The initial drills, impressive as they were, had only served as an appetizer. Now, the main course was about to be served.
After a short break, during which Amani drank deeply from his water bottle, trying to quench the nervous flutter in his stomach that was less about the game and more about the looming Jumaane's antics. Coach Juma, with a theatrical clap of his hands and a knowing glance towards Coach Mwangi and Mr. Vermeer, announced the next phase of the session.
"Alright, lads!" he called out, his voice resonating with an infectious enthusiasm that momentarily lifted Amani's spirits.
"Time to see what we're really made of! Let's have a proper game. Eleven versus eleven. Two halves, thirty minutes each. Bibs versus non-bibs. Amani," he paused, his gaze settling on the fifteen-year-old, "you'll play with the non-bibs. Your usual spot, eh? Central Attacking Midfielder. Let's see some of that European magic, that famous Utrecht CAM artistry we've heard so much about!"
Amani nodded, a flicker of genuine anticipation momentarily cutting through the oppressive fog of his anxieties.
A match, even a training one, was his sanctuary. A place where instinct often took over, where the complex intractable problems of the outside world could sometimes, if only for a fleeting ninety minutes or in this case, sixty be held at bay by the singular, all-consuming focus required by the beautiful game.
He desperately hoped this match would offer such a ceasefire, a chance to clear his head. To feel the pure joy of football that recent events had so cruelly overshadowed.
Mr. Vermeer, observing from the sidelines, adjusted his position slightly, his keen eyes missing nothing. He'd seen Amani perform under immense pressure in the Eredivisie, but this was different as a return to his roots, a game played under a different kind of scrutiny, with the weight of unspoken expectations from his countrymen.
The teams were quickly organized. Amani, pulling on a plain white training top for the non-bibs team, found himself lining up in his preferred CAM position, just behind the two strikers.
His team was a mix of Bamburi FC's regular starters and some promising reserve players. All of whom now looked towards him with a mixture of awe and nervous expectation.
The bibs team, clad in bright yellow, looked equally competitive, their defenders already exchanging pointed glances and muttered instructions about the prodigious fifteen-year-old they were about to face.
Coach Mwangi had specifically tasked his most experienced defensive midfielder on the bibs team with trying to contain Amani, a challenge the veteran player accepted with a grim, determined nod. The stage was set.
As Amani took his position, the buzz from the players on the bench was almost palpable. They had all stopped their individual activities, their attention now laser-focused on the pitch, on him. "This is it," one young reserve whispered to another. "Let's see if the stories are true. A fifteen-year-old CAM tearing up the Eredivisie… it's still hard to believe."
The referee, one of Bamburi's assistant coaches, blew a sharp blast on his whistle, and the match began. The initial pace was frantic, a hallmark of Kenyan league football: energetic, intensely physical, and at times, a little chaotic.
For the first few minutes, Amani, his [Game Intelligence: A+] already processing of data, focused on build up. Getting a feel for the slightly uneven rhythm of the game, the specific tendencies of his new teammates, the surprisingly robust quality of the opposition, and the subtle unevenness of the pitch itself.
The ball moved quickly, often directly, and the challenges, when they came, were committed and uncompromising. It was a starkly different environment from the more tactical, possession-oriented, and often more refined style he was accustomed to in the Netherlands.
But it didn't take long, in fact, for Amani's inherent class, that [Football Technique: A+] honed in the demanding crucible of European football, to shine through with dazzling clarity.
His first touch, even on this less-than-perfect surface, was consistently immaculate. Killing the ball with a velvet caress, instantly giving him that precious extra split second to assess his options, and to see the patterns unfolding before others even registered them.
His movement off the ball, a critical but often overlooked aspect of a top CAM's game, was intelligent, almost ethereal. He glided into pockets of space between the opponent's midfield and defensive lines, always making himself available for a pass, always creating angles.
While some players seemed to chase the ball with a desperate energy, Amani seemed to possess an almost unnatural anticipation of its arrival, moving into space with a ghostly foresight that left defenders questioning their own positioning.
His first significant contribution, a moment that had the entire bench gasping and Mr. Vermeer nodding in quiet affirmation, came about ten minutes into the half. Receiving a hurried, slightly overhit pass from his fullback on the halfway line, with two yellow-bibbed players converging on him like hungry wolves, Amani didn't panic.
His [Elite Composure] was absolute. Instead, with a subtle, almost imperceptible feint of his shoulders and a quick, deceptive shift of his body weight, he evaded the first lunging challenge.
Then, with the outside of his right boot, a touch so delicate it barely disturbed the blades of grass. He threaded a perfectly weighted, defense-splitting through ball classic [Weighted Through Pass] into the path of his team's advancing right winger.
The pass was bold, a moment of pure artistry, cutting out three opposition players, and so perfectly placed. With such exquisite backspin that the winger didn't even have to break stride.
The resulting low cross was scrambled clear by a desperate, last-ditch tackle from a recovering defender, but the sheer quality of Amani's pass. Its vision and execution had sent a ripple of stunned murmurs through the players and the handful of spectators watching from the sidelines.
Coach Mwangi, on the Bamburi bench, simply shook his head slowly, a reluctant smile playing on his lips. "The boy sees things we don't," he muttered to his assistant.
Amani wasn't just playing for himself, showboating his individual brilliance; he was a true CAM, a conductor orchestrating the attacking symphony of his team. He was elevating the play of those around him.
His teammates quickly learned that Amani would find them if they made intelligent runs and showed for the ball in dangerous areas.
His simple, one-touch passes, often played with an almost casual elegance, kept the game flowing, his [Ruud Gullit's Visionary Pass] skill allowing him to switch play effortlessly from one flank to the other, relieving pressure and creating attacking opportunities from the most unexpected angles.
He wasn't overly flashy in his dribbling, preferring a quick turn or a clever feint to beat a man. But his efficiency and his footballing intelligence were undeniable and devastatingly effective.
There were moments, however brief but sharp. When the weight of his off-pitch worries, the chilling spectre of his uncle Jumaane, intruded upon his on-field sanctuary.
During a pause in play, as he waited for a throw-in, his mind flashed to his uncle's smug, threatening face. He saw again the convoy of ten black Land Cruisers parked with arrogant impunity outside their new home, a blatant symbol of intimidation and ill-gotten wealth.
He felt a cold pang of fear, a surge of helpless anger, for his mother, for his grandmother. What insidious plan was Jumaane hatching now?
How could he, a fifteen-year-old boy, protect them when he was so young, so new to having any kind of power or influence? The responsibility felt immense, a crushing weight that threatened to suffocate his prodigious talent.
A sharp shout from a teammate, "Amani, man on!" snapped him back to the present with jarring immediacy. The ball was in play. He refocused, his [Unshakable Mentality (S)] kicking in, channeling his frustration, his anxiety, into his performance.
He made a crucial interception in midfield, his [Game Intelligence: A+] allowing him to read the opponent's intention a fraction of a second before the pass was even played.
He then drove forward with the ball, his pace deceptive, his close control exquisite, the ball seemingly tethered to his boots by an invisible string.
He drew two defenders towards him, creating space, before slipping a clever, perfectly disguised reverse pass to his striker. Who, finding himself unexpectedly free, forced a good, sprawling save from the opposition goalkeeper.
The Bamburi players on both teams were beginning to react more overtly to his presence, to the sheer, undeniable gulf in class.
Some on his own non-bibs team were clearly inspired, raising their game, making more intelligent runs, their trust in his ability to find them growing with every perfectly executed pass.
They communicated more with him, their voices tinged with respect: "Amani, to feet!" "Amani, space on your left!"
Others, particularly on the opposing bibs team, were growing visibly frustrated, their attempts to close him down, to muscle him off the ball, often leaving them flat-footed, grasping at air, or chasing shadows.
The veteran defensive midfielder assigned to mark him was having a torrid time, his face a mask of exasperation.
A few of the more seasoned Bamburi veterans, those who had seen many talented players come and go, exchanged knowing glances; they recognized a special, generational talent when they saw one.
This wasn't just skill; this was genius, and it was unfolding before their very eyes, in the slight frame of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Coach Juma and Coach Mwangi watched intently from the sidelines, their arms crossed, their earlier casual demeanor replaced by a focused intensity. Mwangi, initially reserved and analytical, was now nodding frequently, a look of profound appreciation, almost awe, on his face.
Coach Juma's earlier proud pronouncements about Amani's achievements were being vividly, breathtakingly demonstrated before their eyes. This wasn't just hype, carefully curated by a European club; this was tangible, undeniable, world-class quality, right here on their humble Bamburi pitch.
As the first thirty-minute half drew towards its close, Amani was instrumental in his team taking a deserved lead. He started the move deep in his own half, dispossessing an opponent with a perfectly timed, almost surgical tackle that spoke volumes about his underrated defensive awareness.
He then exchanged a quick, intuitive one-two with his defensive midfielder, a pass played with such understanding that it seemed telepathic.
Taking the return ball in stride, he looked up, his [Peripheral Vision+] taking in the entire attacking third in a single, sweeping glance. He spotted his left winger, who had intelligently held his width, finding a pocket of space down the flank.
With a grace that belied the power behind the pass, Amani sprayed a magnificent fifty-yard diagonal ball, a laser-guided missile that arced over the head of the despairing right-back and landed perfectly at the winger's feet.
The winger, encouraged by Amani's presence, cut inside, his shot powerful but parried by the overworked bibs' keeper. But Amani, displaying the predatory instincts of a seasoned attacker, had continued his run from his deep CAM position, arriving in the box with perfect timing.
The rebound fell kindly, and he calmly, almost nonchalantly, slotted the ball into the unguarded net with a composed side-foot finish. No wild celebration, just a quiet fist pump and an immediate acknowledgment of his teammates' contributions to the goal.
The assistant coach's whistle blew for half-time shortly after. The non-bibs team, Amani's team, was leading 1-0. As the players, glistening with sweat under the unforgiving Kenyan sun, trudged off for a quick water break and a much-needed debrief, Amani felt a small, fleeting measure of satisfaction.
He had managed to lose himself in the game, at least for a while, the familiar rhythms of football a soothing balm to his troubled mind.
But as the adrenaline began to subside, as the cheers from the bench players faded, the familiar anxieties, the chilling weight of his uncle's threat started to creep back in, unwelcome shadows at the edge of his hard-won sanctuary.
The game was a temporary distraction, a beautiful illusion of control, but the real battle for his family's future was far from over.