Jos, Nigeria – Late Morning
A crowd had already formed outside the gates of Plateau United Football Club.
Placards waved in the dry Harmattan breeze, bold and furious:
"We don't want Adam Black!"
"Bring back our coach!"
"This is not London, this is Jos!"
A small TV station's van was parked at the side, its satellite dish tilted towards the sky. Two reporters paced with energy, their cameraman already filming the protest.
Adam Black stood behind the tinted window of the club's administrative office, watching.
He took a slow breath, trying to steady his heartbeat. The voices outside were getting louder. It wasn't just a few disgruntled fans anymore—this was beginning to feel like a movement.
"Na wa o," muttered Coach Danladi, the assistant coach, shaking his head. "They really don't want you here, Coach."
"Yet," Adam corrected, his voice firm despite the tension in his stomach. "They don't want me yet."
Team Doctor Nnenna folded her arms. "They're not interested in your potential, Adam. They want results. Jos is not a place for patience. They see you as an outsider."
"I am an outsider," he said, without defensiveness. "But I didn't come to be loved. I came to win."
There was a pause. Then the General Manager, Mr. Dogo, stepped in.
"They're demanding an interview," he said, holding a phone to his ear. "The press. Not inside. They want it outside. They want to see you in front of the fans. At the gate."
Adam stared at him. "A press interview... at the club gate? That's madness."
"It's Nigeria," Dogo replied flatly. "You either face the storm or get swept away by it."
---
Plateau United Club Gate – 1:15 PM
The noise was immediate. Camera shutters clicked. Fans screamed. A chant began:
"We no want oyibo tactics! We want goals! We want wins!"
Adam stepped in front of the cameras.
He was wearing a simple Plateau United polo, khakis, and his father's watch. No sunglasses. No cap. He wanted them to see his eyes.
A bold reporter from CoolSportTV stepped forward, mic raised. "Coach Adam Black, the people are speaking. How do you respond to these protests? You've barely arrived, and already the city is on fire."
Adam looked around. The Plateau sun was heavy, the air tense.
He took the mic gently.
"I hear them. I respect them. This club means a lot to this city. The fans have every right to be angry. They've seen heartbreak. They've seen decline. Now they see me, and they ask, 'Who is this man from London?'"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Let me tell you," Adam continued, raising his voice, "I am not here for a holiday. I'm here because football is life. I've studied it. I've bled for it. I have watched more tape than you can imagine. I know this team's pain. But I also know how to heal it."
A fan shouted, "You no sabi naija football!"
Adam smiled, just slightly. "Maybe not yet. But I will. Because I don't come with arrogance. I come with hunger. I come with ideas. Give me your noise. Give me your boos. I'll turn them into rhythm. And when we win our first game, I'll be here again—same gate, same face. Not to boast, but to say thank you."
He handed the mic back.
There was a pause—then someone in the crowd clapped. One clap. Then another. Then silence again.
The fans weren't won over. But something had shifted.
---
**Later That Evening – Plateau FM Sports
The studio lights were dim, the air cool. Plateau FM's evening sports show had just begun, the theme music fading into a calm, authoritative voice.
"Good evening, Jos. This is The Dugout on Plateau FM 91.7. I'm your host, Emmanuel Barde. Now… let's talk about the man of the moment—Coach Adam Black."
A short clip from the afternoon protest played. Shouts. Chants. Then Adam's voice came through—clear, composed, defiant.
When the clip ended, Emmanuel leaned closer to the mic.
"He faced them. At the gate. No bodyguards. No press handler. Just him and the heat. Now, some will say he's all talk. Some will say he played to the cameras. But I say this—today, we saw a man who didn't run."
There was a pause as he sipped water.
"Look, Jos is a hard city. We don't like strangers telling us how to kick a ball. But whether you like it or not, Adam Black just stepped into the fire. And he didn't burn. He talked about hunger. About ideas. And I don't know about you, but I'm willing to see what those ideas look like on the pitch."
He tapped a finger on his notes.
"We'll be watching, Coach Black. And next Saturday, when Plateau United face Niger Tornadoes at home, you'll get your real interview—on grass, with eleven men, and ninety minutes."
Music swelled again.
"This is The Dugout, where passion meets reason. Stay with us."
---
Adam's Apartment – Nightfall
Adam sat alone on the narrow balcony, the lights of Jos flickering below him. Harmattan winds whispered through the leaves.
He held a bowl of groundnuts and sipped a malt drink slowly, watching the replay of his gate interview on his tablet. The applause—brief and scattered—played again.
He rewound it. Played it again.
Not for vanity, but for detail. Body language. Timing. The claps. The silence. The fan who shouted. The voice that said, "You no sabi naija football!" It all mattered.
Behind him, a message pinged on his phone. It was from his dad.
> Saw you on TV. You stood your ground. Proud of you, son. But don't forget—words don't score goals.
Adam smiled.
He typed back:
> I know, Dad. Training starts tomorrow. Real work begins.