The student week competitions officially began with friendly matches.
At first, everything felt light, almost carefree. Experimental. Teams met one another on the court without pressure, testing lineups and strategies, laughing off missed passes and poor shots, clapping even when the ball bounced harmlessly off the rim. It was meant to be nothing more than a warm-up. A rehearsal. A way for everyone to reconnect with the sport and feel the court beneath their feet before the real battle began.
But even during the friendlies, I noticed the looks.
They came quietly, quick glances from players on opposing teams, eyes narrowing just slightly whenever I moved too freely on the court. When I slipped past defenders with ease, when I rose higher than expected for a rebound, when my presence disrupted their rhythm, I felt it. The attention lingered longer than it should have.
Nothing about my performance was perfect. I knew that. I was aware of my flaws. My footwork still needed refinement. My timing, at moments, lagged by a fraction of a second. I sometimes hesitated when I should have acted instinctively.
Yet it was enough.
Enough to unsettle people.
Enough to make others uncomfortable.
Enough to make some feel threatened.
By the time the knockout stage arrived, the atmosphere had changed.
The games were faster now. Harder. Sharper. There was no laughter this time, no easy smiles exchanged across the court. Elbows stayed out a second longer than necessary. Hands lingered at my waist when I jumped, gripping just enough to throw off my balance. Feet slid into my path at the last moment, carefully positioned to trip me without appearing intentional.
Each fall I took was followed by laughter from somewhere in the crowd disguised as excitement, masked as enthusiasm for the game. It sounded harmless to everyone else. It did not feel harmless to me.
At first, I brushed it aside.
That was basketball, I told myself. The game was physical. Competitive. Rough by nature. Contact was expected. Pain was part of the process.
But then the whispers began.
I heard them once while tying my shoelaces near the bench. Two players from an opposing team were speaking in low tones, their bodies angled away from me, but their eyes remained fixed in my direction. Their voices dropped even further when they noticed I was close enough to hear.
The moment our eyes met, they stopped abruptly.
One of them smiled.
It was thin and careless, the kind of smile that carried no warmth. The kind that did not reach the eyes.
Later that same day, someone else approached me casually after a game. He walked with ease, as though we were old friends, nodding slightly as he came closer.
"You played well," he said, his voice calm, almost approving.
"Thank you," I replied.
He leaned in, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "You could make a bigger impact on another team."
I studied his face properly then. His expression remained relaxed, but his shoulders were tense, tight like a spring stretched too far. There was intent behind his words. Expectation.
"I'm fine where I am," I said.
The smile faded instantly.
"Suit yourself," he said as he walked out.
From that moment on, student week changed for me.
The celebration continued for everyone else. Sports dominated the daytime. At night, parties flooded the campus. Music poured through open windows, laughter echoed across the compound, bodies filled the student common room until the floor vibrated beneath their movement. To most students, it was the highlight of the semester, the week everyone looked forward to.
But for Albino, it became something else entirely.
The pressure grew steadily.
Sometimes it was subtle, a shove disguised as accidental contact, a foot stepped on just hard enough to sting without leaving evidence. Other times it was deliberate. On the court, they played with intention, not just to stop me, but to eliminate me. A push while I was mid-air. A knee driven into my thigh during a rebound. Fouls that felt less like mistakes and more like warnings.
Messages delivered through pain.
Off the court, it was worse.
They caught me when I was alone, near walkways, behind the stands, in corners where noise swallowed everything and witnesses were scarce. The confrontations were quick but intense. Hard words spoken in low voices. A shove to the chest. Laughter used as camouflage.
"Calm down," someone said once after pushing me. "Don't get yourself injured."
I learned quickly that pain did not always announce itself loudly.
Sometimes it arrived quietly.
People began to notice.
I saw it in their faces, the hesitation, the concern, the way conversations paused when I approached. Some asked softly, careful not to draw attention.
"Are you okay?"
"You sure everything's fine?"
Others pretended not to see. They looked straight ahead, focused on their own paths, as if acknowledging what was happening might drag them into it.
In that environment, I learned something important.
People could care about you and still choose not to help.
Not because they were cruel, but because survival often meant staying uninvolved.
The competition moved forward, tension thickening with every match. Injuries became common, ankles twisted, shoulders dislocated, fingers bent at impossible angles. Every sport had its casualties, and no one was immune.
By the fourth match, something inside me hardened.
I remembered every shove delivered quietly, every moment they expected me to remain silent. Every time they believed fear would make me smaller.
I decided to respond.
Aura for aura.
That day, I matched their energy.
Not recklessly. Not foolishly.
Carefully.
On the court, I played rough, but controlled. Calculated. I absorbed contact and returned it cleanly, legally, perfectly timed. When they fouled me, I ensured my response stayed within the rules, even if it carried weight.
Once, as I drove toward the basket, a shoulder slammed into my ribs. I stumbled but stayed upright, pivoted sharply, and collided back just enough to knock him off balance.
He hit the floor hard.
Minutes later, another player went up aggressively and came down wrong.
Two injuries.
Not accidental. Not careless.
Controlled.
The crowd reacted differently this time, gasps mixed with cheers, excitement tinged with shock. My teammates looked at me with new expressions, something hovering between surprise and respect.
By nightfall, the campus erupted again.
Parties spilled from the common room into hostel corridors. Music blasted from speakers. Laughter bounced off concrete walls. The air vibrated with celebration.
I sat in the common room that night, positioned where I could observe everything, the dancers, the drinkers, the arguments forming and dissolving, the subtle movements people made when they thought no one was watching.
My body was present.
My mind was elsewhere.
I replayed the day's game over and over, analyzing each moment, each reaction. Somewhere between the noise and the flashing lights, a plan began to take shape, not violent, not reckless, but final.
A way to end it.
To make them regret ever choosing me.
As student week approached its conclusion, I became more selective. I gave everything in important matches but skipped games against irrelevant teams, conserving my energy, sharpening my focus.
Then the finals arrived.
Every sports ground buzzed with life, crowds gathering, players stretching, voices overlapping with nervous excitement. The air felt electric, heavy with anticipation.
The team we faced was formidable. Strong. Disciplined. Confident.
Before the match, I approached our team leader.
"I think you shouldn't start me," I said carefully. "Put me on the bench."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"I already planned that," he said. "Just in case."
Relief washed over me .
The game began fiercely. Both teams played with intensity. Fouls came naturally, hard screens, aggressive defense, but nothing unusual. The score stayed close, yet slowly, unmistakably, my team began to fall behind.
Still, no one panicked.
Then came the second half.
Chaos.
Despite substitutions and defensive adjustments, we struggled. Our defense held, but our scoring lagged. The gap remained small but stubborn.
Midway through the half, my name was called.
I stepped onto the court calmly.
For the first few minutes, I played quietly, passing, observing, studying. I searched for weaknesses.
There were none.
So I changed the game.
I stepped back and took the shot.
Three points.
The crowd froze for a heartbeat before erupting.
I did it again.
And again.
Long-range shots. Clean releases. No hesitation.
What they didn't know was that whenever I had nothing important to do, I was on the court alone, training, practicing, perfecting my shots from mid-range and beyond the arc.
The momentum shifted violently.
Defenders rushed me, leaving others open. Passes connected. Confidence surged.
When the final whistle blew, we had won.
By one point.
It did not matter how small the margin was.
A win was a win.
As cheers filled the air, I stood still, breathing hard, chest rising and falling steadily.
Student week had given me victory.
But it had also taught me something darker.
And deep down, I knew,
This was not the end.