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Chapter 10: The Call Home
Sunday mornings were the softest part of the week.
No shouting from seniors, no morning drills, no frantic rush to class. Just the sound of distant church bells from the town below and the smell of dew on the grass outside the dorms. It was the only time the freedom promised by high school in Ghana could be felt.
Kweku woke early, long before the others. His body still felt heavy from the match, but something inside him was light — restless. Today, he had one mission and he'd do anything to fulfill it.
He slipped on his slippers, tucked a few coins into his pocket, and made his way toward the small administration block near the school gate. The phone booth stood there, old and cracked, with faded paint peeling off the sides. It was their only connection to the outside world — the whole school shared it, well except those who secretly had phones and those who were bold enough to call their parents with a teacher's phone and risk giving their parents a way to keep tabs on them.
The matron was sweeping the corridor when he arrived.
"You again, Kweku?" she said, tiredly but kindly.
"Yes, ma. I just want to try one more time."
She nodded, stepping aside. "Go on. If it rings, don't waste the credit ."
He smiled. "Yes, ma'am."
He dialed the number slowly, carefully — each click of the rotary dial loud in the quiet morning. Then came the waiting.
One ring. Two. Three.
He almost gave up when—
"Hello?"
His heart jumped.
"Ma?"
There was a pause, then her voice — tired but warm. "Kweku? Ei, my son! Is that you?"
He laughed, relief flooding his chest. "Yes! It's me! The phone finally worked."
"Oh, thank God," she said, and he could hear her smile even through the static. "How are you? Are they feeding you well?"
He hesitated. "Hmm… the food is there," he said, and she laughed — that soft, throaty laugh that used to fill their small kitchen.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then she asked, "How was your match?"
Kweku swallowed hard. "We won, Ma. 3–2. I scored the last goal."
There was silence on the line, just the faint hum of distance. Then, quietly:
"You scored?"
"Yes," he said, his voice trembling. "A volley. The captain passed it to me, and I—"
He didn't finish. He heard a sniffle, then her voice breaking a little.
"Oh, my boy… you've made me so proud."
His throat tightened. "I wanted you to see it."
"One day," she said gently, "I will. And when I do, I'll be the one shouting the loudest."
Kweku pressed the receiver close, wishing the line could stretch across the miles, wishing she could see his smile.
They talked about small things after that — about the new market stalls, about how the mango tree near their yard was finally bearing fruit. Simple things, yet they felt sacred.
Before hanging up, she said, "Kweku, remember what I told you?"
He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Yes, Ma. Play for myself.Good. Because the world is big, but your dream can only be big to you. Don't forget that."
The line clicked, and she was gone.
Kweku stood there for a long time, staring at the silent receiver. The morning light spilled across the cracked floor, catching the tears in his eyes before he wiped them away.
He took a deep breath and looked out toward the field in the distance.
The goalposts stood empty now, gleaming faintly in the sun — waiting.
He smiled.
"Next time," he whispered, "you'll see it, Ma."