The bus rolled to a stop at the gates of the Pepsi Football Academy, and Joshua's breath caught in his chest.
It was like stepping into another world.
Green, trimmed pitches stretched as far as his eyes could see. Real goalposts. Cones. Training dummies. Boys in matching kits jogged in formation under the eyes of serious coaches wearing sunglasses and branded tracksuits.
Joshua leaned against the bus window. "So this… is where stars are made."
The boys beside him were silent too—none of them had ever seen anything like this.
Coach Emeka stepped off the bus and motioned for them to follow. "Stay sharp. Stay humble. If you make it here, you've earned it."
Joshua grabbed his dusty boots, slung them over his shoulder, and stepped down.
The ground felt different. Solid. Like it was waiting to test him.
---
Inside the registration tent, a tall man with a clipboard and a sharp accent greeted them.
"Welcome to the Lagos Trials," he said. "You're here because someone saw potential. But potential is not enough. Over the next three days, you'll train, compete, and be evaluated. Only ten will be selected."
He pointed at the list. "Sign in. Get your numbers. No parents allowed inside. No excuses."
Joshua was given number 47, a faded white bib that hung loosely on his chest.
He glanced at the other boys in line. Many wore new boots, slick haircuts, and expensive kits from Europe. He could feel their eyes judging him—his patched jersey, his worn-out shorts.
"Who let the village boys in?" one tall boy muttered behind him.
Joshua heard it. But he didn't flinch. He'd heard worse.
---
The first drill was brutal.
Cone sprints. Ladder footwork. High-knees. One-touch passing. The Lagos sun beat down on them like fire, and by midday, sweat soaked through every inch of Joshua's shirt.
Some boys quit already—vomiting by the side or limping off the pitch. But Joshua kept going. His legs screamed. His lungs burned. Still, he moved.
Because in his mind, he wasn't on a training pitch.
He was at the Camp Nou, cutting through defenders, thousands screaming his name.
"Number 47," barked a coach. "Again!"
He stumbled, regained his footing, and went again.
---
Later that evening, the trialists were split into 7-a-side teams for practice matches.
Joshua found himself benched for the first two games.
He sat quietly on the grass, watching the others. Some were strong, some fast—but most of them played for themselves. Greedy touches. Showboating. Yelling at teammates.
Coach Emeka came and sat beside him.
"You alright, Kevwe?"
Joshua nodded. "I'm ready. Just waiting."
Coach Emeka grinned. "Good. Because when your moment comes… you better make them remember you."
---
Finally, in the third match, Coach Collins waved him in. "Number 47, midfield. Let's see what you've got."
Joshua stood and cracked his knuckles. This was it.
He jogged onto the pitch and took position. The game restarted fast, with the opposing side dominating possession. Joshua stayed alert, reading the play.
Then—boom.
The ball spilled loose near midfield. A defender slipped. Joshua pounced.
One touch.
Two touches.
Then a third—a drag-back spin that made the crowd gasp. He burst past one, split two more with a fake pass, and slid a perfect through-ball between defenders.
His striker caught it, took one touch, and slotted it past the keeper.
Goal.
Silence. Then cheers.
"Who's number 47?" one coach asked.
"Boy's got eyes in his boots," another whispered.
Coach Collins scribbled something on his clipboard.
Joshua jogged back, heart pounding.
He didn't celebrate. Didn't smile.
But in his mind, he heard his sister's voice.
"Will you buy me a pink bicycle?"
---
That night, the boys were housed in dorms on campus. Six beds per room, one shared bathroom, no luxuries.
Joshua lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Blisters covered his feet. His body ached.
But he felt alive.
Uche lay in the bed beside him. "Bro… you cooked that guy like suya today."
Joshua laughed. "You saw that pass?"
"I thought that spin was accident o."
They both chuckled. Then Uche grew quiet.
"What if we don't make it?"
Joshua turned toward him. "Then we go back and train harder. But I'll make it, Uche. I have to."
"Why?"
He thought about his father's tired eyes. His mother's voice trembling with fear. His sister's bicycle. Osaze's disbelief.
"Because I promised too many people."
---
The next morning, the list was posted on the notice board.
The names of the Top 15 trialists who made the final evaluation round.
The boys crowded around, pushing, shoving.
Joshua waited.
He didn't want to look too desperate.
Then Uche screamed, "Broooo! You're in!"
Joshua rushed forward.
There it was:
#47 – Joshua Kevwe
---
But the celebration didn't last.
That afternoon's final evaluation would be a full 11-vs-11 match. Scouts from clubs across Nigeria were attending.
This was no longer just a trial—it was a stage.
Coach Emeka gave Joshua a pat on the back. "You're one of the youngest here. Most boys are 13, 14. But you've got something different. Show them."
---
The match began under the blazing sun.
Joshua played center midfield, flanked by older boys who barely passed to him.
Still, he found ways to shine.
Short passes. Interceptions. A quick one-two that led to a near goal. Coaches watched. Scouts scribbled. The crowd murmured every time he touched the ball.
Then, in the 40th minute, it happened.
He received the ball at the top of the box.
He turned.
One-on-one with the defender.
Step-over.
Body feint.
Shift to the left—then a sudden right.
The defender slid past air.
Joshua curled the ball…
It hit the crossbar.
Groans echoed around the pitch.
He dropped to his knees, fists in the grass.
That was it. The moment. And he missed.
---
After the match, the coaches huddled for final selections.
Joshua sat alone under a tree, staring at his boots.
Dusty. Cracked. Loyal.
He wanted to cry but held it in.
Coach Emeka approached.
"Sometimes, it's not about the goal," he said. "It's about who made people hold their breath."
Joshua looked up.
"They'll post the final list tomorrow," Emeka said, standing. "Get some rest. Whatever happens… you made them notice."
---
That night, Joshua couldn't sleep.
Not because he was scared—but because he had felt it.
For one moment, on that pitch… he belonged.