First Day Of School

Amani stared at the ceiling of his apartment, unable to sleep.

The room was silent except for the occasional rustling of blankets as he turned from one side to the other or Malik's snoring. His body was exhausted from training, but his mind wouldn't stop.

Tomorrow, school starts.

He had played in front of scouts, battled against Ajax's academy, and even scored a last-minute winner. But this? This made his stomach twist in a way football never did.

His eyes flickered toward the desk in the corner of his room. The school papers Kristen had given him lay there, neatly stacked.

St. Bonifatius College.

Dutch. Mathematics. English. History. Social Studies. Physical Education.

Amani closed his eyes and that's when the past came flooding back.

Years Ago in Kenya. Amani sat in the back of a stuffy classroom, doodling formations on the edge of his notebook. The sun baked the tin roof, making the air thick and heavy. His uniform was too tight, his chair too stiff.

At the front of the room, his teacher scribbled something about algebra on the blackboard. The numbers blurred together.

Amani didn't care. He had a match after school. That's all that mattered. After finishing primary school and entering secondary school, education became redundant to him.

"Mr. Hamadi."

The voice snapped him out of his daydream.

Amani blinked. His teacher was staring at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Can you tell us the answer to the Algebraic expression?"

He looked at the numbers again. His heart thumped. He didn't even know where to start.

A few kids snickered.

"Amani doesn't do math," someone whispered. "Only football."

Heat rushed to his face, but he forced a grin.

"I don't need math, Miss. Just give me a ball."

The class erupted with laughter.

The teacher didn't.

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "See me after class."

He never went because he never cared.

Football was everything to him. And then, one day, football was gone.

Amani's eyes snapped open. His heart pounded. His breath felt uneven. He sat up as he was rubbing his face.

That version of him? The reckless, careless kid who thought talent was enough? He was dead.

Amani threw the blankets off and got out of bed. If he wasn't going to sleep, he might as well get ready. Tomorrow, he wouldn't be the kid who skipped school, who ignored his teachers, who thought football alone would carry him.

Tomorrow, he would be different.

The school was huge. St. Bonifatius College, located in the heart of Utrecht, was a school with history etched into its walls.

The main building was a towering brick structure, its gothic-style arched windows standing tall like watchful eyes. Ivy climbed the sides, curling around the edges of old stone, its green tendrils reaching toward the upper floors. The courtyard, paved with aged cobblestones, was filled with students, their chatter rising into the crisp February air.

The school had been around for decades, originally built as a Catholic institution but now serving as a modern secondary school. The interior still held traces of its past — tall wooden doors, stained glass windows in some hallways, and Latin inscriptions carved into the walls.

Despite its old exterior, St. Bonifatius was fully modern on the inside — bright white corridors, rows of lockers lining the walls, and sleek classrooms equipped with smartboards instead of chalkboards he was used to in primary school. The scent of polished floors, paper, and fresh coffee from the teachers' lounge blended into the morning air.

As Amani walked through the entrance gates, dressed in his black FC Utrecht training tracksuit, he could feel eyes on him.

Some students clustered in small groups, chatting in rapid Dutch, their conversations a constant hum in the air. Others were glued to their phones, barely glancing up as he passed.

But some? Some were looking. Noticing.

The news had traveled fast. Even though the Ajax match had been a closed-door game, word had spread even here.

Whispers trailed behind him.

"That's the kid from Utrecht's academy."

"I heard he scored the winner against Ajax."

"Why's he here? Doesn't he just play football all day?"

Amani kept walking, his expression unreadable.

Kristen had prepared him for this.

"You won't be the only international kid," she had said. "You'll be fine."

But fine wasn't how he felt.

Everything about this school felt too different from what he had known in Kenya, it felt like a different world.

The hallways were too quiet — no loud shouts, no last-minute cramming outside classrooms, no teachers barking warnings at students running late, and no on-duty teachers chasing students who were idling in the corridors.

The students were too relaxed — laughing, joking, moving with no urgency like the day was theirs to control, not something they had to survive.

Back home, schools had been a place of strict discipline, worn-out textbooks, and teachers with canes. Here, the teachers greeted students by name, conversations were casual, and everything seemed... looser.

Amani wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

When he finally reached his classroom, he hesitated for half a second before stepping inside.

The moment the teacher started speaking in rapid Dutch? The reality of this second chance hit him like a train.

This wasn't just football anymore.

This was survival.

And Amani Hamadi?

He wasn't about to fail again.

Amani sat at the back of the classroom, gripping his pen tightly, his knuckles pale against the plastic.

The teacher's voice rang out, sharp and fast.

"Ik wil dat jullie de volgende zin vertalen…"

His brain scrambled to keep up.

"Jullie" meant "you all." "Zin" meant "sentence." But the rest?

It was like listening to a match being played at double speed.

He stared at the whiteboard, his mind working furiously, trying to connect the words and find a pattern.

Nothing.

His grip on the pen tightened.

Focus. Just focus.

He wasn't the only one struggling.

The NT2 class, Dutch as a Second Language, was filled with students from all over. A boy from Turkey sat near the front, flipping through a Dutch dictionary. Two girls, one from Morocco and the other from Suriname whispered to each other, as their brows furrowed. A kid from Japan, seated two seats away, scribbled furiously in a notebook.

Everyone here was like him; they were new, adjusting, and trying to find their place in a foreign world. And yet, Amani still felt out of place.

In his past life in Kenya, school had been something to tolerate. Something to survive until he could get back to football. The subjects, the tests, the lectures — none of it had felt real to him. Football had been real.

But now? Now, school wasn't just something he had to do. It was part of his career.

He couldn't just get by. He had to learn. Adapt. Succeed. Just like on the pitch. His stomach twisted at the thought.

When lunchtime finally arrived, Amani found himself standing at the entrance of the school cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning the room.

The place was packed. Long tables stretched across the hall, and students sat in clusters, laughing and talking as they ate.

The air smelled of fresh bread, melted cheese, and something sweet, stroopwafels.

He hesitated. Where was he supposed to sit? He didn't know anyone.

He had never been more aware of how alone he was in a school full of people.

Then—

"Hey! Utrecht boy!"

Amani turned. A tall, lanky kid with curly brown hair waved at him from one of the tables. His grin was easy, familiar like he'd known Amani for years.

"You're Hamadi, right?" the kid called. "The one who scored against Ajax?"

Amani hesitated.

Then nodded.

The kid's grin widened. "I'm Jeroen. You played with my cousin Tijmen, he told me all about you."

Amani relaxed slightly.

"Come sit with us," Jeroen said, scooting over. "Unless you prefer eating alone like a weirdo."

Amani let out a small chuckle and took the seat across from him. Around the table sat a mix of students — some Dutch, a few Moroccans, and a Surinamese. They all seemed to know each other, but no one looked at Amani like an outsider.

Jeroen took a massive bite of his sandwich, then pointed at Amani. "So, what's it like playing in a pro academy?"

Amani set his tray down, opening his bottle of water. He thought for a second.

"It's intense," he admitted. "Training's brutal. The competition are crazy."

The others leaned in, interested.

"You think you'll make it to the first team?" a Moroccan kid named Yassir asked, tilting his head.

Amani didn't even blink.

"I will."

Jeroen smirked. "Confident. I like it."

The conversation flowed after that from football to music, and then school.

Yassir played for a local amateur club. Wesley, the Surinamese kid, was obsessed with FIFA and swore he could beat anyone. Jeroen wanted to be a sports journalist.

For the first time that day, Amani felt himself relax.

By the time the final lesson ended, Amani's brain felt like it had gone through extra time and penalties. Dutch grammar was brutal. But he had survived.

As he stepped outside, pulling his jacket tighter against the cold, Jeroen jogged up beside him.

"Hey, you taking the bus?"

Amani shook his head. "I usually run home. Part of my training."

Jeroen blinked. "You're crazy, bro,"

Amani smirked. "Maybe."

"Alright, man. See you tomorrow."

Amani watched as Jeroen disappeared toward the bus stop.

Then exhaled.

He had survived.

No, more than that.

He had made progress. And in football, or in life at least, that was all that mattered.

***

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