Chapter 93 – The Diagnosis
The celebrations continued outside long after the final whistle, you could still hear them from inside the stadium corridors.
Chants. Drums. People singing about Europe again but inside the medical room at the Stade Vélodrome, everything was quiet.
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Kweku sat still with his arm secured tightly in a sling. Ice wrapped around his shoulder. The adrenaline had faded now and without it, the pain felt sharper, heavier.
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The door opened quietly. Jean-Louis Gasset stepped in first. Then the club doctor was behind him.
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"You watched the end?" Gasset asked.
Kweku nodded.
"We won."
A small pause, then Gasset added: "You helped us get there."
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Kweku looked away slightly. Because right now, that didn't feel important. The coach spoke some words of encouragement then left him with his thoughts
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The hospital visit came later that night.
No media allowed, just fluorescent lights and long hallways.
The scans took time, almost two hours but it felt much longer than that.
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Kweku sat quietly while the doctor reviewed the images repeatedly.
His mother had called twice already. Camille once. He hadn't answered yet, he'd probably break down in tears if he spoke to any of them.
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Finally, the doctor turned back toward him.
The good news," he said carefully, "is that it doesn't appear to be structural damage to the shoulder joint itself."
Weku frowned slightly.
The doctor continued: "You dislocated the shoulder badly on impact."
He pointed toward the scan. "There's ligament trauma and inflammation, but no major tear."
Kweku listened carefully, one question already forming in his head, "How long?"
The doctor exhaled softly, "You'll miss time, about 10 weeks."
Not what he wanted to hear.
"But—"
The doctor leaned back slightly.
"When it heals properly, it should not affect your playing ability long-term."
Silence.
Then finally Kweku sighed and nodded slowly. Not from relief exactly but close.
"You're young," the doctor continued.
"That helps."
He tapped the screen lightly.
"The shoulder is unstable right now, and we need to make sure it heals correctly. No rushing."
"No surgery?" Kweku asked quietly.
"Not unless recovery goes badly."
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The doctor gave a small smile, "You were lucky."
Kweku chuckled wryly, he didn't feel lucky.
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When they left, Marseille was still awake.
Cars honking, people singing and fans celebrating qualification for the UEFA Europa Conference League. Somehow, it felt distant. Kweku sat quietly in the passenger seat staring out the window as lights blurred past. He should've been happy, they made Europe and he delivered again. But all he could feel was the empty weight in his shoulder and the realisation that tomorrow everyone would be talking about the injury.
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By morning, it was everywhere.
"Mensah suffers shoulder dislocation in Marseille win."
"Teenager's breakout season ends painfully."
"Initial reports suggest no major long-term damage."
That last sentence spread fastest, and those who clung to it immediately.
"He'll come back stronger."
"At least it's not his knee."
"Thank God it wasn't his ankle."
The club released an official statement later that afternoon:
"Kweku Mensah sustained a shoulder dislocation during the match against Le Havre AC. Further rehabilitation timelines will be determined in the coming days. No major long-term complications are currently expected."
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After that, his phone became unusable.
Notifications nonstop from teammates, fans, old classmates, people from Ghana and some random followers.
Even players from other Ligue 1 clubs sent messages, simple things like.
"Recover well."
"Tough luck."
"Strong comeback soon.
The one from Aubameyang was the shortest:
You did your job. Heal properly now.
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Camille came to visit too, she arrived that evening. No dramatic entrance or loud sympathy.
She sat beside him quietly, looked at the sling then at him.
"So," she said, "you finally stopped moving for five minutes."
Kweku laughed weakly, his first real laugh since the injury.
"It hurts."
"I know."
Silence settled between them naturally.
Then she asked softly, "You scared?"
Kweku took a moment before answering.
"…A little."
Camille nodded.
"I think that's normal."
He looked down at the sling again.
"What if I lose everything when I'm out?"
She frowned immediately.
"You think they'll forget you after one injury?"
Kweku didn't answer because part of him honestly didn't know.
Camille leaned back in her chair.
"You're stupid sometimes."
That earned another small laugh.
Then she said the thing he needed most.
"You already proved you belong."
It was simple, direct and most importantly it was true.
The two spoke for hours before she finally left and afterwards, other people came to see him.
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Later that night, after everyone left, Kweku stood alone near his apartment window. One arm immobilised, gazing at the city lights glowing below.
Marseille was celebrating, still alive and still loud. For the first time in months, he wasn't thinking about the next match.
Because there wouldn't be one for a while.
The season ended with Europe secured. But for Kweku the next battle wouldn't be played on a pitch and would in some ways be more difficult.