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Chapter 4 – The Trials
The rising bell blew before sunrise.
Kwaku jolted upright, still caught between dream and daylight. The dorm buzzed with motion — boys tying laces, shoving books into bags, splashing water on faces. Outside, the world was grey-blue, the air thick with river mist.
A prefect's voice thundered through the corridor.
"Up! Up! This is not your mother's house! Sports boys' trials begin in ten minutes! The rest should go for prep".
Kwaku jumped out of bed and hurried to wash. The cold water shocked him awake. He pulled on his training shirt — plain white with a faded Adidas logo — and reached for his boots. The ones Kojo had given him. The sight of them steadied his nerves.
He whispered, "Let's go."
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The field looked like something from another world. Smooth, green, trimmed grass. Real goal nets. Cones lined in perfect rows.
There were about fifty boys — all lean, focused, and fierce-looking. Most had come from top schools or local clubs. Kwaku recognised a few faces from a few rarely televised youth tournaments. He swallowed hard.
One boy stood out immediately — tall, sharp-faced, wearing a pair of brand-new golden boots. He juggled the ball with lazy precision, drawing glances from everyone.
When Kwaku's eyes met his, the boy smirked.
"Nice boots," he said. "Charity gift?"
Kwaku ignored the jab, tightening his laces. The boy wasn't worth a reply.
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Coach Nyarko, the head coach, blew the whistle again. He was a big man with a shaved head and a voice like thunder.
"Listen up! You're not here to show off — you're here to survive! These trials will decide who stays and who goes. We only keep twenty."
The murmurs died instantly.
"We'll test your stamina, control, and discipline. I don't care where you come from. I care what you do here. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach!" the group shouted.
"Good. Warm-up laps — four rounds. Go!"
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Kwaku took off running. The early air stung his lungs, but he pushed harder, each step a vow to himself. Around him, boys sprinted like madmen. By the second lap, some were slowing.
He remembered Amanful's dust, the endless games under the sun, running barefoot until his feet blistered. Compared to that, this was nothing.
By the fourth lap, he was near the front. The boy with the golden boots jogged beside him, throwing a sideways glance.
"Not bad… for a slum kid."
Kwaku didn't answer. He just shook his head and ran faster.
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Next came the drills — cone runs, passing accuracy, one-touch control. Every whistle was a test, every second a chance to fail.
Kwaku stumbled a few times but refused to let frustration show. When others complained, he remained quiet and continued working.
Coach Nyarko watched closely, scribbling on his clipboard.
"You," he barked suddenly. "Number 11 — the quiet one. What's your name?"
"Timothy Kwaku Mensah, sir."
"Hmm. From where?"
"Takoradi."
The coach raised an eyebrow. "That explains the hunger. Don't lose it."
Kwaku nodded, hiding a small smile.
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The scrimmage match began after lunch — full field, two teams, one chance to impress.
Kwaku was placed as a midfielder, though slightly more defensive than he preferred. Across from him, wearing the captain's band, was the boy with the golden boots. The name on his jersey read Prince Addo.
From the first whistle, Prince dominated the field — slick, confident, talking trash after every pass. The coaches nodded approvingly. He was clearly the favourite.
Kwaku played quietly at first, finding rhythm. Then, twenty minutes in, he saw the opening — Prince tried a risky dribble near midfield. Kwaku read it early, intercepted cleanly, and sprinted forward. His teammates rushed forward, creating more space by luring defenders away
A defender rushed him; he feinted left, slipped through, and sent a perfect through-ball to the striker, who finished beautifully.
The whistle blew, and for the first time, Coach Nyarko smiled.
"Excellent vision, Mensah!"
Kwaku's teammates clapped his back. Prince scowled.
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As the game went on, the rivalry grew. Every time one made a move, the other answered. Prince was all flair and arrogance; Kwaku was precision and heart.
In the final minute, the score was 1–1. The ball came to Prince near the box — he tried to chip the keeper, but Kwaku slid in just in time, blocking it cleanly. The whistle ended the game.
The boys panted on the field, covered in sweat and grass. Coach Nyarko gathered them.
"Good work today. Some of you showed skill. Some of you showed heart. Only those with both will stay."
He paused, scanning their faces.
"Tomorrow morning, we post the names."
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That night, Kwaku sat by his dorm window, muscles aching but spirit alive. He looked at the boots by his bed — dusty, scarred, but glowing faintly under the moonlight.
Kojo's words echoed in his head: "The boy with no boots started there."
He smiled softly. "But he's not stopping here."
Outside, the frogs sang again, the river whispered. Tomorrow could change everything — or end it all.
But for now, he was exactly where he needed to be.
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End of Chapter 4