Chapter 1: The Girl Who Couldn't Dream (Part 2)
800 Words
The next morning, I woke before the call to prayer.
The village was still asleep.
The air was cool, and the stars hadn't completely disappeared from the sky.
I quietly slipped out of the house with a small piece of cloth tucked under my arm.
I didn't have a football.
I didn't even know where to get one.
But I couldn't stop thinking about that feeling from the day before.
Behind our house stood an old baobab tree. No one ever went there that early, so I sat beneath it and tied old rags together with string until they formed a small, uneven ball.
It looked terrible.
I laughed to myself.
"Well," I whispered, "you're all I've got."
I placed the rag ball on the ground.
One kick.
It rolled only a few feet.
Another kick.
This time it stayed close to my feet.
Again.
And again.
Before long, I was running around the tree, pretending I was in a stadium packed with thousands of people.
The birds became my cheering crowd.
The wind became the announcer.
"And here comes Raina!" I whispered, grinning. "She's past one defender... another... she's through on goal!"
I kicked the ball between two stones.
"GOAL!"
I threw my hands into the air and spun around, laughing.
For the first time in a long time, I felt free.
"Raina!"
The shout froze me.
I turned to see my grandmother standing a few metres away, carrying a basket.
My smile vanished.
"I... I can explain."
She looked at the rag ball on the ground, then back at me.
"You made that?"
I nodded.
She didn't scold me.
Instead, she walked over, picked up the ball, and turned it over in her hands.
"You've tied it well."
I blinked.
"You aren't angry?"
She smiled softly.
"I've lived too long to be angry at a child for chasing joy."
I ran to hug her.
"But don't let your father see this," she whispered into my ear.
"The world isn't kind to girls with dreams."
Days turned into weeks.
Every morning, before anyone else woke up, I practiced.
Dribbling around rocks.
Passing against a mud wall.
Running until my legs burned.
If someone came near, I'd quickly hide the rag ball under bushes and pretend I was collecting firewood.
It became our secret.
Mine...
And Grandma's.
Sometimes she'd sit beneath the baobab tree, pretending to shell groundnuts while secretly watching me train.
Whenever I made a good move, she'd clap once.
Just once.
That single clap meant everything.
One afternoon, while fetching water, I saw the boys playing again.
This time I stayed hidden behind a fence.
Their game was faster than before.
I watched every movement.
How they trapped the ball.
How they passed.
How they turned without losing control.
When I got home, I copied everything I'd seen.
Over and over.
Until sunset.
Until my feet were sore.
Until my hands were blistered from falling.
I didn't care.
Pain meant I was learning.
A month later, something unexpected happened.
I was practicing behind the baobab tree when I heard another clap.
Not Grandma's.
I spun around.
A boy about my age stood there with his arms crossed.
It was Ibrahim.
One of the boys from the football field.
My heart dropped.
"Please..." I begged. "Don't tell anyone."
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked toward the rag ball.
"You practice every day?"
I nodded.
He looked surprised.
"So that's why your kick was so good."
I stared at him.
"You don't think girls shouldn't play?"
He shrugged.
"I think anyone who works hard deserves a chance."
Those words felt strange.
No one had ever said anything like that to me before.
He picked up my rag ball and frowned.
"This thing is falling apart."
"I know."
The next day, Ibrahim returned.
Hidden beneath his shirt was an old, worn-out football.
Its white patches had turned brown from years of use.
"It's leaking air," he said, placing it in my hands, "but it's better than this."
I couldn't believe it.
"For me?"
He nodded.
"My older brother doesn't use it anymore."
Tears filled my eyes.
It wasn't new.
It wasn't perfect.
But to me...
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I hugged the ball tightly.
"Thank you."
From that day on, I no longer trained alone.
Every morning, before sunrise, Ibrahim met me at the baobab tree.
He taught me how to pass with both feet.
How to shield the ball.
How to stay balanced.
How to shoot with power instead of just hope.
Every lesson made me better.
Every day made my dream feel a little closer.
But dreams have a way of attracting danger.
And none of us noticed the pair of eyes watching from behind the bushes.
Someone had discovered our secret.
- Writer
