2022-02-17, 09:05 AM - Word count:
Accra must be a nice place. At least that is what Kofi remembers, since he left Ghana some years ago.
This must have happened when he was just a small little man, too small to be taken seriously. It happened when someone from the local academies handed Kofi a football and no-one cared enough about his thirst for the beautiful game. No interest in the hours and hours spent in his family’s back-garden, dribbling Toppy, the family dog and trying crosses to the big monstera, hoping that she will someday head the ball to an imaginary goal, as a proper target-man that respects herself. The only thing that those fat coaches cared about was the son’s of their friends or some snobby kids with famous surnames.
That’s when Kofi’s mom decided that this place was too small for the big dreams of her crazy little boy. That’s when she decided that on the next call she would give to her brother in Manchester, UK, she would finally ask him if he would let Kofi move in with him. If he would search with him the youth team that would harness his pure joy for soccer, into the actual potential that he can achieve, into the big footballer he wants to be, big enough to be taken seriously.
Accra, the failed academy trials, Tobby and the monstera, his mom, the no-return ticket to the Manchester airport...all those things come to Kofi’s mind, while watching the Copa Africa in his small room near Old Trafford, hearing his neighbours cheering a Mane’s goal. All those things he misses, while waiting to realise his dreams and join the football team that will trust that he will give his best to run the sprints, do the tackle, cross the ball, take the last minute shot, chat with the kit guy, annoy the pitch people with his late runs...
(313 words)
This must have happened when he was just a small little man, too small to be taken seriously. It happened when someone from the local academies handed Kofi a football and no-one cared enough about his thirst for the beautiful game. No interest in the hours and hours spent in his family’s back-garden, dribbling Toppy, the family dog and trying crosses to the big monstera, hoping that she will someday head the ball to an imaginary goal, as a proper target-man that respects herself. The only thing that those fat coaches cared about was the son’s of their friends or some snobby kids with famous surnames.
That’s when Kofi’s mom decided that this place was too small for the big dreams of her crazy little boy. That’s when she decided that on the next call she would give to her brother in Manchester, UK, she would finally ask him if he would let Kofi move in with him. If he would search with him the youth team that would harness his pure joy for soccer, into the actual potential that he can achieve, into the big footballer he wants to be, big enough to be taken seriously.
Accra, the failed academy trials, Tobby and the monstera, his mom, the no-return ticket to the Manchester airport...all those things come to Kofi’s mind, while watching the Copa Africa in his small room near Old Trafford, hearing his neighbours cheering a Mane’s goal. All those things he misses, while waiting to realise his dreams and join the football team that will trust that he will give his best to run the sprints, do the tackle, cross the ball, take the last minute shot, chat with the kit guy, annoy the pitch people with his late runs...
(313 words)
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