CHAPTER 2 — The Trials
The sun over Kibera hung low and red, melting through the haze of dust and exhaust fumes. The training ground looked less like a stadium and more like a crime scene — broken goalposts, weeds clawing through the touchline, a rusted scoreboard half-eaten by time.
David Muriuki stood with his arms crossed, clipboard pressed to his chest. He had slept only three hours. The night before, he'd spent hours watching shaky phone clips from his Kibera Scout system — thirty-five videos, each a desperate plea from a dreamer who thought this forgotten club could save them.
He'd marked four names with red ink.
Now, they were all here.
The owner, Mr. Kilonzo, stood beside him in a crisp suit far too fine for this place, sweat already darkening his collar. "You really think this—" he waved toward the fifty boys stretching on the pitch "—is going to fix what's broken?"
David didn't answer. He looked at the faces instead: eager, nervous, hardened. Most wore mismatched kits; a few had no boots at all. A thin boy kicked at the ground, eyes darting toward him. Samuel Otieno. The kid from the Dandora video.
"Let's find out," David said.
They started with simple drills — five-on-five games on half the pitch. Dust rose in plumes. David didn't look for goals; he looked for moments — the half-second decisions, the reactions after mistakes, the body language when a pass went astray.
He noticed Samuel almost immediately. Not because he was the fastest — but because he never waited. Every time the ball moved, Samuel was already halfway into the next space, reading the game like a language no one else spoke.
David scribbled notes on his clipboard.
Otieno — small frame, good instinct. Feet too quick for his size. Decision-making: exceptional for age.
Kilonzo snorted. "He's a child. He'll break the first time someone tackles him."
David ignored him.
Next, he watched the defenders. A long ball floated toward the penalty area. A tall, muscular figure rose and headed it clear with authority. Moses Wekesa, the captain. Once, he'd been feared in the league — now, fans called him "the ghost."
But the old steel was still there. Moses barked orders, organized lines, shouted at kids half his age to "close the space!"
Then, a miscommunication — the keeper fumbled the clearance, the ball bounced loose, and the trialists groaned as it trickled into the net.
David glanced at the keeper. Skinny, jittery, gloves too big for his hands.
Elias Mwangi, read his tag. Babu.
He slammed the ball back into play before anyone could laugh. Made three diving saves in the next ten minutes. The fourth clipped the post, but his roar of frustration made everyone take notice.
"Doesn't know what he's doing," muttered one of the assistants.
"Maybe," David said quietly, "but he hates losing. That's a start."
Then came Kevin Oduor — already famous in Nairobi football circles for all the wrong reasons. The moment he stepped on the pitch, the energy shifted. His footwork was poetry — lazy, beautiful, effortless.
He dribbled past three players, flicked the ball up, volleyed from twenty yards — bar down, goal. The small crowd of onlookers erupted. Kevin jogged back, smirk on his face.
David wrote:
Oduor — talent undeniable. Ego radioactive.
He called Kevin over.
"Good shot," David said.
"I've got plenty more," Kevin replied.
"I know," said David. "But can you make the others better?"
Kevin blinked, confused. No one had asked him that before. He walked away without answering.
As the session wound down, the dust turned golden under the dying light. Sweat glistened, shouts echoed, and for a moment — a fleeting one — the old stadium felt alive again.
David gathered the group at midfield. "Most of the world doesn't care about this club anymore," he said. "They think Kibera United is finished. Dead. But I saw something today — four somethings, actually. Players who can bring this place back to life."
The players exchanged glances. Whispers. Skepticism.
"You won't like me," David continued. "I'll train you harder than you've ever trained. I'll cut those who waste time. But if you stay — you'll belong to something again. You'll make people believe."
Silence. Then a hand rose — Samuel's.
"Coach," he said, voice trembling but clear. "When do we start?"
David looked at him — the boy from the video, the spark in the dust — and smiled.
"We already have."
End of Chapter 2.