Chapter One
The first time Chike touched a basketball, it wasn't even a real one. It was an old rubber ball with faded orange paint, swollen from years of patchwork repairs, rolling idly in the dust of a small compound in Umuahia. The ball had lost its bounce; when it hit the ground, it thudded more like a calabash than a proper ball. Still, to Chike, it was a treasure.
He was twelve, lanky, and awkward, always described by his mother as "a boy with his head in the clouds." His mates at school called him "stick insect," not only because of his thin legs but because of the way he drifted in and out of conversations, never quite grounded, as if something far away held his attention. Chike didn't fight them. He had never been a fighter.
What he loved was the strange sense of possibility he felt whenever he imagined himself on a court he had only seen on television—bright lights, tall men leaping as if gravity meant nothing, the sound of sneakers squeaking, the roar of a crowd. The NBA games he occasionally caught on the neighbor's generator-powered TV felt like scenes from another universe. He would sit quietly, eyes wide, memorizing every move.
"Chike! Stop dreaming and fetch water before your father returns," his mother's voice rang out that afternoon.
"Yes, Mama!" he replied, though he stayed one second longer, staring at the rubber ball. He dribbled it once, twice. It rolled away lazily, refusing to bounce. He chased after it, laughing. Something inside him sparked.
---
A week later, he discovered the dusty neighborhood court near Isi Gate. The backboard was crooked, made of cracked plywood nailed to a bent iron pole. The hoop had no net, only rusted metal hanging like twisted teeth. But to Chike, it was paradise.
Older boys were already there—sweaty, shirtless, arguing loudly in Igbo and Pidgin as they played rough, physical basketball. Chike stood at the edge, clutching the rubber ball he had borrowed from his cousin.
One of them noticed him.
"Small boy, you wan play?" the tall one, Emeka, sneered. His voice carried the arrogance of someone used to winning.
"I just… I just want to try," Chike stammered.
The boys laughed. "This one no fit carry basket. Abeg go house!"
But Chike didn't go home. He stood, watching intently, memorizing the way they moved—the footwork, the timing of a rebound, the way the ball left their fingertips. He didn't understand everything, but his mind was hungry.
That night, he dreamed of himself soaring above them, the crowd chanting his name.
---
Weeks turned into months. Chike became a shadow at the court, always watching, always waiting for a turn. When the older boys finally grew tired of his persistence, Emeka threw the ball at him one evening.
"Ok, skinny, show us what you fit do."
The ball stung his chest, but Chike held it tight. His heart pounded. He bent low, imitating the dribbles he had seen. The first bounce nearly escaped him, the second was sloppy, but by the third he began to feel a rhythm. The laughter of the others stung, but he didn't stop.
Then, by accident or fate, he made a move no one expected. He faked left, stumbled, then somehow shifted his weight in a strange gliding step and slipped past Emeka. His layup was clumsy, but the ball kissed the backboard and dropped through.
Silence. Then a burst of noise.
"Wetin be that?!" one boy shouted.
"This small boy dey waka like breeze!" another added.
Chike blushed, unsure if they were mocking him or impressed. But he knew one thing: in that single moment, something awakened.
---
That night, his father scolded him for coming home late again.
"You think basketball will feed you? Nonsense! Go and read your books. Doctor, engineer—these are things that matter."
Chike kept quiet, but as he lay on his bed, muscles sore, he whispered to himself: One day, they will see.
---
By the time he was fifteen, everyone in Umuahia knew the skinny boy who moved like a ghost on the court. They gave him a nickname: "Nwoke Mmiri" — the Water Man—because of the way he flowed, slipping past defenders as if they couldn't catch him. His "floating step," as Emeka had first called it, became his signature move, though he himself didn't fully understand how he did it. It was just… natural.
Chike still lost more games than he won. He was raw, inconsistent, sometimes overwhelmed by stronger players. But he never quit. The dusty court became his temple.
One humid evening, as the orange sun dipped behind the roofs, a man in a polo shirt stood by the sidelines. His name was Coach Nnadozie, a former university player whose knees had given up too early. He watched silently as Chike played, gliding, stumbling, rising again.
When the game ended, the coach approached him.
"You," he said simply, pointing. "What's your name?"
"Chike."
"You play like someone who doesn't know his own gift yet. Come tomorrow. I will train you."
Chike froze, stunned. For the first time, someone outside his daydreams saw something real in him.
And just like that, the boy who once chased a rubber ball in the dust began his first step toward a future no one thought possible.