He was going to be the best footballer in Chad.
The fact that most people around the world couldn’t name a Chadian footballer was of little concern to him. At just eight years old, he was determined to make it happen. He picked up a handful of red dirt and stones.
He was going to be the best footballer in Chad.
“If the wind blows this to the right, then God wants me to be a footballer,” He declared to the universe and nobody in particular. The earth began to trickle through his sweaty little fingers, falling almost exactly where he had picked it up. Leaning around the left, he filled his cheeks with air and blew with all his might. Some of the lighter bits of dirt flew to the right, before his lungs emptied, and he let the rest fall to the ground.
“There. It is settled.”
If Chance had had a father, he would have told him that crying was not for boys of his age, and that he needed to be a man. But Chance did not have a father. A late night knock on the door had seen to that. Perhaps if he did have a father, there would have been less reason to cry. As it was, he wept for the things he did not have, and the things he ought to have... He wiped his eyes. It wouldn’t do to be seen like this. The other boys would be here soon, and hopefully, so would the God Man.
The God Man was white, and this was reason enough for Chance to be excited. He had never seen anything so strange in all his days. He looked as though he was permanently unwell, like he had drunk the water from the river. He only spoke gibberish, but had a kind smile. Chance’s Uncle said that he had come to tell the village about his God, but no one could understand him. So there was a lot gesturing, and frustrated laughter, and no one was entirely sure why he was still there. Little did Chance know that he held a special place in the God Man’s heart; the boy with tear stains etched into his cheeks.
It was completely square, mostly dirt, with a few stray patches of grass laying haphazardly amongst the red.
The other boys were all bigger than him, and had often refused to let him play, so his heart was gladdened when he saw the God Man emerge from behind Ndaiye’s family’s hut, wearing actual footballing clothes. Chance just played in his regular shirt which was browned and ragged. He longed for the white man’s attire. He looked as though he could walk onto the pitch at Old Trafford and not be out of place.
The game began, and a haze of dirt enveloped the tiny pitch. It seemed to glow against the sun which was bleeding a rich red along the horizon. Masses of tiny black feet kicked the pitch into the air, and kicked at each other’s shins, which were hardened to oblivion so play continued uninterrupted.
After fifteen minutes of being excluded from the action, the ball landed at Chance’s feet. Space. He looked up.
He looked as though he could walk onto the pitch at Old Trafford and not be out of place.
“Pogba! Woo!” The God Man shouted, his face alight. Chance took a run up of tiny steps towards the ball. Though the God man was the other direction from the goal, Chance kicked the ball to him. He received it with a deft touch.
“Messi!” He shouted this time, as rounded Ali Tremblay, leaving a skinny black leg to air swing in the space the God Man had previously occupied. He looked towards Chance, and gave the ball back. “Pogba! Go Pogba!”
Chance steamed toward the goal as quickly as his tiny legs would take him. From behind, he could hear the rabble and shrieks of laughter from the crowd of boys in hot pursuit. He kicked the ball towards the God Man, whose long legs had carried him beyond the crowd and into open space.
“Messi!” Chance shrieked, out of breath. The God Man smiled, evidently thrilled that the young boy had caught on. He again received the ball and began to dance with it at his feet as the rabble descended on him. It popped out from the red dust crowd swirling with excited black bodies, and fell between Chance and the goal. In true Chadian style, there was no one guarding the posts, as nobody had the patience to sit and watch for long enough. If there had been a keeper, he was now shrieking with laughter in the crowd surrounding the God Man with the rest of the boys.
Chance pumped his arms as he ran, yet to grow into a graceful running style. But he was far enough ahead for it not to matter. He prodded at the ball with his big toe, and it flew between the posts, coming to rest next to a goat who was not the least bit interested.
The world seemed to stand still, before he was swept off his feet from behind and hoisted onto the God Man’s shoulder. His straight blonde hair felt strange against Chance’s leg.
“Pogba! Pogba!”
He bounced up and down as the God Man danced down the field, much to the delight of the other boys. Chance began to grin, a medal of his mind’s own making invisibly thick around his neck. The other boys had begun to join in the chant.
“Pogba! Pogba!”
...the little boy’s face on fire with pride. His faultless black skin at odds with his gleaming teeth and wide eyes, which were completely devoid of tears.
The God Man, or Brian, as he preferred to be called, glanced up to see the little boy’s face on fire with pride. His faultless black skin at odds with his gleaming teeth and wide eyes, which were completely devoid of tears. It was the first time in his two weeks that Brian had seen them that way. They had an unspoken language; a syntax of passing and moving, a grammar of goals. As the boy who could possibly grow up to be the best footballer in all of Chad sat on his shoulders in the cool of the afternoon, Brian was suddenly overcome. Somewhere, somehow, he had to believe that this was what his God had in mind...
BY TIMOTHY CLARKE
