James had always believed that routine kept the mind sharp.
He woke late that afternoon, later than usual, sunlight already slanting through the blinds. The room was quiet, orderly—bed made, shoes lined neatly by the door, yesterday's notes stacked on the desk.
He went through the motions without thinking: shower, towel over his shoulder, water running until it turned cold. He stood there a moment longer than necessary, letting it clear his head.
Coffee followed as usual with its strong and bitter taste.
Yet even as he sipped, his thoughts kept drifting—circling back to the same image in his memory. A grainy clip, a sandy pitch and in it, a boy moving like he didn't belong among the rest.
At exactly 4:00 p.m, James chose his clothes more carefully than he usually would. He checked the time again before picking up his keys.
By the time he arrived, he didn't need signs to tell him he was close. The sound reached him first. It rolled over the low walls and fencing in waves—cheers layered over shouts, whistles cutting through the air, the unmistakable buzz of a crowd fully invested.
James slowed his steps. At the gate, he paused and glanced at a screen. It displayed 80th minute.
He lifted his eyes.
The field was packed far beyond what he'd expected. People lined the perimeter shoulder to shoulder, some standing on tiptoe, others leaning forward with hands braced on the fence. A few had climbed onto higher ground just to get a clearer view. The air was thick with dust and heat, but no one seemed to care.
His gaze shifted to the scoreboard.Khaki FC 3 – 0 Oworon Lions, a match that was already decided but the noise told a different story.
A sudden roar surged again, louder than before, and James instinctively tracked it to the left side of the pitch.
Navy blue kit, at the left wing.
The ball rolled toward him, and the reaction was immediate—voices rising in anticipation, not celebration yet, but belief. James felt it in his chest.
That's him.
Same posture. Same awareness before the ball even reached his feet. The boy didn't rush the first touch; he welcomed it, let it settle, like time bent slightly in his favor.
A defender closed him down hard. The boy shifted the ball just beyond reach, hips turning, shoulder dipping—not exaggerated, not flashy but efficient.
The defender was beaten, earning cheers from the crowd. Another stepped across to cover. The boy accelerated, sand spraying as his pace changed, slicing between the angles as if he'd already seen the opening seconds earlier.
The crowd was fully alive now. James leaned forward without realizing it as he had already found a seat.
A third defender hesitated, unsure whether to step or hold. That hesitation was enough. The boy cut inside, carrying the ball across his body, opening a sliver of space where none should exist.
Then the strike came—low and clean. The ball skidded across the sand and kissed the inside of the net. For a breathless moment, the field froze.
Then everything broke loose.
Cheers erupted from every direction—raw, uncontrolled. Players rushed toward the scorer, arms thrown around shoulders, hands slapping backs. On the sidelines, people shouted his name. Phones went up again, desperate to capture something they already knew they'd remember.
James clapped but not of habit and not because he was trying to be polite.
Once. Then again.
He watched the boy stand amid the chaos, chest rising steadily, as he high five his teammates.
'So it's you,' James thought. The same boy from the recording. The same movements he'd studied deep into the night. Only now,he was witnessing his magic again in real time.
James felt something settle in his chest. "So it wasn't a coincidence," he murmured.
The crowd roared again as play resumed, but James barely noticed.
He had already found what he came for and confirmed it.
***
The game had started exactly the way Jidenna promised it would.
Ayodeji was in the lineup from the first whistle, stationed on the left. From the opening minutes, it was obvious this wouldn't be easy. The opposition set up deep—two compact lines, little space between them, every forward pass immediately met by a body.
Khaki FC kept the ball, circulated it, tried to probe but nothing stuck. Crosses were blocked. Short passes were intercepted. Shots from distance were smothered before they even troubled the keeper.
Every time Ayodeji received the ball, two players shifted toward him instantly, cutting off angles, forcing him backward or sideways. The rhythm slowed and frustration crept in.
Minutes passed like that.
Half-chances came and went, but real openings were rare. It felt like one of those games where effort outweighed reward until the moment it didn't.
It started with a mistake. The opposition pushed numbers forward on a corner, desperate to break the deadlock. The clearance didn't go far, but it was enough. Khaki centre-midfielder reacted first, poking the ball loose and turning sharply. Suddenly, space appeared where none had existed all game.
Ayodeji was already moving.
He dropped into the channel, calling for it once. The ball found his feet in stride. He took kne touch to steady himself, another to draw the defender in. Then he slipped it.
A perfectly weighted through pass, threaded between center-back and fullback, rolling into open sand like it had been invited there. The striker burst onto it and finished without hesitation.
1–0.
Something broke after that. The opposition had to step out. Lines became stretched, gaps appeared. And with space came control.
Ayodeji began to dictate the game without forcing it—switching play, dragging defenders wide, releasing the ball at the exact moment pressure collapsed inward. Every dangerous move passed through him somehow, even when he wasn't the one touching the ball last.
The striker fed on it. Second goal—cutback, simple finish. Third—another run, another pass, another conversion.
A hat-trick and Ayodeji decided to add one more goal at the dying minutes of the game. By the time the final whistle went, the scoreline told one story but the crowd told another.
People weren't chanting the striker's name, they were pointing. Talking. Following the left side of the pitch with their eyes. Everyone knew where the game had been won and who made it possible.
As Ayodeji walked off, chest rising steadily, he spotted Jidenna near the sideline. He wasn't alone. A man stood beside him—well-dressed, calm, hands loosely folded, eyes still fixed on the field even after the match had ended.
Jidenna caught Ayodeji's attention and waved him over.
"Come," he said. "He wants to talk to you."
Ayodeji approached, wiping sweat from his face, heart thudding—not from nerves, but anticipation. He greeted them politely.
Before Jidenna could say anything else, the man stepped forward. His voice was even. Curious. "Would you like playing in Europe?"
The world seemed to pause right there.
——
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