The sound of the ball hitting the wall was the only thing keeping me company that morning. Thump… thump… thump. Each bounce echoed in the empty compound behind our house in Benin City. My legs were sore from the week's training, but I couldn't stop. Not after what Coach Ibrahim had said.
> "Next Saturday. Same pitch. Show me what you can do."
Those words hadn't left my head once.
Mum's voice drifted from inside.
"Joseph, food dey table! You wan kill yourself before match day?"
I smiled, breathless, sweat dripping down my neck. "I'm coming, Mummy."
The sun had barely risen, yet the heat was already sharp on my skin. That was Benin for you — morning never really felt like morning. The air smelled of red dust and distant fried akara. The city was waking, but my mind was already on the field.
I walked into the house, and Mum just shook her head when she saw the ball still in my hands.
"You no fit drop that ball small?" she said, setting a plate of yam and egg in front of me.
"It's match week," I answered, smiling.
"Na so you go take forget book finish," she teased. "Better remember say dream no dey cook soup."
I laughed quietly, but her words sat somewhere deep in me. I knew what she meant. Football was a dream — one that had broken more hearts than it built. But I wasn't like everyone else. I couldn't be. I had something… different.
Or maybe it had me.
That faint voice in my mind — the System — had been quieter this week. Only small thoughts, whispers during training: "Stay low when dribbling." "Balance your core." "Consistency earns trust." It never sounded like a robot. It felt like my own inner voice — wiser, older, calmer.
And I was listening.
---
Training that week was war.
We didn't have cones or modern kits — just sticks, broken bottles, and faith.
Ayo joined me every day, even when he complained his legs were "on fire."
"Guy, you go kill person with this your schedule o," he moaned, lying on the ground after drills.
"You can rest," I told him, juggling the ball.
He laughed weakly. "Rest? You think say I wan leave you blow alone?"
That made me grin. Ayo was like a brother. But even he could see it — something had changed in me since the derby. I wasn't chasing the ball anymore; it was like the ball was drawn to me.
By Thursday, my body was screaming. Blisters burned under my toes, my breath felt heavier every run, and sweat soaked through the same jersey I'd washed three times that week. But quitting? That word wasn't in my blood.
One evening, when everyone had gone, I stayed back to practice long passes. The field was almost dark, generator hums echoing from nearby houses, and the smell of roasted corn floating in the air. I took a deep breath, placed the ball, and swung.
Whoosh— perfect curve.
Another. Then another.
I was lost in rhythm when that inner voice came again.
> "Pain is information. Use it."
I froze, blinking. My chest tightened. It wasn't scary — it felt like the System was testing me.
I wiped my sweat and whispered, "I'm not stopping."
And somehow, I felt the response — like my body warmed from inside.
> STAMINA +1. Skill Unlocked: Stamina Lv.1.
I didn't see it. I felt it — a rush of focus, balance, and calm. Like my body and mind finally spoke the same language.
That night, I slept deeply for the first time all week.
---
MATCH DAY
Saturday came like thunder.
Benin's sky was cloudless, the kind that burned your skin before noon. The pitch was packed — not just kids this time, but adults too. Traders, riders, even a few policemen in casual clothes. The rumor had spread fast.
"The Lagos scout don come again!" someone shouted.
"Na that small boy wey resemble Saka dem wan check!" another replied.
I tried not to listen. My heart was beating like a drum. I tightened my boots — old and worn, but mine. Ayo clapped me on the shoulder.
"No shaking, bro. Just play your game."
I nodded, staring at the other side of the field.
There he was — Coach Ibrahim — standing near a silver Toyota, arms folded, sunglasses on. Next to him were two men in branded tracksuits, probably from Lagos. My mouth went dry.
> "Focus. Breathe. Observe."
The System's thought slid through my mind. I inhaled slowly, grounding myself.
Our coach shouted, "Team A, you start first half!"
That was us.
---
THE FIRST HALF
The whistle blew, and everything slowed.
The ball moved faster than I remembered, players crashed into each other like waves. For a moment, I felt small — like I didn't belong here. My first two passes went short, and the crowd murmured.
Calm down, Joseph. Focus.
The System echoed my thought:
> "Pressure reveals truth."
Then something shifted.
Ayo intercepted a ball near midfield and passed to me. Instinct took over.
Tap, touch, flick — one defender gone.
Quick step, shoulder feint — two gone.
Cheers erupted from the sidelines. "Ah! See skill!"
My confidence rose like fire.
I slipped the ball wide to our winger and sprinted forward. He crossed. I jumped for a header — missed — but the movement, the timing, it felt right. The crowd clapped anyway.
Ten minutes later, a foul. Free kick, just outside the box.
"Joseph, take am!" Ayo yelled.
I stood over the ball. Dust lifted with every breath. I bent low, aimed, and shot — curling it high, just wide of the post.
The scout didn't move. Just watched. Expressionless.
By halftime, we were tied 0–0. I sat in the shade, sipping sachet water, heartbeat pounding in my ears.
---
HALFTIME
Coach's voice was faint. I wasn't listening.
I stared at the ground, sweat dripping into the dust. My body ached, my lungs burned, and fear crept in quietly.
What if I'm not good enough? What if that was my only chance?
The System's thought came, low and steady:
> "Faith is fuel. Keep playing."
I closed my eyes and breathed deep.
I will.
---
THE SECOND HALF
We switched sides. The sun hit harder now, shadows long and sharp across the field. Every sound felt distant — just the ball, the grass, my heartbeat.
Fifteen minutes in, our striker was fouled.
"Play on!" the ref shouted.
The ball rolled loose. I sprinted, faster than I thought possible.
I reached it before anyone else — one touch, two.
A defender lunged — I twisted, spun — he missed.
Space opened up.
Ayo was running down the left flank.
Now.
I curved the pass with my left foot — it cut through the air perfectly. Ayo trapped it mid-run and fired — GOAL!
The pitch exploded.
Crowds screamed, running onto the field. I didn't even celebrate — I just stood there, heart racing, staring at the dust cloud where the ball had kissed the net.
That voice again — softer now, proud:
> "Quest Progress: Prove Worth (1/3) – Success."
Passing +2. Vision +1.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
---
AFTER THE MATCH
We won 1–0.
As the crowd started leaving, I saw Coach Ibrahim still standing there. One of the other scouts leaned toward him, whispering something. Ibrahim nodded once, then turned toward me.
He didn't smile. Just said, "You've improved."
My voice trembled. "Thank you, sir."
He studied me for a moment, then said quietly, "You're not ready yet… but you have it. Keep training. Lagos might call soon."
Then he walked away.
I didn't even move. I just stood there in the middle of the pitch, wind brushing dust across my face, every word sinking in like weight and hope mixed together.
Ayo jogged over, laughing. "Guy, na you dem dey talk about o! See as people dey hail you!"
I chuckled weakly. "Na beginning be this."
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. My legs ached, my body felt heavy — but my mind was alive.
I sat outside, staring at the stars over Benin's noisy skyline. Somewhere far away, lights from a generator flickered against the clouds.
Mum came out, wrapping a shawl around me.
"You played well, my son."
I nodded slowly. "But I wasn't perfect."
She smiled. "Nobody perfect. Even Messi miss goal sometimes."
I laughed, resting my head on her shoulder.
Then, as the night wind whispered through the trees, I felt that voice again — calm, patient, certain.
> "Next Quest: Journey to Lagos (0/1)."
My chest tightened. I looked up at the stars, at the sky that stretched beyond the city, beyond everything I'd ever known.
And I whispered softly,
"Arsenal… I'm still coming."