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Chapter 11.5: The Girl by the Fence
The days after felt much lighter. The pressure of the match had faded, and was replaced by the quiet rhythm of school life — classes, prep time, and other boarding school shenanigans.
But something else began to fill Kweku's thoughts.
It started one Thursday afternoon after study period. He had gone to the back field to practice free kicks alone, when he noticed someone standing just outside the fence — a girl in a neat blue dress, balancing a small basket on her hip with a small notebook on it.
She was laughing softly at something one of the younger boys had said as he passed by. Her smile — bright, unguarded — caught Kweku's attention the way sunlight catches glass.
He tried to ignore it at first. There were always visitors near the fence — parents, shop sellers, neighbors. But when she looked his way, curious, his foot missed the ball completely.
"Nice aim," she teased, her accent light, coastal.
Kweku's face burned. "It— it slipped."
She laughed again, the sound bubbling like water over stones. "You're the football boy, right? The one who scored that big goal?"
Kweku hesitated. "Maybe."
"Don't pretend. My father told me."
He frowned slightly. "Your father?"
She nodded toward the staff quarters beyond the trees. "Mr. Nyarko."
Kweku nearly choked. "The sports master?"
"Yes," she said, amused by his expression. "I'm Ama."
Ama. The name sat softly on his tongue, like a note from a favorite song.
He wanted to say something clever, something that would make her laugh again, but all that came out was, "Oh."
For the next few minutes, neither spoke. He kicked ball after ball at the goal, trying to act normal, but every time he glanced up, she was still there — watching, smiling faintly.
When the bell rang for evening prep, she waved and started to leave. "You should aim higher next time, football boy."
He grinned before he could stop himself. "Next time, I will."
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That night, lying in his bunk, Kweku couldn't stop replaying the moment.
Not the goal. Not the coach's praise.
Her laugh.
Mensah noticed him staring at the ceiling and threw a pillow. "You're smiling for nothing again. You dream of fame already?"
Kweku hid his face. "Something like that."
Over the next week, he saw Ama often — carrying books for her father, buying kenkey from the gate woman, standing by the fence during practices. They didn't talk much, just exchanged small smiles and short words that somehow felt huge.
Once, she asked, "Why do you train alone so much?"
He thought for a while. "Because when I play, I forget everything else."
She nodded. "That's how you know it's something real, though you should probably relax."
Those words stayed with him long after she left.
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On Sunday evening, as the sun sank low and the bell for supper echoed across the compound, Kweku stood by the fence again, ball under his arm. He could hear laughter from the dining hall, the sound of boys calling each other names, the smell of beans and gari filling the air.
Ama appeared once more, this time with her hair in a scarf, her eyes bright even in the fading light.
"Still training?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I like the quiet."
She smiled. "Then maybe I'll keep you company sometimes."
He felt his chest tighten — not the ache of homesickness, not the sting of ambition, but something softer, lighter.
He nodded. "That would be nice". "Wait how do you keep leaving home so much, your dad is really strict right"?
Ama let out a cute uncontrollable laugh,"That's your big question, well Michael Essien, I'm let out of our castle to find inspiration for my poems".
She looked at her phone and sighed, looking in the direction of the teachers quarters.
"I understand, Kweku said, though I don't understand why... Michael Essien of all people".
She just smiled in response, walking back home, basket and book in hand.
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That night, he couldn't sleep. He wasn't thinking about fame, or his mother, or even Yaw's next drill.
He was thinking about the girl by the fence — the one who made the boarding school feel a little less lonely.