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Chapter 5: The List
The notice board outside the dining hall drew a crowd like bees to ripe mangoes. Everyone wanted to see the list—the one that decided who would have the chance to represent the school in the interschool competition. The boys were buzzing, teasing, pushing, all trying to squeeze close enough to read the paper pinned by a rusty thumbtack.
Kweku stood a few feet away, pretending not to care. He'd gone around the school, trying to get used to his new environment but his mind had been on the list since he woke up. His right foot tapped the ground—tap, tap, tap—the same rhythm he used when waiting for a pass on the pitch. He'd told himself not to hope too much. He was only fifteen, smaller than most of the seniors, and the coach had barely said two words to him after trials. But still… a small, stubborn flame burned in his chest.
"Chale, move your head, I can't see!" someone shouted.
Kwaku's dorm mate, Collins, elbowed his way through and scanned the sheet. "Ah! They put Kwesi, Adjei, and—wait—" he stopped, grinning wide. "Timothy Kweku Mensah! Bro, you made it!"
For a second, the words didn't register. Then Kweku blinked hard. "Me?"
Collins laughed. "Yes, you! You're on the list! You're the youngest one, too!"
The crowd's noise faded. For Kweku, time slowed. His name—there, written in neat blue ink between older, stronger players—felt like a promise. A beginning.
He felt light, as if he could sprint all the way home without touching the ground.
But then, a voice cut through the cheers. "That list shows how low we've fallen." It was Yaw Boateng, the team captain. Taller, broader, already being scouted by academies. His eyes were sharp, calculating. "The new boys can dribble, sure, but this isn't street football. We need players with muscle and technique."
The silence that followed stung more than a slap. Kweku tried to smile, but his chest felt heavy. "I'll prove myself," he muttered under his breath.
Yaw smirked. "We'll see."
That night, Kweku walked home in his mind, past the dusty field where he used to play barefoot as a kid. He stopped, looked at the old goalposts made from crooked sticks, and remembered the first time he'd kicked a ball—just a plastic bag rolled tight with rubber bands. He remembered his father's voice, soft and hopeful before he abandoned them:
"If you want to shine, Kweku, don't wait for the sun. Get your own light."
H shook his head getting rid of memories of that man whose words echoed as he stood under the fading sunset.
Tomorrow would be the first official team practice. Yaw's challenge still rang in his ears. But for once, Kweku didn't feel afraid.
He pulled out the small, tattered notebook he kept in his bag—a list of goals he'd written months ago. He flipped through it and found the next line waiting for him.
Get on the school team.
He smiled and drew a careful tick beside it. Then he turned the page and wrote a new line:
Become the best player on it.
He smiled, writing personal goals was something his dad had emphasised, despite trying not to be influenced by him in any way, but some habits die hard, and this was solely for his own development.
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Sorry this is embarrassingly short.