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CHAPTER 54 — BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
The snow did not melt the morning after the Monaco game.
Kweku noticed it first when he pulled back the thin curtains of the dormitory. White still covered the training pitches, soft and untouched, like the city itself had been reset overnight. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing slowly, letting the quiet sink in.
Back home in Ghana, mornings began with heat. With dust. With noise. Here, winter swallowed sound.
He rubbed his hands together and dressed carefully, layering his academy tracksuit over his school uniform. The routine had become familiar, but not easy. Nothing about living in Marseille was easy yet.
-
The tram ride to school was crowded and cold. Kweku stood near the door, holding a strap, watching condensation fog the windows. French voices overlapped in quick bursts — slang, laughter, complaints about exams.
He still understood most of it, but speaking remained hard.
At school, the corridors buzzed with energy. Jackets hung from arms, boots stomped snow from soles. He spotted Camille near the lockers, her scarf wrapped twice around her neck.
"Morning," she said, smiling.
"Morning," Kweku replied, carefully shaping the word.
They walked together toward class, their steps falling into perfect sync without effort.
"How's your body?" Camille asked. "You looked tired yesterday."
"Normal tired," he said. "Good tired."
She laughed. "Coach tired or school tired?"
"Both."
That made her smile widen.
Inside the classroom, Kweku sat near the window. The teacher spoke quickly, chalk tapping rhythmically against the board. Kweku wrote everything down even when he didn't fully understand — words first, meaning later.
Halfway through the lesson, a whisper reached him from behind.
"Hey, le footballeur."
The tone wasn't friendly.
Kweku stiffened but kept his eyes on his notebook.
Another whisper. "You play well, but school is different, yeah?"
A snicker followed.
Before Kweku could react, Camille turned around.
"Leave him alone," she said, calm but firm. "You don't speak Twi, English, and French. He does."
Silence.
The teacher glanced over. "Is there a problem?"
"No, monsieur," Camille said.
The moment passed, but Kweku felt it settle in his chest — not heavy, just sharp. A reminder.
After class, he thanked her quietly.
"You didn't have to."
"Yes, I did," she replied. "People always test what they don't understand."
That stayed with him.
---
By the time Kweku reached the academy, the sun was already fading. The snow had been cleared from the main pitch, but ice lingered near the touchlines.
Training started slowly.
Coach Devereux gathered them in a circle.
"Recovery today," he said. "But make no mistake — the season doesn't pause because you won one game."
Kweku stretched beside Louis, who bumped his shoulder lightly.
"Man of the match again," Louis said.
Kweku shook his head. "Team match."
Louis grinned. "That's how you know you're becoming important."
They jogged through passing drills. One-touch sequences. Triangles. Movement off the ball.
Kweku felt it — the difference between Ghana and France. Here, speed of thought mattered as much as speed of legs. Mistakes were punished instantly.
During a possession drill, he hesitated once. The ball was gone.
Coach's whistle pierced the air.
"Mensah! Earlier decision. You see it late, it's gone."
Kweku nodded. "Yes, coach."
He demanded more from himself after that. Faster checks. Cleaner angles. Shorter touches.
Louis noticed.
"Relax," he muttered during a water break. "You don't need to prove anything today."
Kweku exhaled. "I always do."
---
Back at the dorms, the air was quiet. Some players played video games. Others studied.
Kweku sat on his bed, notebook open, French words scribbled everywhere.
Snow tapped gently against the window.
He called his mother.
"Mama."
Her voice warmed the room instantly. "My son. I heard you played well again."
He smiled. "We played well."
She laughed softly. "Always 'we.' How is school?"
"Hard," he admitted. "But I am learning."
"That's enough," she said. "Learning takes time. Football too."
He told her about the snow, about the class, about training.
She listened. Always.
"Remember," she said before hanging up, "you don't belong there because they were kind. You belong because you earned it."
When the call ended, Kweku lay back, staring at the ceiling.
He felt deeply tired, yet steady.
---
Outside, Marseille slept under a blanket of white.
Between school and football, language and silence, pressure and patience, Kweku stood balanced on something fragile — but real.
The season would continue in January.
And when it did, he would be ready.
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