---
Chapter 9: After the Whistle
The dormitory hummed with life long after lights-out.
The small ceiling fan spun lazily, doing little to chase away the stifling heat, but no one cared. The match had ended hours ago, yet the thrill still lingered like electricity in the air.
Someone had brought in a loaf of bread and a tin of sardines — contraband from the dining hall — and they were passing it around like a victory feast. The boys laughed so loudly that the prefect banged on the door twice before giving up.
Kweku sat on his bunk, his hair still damp from the quick bucket bath he'd taken after the game. He could feel the faint ache in his legs, the sting of small cuts on his shins — the kind of pain that meant he'd given everything.
"Ei, Roberto Carlos!" someone shouted from across the room.
It was Soglo, the goalkeeper. "That volley, Kweku! You nearly tore the net!"
Laughter and applause erupted again.
Kweku grinned shyly, ducking his head. "It was Yaw's pass," he said.
Yaw, who sat on the bed opposite him, polishing his boots, just chuckled. "Ah, don't downplay it," he said, his voice calm as always. "You made it count, that's what matters."
There was something steady about Yaw — not just in the way he played, but in how he was. When other boys got carried away, he stayed grounded. He didn't shout or boast; he guided. That quiet confidence drew everyone to him.
"You see," Soglo said, still grinning, "this is how it starts! From school pitch to national team! Remember us when you're famous, eh?"
Kweku laughed, but deep down, his heart fluttered.
Famous. The word felt too big for him. Too far away.
Still, he couldn't help but imagine it — crowds cheering, his mother watching from the stands, pride shining in her eyes.
Yaw noticed his silence. "You thinking about home again?" he asked softly.
Kweku hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I wish my mum could've seen it."
Yaw leaned back against the wall. "She will," he said simply. "Keep playing like that, and she'll have to."
The room grew quieter. A few boys were already lying down, murmuring jokes half asleep. Outside, crickets sang in the dark.
Kweku lay back and stared at the cracked ceiling. He thought about his mother — her tired smile, her calloused hands, the way she used to stay up after market hours just to watch him juggle a ball in the courtyard.
He wished he could tell her everything — how the crowd had cheered, how Yaw had trusted him with the pass, how it felt to be lifted by his teammates, weightless and laughing.
Yaw's voice broke the silence. "You know," he said, "when I first came here, I used to cry every night. Missed home so much, I almost quit football."
Kweku turned his head. "You? Quit?"
Yaw smiled faintly. "Yeah. But my uncle told me something — 'If your dream doesn't make you lonely sometimes, maybe it's not big enough.'"
Kweku let that settle in the air.
The words hit deep, like they were meant for him.
Yaw stood and stretched. "Rest well, Starboy. We train again tomorrow."
Kweku smiled in the dark. "Goodnight, Captain."
As the dorm finally quieted and the last whispers faded, Kweku's eyes grew heavy. He drifted off to sleep with Yaw's words echoing in his mind — and a silent promise forming in his heart, not to let the loneliness win.