FWEEE!!!
FWEEE!!!
FWEEE!!!
"And that's it! The referee blows the final whistle — and Togo has done it! What a night here in Brazzaville! Togo win 3–2 against Congo at the Stade Alphonse Massemba-Débat, and with this victory, they climbed above Senegal by two points! History has been made — Togo are going to the 2006 World Cup for the first time ever!"
"You can see what it means to these players — Adebayor, the talisman of this small nation, leading them to glory. Incredible scenes here in Brazzaville, absolutely incredible!"
Across Togo, the streets erupted.
People poured out of their homes, shouting, singing, waving flags. Mothers danced, fathers clapped, children ran barefoot down the road with painted faces. For once, every street was alive — joy drowning out years of frustration and doubt.
This small West African country, long ignored in world football, had done the impossible. Togo — the underdogs no one expected — were going to the World Cup.
In a modest house on the outskirts of Lomé, a boy no older than sixteen sat in front of a glowing Sony CRT television, eyes wide like he was watching magic. Beside him, his father — normally reserved about football — was smiling too, quietly proud.
The boy's heart raced as he stared at the screen. All his life, he had played barefoot with friends on dusty fields, always hearing the same words: "Football isn't a stable path for a career ."
But now, watching his country on TV, seeing Adebayor raise his arms to the sky, something changed inside him.
He turned to his father, eyes firm with determination.
"Dad," he said, voice steady. "Please… register me at a football academy. I want to play football for real."
…
…
Nine years later.
The cheers, the horns, the singing — all those sounds of celebration from that night — were gone.
Now, in a quiet studio apartment in Cairo, the only sound breaking the silence was—
BRRRRRT!
BRRRRRT!
Lying on his small, full bed, Claude turned his head as he heard his phone vibrating on the desk beside him. He stood up slowly, like a sloth fighting sleep. Around him, the one-bedroom apartment was plain but filled with reminders of his dream: a poster of Adebayor in a Tottenham jersey, another of Ronaldo Nazário in Brazil's yellow kit.
In the corner stood a small trophy cabinet — completely empty. He had bought it years ago, certain it would soon be full. But its emptiness now said everything: things don't always go as planned.
He finally reached for his phone and picked it up after it had rung, stopped, and rung again.
The caller ID showed a name he already knew too well.
His father.
Surely calling again to convince him to stop chasing a dream that seemed further away with every passing season.
"Good evening, Dad."
"Evening, Claude. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine, don't worry, Dad."
"You might not know, because you think I'm against your career, but all last season I kept checking on you — if you were playing, if you scored."
Claude stayed silent as his father continued.
"I was hoping I would see a spark, something that would convince me I didn't make a bad decision by accepting and helping you chase your dreams."
"Dad, I—"
His father cut him off immediately.
"Let me finish. I wasn't finished talking. Did I say you could talk?"
Claude shut up at once. Even at twenty-five, his father's voice still carried the same weight it had when he was a boy. The way he'd been raised didn't allow him to contradict his father. Since his mother had died when he was seven, his father had worked harder and harder to give him comfort. He had never lacked anything growing up, and that was why what he wanted most now was to make his father proud. But with how things were going, his father couldn't have been more disappointed.
"I even tried to learn more about football," his father went on, "just to see what you were seeing — how motivated you were when I finally agreed to let you chase this dream."
"I don't really blame you," his father added after a pause. "It's normal for young people to chase their dreams. But sometimes, or even most of the time, they fail. And then they realize real life isn't like in the films or series."
"Dad, I can still change things, I can still—"
"Claude Kodjo!"
Claude heard his father shout on the phone and fell silent again.
"You're already twenty-five years old, and from what I've learned about football, the chances for you to win the AFCON with the national team or even be called up are slim. You still can't even get a starter position in your team."
"Claude, you only played ten games last season, and all those were from the bench! It's true that you can chase your dreams, but you also have to know when to give up."
"It's okay to fail — you can stand up from failure and try again, but this time in a more stable environment. Maybe in football, twenty-five is too late for a big career, but you can still go to university and find a good job that I'm sure will pay more than what you earn now."
"I have connections, friends who can help you get a job after university in a company that pays very well — at least better than your current salary. I'm your father and your only parent. It's my responsibility to secure your future. Your mother wouldn't like knowing you're living alone in that small studio, earning peanuts, when I can do something about it."
"Dad, I know you just want what's good for me, but I can't give up, at least not now. I can still change things; there are many stories of players who rose late in their twenties. I still have one year left on my contract."
Claude's father sighed on the phone. Claude could almost picture him removing his glasses, rubbing his forehead the way he always did when he'd given up arguing.
"Those stories you mention are the minority, Claude. For every one of them, there are hundreds who quit without ever getting close to professional football."
"Since you insist on being stubborn, I'll accept what you said. You still have one year left on your contract, right?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Alright. You have that one year to change your situation — play more, get a starter position, and earn a renewal. If you can do that, I'll let you continue. But if nothing changes from last season, I want you back in Togo, starting university."
"It's not negotiable! Did I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Dad. I won't disappoint you; I'll give my all."
"I really hope for your sake you can change things. If not, I'll have to step in as your father and make sure you build a real future."
"Thank you, Dad."
"Mmm. Good night."
"Good night to you too, Dad."
Claude ended the call and fell back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Outside, faint car horns and the hum of Cairo traffic slipped through the half-open window, but he barely heard them.
When did things go wrong…?
Four years ago, when he was finally promoted from the U23 team to the first team, he'd been so excited—sure his career would only rise from there. But life had other plans; what he thought was just a short setback quickly spiraled out of control.
The 2010–11 season had already been shortened by political unrest in Egypt, and the next one followed in the same chaos. He had started well that year, coming off the bench for a few games, thinking he only needed to keep working. Then suddenly, the league was suspended and later cancelled after the tragedy at the Port Said Stadium on February 1, 2012. His good momentum vanished overnight.
The following season, after almost a year without playing, the Egyptian FA tried to restart the league in early 2013, but it was halted again that July amid protests and the military takeover. Any hope of a normal season was crushed. Nearly two years without competitive football—his motivation sank, his confidence eroded. By twenty-three, he was already fighting to stay relevant. Despite all his effort, no club showed real interest; he had only youth matches and a few senior appearances, not enough to convince anyone to take a chance.
The boy who once begged his father to register him at an academy could hardly recognize himself now.
Things became even worse in the 2013–14 season. The new coach barely looked his way, and in the few chances he got, he played like a stranger to the game—ten matches, no goals, no assists.
Now, in the final year of his contract with ENPPI Sporting Club, lying on his bed, he couldn't stop wondering if everything would have been different during those lost years — if Egypt hadn't fallen into chaos, if the league hadn't stopped, if his dream hadn't stalled right when it was about to begin.
He closed his eyes, the sound of the fan blending with the noise of the street below. Then a faint electronic tone cut through the silence.
Ding!