. Opposing fans muttering about "African showboats." A parent at one match loudly wondering why English academies were "importing problems." Even some referees seemed quicker to blow their whistles when he attempted skills that white players got away with.
The worst part was the silence from his own teammates. They heard the comments—he could see it in their faces, the quick glances, the uncomfortable shifts. But no one said anything. No one stood up for him.
Maybe they agreed.
After the Arsenal match—a 1-0 defeat that left City's academy league hopes hanging by a thread—Soma found himself walking to the car park alone. His isolation had become so complete that even the post-match analysis happened without him.
"Soma!"
He turned to find a man in his fifties approaching, wearing an expensive suit and an Arsenal coaching badge. The man's smile was friendly, but something in his eyes made Soma wary.
"Great performance today, son. I'm Dave Mitchell, Arsenal's head of youth recruitment. Mind if we have a quick chat?"
Soma glanced toward the City changing rooms, where his teammates were probably dissecting the defeat without him.
"I suppose."
"I've been watching you for weeks now," Mitchell continued. "Raw talent like yours is rare. The way you beat three players for that chance in the first half—magnificent. Reminded me of a young Thierry Henry."
Despite everything, Soma felt a warm glow at the comparison.
"The thing is," Mitchell lowered his voice, "I can't help but notice you're not entirely... settled at City. Team dynamics can be tricky, especially for players with your... background."
"My background?"
"International players often struggle with the English style of play. All this passing, this tactical discipline—it's not what you grew up with, is it? Sometimes a fresh start is what's needed."
Mitchell handed him a business card. "Arsenal believes in letting talented players express themselves. We value creativity, individual brilliance. Players like you can flourish here."
Soma pocketed the card without looking at it. "I haven't thought about leaving City."
"Of course not. But if you ever do..." Mitchell's smile widened. "Well, the offer stands. Players of African descent often find Arsenal a more... welcoming environment."
As Mitchell walked away, Soma felt a familiar mixture of anger and confusion. Was the man trying to help him or insult him? Was leaving City running away from his problems or solving them?
On the drive home, Kemi noticed his silence.
"Rough match?"
"We lost." Soma stared out the window at Manchester's gray landscape. "Everything here is gray, you know that? The sky, the buildings, the people's faces. Even when they smile, it's gray."
"Football is just football, Soma. Win some, lose some."
"It's not just football." The words came out harder than he'd intended. "They don't want me here, Aunty. Not really. They want me to score goals and stay quiet and be grateful for the opportunity. But they don't actually want me."
Kemi pulled into their street but didn't immediately get out of the car.
"You know," she said finally, "when I first came to England, I felt the same way. Like I was performing being English rather than living it. Like everyone was watching me, waiting for me to mess up so they could say, 'See? We knew she didn't belong.'"
"What changed?"
"I stopped trying to prove I belonged and started focusing on why I came here in the first place. I came for opportunity, for a better life, for the chance to become something more than what Lagos would let me be. Once I remembered that, the opinions of others mattered less."
That night, Soma lay in bed studying the Arsenal business card. The logo seemed to gleam in the lamplight, promising a fresh start, a place where his talent would be appreciated rather than constrained.
But leaving felt like giving up. And Soma Adebayo had never given up on anything in his life.