Dewdrops trembled on spiderwebs strung between the tomato plants. A worn watering can, slick with condensation, tipped in Mohand's hand, its contents splashing onto the dark, rich soil. His knuckles, dusted with earth, brushed against the velvety petals of a cluster of red geraniums as he passed.
In the center of the garden, a heavy stone table stood, its surface cool and pitted with age, a fringe of emerald moss softening its base. The air held the clean scents of wet earth, flowering jasmine, and the sharp, green note of crushed mint.
Mohand set the empty watering can down with a soft clink against the stone. He lowered himself onto the bench, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. On the table, a simple copper tray held a small, intricately designed pot. He reached out, his fingers briefly testing its side.
"Good, still warm," he murmured to the sparrows chirping in the fig tree.
He poured the coffee slowly, watching the steam curl up in a fragrant plume. The liquid was thick and dark, almost syrupy as it filled the small ceramic mug. He was just raising it to his lips, the warmth seeping into his palms, when the low rumble of a 4x4 engine fractured the quiet. Gravel crunched rhythmically under its tires.
Mohand set his cup down, the coffee untouched, and rose to amble toward the garden's edge. Leaning slightly over the low stone wall, he looked down to see Karim hoisting a long, aluminum ladder from the back of the vehicle.
"Oh, Karim!" Mohand called out, his face breaking into a smile. "Did you find your dad's stuff?"
Karim glanced up, not breaking his rhythm as he slid the ladder into its place against the side of the house. "Yeah," he said, dusting his hands off on his trousers. "They were right where you said, in the attic."
Mohand let out a warm, rolling laugh. "Hahaha! Good to hear. Yallah, come on. The coffee is poured. Share a cup with your uncle."
A genuine, easy-going smile touched Karim's lips. He nodded, "I'm not gonna say no to that."
He climbed the stone steps into the garden and was about to sit on the bench across from his uncle when he paused, looking down at his palms, which were smudged with dust from the ladder.
Mohand's eyes followed his gaze. He gestured with his chin toward a green watering can sitting near a tap on the wall. "Just wash them there," he said, his tone practical and warm.
As Karim went to clean his hands, Mohand took a second, unused mug from the tray and poured a fresh cup of the dark, aromatic coffee. By the time Karim returned, shaking the water from his fingers, a steaming cup was waiting for him. He sat, took a slow, appreciative sip, and let out a contented breath.
"Your coffee, truly, is unique, Ammu."
Mohand beamed, a proud glint in his eye. "It is, isn't it?" He gestured toward the house. "I have a fresh bag of the beans. Take some with you."
Karim laughed, a low, easy sound. "Sure. But don't tell Pops—he'd take the whole bag for himself."
Mohand's eyes crinkled with amusement. "He sure would!"
A comfortable silence settled between them as they drank. Mohand watched his nephew over the rim of his cup
.
"So," Mohand began, his voice softer now. "How is it? Living back in Algeria... how is it feeling?"
Karim took a slow sip, buying a second to think. He set the cup down carefully. "Well... it's different."
Mohand nodded, his expression understanding.
"I'm getting used to it," Karim continued. "Slowly."
Mohand's eyes twinkled. "I bet Mokhtar isn't making it any easier for you."
At that, Karim could only laugh, shaking his head in a gesture that was both amusement and surrender.
Mohand's expression softened, growing more thoughtful. "And how is your body feeling? No training, no games..."
Karim just sighed, a long, quiet exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of a former life. He stared into his coffee cup.
"Your dad was the same, you know," Mohand said gently. "So bad when he retired from football. Couldn't sit in one place for too long. Always looking for something to do, like a man who'd lost his shadow."
Karim nodded slowly, his gaze distant. "It's the routine," he said, his voice low. "You are used to it... and then all of a sudden, you have all this free time." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "The days are... long."
Mohand smiled, a warm, knowing look in his eyes as he watched his nephew. "You are still young and energetic. Just give it some time. You will figure it out," he said, his voice full of a quiet, unwavering faith. "You always do."
Karim sat up straighter, his posture shifting. "Nothing is set in stone yet." The slump of contemplation was gone, replaced by a new solidity. "But it is looking promising so far."
"Good, good," Mohand said, his face brightening. "This is what I like to hear."
Karim finished his coffee in one last, appreciative swallow and stood. "I should get going. See you later, Ammu. Thanks for the delicious coffee."
Mohand also got to his feet, waving a hand. "Don't mention it. You are always welcome."
"Do you want me to drop you somewhere on my way?" Karim asked, pulling his keys from his pocket.
"Oh, I'm just going to the village square."
Karim nodded. "Yeah, it's on my way. Let's go."
The car's engine purred to life. Karim glanced over at his uncle as he pulled onto the main road. "You were also there yesterday, wasn't it? Is that your usual spot?"
Mohand chuckled, fastening his seatbelt. "Yeah. We retired people have our own fun."
Karim grinned. "Hahaha, glad to hear that."
"We usually play some boules," Mohand said, leaning over to lower his window. "But lately, we all just sit around and watch the match."
Karim nodded, his eyes on the road. "Oh, I noticed it yesterday. Big crowd."
A rich, hearty laugh escaped Mohand. "Yeah," he said, shaking his head in amusement. "It's turning into prime TV at this point."
"You mean that kid?" Karim asked, a specific image flashing in his mind: the boy with the ball at his feet, toying with his opponent as if he were a matador with a bewildered bull.
"Ooh, you saw it!" Mohand said, his face alight.
Karim kept his eyes on the road, a faint smile on his lips. "Yeah, I did get a glimpse."
Mohand shook his head, a fond smile playing on his lips. "Isn't he entertaining, that one?"
"Yeah," Karim said, the single word laced with a professional's appreciation. "And brave."
Mohand let out a booming laugh. "Hahaha! You wait till you see him running his mouth."
Karim just shook his head, a knowing look on his face. "With that style, he is gonna be punched."
"Nope. No one is touching him," Mohand said, his voice firm and full of conviction. "They all love him."
"Yeah," Karim agreed, a slow, thoughtful nod as a memory surfaced. "Those people... they tend to be loved." He fell silent for a moment, the image of a former teammate—a magician with the ball and a magnet for trouble—flashing in his mind. The fans adored him anyway, maybe even more for his fiery spirit.
"Since you've finished your business," Mohand said, seizing the opportunity, "why not come and watch? It's nothing like what you're used to, but it's fun."
Karim glanced at the clock on the dashboard, then gave a slight shrug. "Yeah," he said. "Why not."
They pulled up at the edge of the village square to find a crowd already forming a loose ring around the dusty pitch, where a game was already in full, chaotic flow. Mohand led the way, carving out a spot for them under the shade of a large oak tree. Karim leaned against the rough bark, his eyes automatically scanning the players, assessing the flow of the game.
His gaze swept across the pitch once, then twice. The whirlwind figure of the kid from yesterday was nowhere to be seen.
"Your boy isn't playing," Karim observed.
Mohand followed his gaze, a hearty laugh escaping him. "Hahahaha!" He pointed to a man pacing furiously near the touchline, gesticulating wildly at the players. "That's his father, Ahmed. They always play him first, then rope the boy in. It's a whole ritual."
"It must be demoralizing for him," Karim mused, watching Ahmed's frustration.
"Nah," Mohand said with a wave of his hand. "He enjoys the attention."
They watched for a couple more minutes before Ahmed, panting and red-faced from his efforts on the pitch, started scanning the crowd himself, his eyes darting around wildly.
Mohand chuckled. "See? He's used to it. He even looks for his own substitutes."
Karim let out a low chuckle. "Nice mentality."
As Ahmed continued his frantic search, a murmur ran through the spectators. Others also began to look around, caught up in the hunt. "Where is the star?" someone yelled.
"Looks like he's gone missing," Karim said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"He is hiding somewhere, that lazy boy," Mohand grumbled, though his eyes twinkled.
Suddenly, a commotion erupted from behind a small shop on the far side of the square. A burly man emerged, holding a squirming Ryan under his arm like a sack of potatoes.
The crowd erupted into laughter and cheers as the man marched onto the pitch and unceremoniously deposited Ryan onto the field.
"Hahaha! We found you!"
"You can't run!"
"You have nowhere to hide!"
Ryan stood in the middle of the pitch, brushing the dust from his clothes with sharp, irritated motions. "That was so unnecessary," he grumbled to no one in particular.
He looked around at the cheering, laughing crowd, put his hands on his hips, and declared, "This is child labor, you know! I could have you all brought up on charges! Minimum three years of jail time, I'm not kidding!"
The crowd just roared back, used to his theatrics.
"Yah yah, lawyer! We understood!"
"Just play, you rascal!"
A slow grin spread across Karim's face as he watched Ryan's performance. He glanced at his uncle. "I get why you like him."
Mohand just nodded, a look of pure, smug satisfaction on his face.
The game resumed, and Karim settled in to watch as a normal spectator. He laughed along with the crowd as Ryan, the ball seemingly glued to his feet, nutmegged one defender and then immediately attempted a flamboyant, if slightly wobbly, elastico that sent another man stumbling the wrong way.
"The ball is like a pet to him," Karim said, shaking his head in sheer amusement. He let out a low chuckle of admiration. "That boy is blessed."
Mohand puffed out his chest, his eyes shining with pride. "Isn't this more entertaining than your professional matches?"
Karim just shrugged, a non-committal but good-natured gesture, his eyes never leaving the game.
His relaxed slouch against the tree trunk stiffened. The casual smile was gone, replaced by a still, penetrating focus. His eyes, which had been lazily tracking the ball, now locked onto Ryan, following his movements even when he was far from the play.
He watched the boy's head constantly swivel, a radar dish scanning for threats and opportunities before the ball was even passed. Then, a hard, low pass was fired toward Ryan in a tight space. There was no trap, no extra touch. In one fluid motion, he met the ball with the inside of his boot, redirecting its pace and angle with a single, precise touch. The ball sped away from him, rolling perfectly into the path of a streaking winger.
Karim, who had been leaning casually, now stood a little straighter, his arms uncrossing.
"Nice," he murmured.
A few minutes later, the ball rolled to Ryan's feet. His head snapped up, his gaze slicing through the defense to find a seam of open grass. He took two quick touches, his body already coiling to strike a through ball. His eyes lifted again, searching for the runner—only to find his teammate had stopped. Ryan's shoulders dropped in a faint sigh. The coiled energy unspooled into three rapid step-overs and a feint before a simple, sideways pass.
"Mmm," Karim said, the sound low and certain. "He wanted to pass there." His sharp gaze remained fixed on the now-vacant space.
He was no longer smiling.
He tracked the constant, unheeded signals.
Ryan's body angling to receive a pass into space that never came.
His eyes locking onto a runner making a darting move that no one else saw.
The subtle drop of a shoulder to create a pocket of room that immediately collapsed.
Finally, he turned to Mohand, his expression utterly serious. "You guys are putting a Ferrari engine in a Fiat 127."
Mohand blinked. "Huh? What are you saying?"
"How old is the kid?" Karim asked, his voice intense.
"Fourteen. Maybe fifteen."
Karim slowly turned his gaze back to the pitch, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Mmmm. So wasteful."
"He is just a kid playing around," Mohand said, a little defensively. "Don't be so harsh on him."
Karim didn't look away from the game. "I'm not talking about him."
His eyes remained locked on Ryan, watching the boy's futile, brilliant attempts to elevate a game that kept dragging him back down. He shook his head slowly, a whisper escaping his lips, meant for no one but himself.
"A gem in the mud."
A slow, almost rueful smile touched his lips as he finally looked away, taking in the whole scene—the dusty pitch, the roaring crowd, the raw, untamed talent at its center.
"Africa," he murmured. "Never disappoints."