Our Coach – Chapter 2 – Nigerian Story, Football, Dapo, Sports Story, Read Free Stories Online, Free Web Novel, Fabling, Pam
The bar’s private booth was cloaked in a haze of smoke, a mix of cheap weed and expensive lies. Laughter bounced off the walls, mingling with the bass-heavy music pounding from the main room. It was a scene of chaos disguised as camaraderie—a sanctuary for lost boys and reckless girls.
Dapo leaned back, his lanky frame relaxed, a joint balanced between his fingers. He exhaled a long trail of smoke, watching it twist and curl before it dissolved into the dimly lit air. Beside him, Tayo was hunched over the table, a credit card in hand, meticulously cutting lines of cocaine.
“Na you o, Tayo!” Dapo said, smirking as he took another hit.
“Abeg jor,” Tayo muttered, his focus unbroken.
Across from them, Matilda perched on the edge of her seat, the dim lighting catching the high shimmer of her dress. Beautiful but scantily dressed, she tilted her head back, savoring the secondhand smoke that drifted from Dapo’s lips. Her laughter was like a dare, light and sharp.
“Remember when you two used to sit by the corner of the road teasing girls?” she teased.
Dapo chuckled, shaking his head. “Mad man,” he said, nudging Tayo with his elbow.
“Until you came along,” Tayo shot back, his lips quirking into a rare smile.
Matilda raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Nope. Until you got admission,” she said, her tone playful but pointed.
The smile vanished from Dapo’s face as he looked away, the weight of her words settling between them.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, her voice softening, “you two go a long way.”
Tayo set the razor blade down and gave her a pointed look. “Matilda, you can stop talking now.”
Across the table, Uzo snickered and leaned toward Nash. “This is why girls shouldn’t be allowed to speak,” he said with a grin, earning a round of laughter from the others.
Dapo broke the tension, lifting his joint like a toast. “So, year four, uhn?”
Tayo hesitated, his confidence faltering for the first time that night.
“We need to pop to that,” Dapo declared, slapping the table.
Nash reached into his jacket, pulling out a small, silver-wrapped packet. He grinned like a magician revealing his latest trick. “The best ecstasy you’re ever going to taste!” he said, popping one pill into his mouth before passing the packet around.
“To Tayo!” Dapo shouted, raising his joint again. “Remember us like this till you return!”
Tayo forced a laugh, brushing off the sentiment. “I’ll be back in a few months,” he said, though his voice carried a faint tremor. “And by then, I’m sure you’ll be signed to a football club already.”
“Abi!” Uzo chimed in. “The way you played today, I wan break your leg, I swear!”
The table erupted in laughter.
——
The night air was heavy with humidity, clinging to Dapo’s skin as he pressed Matilda against the gate of her house. She was now fully clothed, as though she had just been to church. The stars were faint, their light muted by the city’s glow, but Dapo didn’t care. His lips found hers, and for a moment, the world disappeared.
“The neighbors will see us,” Matilda whispered against his mouth, her breath warm and tinged with laughter.
“So?” Dapo replied, his grin lazy and confident.
They both laughed. He kissed her again, his hands steady on her waist as if he were afraid she might slip away.
“Good night,” she said finally, pulling back with a smile that held more power than she realized.
She turned to open the gate, but Dapo wasn’t done. He grabbed her wrist gently, pulling her back for one more kiss. It was slower this time, deliberate. Matilda responded, her body melting into his for a brief, stolen moment.
Then, with a playful push, she broke away and disappeared through the gate, leaving Dapo standing there, a crooked smile on his face and the faint taste of her still lingering on his lips.
The night seemed quieter as he walked away, but the chaos in his mind was only beginning to stir.
——–
The tiny sitting room was a battlefield of frustration and unspoken dreams. Mrs. Oladapo, her face etched with the lines of countless sleepless nights, stood in the center, her voice cutting through the stale air like a blade. The weight of her workload seemed to sag her shoulders further with every word she hurled.
“I will talk, and they will say I talk too much! Nobody listens to me!” she shouted, her eyes darting between her two sons.
Dapo, leaning against the doorframe, still reeked of the night’s escapades—sweat, smoke, and the faint tang of cheap alcohol. Gabriel, sprawled on the lone couch, looked entirely unfazed, his lanky frame sinking deeper into the worn cushions.
“What have I done to deserve sons like you two?” she continued, her voice trembling with the raw emotion of a woman stretched too thin. “Look at the time this one is coming home! Midnight! Playing football all day—what food has that put on the table? Ehn?”
Dapo shifted uncomfortably, but his silence only fueled her fire.
“For four years, you’ve been shouting, ‘I want to be a footballer!’ Is it not your friend Tayo who is now in year four at the university? Other children make their parents proud. But not my own!”
She turned sharply toward Gabriel, her voice dripping with disappointment. “And this one! I have given up on you! Lazy man! Even when you manage to get one small mechanic job, what do you do? Drink stout with the money! You people will not kill me in this house!”
Gabriel snorted, but he didn’t dare laugh outright.
“You know what could have happened to you at this time of night?” Mrs. Oladapo demanded, rounding back on Dapo. The sharp sniff of her nose told her all she needed to know. She slapped him hard across the cheek.
“You’ve started smoking igbo like your brother, haven’t you? Nonsense!” Without waiting for his response, she stormed off toward the room that doubled as her sanctuary and sewing studio. “Just me, taking care of all these ingrates! Son wahala, daughter wahala! You people will not kill me o!”
Gabriel mimicked her words under his breath, his lips curling into a mocking sneer. “You people will not kill me o!”
The sewing machine in the corner hummed faintly, its presence a silent testament to her relentless hustle. A pile of unfinished clothes sat beside it, waiting for her attention. Pots and utensils were stacked neatly in another corner, making the sitting room feel more like a cramped survival bunker. The Ghana Must Go bag filled with clothes, the battered couch, the aging box TV, and faded family photos were the only reminders that this space was once meant for living, not merely surviving.
Dapo didn’t say a word. His cheek still stung from the slap, but the ache in his chest was worse. Somewhere in the tangled mess of his heart, he understood her pain.
—–
Coach James’s study was orderly chaos—a desk overwhelmed with papers, files, and a calculator that had clearly been overworked. Across from him, Mr. Hasan, impeccably dressed in a suit with a tie that looked like it might strangle him at any moment, shuffled through yet another document. His expression was pinched, as though the numbers on the pages were a personal insult.
“So, you see,” Hasan began, his voice clipped and efficient, “you are bankrupt.”
Coach James leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “So, I can’t afford to buy anything?”
“Well, you can,” Hasan replied cautiously.
“Then that’s not bankruptcy,” Coach James countered, his tone teasing.
“No, no,” Hasan stammered, adjusting his tie as if it might loosen his confusion. “You can buy essentials—fuel, household items—but you can’t incur any large expenses.”
Coach James smirked. “Then I’m not bankrupt.”
Hasan sighed, exasperated. “Considering your net worth, you are.”
James leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “So, I can’t afford… what? A yacht? A private jet?”
Hasan floundered, his hands gesturing aimlessly. “Yes. No. I mean, not that it’s good you’re bankrupt—it’s good you spent on your health, not that health is bad. I mean—”
Coach James burst out laughing, a deep, rumbling sound that cut through Hasan’s flustered ramblings. “Relax, Hasan. I understand.”
Hasan cleared his throat, adjusting his tie yet again. “You have a plan to correct the state of your account?”
Coach James stared at the landline on his desk, its silent presence mocking him. Ideas churned in his mind, each one more improbable than the last. Finally, he grabbed his car keys and stood.
“I need to clear my head,” he said simply.
Hasan blinked. “You’re going now?”
James nodded. “I won’t be back anytime soon.”
And with that, he left, leaving the files, the numbers, and the suffocating weight of debt behind—for now.