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The students were challenged to write a scene from their life (real or imagined, but uniquely personal) from the perspective of a “second self”—a ghost-like and dispassionate observer of the action.

 MOHAMED…takes us back to his roots in Mali and a soccer game on a sun-parched patch of red dirt where two well-worn sandals marked the goal and a lesson in self-confidence was learned.

That One Touch

The sun had already started to press down on the red dirt road by the time he stepped outside. The morning in Bamako was loud and bright. From the doorway, he watched his older cousin tie a worn sandal with a piece of string, like it was something important, like it mattered more than anything else they had planned.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, one hand on the doorframe, squinting into the light. A breeze moved past, carrying the smell of dust and grilled meat from somewhere down the street. It made his stomach remind him that he hadn’t eaten yet, but he ignored it.

“Are you coming or not?” his cousin asked without looking up. He nodded, even though his cousin couldn’t see him yet. Then he stepped forward, the ground already warm under his feet. The two of them started walking, not in a rush, but not slow either… just the pace of boys who had something to do, even if they hadn’t fully decided what it was.

They passed neighbors who called out greetings, voices overlapping, laughter mixing in like background music. A group of younger kids chased a flat, half-deflated soccer ball nearby, their shouts echoing down the street. He watched them for a second longer than necessary, his eyes following the ball as it bounced unevenly. “You’re gonna play later,” his cousin said, finally glancing at him. “Stop staring like that.” He looked away quickly, pretending he hadn’t been thinking about it.

They reached the open field, a stretch of dry land with patches of grass that somehow survived the heat. It wasn’t much, but to them, it was everything. A few boys were already there, arguing about teams, pointing fingers, making their cases like it was serious business.

He hesitated at the edge of the field. From here, he could see everything without being seen too much himself. The older boys were louder, more confident, calling out positions before the teams were even set. He felt small for a moment, like he didn’t belong in the same space.

His cousin nudged him forward. “Don’t just stand there.” He stepped onto the field. The game started messy, like it always did. Too many players crowding the ball, dust rising with every step. He stayed on the outside at first, unsure where to move, waiting for the ball to come near him instead of chasing it.

Then it did. It rolled out from the chaos, slow and almost inviting, stopping just a few feet away from him. For a second, everything else faded, the shouting, the movement, even the heat. He moved. Not perfectly, not like the older boys, but fast enough. He tapped the ball forward, then again, feeling it stay close to his foot. Someone yelled behind him, but he didn’t look back. He just kept going, his steps getting more confident with each touch.

When he finally kicked the ball toward the makeshift goal,two sandals placed a few feet apart, it didn’t go exactly where he aimed. It curved slightly, hit the edge of one sandal, and bounced in. There was a pause. Then noise. Not loud cheering, not anything dramatic just a mix of reactions. Some annoyed, some impressed, some already arguing about whether it counted. But his cousin’s voice cut through it.

“I told you,” he said, laughing. He didn’t smile right away. He just stood there, breathing hard, looking at the ball resting behind the sandals like it had always been meant to end up there.

Mohamed Cisse

March 20, 2026