morning I left Benin City, the air smelled like rain that never fell. Clouds hung heavy, gray and quiet, and every sound felt sharper — the rumble of okadas, the vendors calling out bread prices, the clink of bottles at the corner kiosk.
It was the sound of home.
I stood outside our small house with my duffel bag hanging off my shoulder, my boots tied to the strap. Mum folded her arms, pretending not to cry. She'd been up since dawn cooking jollof for my trip, but now she just stared at me, like she couldn't decide whether to scold or hug me.
"Joseph," she said finally, "you sure say you ready?"
I nodded. "Yes, ma."
She sighed, brushing dust off my sleeve that wasn't even there. "You still be my small boy, you know. No matter how big ball carry you go."
"I know," I said, smiling.
She hugged me tight — so tight I almost couldn't breathe. "Make you remember where you come from. Remember your name."
"I will," I whispered into her shoulder. "I'll make you proud."
When the bus horn blared from the street, it felt like a countdown. I slung my bag and walked away slowly. Each step sounded like the past fading behind me.
The road to Lagos was long, but I wasn't just chasing distance — I was chasing destiny.
> "Dreams demand distance."
The System's voice was clearer now — steady, low, and calm.
"I know," I murmured, gripping my bag tighter. "And I'm ready to go the distance."
---
THE ROAD TO LAGOS
The bus was packed. I squeezed beside a trader and a soldier on leave. My knees brushed against a cage of chickens under the seat. The smell of petrol mixed with roasted plantain drifting through the open window. The road hummed beneath us — Benin's red soil giving way to the long, gray stretch of expressway.
For a while, I watched the city fade through the glass: the rusted rooftops, the small kids playing barefoot, the distant shouts of "Pure water! Fifty naira!" It hurt a little, leaving it all behind. But pain was just part of the climb.
Hours passed. Traffic stopped us outside Ore for nearly two hours. The driver played loud gospel music to keep people calm. The soldier beside me snored with his head on the window.
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
> "How do you feel?" the System asked.
"Tired… but alive."
> "Fear is normal. But don't feed it."
"I'm not afraid," I said. "Just… thinking."
> "Good. Think forward, not backward."
I opened my eyes, watching the clouds shift above the highway. Maybe it was my imagination, but it almost felt like the System understood me — like it wasn't just code. It was something else, something older. Maybe football itself, whispering through my blood.
By evening, the skyline of Lagos rose ahead — endless buildings, billboards, and chaos.
My heart raced. This was it.
---
Coach Ibrahim was waiting near Ojota park, standing by a black van. He looked exactly the same — calm, serious, the type of man who could see everything without saying much.
"You made it," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. You'll stay at the youth quarters for now. Training starts tomorrow."
I climbed into the van, silent. As we drove, Lagos unfolded around me — streets alive with horns and shouts, night markets glowing with yellow bulbs, kids kicking balls between cars. Everywhere, noise. But inside me, stillness.
The academy was on the outskirts, fenced and neat — a real pitch, floodlights, dorms painted white and green. My mouth fell open. I'd never seen grass that green in my life.
Coach Ibrahim caught my reaction. "You'll train here. Eat, sleep, play. Nothing else."
"Yes, sir."
"Discipline first, talent second."
I nodded again.
> "New environment detected," the System whispered. "Adaptation begins."
"Adaptation," I repeated softly. "Got it."
---
The dorm room smelled of detergent and dreams. Twelve bunks, twenty-four boys. Some laughed loudly, others stared at their phones. Everyone looked older, stronger, faster.
"New guy?" a tall boy asked, stepping forward. His voice carried quiet authority.
"Yeah," I said.
"I'm Kunle," he said. "Captain here. You play what position?"
"Attacking midfield."
He raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. That's mine."
I blinked. "Oh… I didn't know."
He smiled thinly. "You'll know soon. Welcome to Lagos, Joseph from Benin."
The other boys chuckled. I forced a grin, heart thudding. Rivalry already.
> "Competition sharpens talent," the System murmured. "Observe. Don't react."
That night, I lay on the bunk staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles above me. From outside came the faint echo of another group still training under the floodlights. My fingers twitched — I wanted to be out there too.
But exhaustion won. I drifted off hearing the hum of Lagos nightlife.
---
DAY ONE: THE ACADEMY TEST
The morning whistle hit like thunder.
"Everyone out!" a coach barked.
We assembled on the pitch before sunrise. Dew clung to the grass like silver dust.
"Warm-up laps!"
By the second lap, my lungs were burning. By the fifth, my legs shook. The Lagos boys ran like machines — their rhythm perfect, their pace unforgiving.
I tried to keep up, but I was slower. The coach's voice boomed across the field. "New boy, move faster! You think this is street football?"
The others laughed. My face burned.
Ayo's voice echoed in my memory — No shaking, bro.
I clenched my jaw and pushed harder.
> "Pain is proof you're alive."
"I know," I whispered.
We moved to drills — one-touch passing, cone dribbles, positioning. The pace was insane. Every mistake earned a whistle. When it came to the scrimmage, I was shaking but ready.
"Midfield two! Joseph, you join!"
I jogged onto the pitch, heart hammering. Kunle was on the opposite team. He gave me a quick smirk — the kind that said welcome to my world.
The whistle blew.
First touch — good.
Second — pressure.
Kunle pressed hard, shoulder into my chest. I held the ball, spun left, flicked it forward. Pass completed.
"Nice one!" someone shouted.
Confidence flickered alive. The game flowed fast. I stole possession once, made a through pass. Then another. Every touch drew strength from that quiet voice inside me.
> "Balance. Vision. Flow."
It wasn't shouting — it guided. Each whisper aligned with my movements.
Then came my moment. Kunle tried to dribble past me — I read it, intercepted clean, sprinted down the middle. Two defenders closed in.
I hesitated — then slipped the ball between them to our striker.
He buried it.
"Goal!" the coach shouted.
Kunle stared at me, stunned. I just smiled, chest heaving.
> "Quest Progress: Journey to Lagos (1/1) — First Step Complete."
"Confidence +2. Passing +1."
---
AFTER TRAINING
I limped back to the dorm after sunset. Every muscle screamed, but my heart was light. Kunle walked past me without a word. Not friendly yet — but his silence felt like respect.
Coach Ibrahim met me near the cafeteria. "You did well today. You're not used to this tempo, but you have vision. Keep your head down. Work harder."
"Yes, sir."
He paused, studying me. "Joseph, football in Lagos is different. Talent is cheap here. Discipline isn't. Remember that."
"I will."
> "Discipline builds destiny," the System said quietly.
I nodded to myself. "Understood."
---
Later that night, I stood outside alone. The floodlights painted the pitch in silver. Somewhere nearby, someone was juggling a ball — rhythmic, calm. I closed my eyes and listened.
Everything I'd left behind — Benin's dust, Mum's laughter, Ayo's jokes — felt far away. But not gone. They were still part of me, pushing me forward.
> "You've begun the climb," the System said. "The world will test you. When fear whispers, listen to faith instead."
I smiled faintly. "Faith… yeah. I still believe."
The night wind brushed across my face, carrying the distant sound of traffic and the faint call of the city that never sleeps. Lagos was alive — loud, merciless, beautiful.
I looked at the floodlit pitch one more time and whispered, "Lagos is only the beginning."
> "Quest Accepted: Survive the First Week."
"Reward: Growth, Grit, Glory."
A soft warmth pulsed through me — not magic, just something deeper. Purpose.
Tomorrow, I'd wake up early again. Tomorrow, I'd run until my legs gave in. Tomorrow, I'd keep proving I belonged here.
Because this dream wasn't just mine anymore.
It was for Mum, for Benin, for every boy still chasing a ball on a dusty street hoping someone, somewhere, would see them.
And for me — the boy who once whispered to the stars, "Arsenal… I'm coming."