From the slums of West Africa to the suburbs of Connecticut
The Beginning.
It all started when one rainy evening. My father darted through the door, soaked. He was a tall man with curly hair. I can still see him hovering over me, his eyes full of excitement and anticipation. He put down his suit case and took off his jacket. He then reached into his suitcase, pulling out a pair of soccer cleats. I can still see him handing them to me. They were white as snow, apart from the nike logo, which glistened in gold. “These are for you son” he said to me with pride in his voice. I was wearing them now. The sound of rain battering on our roof intensified. They fit perfectly. I walked into the bedroom, where sat my older brother, his face in his textbook. “Look at what dad got me” I said. He turned his torso, resting his elbow on the top rail of his chair. “wow!” He exclaimed. “That is nice. Too bad you are not good a soccer! haha.” He said to me, with a sense of sincerity that brought me back to reality. I sat on my bed, annoyed by that incessant rain. Imagining myself running at this moment to my best friend’s house to show him my cleats. That thought was inadmissible, because the idea of running through mud, with these beautiful cleats made me sick in the stomach. I couldn’t sleep that night. We’ve all had that feeling as children. Wether it is christmas eve, or the night before the first day of primary…
