The evening sun bled across Benin City, its dying light settling over rows of rust-colored rooftops and the restless murmur of life below. In the distance, car horns blared, hawkers called out prices, and generators coughed to life like tired beasts. The air smelled of dust, smoke, and roasted corn.
But on an uneven field behind Ogbe Primary School, none of that mattered.
Twenty boys in mismatched jerseys chased a tattered football like it held their future. Dust rose with every kick, clinging to sweat-drenched skin. Bare feet thudded against red earth. The crowd — a mix of neighborhood kids, parents, and random onlookers — yelled from the sidelines, forming a noisy wall of energy.
In the center of the chaos, Joseph Oyas, fifteen years old and barefoot except for one torn boot, was a blur of movement.
His dark skin gleamed with sweat under the fading sun. His shorts were ripped at the side, his shirt soaked, but his eyes — sharp and determined — never left the ball.
He darted forward, cutting between two defenders with a feint that looked almost rehearsed. A cloud of dust rose around him as he rolled the ball past one boy and flicked it over another. The crowd roared.
"See Joseph!" someone shouted from the side. "Ahh, Messi don come o!"
Joseph's heart raced, but not from the run. This was what he lived for — that heartbeat of silence before the strike, when the world held its breath.
He drew his leg back, aimed, and fired.
The ball curved beautifully — only to smack the crossbar and bounce out.
A collective groan filled the field.
"Unlucky!" Chike, his teammate, yelled. "Next one go enter!"
Joseph forced a smile, nodding. His chest burned, his lungs screamed, but he waved to Chike and jogged back into position.
The referee — a tired-looking man with a whistle hanging by thread — checked his watch. "Last minute, boys!" he called. "One minute!"
The scoreline glared back from the chalkboard on the sideline: 3–2.
Joseph's team was losing. Again.
He could feel the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders.
The ball came to him again — a desperate long pass from defense. He trapped it with his thigh, turned sharply, and sprinted upfield. The opposing captain, Osas, was waiting — tall, broad, and confident.
Osas had been teasing him all game. "Small boy, stay your level," he'd said after every tackle.
Now, he stood his ground, eyes locked.
Joseph feinted left, then right, trying to slip through. But Osas anticipated it this time. He slid in hard — not dirty, but firm — and sent the ball flying off Joseph's feet.
The whistle blew.
Game over.
3–2.
Joseph fell to his knees, his hands sinking into the hot dust. Around him, the victors shouted, leaping into the air, hugging, laughing.
Osas jogged over, smirking. "You try small, Oyas," he said, clapping his shoulder. "But you no ready for the real thing. Go school first."
Joseph didn't reply. He kept his eyes on the ground, jaw clenched.
Chike ran up, panting. "Forget that guy, Jo! You were amazing!"
Joseph stood slowly, dusting his knees. "Amazing doesn't win matches," he muttered.
The sun was almost gone now, leaving streaks of purple across the horizon. The crowd was dispersing, their cheers replaced by the low hum of evening life.
Joseph watched them leave — teammates, opponents, even the small kids who had shouted his name earlier. They all vanished into the neighborhood's narrow streets.
When he finally turned away, the pitch was empty except for the wind and the ghosts of what could have been.
---
They walked home in silence.
The road was uneven, littered with potholes and patches of grass. Street vendors were packing up for the night, calling final prices for roasted plantain and suya. Somewhere nearby, a generator kicked in, its buzz filling the quiet spaces between them.
Chike kicked a pebble as they walked. "You know, I heard one scout dey come from Lagos next week," he said, glancing sideways. "Maybe we fit show him something."
Joseph didn't answer.
Chike tried again. "You think too much, bro. We go get there. I swear."
Finally, Joseph looked up. "You ever feel like the world doesn't care if we make it?"
Chike frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Look around. Nobody's coming for boys like us. No coaches. No trials. Just dust, sweat, and noise."
Chike sighed. "So what do we do?"
Joseph gave a small, bitter smile. "We keep dreaming."
They parted ways at the end of the street. Chike turned down toward Uselu Market, while Joseph continued toward his neighborhood — a quiet row of low houses painted in faded colors.
---
His home was at the end of the lane — a small compound with cracked cement walls and a metal gate that groaned when he pushed it open.
The smell of beans and palm oil filled the air.
Inside, his mother sat by the kerosene lamp, sewing a torn shirt for a neighbor. Her fingers moved with practiced rhythm, her eyes half-tired.
"You're late again," she said, without looking up.
"Match finished late," Joseph replied, dropping his bag on the floor.
"Did you win?"
He hesitated. "No."
She stopped sewing for a moment, sighed softly, then resumed. "You have the heart of your father. Always chasing what's far away."
Joseph swallowed. "Football isn't far away, Mama. It's right here."
She smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Right here doesn't feed anyone."
"I just need one chance," he said quietly.
"One chance?" She chuckled, shaking her head. "Every mother in this city has a son saying that."
Joseph didn't respond. He retreated to his small room — barely big enough for a bed and a wooden chair. Posters of football stars lined the wall: Messi, Drogba, Jay-Jay Okocha, Kylian Mbappé. Some were torn, others faded, but he looked at them every night before sleeping.
He sat on the edge of his bed, pulling off his single surviving boot. The sole flapped like a mouth.
He pressed it back together, then tied it with a piece of old rope. "You'll last one more week," he muttered.
His mother's voice floated from the next room. "Joseph, eat before you sleep!"
"I'm not hungry," he called back.
He lay down, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city outside — the hum of generators, the laughter of children, the distant music from a bar.
And underneath it all, the echo of Osas's voice: You no ready for the real thing.
---
He closed his eyes.
The match replayed in his mind — the missed shot, the tackle, the final whistle. He thought of all the mornings he'd woken before dawn to train, all the times he'd skipped breakfast just to save enough for transport to the pitch.
And for what?
The city didn't care. The scouts didn't come.
He thought of his mother's face — tired, worried, yet still gentle. She wanted him to dream small, to stay safe. But Joseph couldn't. He was born with something burning inside him — a vision he couldn't explain.
He wanted more.
To play under lights so bright they turned night into day.
To hear crowds chant his name.
To lift a trophy that would make the world see that greatness could rise from anywhere — even here, from the dusty heart of Benin.
But dreams felt heavy tonight.
"Maybe Osas is right," he whispered into the dark. "Maybe I'll never make it."
The words cut deep.
A soft breeze slipped through the window. The curtain fluttered. Outside, thunder rolled. Rain began to patter against the tin roof, slow and rhythmic.
Joseph turned on his side, eyes open, staring at the faint glow of the kerosene lamp leaking through the doorway.
He felt it then — that same ache he'd felt every time life told him "no."
He clenched his fists. "Why give me a dream if I'm not meant to reach it?"
His voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the storm.
The thunder grew louder. The room flickered with flashes of white light. Somewhere in the distance, a transformer popped, and the power went out completely.
Darkness.
And then—
A sound.
Ding.
Soft. Metallic. Like a notification from a phone, but clearer — sharper.
Joseph sat up, heart pounding. The sound came again, echoing in the stillness.
Ding.
He looked around. The kerosene lamp flickered back to life for a split second, revealing something impossible —
A faint blue glow hovering in front of him.
At first, he thought it was his imagination. But the glow sharpened, forming lines, shapes… and then words.
A holographic screen hovered in the air, perfectly still.
Joseph's eyes widened, disbelief freezing him in place.
It looked exactly like the interface of the FIFA game he'd once watched others play in a shop down the street. The same layout, same colors, same fonts.
Lines of text began to scroll across the screen.
---
> [FOOTBALL SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Initializing Player Profile...
Name: Joseph Oyas
Age: 15
Position: Attacking Midfielder
Overall: 39
Dribbling – 40
Passing – 38
Shooting – 36
Stamina – 42
Vision – 37
Confidence – 60
Active Skills: None
Traits: Unrecognized Talent
---
Joseph's breath caught.
He leaned closer, eyes wide. "What is this?" he whispered.
And then, as if responding, a calm, digital voice echoed in the room.
> Welcome, Player Joseph Oyas.
Your dream begins now.
Dreams require effort. Effort requires faith. Faith requires action.
Do you wish to continue?
[YES] [NO]
Joseph's fingers trembled. The rain outside had turned heavy now, pounding against the roof like a drum.
He stared at the glowing options for a long moment.
He could barely breathe. His heart pounded against his chest. Every fiber of his being screamed that this wasn't possible.
And yet… deep inside, it felt right.
Like the world had finally answered him.
Slowly, he reached out — his fingertip hovering over the glowing word.
[YES]
---
The light flared, bright enough to fill the room. Then it vanished.
Silence. Only the rain remained.
Joseph sat still in the dark, breathing hard, his heart racing.
He didn't know what he had just agreed to.
He didn't know if he was dreaming.
But one thing was certain —
Tomorrow, he would wake up different.