For the next few days, I tried to tell myself I was imagining things. That the letter from my father was nothing more than an old man's paranoia. But every time I walked through Willowcreek, I felt eyes on me.
At the market, the stares were polite, even friendly at first. Women in brightly patterned wrappers haggled over yam prices, men leaned lazily against their bicycles, and children darted between stalls chasing each other. But when I passed, conversations paused for a heartbeat too long.
I began talking to my neighbours more. Mrs. Adesuwa, who sold cassava flour two doors down, told me about the town's traditions—the Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday football matches, the harvest festival in early October, and the mayor's grand speeches on the balcony of the town hall. Her voice always grew quieter when she mentioned the mayor.
"Good man?" I asked casually one afternoon as I helped her carry sacks into her store.
Her eyes darted to the doorway before she answered. "A man like that… you don't call good or bad. You just say… he is." She forced a smile and changed the subject.
At the soccer pitch, I kept noticing the same faces in the crowd. Not locals I'd spoken to, not players, just watchers. They never clapped, never cheered, just stood with arms folded, their expressions unreadable.
One evening, as I was lacing up my boots before practice, Femi sat beside me.
"You've made friends here, Murphy," he said. "That's good. But don't ask too many questions."
I looked at him, waiting for the punchline, but his expression was serious.
"Questions about what?"
He shrugged, tying his boots. "About anything."
That night, I found myself turning my father's letter over and over in my hands, the words burning into my mind: The games here are older than the town itself.
If there was a game being played in Willowcreek, I had the sinking feeling I was already a piece on the board.