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Chapter 11: The New Eyes
Monday morning came with its usual chaos — boys shouting, slippers slapping across the concrete floor, the smell of rice porridge wafting faintly from the dining hall. But something had changed.
Wherever Kweku walked, eyes followed.
"Starboy!" one of the juniors called, grinning wide. "You go score for us again next time, eh?"
Kweku smiled awkwardly. "We'll see."
He wasn't used to the attention. Just a few weeks ago, no one had even known his name. Now, even seniors nodded at him in the corridors, and the teachers called him "the football boy."
But fame inside the boarding school walls was a strange thing — warm one minute, sharp the next.
At breakfast, two boys from another dorm sat beside him uninvited, eager to ask about the goal.
"How did it feel?" one asked, eyes wide.
Kweku shrugged. "Fast. I didn't even think."
"Ah! So that's your secret — no thinking!" the other teased, and they all laughed.
But later, when he returned to his dorm to grab his boots, he overheard a different tone.
Some boys in the corner were whispering.
"Ei, so now he's Yaw's favorite?"
"Captain only passes to him these days."
"Hmm… small fame and they all change."
Kweku froze by the door, the joy in his chest suddenly tight. He slipped out quietly without saying a word.
When he reached the pitch, Yaw was already there, juggling a ball with calm precision.
"You're early," Yaw said. "I thought you'd still be soaking in the glory."
Kweku forced a smile. "I just wanted to train."
Yaw nodded and passed him the ball. "Then train. Fame is nothing if your touch gets heavy."
They practiced in silence for a while — short passes, quick dribbles, chest controls, headers. Sweat ran down their faces, dust rising from under their boots. Every touch was sharper than the last.
After a while, Yaw stopped and looked at him closely.
"You heard them, didn't you?"
Kweku looked down. "Some of them think I'm showing off."
Yaw sighed. "Let them talk. The field speaks louder."
He paused, then added, "But don't lie — part of you likes it, eh?"
Kweku smiled despite himself. "Maybe small."
Yaw laughed. "Good. Just remember why you started, the ones who play for noise never last."
As they trained, a figure approached from across the field — one of the sports master, Mr. Okai. He was a tall, wiry man with sharp eyes and the kind of presence that made you straighten your back immediately.
"Morning, boys," he said. "Still training after the weekend match? That's what we like to see."
He watched them for a few minutes, arms folded, saying nothing. Then, suddenly:
"Kweku, take a shot."
Kweku blinked. "Sir?"
"From there. Let's see it."
Kweku stepped back, steadied himself, and drove his foot cleanly through the ball. It soared across the air and slammed into the top corner of the net, rattling the goalpost.
Mr. Okai nodded slowly. "Good. You've got timing."
Yaw grinned. "He's our secret weapon, sir."
The coach's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "We might just make that official. Inter-schools tournament is coming. Keep this up, and you'll be leading our attack."
Then he walked off, leaving Kweku standing frozen, the weight of his words sinking in, Inter-schools. That would be the biggest stage they had ever played on.
Yaw clapped his shoulder. "See? I told you. Keep your head right, and they'll have to notice."
Kweku looked out at the empty field again — the same one that had once felt too big, too quiet.
Now, it felt like the start of something.
And deep inside, a small, fierce voice whispered:
If I can shine here, maybe one day… she'll see me shine everywhere.
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