Chapter 59 — The Snow That Fell on Marseille
The first snow came like a secret — soft and almost shy. Kweku woke to silence, the kind that swallows even the sound of footsteps. When he pulled back his curtain, the city had changed. The rooftops were dusted white, and the air seemed to hold its breath.
For a moment, he thought he was dreaming.
He'd never seen snow before. Not once in his fifteen years in Ghana. Rain, yes. Rain that could drown roads and drum on tin roofs. But this… this was quiet, still, unreal.
Louis's voice crackled through his phone speaker. "You up? You seeing this?"
Kweku laughed softly. "Yeah. It looks fake."
"It's freezing," Louis replied, "but we're still training. Coach says the league break isn't for tourists."
Kweku rolled his eyes, pulling on a sweater. "I wasn't planning on sightseeing. I just hope I don't slip and die."
"Then wear gloves, rookie," Louis teased. "And come early. They said we'll do drills in the snow."
When Kweku arrived at the academy pitch, the world was a blur of white. His breath fogged before him, and the ground crunched underfoot. The ball didn't move the way it should — every touch was heavier, slower. He could barely feel his fingers.
Louis was already there, half buried in a scarf. "You look like you're freezing," he said with a grin.
"I am freezing," Kweku muttered, stamping his feet. "My toes are gone."
They trained anyway, laughter cutting through the cold. Passes slipped wide, tackles went wrong, and once Louis ended up flat on his back in the snow, both of them laughing until their sides hurt. It was miserable and magical all at once — and for Kweku, it was another kind of lesson: football was universal, but the weather wasn't always your friend.
After training, he trudged back to the dorms, his socks soaked through, and spent nearly half an hour under hot water just to feel his hands again. By the time he dressed for school, the exhaustion hit — but he went anyway.
Classes were slower that day. Everyone was distracted, doodling snowflakes in their notebooks or pressing faces to the window. Even Camille, sitting two rows ahead, seemed more relaxed than usual.
When the lunch bell rang, she caught him at the doorway. "You survived training?"
"Barely," he said. "My toes still hate me."
She smiled, walking beside him toward the courtyard where melting snow dripped from the trees. "You'll get used to it. You have to — the season starts again in January, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah. The coaches say it's our real test. I just… don't want to be left behind."
Camille looked at him for a moment, her expression softening. "You won't be. You work harder than anyone I know."
That made him look down, shy. "Thanks. Coming from you, that means a lot."
They sat together under the covered benches, watching other students throw snowballs. She told him about her childhood ski trips, about how she once tried to snowboard and broke her wrist. He told her about playing barefoot on the red dirt fields of his town, the sound of cicadas in the heat, and how the whole neighbourhood would crowd around to watch.
Their worlds couldn't have been more different, but in that cold courtyard, they met somewhere in between.
When school ended, Kweku walked alone through the slow-falling snow. His fingers were numb again, but his heart was steady. The cold didn't bother him as much now.
Back in his room, he called his mother. The video connection flickered, and her face appeared — tired, smiling, warm.
"Ei, Kweku! Is it true? Snow?"
He turned the camera toward the window. "It's everywhere."
She laughed softly. "God has really taken you far, my son. But remember — even in the cold, keep your heart warm, hmm?"
He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I will, Ma."
That night, as snowflakes fell outside and the dorm lights dimmed, Kweku lay awake thinking of home — of the dust and heat, the laughter, the smell of kenkey and fish. The distance felt heavier than ever.
But beneath that ache was something else — a quiet, burning determination.
He was ready for January.
Ready for the season.
Ready to prove that a boy from Ghana could shine, even in the snow.
---
It has been exactly one month since I started this series and we're at 31 thousand views ( tysm). Please keep supporting as much as you can.
- Author