The plane touched down at Brussels Airport, the wheels making contact with the tarmac in a low shudder that vibrated up through the cabin floor. Richard exhaled slowly, a breath he had not realized he had been holding since the plane began its descent. He pressed his palm flat against the armrest, feeling the deceleration, the shift from motion to stillness, the quiet announcement of arrival.
He was really here.
Everything felt different the moment he stepped out of the terminal. The air was the first thing—crisp in a way that Lagos air never was, clean and cool against his face, carrying none of the familiar weight of humidity and dust. It smelled of nothing specific, which was itself a difference. He paused for a moment at the top of the steps, his bag in one hand, letting the sensation settle over him. The sky was pale, the light softer than he was used to. The towering buildings rose against it in shades of glass and steel, unfamiliar shapes against an unfamiliar horizon. Around him, the steady hum of cars and trains moved in rhythms he did not yet know how to read.
It was not home. That much was obvious. But it was his next battleground.
He spotted the man before the man spotted him. Near the exit, leaning against a car with his arms crossed, was the scout—the one who had been waiting for him, the one whose face Richard had committed to memory from the brief exchange of messages before the flight. Dark coat, patient stance, the posture of someone accustomed to waiting without impatience.
As Richard approached, the scout pushed off from the car and extended his hand.
"Richard," he said. His voice was calm, professional, his grip firm when Richard took it. "Welcome to Belgium."
Richard nodded, trying to keep his cool even as something in his chest tightened—not with nerves, but with the weight of the moment finally catching up to him. "Thanks."
"I'm Elias." The scout nodded toward the car, already turning to open the door. "Let's get you settled in."
---
The city moved past the window in a steady flow of buildings and streets and people going about lives that had no relation to the one Richard had left behind. Elias drove with the ease of someone who knew every turn, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally gesturing toward points of interest as they passed.
He pointed out the training grounds first—a sprawling complex of neatly maintained pitches visible behind a tall fence, the grass so green it looked almost artificial in the afternoon light. Then the stadiums, their curved roofs rising above the surrounding buildings, the names unfamiliar but the weight of them immediate. Places where things happened, where careers were made or ended, where crowds gathered to watch and judge and demand. Elias pointed out a few other landmarks—a shopping district, a transport hub, a street lined with cafés where players sometimes went after matches—all of it delivered in the same measured tone, as if he were handing Richard a map and waiting for him to learn it.
"This isn't Nigeria," Elias said eventually, his voice blunt but not unkind. He kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. "The football here is structured. Intense. You'll need to adapt fast."
Richard smirked, the expression coming naturally even as he felt the weight of the words settle into him. "I like challenges."
Elias glanced at him—a quick, assessing look—and then nodded once. "Good."
They drove in silence for a few more minutes, the city thinning out slightly as they moved toward the outskirts. Then Elias signaled and pulled up in front of a modern apartment complex. The building was clean, its lines sharp, a row of windows catching the late afternoon light. It was the kind of place that would have looked expensive in Lagos but seemed ordinary here, just another building in a city full of them.
"This is where you'll be staying," Elias said, turning off the engine. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face Richard. "With a fan of the club."
Richard raised an eyebrow. He had expected a room in a shared house, maybe a dormitory near the training ground. "A fan?"
Elias chuckled, a low sound that suggested he understood Richard's surprise. "Not just any fan. You'll see."
---
The door swung open before Richard could knock, the sound of it sudden in the quiet hallway.
"Brooo!"
A blond-haired guy around Richard's age stood in the doorway, his grin wide enough to split his face. He was wearing a Beerschot jersey, the fabric faded in a way that suggested it had been worn many times before, and his enthusiasm was so immediate, so unselfconscious, that Richard found himself momentarily unsure how to respond.
"You're finally here!" The guy stepped back, waving Richard inside with both hands as if ushering in a long-lost relative.
Richard blinked, his bag still in his hand, his other hand still raised slightly from where he had been about to knock. "Uh… yeah."
"I'm Jasper." The words came fast, the energy behind them undiminished. "Huge Beerschot fan, also play semi-pro. Man, I saw your highlights—the semifinal, that pass in extra time—you're gonna be a beast here. Honestly, when Elias told me they were bringing you in, I was like, finally, someone who actually knows how to play."
Richard had not expected this level of hype. He had expected maybe a handshake, a brief introduction, a quiet night before whatever came next. But Jasper was already clapping him on the back, his enthusiasm so genuine that it was impossible not to feel some of it.
"Come in, come in, I'll show you around!"
The apartment was clean and football-themed in a way that left no doubt about the priorities of its occupant. Beerschot jerseys hung on the walls in frames, their colors still bright, some of them signed in black marker by players Richard did not yet know. Posters of the stadium, of past squads, of moments frozen in time. And in the living room, positioned so that it was the first thing visible from the doorway, a mini goal stood against the far wall, a ball resting in front of it as if waiting for someone to take a shot.
Jasper grinned, following Richard's gaze. "Hope you're ready, 'cause tomorrow's your first taste of Belgian football."
Richard looked at the goal, then back at Jasper, and felt something loosen in his chest—not the weight of everything he had left behind, but the beginning of something taking its place. He smirked. "Can't wait."
---
That evening, Richard walked the city alone.
He had told Jasper he needed air, which was true, but the need went deeper than that. He needed to see the place without anyone narrating it for him, to feel its dimensions for himself, to let the unfamiliar become something he could begin to recognize.
He wandered without direction, letting the streets pull him where they would. The towering cathedrals rose above the cobblestone streets, their spires cutting into the pale evening sky in ways that felt ancient and permanent, as if they had been standing long before anyone thought to put a football pitch beneath them. The stones beneath his feet were worn smooth in places, polished by generations of footsteps that had nothing to do with his own. The riverside views opened up unexpectedly, the water dark and still, the lights of the city reflecting off its surface in long, wavering lines.
It was a whole new world from what he was used to. That was not hyperbole—it was simply the truth. The streets here did not smell of exhaust and street food and the particular dust that coated everything back home. The air did not sit heavy in his lungs. The sounds were different—a language he was still learning to parse, rhythms he had not yet internalized.
But no distractions.
He stopped at the edge of the river, his hands in his pockets, and let the evening settle around him. The city moved on, indifferent to his presence, and that was fine. He was not here to be noticed. Not yet.
His focus was set. The walk had cleared his head, had let him breathe, had reminded him why he was here. The buildings were just buildings. The streets were just streets. The only thing that mattered was what happened tomorrow, on the training ground, with the ball at his feet and something to prove.
Tomorrow, his real journey began.
He turned away from the river and made his way back through the unfamiliar streets, his steps sure despite his lack of bearings, the route already beginning to feel less foreign. The apartment block rose ahead of him, lit from within, and he climbed the stairs with the same quiet focus he had carried with him since the plane touched down.
When he opened the door, Jasper was on the couch, a game playing on the television in low light. He looked up and grinned. "Good walk?"
Richard nodded, setting his bag down by the door. "Yeah."
"Big day tomorrow," Jasper said, his voice lighter than the words, as if he understood that the weight of them did not need to be carried yet.
"I know," Richard said.
He looked at the Beerschot jerseys on the wall, the signed posters, the mini goal in the corner. Tomorrow, he would step onto a pitch in this country for the first time. Tomorrow, he would begin.
He was ready.