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Chapter 36 – The Project
The next few days passed in fragments — bursts of sunlight through the classroom windows, echoing laughter in the hallways, the hollow thud of footballs against turf. But under it all, Kweku carried a quiet weight.
He didn't tell anyone at the academy what had happened in class. Not Louis, not the coaches. The last thing he wanted was pity. He had come here to prove himself, not to make excuses. Still, the words Julien had said clung to him like a stain he couldn't scrub off.
Every time he entered the classroom, he could feel the glances. Some were curious, some indifferent, a few uncertain — as if people didn't know whether to approach him or leave him be. Camille still greeted him every morning, but there was a new softness in her eyes, something between concern and respect.
Then, on Monday, their literature teacher announced the next assignment: a two-person project on cultural identity.
Pairs were assigned alphabetically — and Kweku found himself beside Camille once more.
She looked over, smiled faintly. "Seems like we can't escape each other."
He chuckled. "You could do worse."
"I don't think so," she said, half-joking, half-meaning it.
They were given two weeks to complete it. The topic was broad — how identity shapes expression — but it hit close to home.
That afternoon, they met in the school library, sitting at a small table by the window. Outside, the branches of the sycamores swayed in the late autumn wind.
Camille set down her notes. "So," she said, "how do you want to approach this?"
Kweku thought for a moment. "Maybe we both share where we come from — what makes us who we are."
She nodded. "Okay. But you first."
He hesitated, tapping his pen against the desk. Talking about home was always harder than he expected. "I'm from Takoradi," he began slowly. "It's a relatively small city, but football's everything there. My mom raised me, but she works too much. My father's… not around." He paused. "When I play, it feels like I'm carrying them with me."
Camille listened intently, not interrupting. "That's beautiful," she said finally. "Like football is your way of remembering."
He looked down, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah. Maybe it is."
"And me…" she began, "I grew up here in Marseille. My father's a sailor — gone most of the year. My mother teaches music. I guess… I always felt like I had to find my own rhythm."
He glanced up, surprised by how easily she said it. "So that's why you like literature?"
"Maybe," she said, smiling. "Stories help me understand people — even the ones who don't understand me."
They worked for nearly two hours, ideas flowing like a steady current between them. When they finished, Camille leaned back in her chair. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "what happened last week… it still bothers me."
Kweku's expression tightened. "It's fine."
"It's not," she said quietly. "Julien shouldn't have said that. And I hate that you think you have to just accept it."
He looked out the window. "It's not the first time. And if I react, it just becomes worse."
Camille shook her head. "That's unfair."
He met her gaze, and for a moment, he saw something fierce there — not pity, but conviction. "Maybe," he said softly, "but overreacting isn't going to help, it'll only reaffirm his thoughts, actions speak louder than words
She smiled. "Then let's make sure your voice gets heard too."
As they packed up, Camille hesitated. "Hey… do you ever miss it? Home?"
"Every day," he said without thinking. "But sometimes, I think missing it makes me stronger. Reminds me why I'm here."
That night, after training, Kweku sat by the dorm window, watching the lights ripple over the harbour. His muscles ached, but his mind kept drifting to the library — to the way Camille listened, to the way she didn't look at him with pity but with understanding.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel like an outsider.
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Their presentation came the following Friday. The classroom was full, the air thick with the low murmur of students waiting for their turn. Camille went first, speaking calmly about rhythm and heritage, how her family's absences had shaped her independence.
Then it was Kweku's turn. He stood in front of the room, heart pounding harder than it did before any match. He had written his speech carefully, the words simple but honest.
"My name is Kweku," he began, voice steady. "I come from Ghana. Where I come from, people believe the way you walk says who you are. My walk has taken me far from home. I came here for football — but what I've learned most isn't just about sport. It's about people, about learning to belong even when no one expects you to."
He paused, searching for the right words. "Identity isn't just where you were born. It's what you carry when the world takes you away from where you were born."
The room was quiet. Even Julien, sitting at the back, looked down.
When he finished, the teacher smiled warmly. "Thank you, Kweku. That was… powerful."
Camille grinned beside him, proud but trying not to show it too obviously. When they sat down, she leaned over and whispered, "You did it."
He smiled back. "We did."
After class, a few students approached to congratulate them — genuine smiles, not forced politeness. Julien muttered something that almost sounded like an apology, though Kweku didn't need it.
As they walked down the hallway, Camille nudged his arm. "See I told you you could talk…is football still your loudest voice?"
He laughed. "Maybe now I've got two."
Outside, the sky was the colour of old copper, the air cool with the scent of salt. Camille waved as they parted ways — she to her bus, he to the academy van.
Back at the dorm, Louis was already lying on his bed, juggling a ball on his foot. "You're late," he said. "Coach said we've got a real match next week. Against Lyon."
Kweku froze. His first official youth league match.
Louis grinned. "You ready?"
Kweku smiled — a deep, quiet smile. "Yeah," he said. "More than ever."
As he turned off the light that night, he thought of two worlds — the one of books and words, and the one of boots and goals. Somewhere between them, he was learning who he was meant to be.
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