Chapter 32 – A New League of Shadows
The Marseille youth academy wasn't like anything Kweku had imagined. It wasn't about showing off talent — it was about surviving it.
The first morning, the training ground shimmered under the southern French sun, lined with manicured grass and white cones spaced out like tiny guards. Boys from all over Europe — and beyond — were already warming up. French, Spanish, Portuguese, and even bits of Italian floated through the air, forming a symphony of unfamiliar sounds.
Kweku tightened his boots, still half-sleepy from jet lag. His heart beat fast, not from fear, but from the awareness that every pair of eyes here wanted the same thing he did — a shot at the big team, a future.
"Mensah, right?"
He turned. A tall boy with curly brown hair extended a hand. "Louis. Left-back. Welcome."
"Thanks," Kweku said, grateful for the friendliness.
The whistle blew. The coach — a former player with a whistle always between his teeth — barked orders in French, switching briefly to English only when he saw Kweku's confusion.
"Fast feet, Mensah! This is Marseille, not Accra!"
The drills started easy — passing, sprinting, movement — but quickly became brutal. Players moved like machines, one-touch passing faster than his eyes could follow. When he received the ball, a defender was already pressing. Every mistake earned a glare, every hesitation a shout.
He missed the dusty fields back home, where instincts ruled and joy mattered as much as tactics. Here, it was precision — cold, calculated.
During a scrimmage, Kweku misread a through pass, losing possession. The coach's voice boomed:
"Mensah! You think this is playground football? React faster!"
His ears burned. For the rest of the session, he pushed harder — sprinting, tackling, running until his lungs screamed. By the end, his legs trembled, his shirt drenched. The others laughed and joked on their way to the locker room, but Kweku stayed behind, juggling the ball silently.
Louis walked past and stopped. "Hey, don't worry. First week is hell for everyone."
Kweku smiled weakly. "It's just… different."
"Different good or different bad?"
"Different everything."
That night, alone in his dorm room, he called home. The screen flickered, his mother's tired but smiling face appearing.
"You're eating well?" she asked.
"Trying to," he said, chuckling. "The food here is… weird."
"You'll get used to it," she said softly. "And the people?"
"They're good. Fast. Better than me."
She shook her head. "Maybe for now. But Kweku, remember — you didn't come this far to compare. You came to learn."
Her words stayed with him long after the call ended.
The next morning, he rose before dawn and went to the empty field. The air was cool, the sky bruised with early light. He practiced silently — dribbling, striking, controlling — until the others started arriving.
By the time the whistle blew again, he wasn't the same boy who arrived two days ago. His touch was sharper, his lungs stronger, and though his French was broken, his determination spoke clearly.
He wasn't here to just wear the badge.
He was here to earn it.
---
The streets of Takoradi buzzed with a familiar chaos — tro-tros honking, vendors shouting, radios blaring old highlife songs. But under the chatter, the name Kweku Mensah carried weight now. Posters from his U-17 World Cup run, fan made obviously, still hung on shop walls, curling at the edges.
And down one of those dusty lanes walked a man no one had seen in years.
He wore a faded Black Stars jersey, torn at the collar, and carried himself with the strange mix of swagger and shame that comes with regret. His beard was rough, his eyes bloodshot, but the moment he stopped in front of the small blue house, the memories hit him — loud, sharp, and unforgiving.
Kweku's father had come home.
Inside, Kweku's mother was hanging laundry when she heard the knock. Her hands froze midair. That knock — slow, uncertain, almost apologetic — was one she hadn't heard since before Kweku could spell his name.
She opened the door.
He stood there, hat in hand. "Esi."
Her heart sank. The name rolled off his tongue like it still belonged to him.
"What do you want, Jojo?" she asked, her voice firm.
"I just… I just wanted to see him," he said. "My boy. I heard he's in France. The whole world's talking about him."
Esi stared at him for a long time. "Now you remember you have a son?"
He looked down. "Things were hard. I wasn't ready then."
"You weren't ready to be a father," she cut in. "But you were ready to leave."
He said nothing. The silence was heavy, broken only by a passing radio from outside: "Ghana's rising youth star, Kweku Mensah, expected to join Marseille's youth setup—"
Kojo's eyes softened with something that almost looked like pride. "He looks just like me, doesn't he?"
Esi wanted to slam the door. Instead, she sighed, the kind that carried years of exhaustion.
"He looks like me — the one who stayed."
From behind her, a boy's voice called out — Esi's nephew, who stayed with her sometimes. "Aunty, Kweku said he'll call tonight!"
Kojo's lips trembled slightly. "He still calls?"
"Every week," she said. "Not that you'd know anything about him."
He nodded, guilt settling like dust on his shoulders. "I just… wanted to tell him I'm proud. Even if I wasn't there."
Esi studied him. He looked smaller than she remembered — not just in body, but in spirit.
"You'll have your chance," she said finally. I can't keep a boy away from his family."
Kojo swallowed hard. "Can I—can I write to him?"
She glared at him. "I couldn't stop you from leaving could I?"
He sat on the wooden step, pen trembling in his hand. The words didn't come easily. "Dear Kweku…" he wrote, then stopped.
Outside, the evening sun dipped low, painting the house in amber light — the same color of the boy's dreams now unfolding a continent away.
Kojo looked at the page, empty except for that first line, and whispered to himself,
"Maybe he'll forgive me one day."