Akata Witch

She pinched Sunny’s thigh, and after a moment, Sunny smiled. “Okay, okay,” she said, pushing Chichi’s hand away.

“Man, this place is wild,” Sasha said, looking around. Someone stood on a box, belting out a song in Arabic. A man walked by on shiny red metal stilts, trying to make children laugh. A group of old women and men was at a table arguing as they threw down cards. “I’ll bet there’s a lot we could get into if we just look around. Where’s that art fair?”

“Somewhere that way,” Orlu said, pointing toward the man on stilts. “And we’re not going to ‘get into’ anything while we’re here.”

“Yo, you need to relax,” Sasha said, annoyed.

A boy of about nine walked up to their table. “Either of you want to join the football match?” He spoke only to Orlu and Sasha.

“Yeah,” Sasha said. “Put me on the list. Name’s Sasha.” He pointed to Sunny. “Put her on, too.”

The boy frowned. “I don’t think-”

“You don’t think what?” Sasha asked, leaning menacingly toward the boy.

The boy looked adequately scared. “Well… she’s a girl.”

“So?”

“What about him?” the boy said, pointing at Orlu. “He can play instead.”

“Nah, man,” Sasha said. “Put her name down. If they ask you, just say she’s a dude. My name’s girly, and I’m a guy. So same with ‘Sunny,’ you hear? We’ll deal with the consequences when the time comes, not you.”

“O-okay,” the boy said, writing her name on the list.

“When’s the game?” Sasha asked.

“In an hour,” he said. He reached into his satchel. “Here are your uniforms. You’ll be on the green team.”

“Woohoo!” Sunny yelped when the boy had left. “I can’t wait!”

They both went to the public restrooms to change. She was glad to get out of her dressy clothes and take off her earrings. Thankfully, she’d worn sandals; if she’d worn dress shoes, she’d have had to play barefoot. She ran out to Orlu and Chichi and kicked her leg up as if she were scoring the biggest goal ever. “Gooooooooooal!” she shouted. “I hope they let me play.”

“Sasha will scare them into it,” Chichi said confidently.

“Maybe not,” Orlu said. “The guys you’ll be playing will be older. I’ve seen the football match. They’re impromptu, but brutal.”

“What do you mean, brutal?” Sunny asked, frowning.

“Not like wrestling,” Orlu quickly said. “Brutal like a good football match.”

She relaxed some and shrugged. “I’m playing. I don’t care.”

“You sure are,” Sasha said, throwing his rolled-up clothes on the bench and sitting down.

“Well, I can’t wait,” Chichi said. “I’ve never seen you play.”

“I’ve never really played,” she said, smiling. “I mean, I’ve played with my brothers, but only after dusk. I’ve been itching to play for years. I don’t care if it’s against boys or if they stick me in defense. I want to be out there.”

“Oh, you’re not gonna be our defense,” Sasha said. “We’ve kicked the ball around some. You’ve got killer footwork and aim. You’re playing center forward.”

“Center forward?” she exclaimed. She laughed. “Please. They’ll never-”

“Let me handle it,” Sasha said. “You just prove me right.”

Sunny and Sasha decided to go for a warm-up jog and see if they could meet up with the other players.

“We’re going to check out some of the shops,” Chichi said. “We’ll see you on the pitch.” Orlu slapped and grasped Sunny’s hand, then did the same to Sasha. “Be cool.”

The game was in the same field as the wrestling match. Sunny didn’t like the idea of playing soccer where someone had just died. Still, when they got there, everything from the match was already cleared away; it looked as if nothing had happened. A boy was walking around the goals inspecting the bright, crisp white lines.

“Wow,” she said, looking over the field. “The lines look so perfect.”

“They have a little machine to help,” Sasha said. “Let’s jog.”

After the first lap, she realized the field was really uneven. There were rocks sticking out and small holes probably made by snakes or rodents. This was going to be a challenge for everyone, not just her.

“Who’s your favorite soccer player?” Sasha asked as they jogged.

“Pele,” she said. “You know, during the Biafran War-that’s the Nigerian civil war back in the sixties-the Nigerian and Biafra sides stopped fighting for two days to watch him play.”

“Really?”

“Yep. As one man, he stopped all the killing. He was that good.”

“So you like playing forward, like he did?”

“Well, as far as I know,” she said. “I haven’t had much real experience.”

“I wish we had a ball to kick around,” he said.

“You know, I think I saw a tungwa floating around over there,” she said. They both laughed so hard they had to slow down.

More boys joined them as they ran. Nobody spoke, but those in white uniforms congregated at one side of the field, those wearing green at the other. An audience slowly gathered, too. Most of them were teenagers.

“Green team over here!” a tall guy said. He looked about seventeen, and wore a green uniform and nice soccer shoes, one of which he rested on a beat-up ball.

“Hey,” Sunny said to Sasha as they walked over. “He was on our funky train.”

Sasha raised his eyebrows.

“I hit him in the head by accident with my bag when we were getting on. He’s Igbo.” And gorgeous, she added to herself.

He had a clipboard. The boy who had taken their names stood behind him. He made eye contact with Sunny and quickly looked away.

“My name is Godwin,” the older boy said in English. “I’m team captain this year.” He paused. “Do you all understand me? Who understands English?”

Everyone raised a hand except for three boys.

“No English?” Godwin asked them.

“Francais,” one of the boys said.

The boy next to him nodded and said, “Oui, je parle Francais, aussi.”

“Moi aussi,” the third boy said.

She wondered where they were from. They didn’t seem to know each other, so most likely they were from three different French-speaking African countries.

“I speak French,” a stocky boy of about fifteen spoke up.

“Good,” Godwin said. “What’s your name?”

“Tony.”

Godwin nodded. “Translate. I’m going to call off names- tell me where you’re from and your age.” As Tony translated, Godwin looked at his clipboard. “Mossa?”

One of the French speakers stepped forward.

“My name is Mossa and I’m from Mali,” Tony translated. “I’m twelve years old.”

Godwin looked the boy over. He kicked the ball to Mossa.

“Dribble it and then kick it into the goal as hard as you can. Aim it into the left side,” Godwin said.

Tony translated. Mossa jumped into action. When he dribbled the ball, he almost tripped over it. He kicked it with all his might and it flew over the right side of the goal, along with his shoe.

Sunny pinched Sasha’s arm as they both tried not to laugh. A few of the taller boys held nothing back and bellowed with laughter. Mossa looked embarrassed and quickly ran to get the ball and his shoe.

“Kouty?” Godwin said.

“I’m from Nigeria,” he said. “I’m fourteen years old.”

“Good to see you again.” Godwin looked him over. “I know how you play. What do you want to play this year?”