Every schoolboy has their own favorite games, right? Well, we were no different. Now, I’m not sure who invented the game we played, or if it even has an official name. To be honest, I’m not even sure it has an English name, or if it even exists outside our tiny corner of the world. But I can tell you this: it was popular across three or four districts, and it was a game we all looked forward to with bated breath, like some grand, unspoken tradition passed down from one generation of kids to the next.

  Let’s call it Wheely.

  Wheely was a simple game. In fact, it was the epitome of simplicity. You didn’t need fancy equipment, or even much money. If you were lucky enough to have a spare slipper at home, you were set. If not, well, you could use your old, worn-out slipper that was probably good for nothing else but being a relic of childhood memories.

  Now, the game itself was also quite basic. We didn’t have fancy rules or official regulations, nothing that could have warranted a referee or a scorekeeper. What we had was a line drawn on the ground. This line could have been anything from a crack in the dirt to an actual chalked line if someone got a little too excited about the game. But what mattered most was what came after.

  The key item in the game was the slipper. But not just any slipper. No, no. This was a slipper that had been lovingly (or recklessly) modified by its owner. The back of the slipper—usually the posterior part, was cut into a round shape, like a wheel. Get it? Wheely. Clever, right? At least, we thought so. The slipper would then be rolled toward the opposing side of the line by one team, and the other team, armed with a stick, would hit it back. It was like a mix of hockey and badminton, but with more dirt and less elegance.

  The point was simple: the team that allowed the slipper to roll past their side of the line without hitting it back, or without it getting stuck in the dirt for a while, would lose. The losing side had to roll the slipper back to the other team, and the game would go on. It wasn’t much, but to us, it was everything. And when I say “everything,” I mean everything. In those days, it was our sport, our passion, and our favorite pastime.

  One day, as we were deep into a heated match of Wheely, the game took a turn that none of us expected. It all started when Max, the shortest guy in our group and the one with the most guts (and also the one who would eventually get us all into trouble), hit the slipper a little too hard. The slipper went soaring across the line like a missile, heading straight for the teacher’s quarters.

  Now, to give you some context, the teacher’s quarters weren’t just your average classroom. This was where the teachers went to escape the chaos of the playground. It was their sanctuary, their safe zone. And here we were, sending our precious Wheely slipper directly into their territory, like a bunch of wild animals invading their personal space. But did that stop us? No. In fact, it only made the game more thrilling.

  So, naturally, the game had to pause. We were left with no choice but to let one of our own venture into the forbidden territory to retrieve the slipper. And the unfortunate soul chosen for this mission? Omar.

  Omar, bless his heart, was one of those guys who would do anything for the team, even if it meant stepping into the lion’s den. He was fearless, in his own way, but he was also a little cautious when it came to things that involved the teachers. You see, Omar wasn’t exactly the rebellious type. He didn’t want to face the wrath of the teachers, especially when it came to something like Wheely, which they had made abundantly clear was forbidden.

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  But the rules of the game were the rules, and when you lost a point in Wheely, you didn’t just let it slide. No, you took responsibility. So, with the slipper lodged somewhere near the teacher’s boundary wall, Omar was tasked with the retrieval mission.

  Now, this was the part where it got interesting. You see, Omar had no idea what he was in for. None of us did. The moment Omar climbed up the boundary wall, ready to hop over and fetch the slipper, we thought we were safe. We were cheering him on from the sidelines, hyping him up as if he was about to perform some daring stunt. But then, out of nowhere, the teacher’s dog, an enormous beast with a bark that could shatter windows, started going wild.

  “Vow, vow, vow, vouuuuuuuuuvow!” The dog barked, sounding like it was part lion, part drill sergeant. And, of course, this set Omar off. He froze, caught between the wall and the dog’s threatening growls, not sure what to do next.

  Without any further warning, Omar made a split-second decision. And it wasn’t the kind of decision that would be featured in a hero’s biography. No, this was a full-blown panic reaction.

  Omar jumped off the wall in pure fright, like a scared rabbit, and sprinted straight for the classroom. He didn’t stop running until he was safely inside the building, as if he’d just dodged a bullet.

  We all stood there, wide-eyed and frozen, watching as Omar disappeared into the distance. No one said a word.

  What happened next was a bit... dramatic. Omar didn’t come back to join the game. He stayed inside the classroom, like a prisoner refusing to leave his cell. We tried to blackmail him, of course. We threatened to not let him play with us ever again, knowing full well that his love for the game would make him cave. But Omar was stubborn. He wasn’t coming back. He’d faced the dog, he’d felt the fear, and now he was done with Wheely. The game had claimed its first casualty.

  And so, we moved on. But we were no longer the same group of friends. We had witnessed a man break. We had witnessed Omar's retreat, and in the process, we had all learned something about fear. It wasn’t just about being brave when the stakes were high. It was about knowing when to back out, when to retreat and live to fight another day.

  In the aftermath of our Wheely incident, we decided to take a break. The dog barked at our dreams, but there was another plan brewing in the background. Lucas, our tall, lanky friend with a precision that could only be described as godlike, suggested a new course of action.

  “Forget about Wheely,” he said, with that calm, collected tone that made him sound like a general planning his next military strategy. “We’re going to get some wild mangoes.”

  Now, for those of you who don’t know what wild mangoes are, let me explain. They’re not actually mangoes. I know, confusing, right? They’re small, sour fruits with huge seeds and very little flesh. They were tough and crunchy, with a taste that could make your mouth pucker up in ways you never thought possible. And yet, they were a delicacy for us. A delicacy that we would risk everything for.

  So, off we went, abandoning Wheely for the moment, and headed toward the wild mango tree.

  Lucas, with his godlike aim, was the one to lead the charge. We all gathered under the tree, and Lucas began throwing stones at the wild mangoes with such accuracy that it was almost magical. Each hit was met with a satisfying thud as the mango fell to the ground.

  The mangoes were retrieved, and the great division began. It wasn’t just about who got the mangoes, it was about who owed whom what, and what “favors” had been performed.

  “Ethan,” Lucas said, with that serious face of his, “you gave me chips the other day. You get two.” Omar, with his usual charm, got two as well, but it wasn’t for his generosity, it was because he had whispered the answer to a question in class, saving Lucas from looking like an idiot.

  As for Max? Well, he had to settle for just one wild mango. Because, after all, he hadn’t done much to earn it.

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