AFCON U17 Qualifiers preparation I

It had been a month since the Brasseries Tournament, and Marcel was adjusting back to life outside of competition. The new school year was approaching, and he would soon be starting Seconde C, the science stream of Cameroon's secondary school system. But football never stopped.

Even without official matches, Coach Emile kept the team training regularly. Some days, they focused on fitness—grueling running drills under the scorching sun, sweat pouring down their faces as their coach shouted, "If you can't run, you can't play!" Other days, they played 11v11 simulation matches, refining tactics and technical skills. Coach Emile made it clear: "Even if you don't have games now, some of you might be called up for the national team. And if that happens, you better be ready."

For Marcel, this month had been about one thing—fixing his finishing.

Despite scoring five goals in the Brasseries Tournament, he knew he had missed far too many chances—chances that could have changed games, even led them to victory. His curling shots were inconsistent, often lacking accuracy or the right amount of spin. If he wanted to be more lethal, he needed to work harder.

So he asked Coach Emile to design extra shooting drills for him. Every day after training, while most of his teammates rested, Marcel stayed behind, perfecting his finishing.

In the beginning, his results were frustrating. Out of 20 curling shots, only two or three found the back of the net. His technique was inconsistent—sometimes he struck too hard, sometimes too soft, and sometimes completely off-target. The poor pitch conditions didn't help either, with uneven ground causing the ball to bounce awkwardly at times.

But he kept at it.

Over time, he started hitting his targets more often. He studied Cristiano Ronaldo, analyzing his runs, his movements, his decision-making, and especially his shooting technique. After a month, his conversion rate had jumped to 8-10 out of 20 attempts. It still wasn't perfect, but it was progress. His one-on-one finishing had improved the most—he was far more confident in front of goal.

Now, all that was left was testing himself in a real match.

"ASSEMBLE!"

The familiar voice of Coach Emile rang out, snapping Marcel out of his thoughts. Training had just finished, and the team—still drenched in sweat—quickly gathered around. Something was different.

Coach Emile had a serious expression, his arms crossed as he looked over his players. A few of them glanced at each other, their nervous energy filling the humid air. Had something happened? Was he going to cut players? Or announce something big?

Then, unexpectedly, the coach's stern face broke into a smile.

"Good work today, boys. I've seen improvements in some of you. That's what I want to see."

Relieved sighs spread through the group.

"I have good news for two of you."

Now everyone was locked in, waiting anxiously to hear their names.

Coach Emile's eyes landed on Jean, the team captain.

"Jean—congratulations. The first-team coach has been watching you, and he's decided to call you up for pre-season with Dragon FC's senior squad. If you impress, you could even sign your first professional contract."

The words hit like thunder.

Jean froze for a moment before breaking into a massive grin. He clenched his fists, eyes shining with pure joy, before letting out a victorious shout. His teammates patted him on the back, congratulating him—some genuinely happy, others secretly envious.

Coach Emile nodded. "You worked hard for this, Jean. Keep pushing, and don't waste this opportunity."

Jean's pride was evident. This was his moment—his first real step toward professional football.

But Coach Emile wasn't done. He turned his gaze to Marcel.

"Now, for the second announcement…"

A small smirk appeared on his face. "Jean—you'll be extra happy about this. You won't just be training with the first team. You and Marcel have both been selected for the Cameroon U-17 national team."

A wave of stunned silence washed over the group. Then—

"EEEEHH?!"

Excited shouts erupted from the players. Marcel's breath hitched.

He had heard correctly, right?

He blinked in disbelief, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The national team. He was actually called up.

Jean looked completely overwhelmed—this was double the joy for him. First the first-team call-up, now this? He could barely contain himself.

But Marcel was different.

The moment the shock faded, it was replaced by pure determination.

This was it.

This was his chance to prove himself on the continental stage. His chance to erase the pain of the Brasseries Tournament and finally lift his first real trophy.

Coach Emile's sharp voice cut through the excitement, refocusing the group.

"For the rest of you—don't let this discourage you. If anything, use it as motivation. Marcel has only been with us for two months, but he's worked hard and forced people to take notice. Let that push you to do better. If you keep improving, your time will come."

A few players nodded, absorbing the words. Others weren't so good at hiding their disappointment.

Marcel could feel some of the stares on him—not all friendly.

As soon as training ended, Marcel practically sprinted off the field.

He needed to call his mother. Then his father. Then Christina. Then Dimitri. Then Jordan.

Everyone had to know.

For the first time since the Brasseries Tournament, he felt unstoppable.

He had lost before, but now?

Now, he was going to win.

...

...

The evening was warm, the aroma of grilled chicken, ndolé, and fried plantains filling the air. Marcel sat next to Christina, while his mother Francine, and his best friends Jordan and Dimitri gathered around the dining table.

The meal was simple but hearty, and though it wasn't a massive party, there was an undeniable sense of joy in the air. Marcel's first national team call-up was something worth celebrating.

Francine tapped her spoon against her glass, gathering everyone's attention. She looked at her son, her pride evident in her eyes.

"Marcel, we are proud of you. Your father called earlier—he wishes he could be here, but he said he will send you a surprise if you manage to score at least one goal with the national team."

Marcel smirked slightly. A goal challenge from his father? He was up for it.

"This is just the beginning," Francine continued. "You've worked hard, and God has blessed you with this opportunity. But I want you to remember something—you have not 'made it' yet. This is a small step in a long journey. Stay humble, stay focused, and never let success make you lose sight of who you are."

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"We will pray now, not just for today, but for the journey ahead."

Everyone bowed their heads.

"Lord, we thank You for the blessings You have given Marcel. We ask that You guide his steps, protect him from injury, and give him the strength to rise above every challenge. Let him represent his family, his country, and You with honor. May he remain humble in victory and strong in defeat. Amen."

"Amen," they echoed, and Marcel felt warmth fill his chest.

As the prayer ended, Jordan, being Jordan, immediately switched the mood.

"Now that we're done being serious, let's eat before all the food disappears!"

Laughter filled the room as they dug into the meal, the tension lifting.

...

Jordan leaned back after finishing his plate, rubbing his stomach. Then, out of nowhere, he stood up like a man delivering a motivational speech.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let it be known that I—Jordan Ewane—was the FIRST to believe in Marcel Ndonga! One day, when he wins the Ballon d'Or, I will proudly tell the world that I played alongside him as a kid! When he scores in the Champions League final, I'll be sitting in VIP seats, and people will ask me, 'Jordan, how do you know him?' And I'll say—'Know him? That's my best friend!'"

Marcel shook his head, laughing.

"Who told you I'll give you VIP tickets?"

"Ekié, if you dare forget me, I'll expose all the embarrassing things you did as a kid! Including that one time you—"

"Jordan, shut up!" Marcel threw a piece of plantain at him.

The room erupted in laughter, with Christina chuckling beside him.

Dimitri, who had been mostly quiet, then said with a small smile, "In all honesty though, we're proud of you, man. We always knew you were going to be something special."

Marcel felt his heart swell. He had lost the Brasseries Tournament, but now, he was stepping into a bigger stage.

And most importantly—he wasn't doing it alone.

...

...

On the morning of September 6, 2014, Marcel stood at the threshold of his home, a modest yet well-kept residence in Yaoundé. His mother, Francine, had insisted on accompanying him to the CAF Excellence Centre in Mbankomo, where the national U-17 team would commence their training camp. The journey to Mbankomo was filled with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation.

Upon arrival, the CAF Excellence Centre presented itself as a serene enclave nestled within the lush equatorial forest, approximately 24 kilometers from Yaoundé. The facility, operational since 2010, boasted modern amenities designed to nurture young talent. As they approached the main building, Marcel couldn't help but notice the expansive football pitches with both artificial and natural grass, a semi-Olympic swimming pool, and the well-maintained tennis courts. The central structure housed 40 luxury rooms, a restaurant, conference rooms, and administrative offices. The tranquility of the surroundings, combined with the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves, provided an ideal setting for focused training.

Inside the main hall, a flurry of activity signaled the arrival of players and officials. Marcel proceeded to the check-in desk, where he was greeted by team officials who handed him his room key and schedule for the week. As he turned to find his room, a familiar voice called out.

"Ndonga! You're here!" Marcel turned, already recognizing the wide grin before seeing the face. Ignatius Ganago walked up, confidence in his stride.

"I knew you'd be called up. I was looking forward to this," Ganago said.

Marcel smirked. "Same. It'll be good to have you leading the attack. With you, our road to the CAN U17 gets easier."

Ganago raised an eyebrow playfully. "If I'm leading the attack? Please, let's be honest—if I weren't here, who would score the goals?" He grinned.

Marcel shook his head. "We'll see about that. I've been training, and trust me, I'm not the same player you last saw."

Before Ganago could fire back, another voice cut in. "If you two are done hyping yourselves up, just remember—I was the one who made the final, not either of you."

Marcel and Ganago turned to see Ngono Ngoah, arms crossed, that same smirk Marcel remembered from their match in the Brasseries tournament.

Ganago scoffed. "And? You didn't win. What's the point of reaching the final if you leave empty-handed?"

Ngoah's smirk remained. "At least I played in the final. Unlike some people who crumbled in the semis."

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Alright, alright. We get it. But we'll settle this on the pitch, not here."

A team official walked over. "Move along, boys. More players need to check in."

Entering the room, they were greeted by a spacious area featuring three single beds neatly arranged with crisp white linens. The room exuded a blend of functionality and comfort, with a large window offering a view of the verdant forest outside. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall opposite the beds, and a small seating area with a couple of armchairs and a coffee table occupied one corner. The en-suite bathroom was equipped with modern fixtures, including a walk-in shower and a sizable mirror above the sink.

"Not bad," Ganago remarked, tossing his bag onto one of the beds. "First time staying in a hotel like this."

Ngoah nodded, inspecting the room. "Same here. We should probably sort out a schedule for the bathroom to avoid any morning rush."

Marcel agreed, setting his belongings beside his chosen bed. "Good idea. Let's make sure we're all on time for training."

After unpacking, they had a brief moment to relax before their scheduled medical check-ups. The medical examinations were thorough, ensuring each player was in peak physical condition.

Later that evening, the players were directed to the conference room—a spacious, well-lit hall with rows of chairs neatly arranged facing a projector screen. Large windows allowed in the last traces of sunlight, casting a warm glow over the room. The air buzzed with anticipation, quiet murmurs filling the space as the newly assembled squad took their seats.

Marcel's gaze shifted as a middle-aged man stepped forward. The moment he saw him, his breath hitched slightly. He recognized him.

The same man from the Brasseries tournament, the one who had spoken to him after the match, telling him he had a bright future. So he was the coach of the U17 national team? It all made sense now—his presence at the tournament, the way he had analyzed the game, the way he had approached him afterward.

Their eyes met briefly, and for a moment, Marcel saw the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in the coach's gaze. A subtle nod followed. Marcel straightened in his seat. This was real now.

The man cleared his throat, his deep, commanding voice cutting through the room like a sharp whistle.

"Welcome, gentlemen. My name is Joseph Atangana."

The room fell into complete silence.

"You are here because you have earned the right to wear this jersey. You have proven yourselves in your clubs, in your academies. But let me make this clear—you have proven nothing yet at this level."

He let that sink in before continuing.

"Ghana is the only obstacle between us and qualification for the CAN U17. That match will not be easy. If you are here thinking this is just another youth tournament where you can show off your talent and play for yourself, then you are mistaken." His eyes moved sharply across the room.

"This is about national pride. Cameroon is one of the biggest footballing nations in Africa, and no matter the age group, we must dominate. If we do not qualify, it will be seen as failure."

Marcel felt the weight of those words pressing on him. The room was heavy with tension now. He had always played to win, always pushed himself to be better, but this… this was something else.

Coach Atangana's assistant stepped forward, holding a clipboard.

"Before we begin tactical preparations, let's introduce ourselves. Name, age, club, and position."

The goalkeepers stood first.

"Cédric Girex Djomo Tchotcheu, 16 years old, Fundesport de Douala."

"Gabin Donald Wandji Baba, 15 years old, Galactique de Douala."

"Assale Mathieu Augustin, 15 years old. I play for AS Estuaire de Douala."

Then it continued with the defenders.

Jean stood up confidently, his voice clear. "Jean Vincent Mvondo, 15 years old. I play center-back for Dragon FC de Yaoundé."

Marcel nodded slightly. He had already known Jean would be here, but hearing it made it official.

Next, another familiar face.

"Keita Ouambo Toukam, 14 years old, Kadji Sport Academy, center-back."

Then another.

"Jules Frédéric Ngassa Njike, 15 years old. I play for Espérance Pour Tous Académie de Yaoundé as a right-back."

"Martin Hongla, 16 years old from Nkufor Academy Sport. I can play as a center-back, but my position is defensive midfielder."

At the mention of Nkufor Academy, Marcel's attention snapped toward him. Nkufor Academy—the team that had won the Brasseries tournament, beating Kadji Sports Academy 1-0 in the final. He hadn't played against them, but he had watched them.

The midfielders followed.

A familiar smirk accompanied the next introduction.

"Ngono Ngoah, 15 years old, Kadji Sports Academy. Attacking midfielder."

Marcel met his gaze briefly. A rival, but now also a teammate.

Then came Ganago, grinning as he stood.

"Ignatius Ganago, 15 years old, Brasseries Academy. Striker. And it's me who'll score all the goals for the team."

A few chuckles rippled through the room, followed by murmurs. The players exchanged glances, some amused, others intrigued. Coach Atangana smiled. He liked confidence, but now it was up to Ganago to back it up.

Then it was Marcel's turn.

He stood, keeping his voice steady, clear.

"Marcel Ndonga, 14 years old, from Dragon FC Yaoundé. I play as a left winger."

A few heads turned toward him. One of the youngest player in the squad. He felt their eyes linger—some curious, others indifferent. He caught Ngoah's smirk again, the same look from the Brasseries tournament.

Marcel clenched his fists slightly. He had lost against Ngoah before, but now? Now they were on the same side. He hoped Ngoah could replicate that tournament form because if he did, it would bring them closer to CAN U17 qualification.

Coach Atangana let the murmurs settle before stepping forward once more.

"Good." His voice was sharp, controlled.

"Now you know your teammates. Now you know your competition. Some of you will be starters. Some of you will fight for your place. But I do not care about past reputations."

His eyes moved across the room, scanning each face, his tone unwavering.

"What I care about is who will give everything in training. Who will give everything on matchday."

He let the words linger.

"This is not a friendly. This is qualification. If we fail, we are forgotten. If we succeed, we take a step closer to CAN U17. From there, we aim for the U17 World Cup."

His voice hardened.

"Remember that."

Silence. No one moved.

Coach Atangana took one final look around the room, his expression unreadable.

"Training begins tomorrow. Be ready."

Marcel exhaled slowly, unclenching his fists under the table.

He had waited for this.

Now, it was time to prove his place was among the starter.