Rogerio’s head bounces off the side of a window pane as the coach screeches to a stop at a traffic light. He rubs his fingers across a sharp pain coming from the side of his forehead. The bright, neon glare from the road-side street-lights aggravates his darkness attuned eyes. Unsure of how long he’s been sleeping, he ties the side curtain onto a hook and notices a new Petrobras petrol station built on the site of the old bus depot which was burnt down by a prodigious bay arsonist.They are on the BR- 324 and he gazes up at the hill settlements in Piraja as they get closer to the centre of Salvador da Bahia. He’s back on home ground. Every area has a memory and a story. He learned its contours by foot. He used to jump school and tag along with his elder brother who sold ice poles, ice creams and other chilled merchandise from a cart with a squeaky, arthritic axle. They sold to hippies in Barra, argentine tourists in Pelourinho, rich kids in Rio Vermelho, surfers in Ondina and naval workers in Comercio. Anywhere people congregated and hung out. Life was a 70mm Technicolor movie : more vivid than the crowded and obtuse lessons thrown in his direction at his under-resourced state school.
He glances around the coach and notices most of his team-mates are asleep. He catches the eye-line of his manager who points at him and stands up. He clambers up the aisle as the coach turns a corner and crash lands into an empty seat. Wagner, his manager, played for six amateur clubs that never made it to the top tier of the regional league in Rio Grande de Sul, a state near the southern border with Argentina. He grew up in a rural, cattle rearing farm community, where pragmatism and organisation is valued highly. He brings a similar philosophy into the sphere of football management.
Rogerio leans away as beads of sweat from Wagner’s forehead drip onto his forehand and the armrest. Rogerio pulls out a small headphone earpiece attached to his phone.
“ I’ve been thinking about you, says Wagner.
“Me, why?” replies Rogerio.
“You’re playing in your home-town against your first club. They released you when you were fifteen, right?“.
“Yes, said I was too small and not strong enough.”
“Ok, so it's your chance for payback. We need to be patient. I’m going to play 4-5-1, then bring on Valdes or Ze at half-time and go 4-3-3”.
Toninho’s surprised at Wagner’s openness. He normally likes talking about tactics and player selection just before kick-off. He says it ensures that the players are still alert. Maybe tonight, he feels just as nervous as everyone else. Rogerio’s stomach rumbles, a sure sign that he’s about to play an important game.
“OK.”
“You need to be sharp and aware of others when they come to join you. We’ll have maybe five chances to score in the game, we need to take two of them.”
“I’ve been running through things in my mind. Quick turns, dummy runs, first-time shooting, everything.”
“Good, good.”
Wagner pats Rogerio affectionately on his thigh. He’s heard what he wants. His striker is mentally ready for battle. A good result tonight will mark Wagner down as a manager to watch and give him the kudos his playing career didn’t give him. He might even come on the radar of one the big clubs in Bahia or even better, in the south. Nothing would make him prouder than managing Internacional or Gremio in Porto Alegre. His wife would be proud too, as she comes from a cosmopolitan family and they have always looked down on Wagner because he is from a small farming community. Rogerio pulls out the other earpiece linked to his phone as Wagner rises to leave.
“Patrao, one second.”
Rogerio licks his lips, his mouth always becomes dry whenever he’s about to talk about something important. Especially with people in authority or even worse, if they have letters attached to their name. Some of the players started calling Wagner ‘doctor’ when they heard club officials using the title. Rogerio thinks that he must be very smart to have studied medicine. When he was younger, he noticed that richer people (‘gente boa’) walked differently, the soles of their footwear made a harder, more purposeful vibration on the ground compared to the scraping sounds that his neighbours made. Their heads were raised higher on their necks and when they looked around, they always seemed like they were in control. As if their lives had been pre-ordained.
“Patrao, you know I’ve scored twenty-five goals in thirty-one games this season.”
“How can I forget artilheiro (top scorer)?”
“Before the Conquista game, you said that if I scored over twenty goals, you’ll speak to the Chairman for me, you know, about my contract?”
“I did, but you know he made his money from selling fridges, he doesn’t understand people.”
“But, I need to earn more. I don’t even get a goal bonus. There are players on the bench with better wages."
‘I agree with you, but now is not the right time. When we get back, I’ll get him in the office to re-negotiate with you. I promise’.
“Cheers patrao.”
“No problem.”
Wagner wipes the sweat from his brow with his hairy forearm and moves away. Rogerio watches him sit down beside the goalkeeper. Rogerio can’t wait to tell Luanda that he spoke with Wagner. She will be happy and maybe stop giving him a hard time over not being more pro-active. He got tired of her asking the same questions over and over again. ‘Who earns the most money in your team?, How can you be earning less than the centre half?, Do you have a buy-out clause in your contract?’ He can understand her though, she’s right to ask questions. She wants to see him get a fair deal. After all, he’s scored more goals than all of his team-mates put together. Plus their living arrangement has not been ideal. Her auntie is pedantic about her living space and likes things done her way or not at all. They have felt like over-staying guests. Luanda’s right. They need their own place and to do that, he needs to earn more money.

Bros...enjoying...post more, abeg