A talent

The young boy kept playing with his friend, totally unaware of the danger that was lurking..

A ball was past to him and he took it with his feet, dribling his friends that came forward to take it from him. Going around and around till he passed the ball between a boy's leg, that had come to block him from approaching the goal post.

As the boy turned to get a grasp of the ball, the other boy who had kicked it, went behind and in time the ball was between his legs again, aiming directly for the goal post made of two stones, four feet apart. Some of his friends on his team cheered and rushed to him, carrying him- lifting him a little higher than where their heads stopped. Making him taller than them-- only that his feet were not reaching the ground and his body was slanted. They danced with him in circles to their heart contents that even when the referee blew his whistle; another child, shorter and smaller than them, blowing into a sweet stick--- they did not hear.

Roger's and Marvin's eyes became normal again as the bruise on the boy's arm had dried with the air, pulling the boy out of the danger that was cooking in a corner.

'Nice on'. Roger spoke up while ruffling the young boy's dreadlocks, that were brown, so brown almost looking like it was plaited with dust and dirts from the road. If not for the brownish, dirty color, Roger and Marvin would have thought that the boy's parent had styled his hair like that. No, it was natural from childbirth. They once heard someone say that children like this are from the gods* and they belong to the gods*.

The children had since stopped dancing with the boy when they saw Roger and Marvin, tall boys with clean uniforms approaching. The boy was dropped down and was now standibg close to a taller boy that had all his facial features- his elder brother thought Marvin when Roger was done ruffling with the hair. He didn't also miss the slight annoyance that appeared on the boy's face when Roger was still at it with his hair.

'What's your name, boy?'. Asked Roger as he squatted to the boy's level, taking interest in him. Marvin could see how the other boys stuck close the little boy with 'dada' as Nigerians will call his dirty looking dreadlocks, as if guarding him from what ever trouble Roger may throw at him.

The boy looked straight at Roger as if contemplating on which name he should be called. 'Olumide'*. The boy answered almost rolling off his name in a whisper.

'Olumide'. Roger tasted the name on his tongue, pronouncing it in four syllables. With the 'O' on the first syllable, he let the rest, two for each fall on the second, third and fourth syllable- with the last syllable sounding as 'day'.

Marvin almost poked his tongue out at how the people on this side of Nigeria will prefer to be called by their native names with the inclusion of their English names on rare purposes.

'Olumide, nice to meet you. I am Roger and my tall friend here, Marvin. You play well, Olu and I hope that one of these days you go playing in various countries with the super eagles'. Roger gauged the boy with a heavy smile on his face.

The Super Eagles is the National Football team for Nigeria.

'I wan be like Ahmed Musa'. Olumide said, interest growing in his eyes and Roger and Marvin had to smile so wide to agree with the young boy's confession in 'pidgin' English.

'I wan be like Mikel Obi'. Another boy with a neater haircut but some sand particles on it, tall in height and slimmer than Olumide, shouted in deep excitement

'I wan be Jay Jay Okocha'. Another one at the back screamed.

'I wan be....I wan be....Me, I wan be....I wan be...I wan be like...'. Roger and Marvin kept smiling as the boys shouted their future ambition with overwhelming happiness.

They could audibly hear the joy, deafening ectasy mixed with Yoruba* intonations that underlaid the children voices.

Somehow between the shouts and the screams, Roger wondered how he got engrossed in all this. A while ago he was he bloodthirsty but now he's squatting, listening to the children's excited voices.

A part of him wanted to get up and leave. It was thirty past five and his guardian would probably be waiting for him at home- and there was another part of him. That part that pulled at him with more strength. That part of him that wanted to keep on squatting, raffling the boy's hair once in a while or smoothing the boy's cheek with his fore finger. He didn't know why it was but it was and it was so strong. Could it be because of the garbage filled environment the children were in, playing happily on the sandy ground that flew dust particles in the air each time the ball was kicked against the ground, that made him feel pity and drawn to them?. Or could it be because he was attracted the boy's distinguishable talent?.

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Yoruba is a one of the major languages in Nigeria. It is spoken by the people of the Western part of Nigeria. The place the story is centered on now is Lagos, one of the major cities in Nigeria and it is located in the Western region.

Olumide means my God comes.