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Chapter 35– Between Two Worlds
Marseille had started to blur together — classes, training, sleep, repeat. Kweku's days were measured not by hours but by whistles and bells. The academy demanded precision, but the school demanded something harder than just existing—belonging.
Every morning, he arrived in his blue uniform, feeling as though he still smelled faintly of grass and sweat from dawn training, despite having taken a shower after training. Most students were polite, curious even, but he could feel some eyes on him. He wasn't from here. His French accent was too slow, his skin too dark, his silences too long. Even the Africans from francophone countries seemed distant.
Camille remained his quiet anchor. During group projects, she made sure he was included. When he fumbled his verbs, she corrected him without drawing attention. And when he smiled awkwardly at her help, she only said, "You'll get there."
But not everyone shared her patience.
It happened one afternoon in history class. They were discussing colonialism — a topic that always made Kweku's chest tighten. The teacher spoke about Africa and Europe's "shared history," mentioning shared interests like football and before Kweku could react, a boy at the back — Julien, one of the louder students — muttered just loud enough for the class to hear:
"Guess some people still come here for opportunity."
The words were quiet, but they hit like a slap even though it wasn't directed at him. A few students laughed under their breath. The teacher either didn't hear or pretended not to.
Kweku froze. His pen hovered above his notebook, his throat dry.
Camille's eyes snapped toward Julien. "That's enough," she said sharply. "You're sick, does bullying do something for you?"
Julien smirked. "Relax, I was just joking, I wasn't even talking about your little boyfriend."
"You think everything is all fun and games, don't you?" she asked, voice low but steady.
The room went silent for a moment before the teacher cleared her throat and continued, but the damage had already been done.
When the bell rang, Kweku packed his books slowly. Camille waited by the door.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged. "It's fine. I've heard worse."
Her frown deepened. "That doesn't make it fine."
They walked together down the hall. The air between them was tense — not awkward, but heavy with unspoken truth.
"You shouldn't have to deal with that," she said finally.
Kweku gave a small, sad smile. "It's just… part of it sometimes. Back home, we joke about different tribes. Here, it's different. Feels heavier."
Camille nodded, looking at the floor. "People like him don't understand what strength looks like but I do."
Her words lingered long after they parted ways.
At the academy that evening, Kweku played harder than usual — every pass sharper, every sprint longer, like he was playing to numb the pain. Louis noticed but said nothing. He just gave him a quick thumbs-up after Kweku intercepted a pass and started a counterattack.
After training, when they were alone in the locker room, Louis finally asked, "Bad day?"
Kweku hesitated. "School stuff."
Louis grinned faintly. "Ah. People still stupid there, too?"
Kweku laughed. "Some."
Louis clapped him on the back. "Then don't let them get to you, just keep playing. That's how you talk back don't be a Ballotelli."
That night, Kweku stared out the dorm window. The city lights shimmered across the water like distant fireflies. He thought of Camille standing up for him — her calm, fierce tone — and something in his chest softened.
The world didn't always welcome him, but it wasn't all unkind either. There were still people who saw him for who he was.
He smiled faintly, whispered, "Thank you," to no one in particular, and closed his eyes.
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