Chapter 33 – The Field and the Classroom
The air in Marseille smelled like salt and asphalt — a reminder that the sea was never far away. But to Kweku, the city still felt like another planet; he was completely alone except for his uncle, who came to visit him in the first week and promised to send money once a month.
He'd been in France for two weeks, and every day began the same way — the ringing of the academy bell at dawn, a quick shower, breakfast in silence with the other boys, then football, school, more football, sleep, repeat.
At first, everything blurred together. His French was still clumsy, and though the teachers spoke slowly, he could only catch pieces — ballon, travail, courage, none of it made sense. Homework took twice as long, and so did making friends.
At the academy, the rhythm was brutal but clean. Coaches expected perfection: one-touch passing, tactical drills, positional awareness. Every mistake was logged and analysed, there was no room for failure.
Still, Kweku was learning.
It helped that Louis — the striker who'd first welcomed him — had become his closest ally. Louis had an easy smile and endless patience, translating when the coaches got too fast, showing Kweku where to buy food, and even teaching him how to order properly at the cafeteria.
One evening after practice, they sat on the bleachers overlooking the city, steam rising from their heads in the cool air.
"You miss home?" Louis asked.
"Every day," Kweku said.
Louis grinned. "Then bring it here. Home is where you make it so make this your home too."
The next day, Kweku tried to do exactly that — in school, of all places.
He was quiet, usually. Most of the students knew him as "the football boy." But during a literature project, his teacher paired him with a girl named Camille — bright-eyed, curly-haired, with a habit of doodling in her notebook when she thought no one noticed.
When she found out he was from Ghana, her face lit up. "My aunt's from Ghana! You must teach me Twi sometime." The way she pronounced twi made Kweku feel like he'd betrayed a few ancestors for not correcting her but he only laughed. "Only if you teach me proper French."
They clicked faster than he expected. She helped him navigate homework, and he told her stories of his childhood matches — the dusty fields, the torn balls, the songs the crowd used to chant when he scored.
For the first time since he arrived, laughter came easily.
But the city wasn't done testing him yet. That weekend, during a scrimmage, he missed an open goal — an easy one. The coach blew the whistle, furious.
"Mensah! Focus! This isn't a playground!"
The old shame crept in. But instead of shrinking, he took a breath and nodded. Then he stayed late that night, striking the ball again and again until his legs gave out.
Louis joined him silently. "You know," he said, "they won't remember your mistake tomorrow. But they'll remember how you train."
Kweku smiled faintly. "Then I'll give them something to remember."
----
By the third month, life in Marseille had found its rhythm — and Kweku was starting to fit in.
He'd learned to navigate the metro, to greet in French without stuttering, and to balance schoolwork with daily double sessions. The schedule was still demanding, but it no longer drowned him.
In class, Camille had become his closest friend. She had a sharp wit that could slice through even his worst moods. They studied together, laughed about teachers, and sometimes met at the pier after sunset, watching the harbour lights flicker on the water.
"Do you ever wish you'd stayed home?" she asked once.
He looked at the waves. "Sometimes. But if I had, I wouldn't have met you."
She smiled. "Smooth talker."
Meanwhile, at the academy, Kweku was also finding his place. During a key training match, he set up two goals — both perfect assists — and earned rare praise from the head coach.
"Good vision, Mensah. Keep this up."
After training, Louis clapped his shoulder. "That's how you start making noise."
Kweku laughed. "One day, they'll know my name for real."
Yet at night, in his dorm room, he'd still stare at his phone — waiting for his mother's call, re-reading old texts from Ama. He hadn't heard from her in weeks, but he didn't hold it against her. Maybe it was better this way.
H still kept in touch with Yaw and Ephraim, the former who was now in Switzerland, on trial to join a second division team.
Instead, he closed his eyes and whispered the same words every night before sleep:
"For Ghana. For her. For me."
Outside, the moon hung above the sea — the same moon that shone over Accra.
And somewhere deep inside, Kweku realised he was no longer just a visitor in Marseille.
He was part of it now.