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Chapter 3 – Goodbye, Takoradi
The news spread through Amanful faster than a football rolling downhill.
By morning, everyone knew: Kwaku Mensah was leaving for St. Augustine's College,on a football scholarship.
The neighbourhood boys came to see him off, some joking, others quiet with envy. Mothers at the food stalls smiled and said, "We'll see you on TV soon." Even the old barber who cut his hair under the mango tree refused to charge him that day.
"Future Black Star, eh?" the man said, brushing away hair from Kwaku's neck. "Don't forget the us who knew you when you were just dust and dreams."
Kwaku smiled. "Never, Uncle Kwesi. I'll come back."
He said it with conviction, though a small part of him wondered if that would be true. Once people left these parts, and succeeded they rarely came back here.
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At home, his mother packed his small metal trunk carefully. Inside were three shirts, two pairs of shorts, one extra pair of shoes, a couple other things he needed and most importantly, the Bible she'd carried since Kwaku was born. "Keep it with you always," she said. "When the world gets loud, listen to God's quiet voice."
Kwaku nodded. He wanted to say something deep, something worthy of all she'd sacrificed — the long days at the stall, the nights she went hungry so he could eat. But words failed him.
Instead, he hugged her tight. "I'll make you proud, Ma."
Her voice broke a little. "You already have."
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The trotro station was chaos as always — engines sputtering, hawkers shouting, passengers arguing over change. But to Kwaku, it felt different today. Every noise, every smell, every laugh seemed sharper, etched into memory.
Kojo waited near the bus, a small plastic bag in his hand, a mattress ,wooden box and a metal trunk beside him. He looked restless, kicking at the gravel.
"You're really going," he said.
"Yeah."
"Hmm. I still can't believe it."
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Kojo shoved the bag into Kwaku's hand.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
Inside was a brand-new pair of football boots — green with gold stripes, slightly too big but beautiful.
"Kojo… how—"
"Don't ask. Just wear them. You can't be showing up at the school team with your shoes that are always thirsty," he said, grinning through glassy eyes.
Kwaku stared at the boots, his throat tight. "I can't take this."
"It doesn't matter, you will. Just promise me one thing — when you make it, don't forget me."
Kwaku laughed, blinking fast. "Forget you? People don't forget family, bro."
They hugged like brothers — strong, unspoken love between boys who'd shared everything: dreams, hunger, victories, and dust.
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The bus driver honked impatiently. It was time.
Kwaku climbed aboard, turning to see his mother waving from the crowd, Kojo beside her, trying to look brave. The trotro rumbled to life, coughing smoke into the air. As it pulled away, Kwaku pressed his hand against the window.
The city blurred past — the alleys where he'd played barefoot, the kiosk where he bought chilled sobolo, the rusty goalposts that had framed his dreams.
He closed his eyes, letting the motion rock him, the sound of the tyres humming like a heartbeat.
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Hours later, the city gave way to open fields. The air changed — fresher, quieter, alive with the scent of rain and earth. For the first time, Kwaku felt how big Ghana really was.
He thought of what Coach Asare had said: "This is not just football — it's a test of character."
He didn't know what that meant yet, but he was determined to find out.
As the bus approached the Central Region, Kwaku pulled the boots from his bag. The leather gleamed under the faint sunlight. He ran his fingers over the red stripes and smiled.
"Kojo," he whispered, "these boots are going to see the world."
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When he finally arrived at Cape Coast, it was late afternoon. The school sat near the sea, with a lagoon behind it— green fields stretching wide, green and white dormitories lined in rows, and real goalposts that weren't rusted or crooked.
He stepped off the bus, heart thundering. The air smelled of grass and promise.
A tall man in a training jacket approached, clipboard in hand.
"Name?"
"Timothy Kwaku Mensah, sir."
The man nodded, ticking something on his paper. "St.Patricks' house. Trials begin tomorrow morning, six sharp. No excuses. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Kwaku watched as other boys arrived — some laughing, some looking nervous. They all wore branded clothes and shiny shoes, brought by parents in cars he'd only seen politicians drive. He felt a sudden sting of doubt. Maybe he didn't belong here after all.
But then he looked down at what his mom could afford— those slightly oversized loafers — and something steadied in his chest.
He laced them tight, feeling their weight, their story.
"I'll show them who I am," he whispered.
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That night, as he lay in the dorm bed surrounded by strangers, Kwaku couldn't sleep again. The frogs croaked outside, and the river murmured softly nearby.
Tomorrow, everything would begin.
Tomorrow, the boy from Amanful would have to prove he was more than just a street player.
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End of Chapter 3