In the stands, cheers burst out in waves. Young supporters waved blue and white pennants with energy, while the elders nodded with quiet judgment at every missed pass.
— "We need brilliance now," murmured a spectator. "Someone who sees what others don't..."
Ndikumana said nothing, but his eyes slowly drifted toward Sabiti.
At 10th minute,
The match had barely settled into its rhythm when Ndikumana suddenly stood from the bench. His gaze was cold, calculating—yet in his eyes burned a quiet fire.
With a simple hand signal, Sabiti, who had been sitting with his bib still on, slowly lifted his head. Calmly, he stood up, removed the bib, and tightened his laces like a samurai preparing his blade.
>Finally,said Sabiti
> "Hey, look! Who's that kid?!" shouted a teen in the stands, eyes wide with curiosity.
> "He's just a kid, right? Maybe he got promoted?"
> "I don't think so. If that were the case, we would've seen him with the U9s first—and he'd have to dominate there. But as far as I know, Tesuka's the one ruling the U9s now… unless… wait, could that be*Tesuka?"
> "No, I know that kid. He's grown. It's been a while."
> Who knows?*
> "Look closely. If you're paying attention, you'll recognize him."
> Hmm… Sabitiiii… it's really him!*
> "What?! Sabiti? The U9 prodigy from three years ago?!" gasped a nearby supporter.
> "Didn't he move away? I haven't seen him in the lineup all these years!"
A shiver rippled through the crowd. The chatter died. Even the most skeptical fell silent, waiting to see if the whispers would birth a legend.
On the bench, Kobisi, the usual playmaker, was called over.
— "Kobisi, sub out," Ndikumana said flatly.
Kobisi raised an eyebrow, slightly offended, but said nothing. He jogged to the sideline, gave Sabiti a quick high five.
— "Good luck, kid. I'll go sulk now," he muttered with a bitter yet honest smile.
Sabiti didn't reply. His mind was already on the pitch.
Ndikumana placed a firm hand on the young prodigy's shoulder.
— "Take the center. Do what you know best. But don't embarrass me," he said in a tone that was both stern and protective.
Sabiti nodded silently, then stepped onto the field without a word, without the slightest hesitation.
Madi, the commentator, burst out:
> "Oh my—ladies and gentlemen, minute ten, an unexpected tactical shift! Sabiti is entering the game! Yes, Sabiti—only eight years old, and already on the U13 pitch!"
Had a camera been there, it would've zoomed in on him. Small, but proud. A slight frame, but every movement precise. He took his place in the attacking midfield, just behind Khudhaïf, ready to unlock Saint Augustin's red-and-white defense.
As play resumed, the ball found its way to Salou Keita—calm, composed, ever the sentinel. Spotting Sabiti drifting between the lines with elegant timing, he didn't hesitate.
— "Your turn, genius," Salou said, threading a perfectly weighted pass.
The ball rolled towards Sabiti. It was his first touch of the match.
And it was pure devastation.
He controlled it on the run without losing speed, slicing between two midfielders with a Messi-like sway—body low, ball glued to his foot. He pulled them in with the fluidity of his motion, then split them like wind through an open door.
The crowd erupted in stunned gasps.
— "WHAT WAS THAT?!" Madi shouted, completely floored.
Papala, rushing back in desperation, charged toward him. Sabiti slowed, lifted his head… then pulled off a perfectly weighted sombrero, back to goal. The ball floated up, just over Papala's head, and dropped cleanly back into Sabiti's stride.
— "OOOOOOOH MY GOD!" screamed a teenage girl, clutching her head in disbelief.
Ismael, the Saint Augustin left back, lunged in to cut him off.
Sabiti didn't even glance at him. A flawless nutmeg—right between Ismael's legs. The defender spun around too late. Both the ball and Sabiti were long gone.
> "He's made of wind and fire, this kid!" Madi shouted, nearly losing it.
> "He's playing against 13-year-olds, but it's like he's the older one!"
The Saint Augustin players fell back, visibly shaken. Dalaso, the PvP captain, raised an eyebrow. Kobisi, wide-eyed, muttered:
— "Coach… is that the same Sabiti we knew, or did he drink some kind of magic potion this morning?"
Even Khudhaïf, usually the one commanding all eyes, backed off slightly to get a clearer view.
Sabiti looked up. He saw Kujo, the keeper, already bracing.
But he didn't shoot. Not yet.
Instead, he drifted left, drew two defenders in, and slid a delicate pass through the seam—straight into Chekinah's path. The shot seemed inevitable…
…but Rahim dove in with a last-second block.
Thunderous applause broke out on both sides.
— "That kid…" an old fan muttered, stroking his beard. "I think I just saw the future of this country's football."
21st minute.
The pace of the game kicked up a gear. Saint Augustin, pinned down by PvP's growing control, looked like a side gasping for air. That's when Sabiti, ever mobile, dropped deeper—temporarily leaving his attacking zone to orchestrate from the heart of midfield.
He approached Hussein calmly.
— "Play it into space," he said softly.
Hussein obeyed. A sharp, driven pass down the center.
Sabiti took it with the sole of his foot, lured in two opposing midfielders—then erased them with a silky double touch. The ball to the left, he to the right. The crowd rose as one.
> "OUUUUUUH!" the north stand erupted.
A quick glance—Abou was free on the right. Sabiti delivered a slicing diagonal ball, inch-perfect. Abou surged down the flank, leaving Rahim in his dust. He looked up and whipped in a low cross toward the near post. Khudhaïf dove in, ready to strike—
—but Kujo, Saint Augustin's keeper, launched himself forward and cleared it with a heroic sliding tackle.
— "Nice one, captain!" shouted Mossi from midfield.
But PvP refused to let the pressure drop.
Sabiti sprinted to retrieve the ball and took the corner immediately. A quick one-two with Hassan—who returned it with a cheeky outside foot flick. Without pause, Sabiti hit a low drive toward the left post.
The ball skimmed the turf… inches wide.
> "It's heating up!" a PvP fan yelled, clutching his head.
> "One more centimeter and that was in!" Madi cried from the commentary booth.
"Sabiti—always in the fire, always in the spotlight!"
Even the substitutes on the bench stood up, unable to sit still.
— This kid exhausts me just by watching him… murmured Kobisi, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips,'' I guess it'll be hard for me to obtain more minutes of games after today''.
Ndikumana, however, remained stoic. Arms crossed, he followed every move on the pitch with laser focus.
— He plays well… but he's not perfect yet, he whispered to himself, unwilling to admit he'd let such a talent sit dormant for so long without the chance to shine.
Two minutes later…
Saint Augustin hadn't played their final card yet. Their coach barked orders from the sideline, arms flailing like a frantic conductor trying to hold chaos in tune. They needed a jolt.
And that jolt came through Ismael, their left back. He pounced on a poorly cleared ball, lifted his head, and charged down the flank. Long strides. Arms pumping.
> "Go, Isma, push it!" Rahim shouted from across the pitch.
Ismael crossed midfield, skipped past Salou Keita with a slick feint, and sent a sharp diagonal ball ahead.
Papala was already on the move.
Facing him—Salomon, PvP's tireless defender. The two clashed again in a high-stakes footrace. Papala glanced up, faked a slowdown… then exploded forward.
— Told you. Your muscles are useless against my speed. You said I was a baby next to Chekinah? Maybe he's the baby compared to me. The match has barely started—this is just the appetizer.
> "He's going to cross!" Mossi shouted.
Salomon dove in, a fraction too late. Papala whipped in a curling cross toward the near post.
Mossi charged out of his goal, yelling.
— Mine!
With a furious punch, he cleared it far away. The defense exhaled…
Only for the ball to land at Hussein's feet. Already positioned. He didn't hesitate—head up immediately.
Sabiti was already ghosting between the lines.
Hussein fired a laser pass. Sabiti took it on the chest, burst into a double dribble—two opponents gone in a flash. A sudden burst of speed. Head up.
Khudhaïf was making a perfect diagonal run.
Lead pass. One-time shot…
But once again, Kujo flew in—another lightning-fast foot save.
> "This keeper was born for this!" Madi shouted in awe.
The ball flew out for a throw-in. PvP was pressing with everything they had.
On the Saint Augustin bench, a substitute muttered:
— If we survive until halftime… it's a miracle.
As Sabiti got up, he turned to Khudhaïf and said:
— Don't worry. We'll score soon. Keep making those runs.
And as the crowd roared—half cheers, half gasps—the match's rhythm never let up. A real battle: PvP's collective brilliance vs. Saint Augustin's razor-sharp counterattacks.
At the 26th minute,
The ball moved around the midfield, passed from one foot to another, in a rhythm that seemed ready to suddenly explode. Sabiti, always available, dropped deep near the center circle to offer an option. Hussein fired a sharp pass his way. The ball bounced slightly on the dry grass, but Sabiti tamed it with a simple inside touch.
He lifted his head.
Just a fraction of a second.
He saw a space, a breath, an opportunity.
And suddenly, everything clicked into place.
> "Sabiti's launching the machine!" Madi screamed from his booth, pounding on the glass. "Get out of the way, or witness greatness!"
The little attacking midfielder spun on himself, escaping the first player with a double touch, then skipped past the second with a quick Messi-style dribble, before nutmegging the third—sending the crowd into pure hysteria.
— "Ohhh the nutmeg! He sent him looking for his undies!" a laughing teenager in the crowd shouted.
— "Yahhhh! What a treat!" yelled another, leaping from his seat.
On the Saint Augustin bench, the coach roared:
— "Follow him! He's only eight, for God's sake!"
But the damage was done. Sabiti, locked in his own zone, kept on with his solo run. An elastico on the left wing, a cut inside... then he drove toward the center.
— "Pass it to me!" Khudhaïf shouted as he darted into the gap.
Sabiti didn't answer. Not out of selfishness, but because he already knew.
He had the distance. The space. The perfect move in mind.
He planted his left foot, opened up his body…
> BOOM.
A clean, dry, powerful shot from 25 meters out fired like an arrow. The ball sliced through the air, shook the stands, and—
> CLAAAAANG!
The crossbar rattled so hard it looked like it might fall apart. A long shiver rippled through the crowd.
— "AIEEEEEE!" a fan screamed, clutching his head.
— "WHAT WAS THAT?!" gasped a woman, hand over her heart.
---