B Kenyan

Clark Park, Vancouver. Early evening.
The mountains framed the sky in the distance, their peaks catching the last glow of the sun. On the court, a crowd gathered—kids on BMX bikes, families with takeout containers, old heads nodding to a boom box playing 90s hip-hop.

Joe (clapping, his accent cutting through):
“Alright, listen up! This ain’t no black versus white. That old story’s dead. Today, it’s Africa versus the World. That’s how we ball in East Van—no hate, just pride.”

B Kenyan (stepping forward, voice steady):
“Africa takes this side of the court. From Nairobi to Lagos, from Addis to Accra—we bring the hustle of the motherland. Every rebound, every cut, it’s in the bloodline.”

Joe (pointing to the mix of kids on his side):
“And the World’s got a crew right here—Filipinos, Croatians, Persians, Puerto Ricans, even that kid from Surrey who swears he’s Serbian. We bring the street smarts, the global spice.”

B Kenyan (smirking):
“Spice burns out fast, Joe. Africa’s got endurance. These boys run like the Nile flows.”

Joe (laughing):
“Endurance don’t mean nothing if you can’t shoot when your legs get heavy. The World got range.”

The ref—a local uncle in a faded Grizzlies jersey—blew his whistle.

Ref:
“Tip-off! First to twenty-one. Vancouver rules: call your own fouls, and don’t cry about it.”

The ball was up. Africa’s big man tipped it down clean.

B Kenyan (yelling):
“Push it! Coast to coast, no mercy!”

A fast break slam rattled the rim. The crowd hollered.

Joe (clapping his squad):
“Don’t panic! Move the rock, eyes up. World’s been underdogs before. We know how to flip the script.”

A Filipino guard drove, kicked it to the Croatian kid—splash, three-pointer. The score was even.

B Kenyan (grinning):
“Not bad. But Africa’s got rhythm you can’t teach.”

His point guard dribbled low, crossed over, dished—another easy bucket.

Joe (pointing at his shooters):
“You see that? They dance. So what do we do? We compose. Pass, cut, pass, shot! Symphony, baby!”

A Persian wing drained a jumper. The game lit up, back and forth, both sides trading buckets.

By 20–20, the park was alive—kids climbing fences for a better view, moms cheering like it was the NBA Finals.

Joe (huddling his squad):
“Last point. No hero ball. We play together or we don’t play at all.”

The ball moved quick—Puerto Rican to Filipino to Croatian. He fired.

Clang.

Africa’s center grabbed it, launched an outlet pass. Two dribbles, one leap—slam!

The rim rattled like thunder.

Ref (throwing his arms up):
“Game! Africa takes it, twenty-one to twenty!”

The crowd erupted, half chanting Africa, half chanting World.

Joe (walking over, offering his hand):
“Today, Africa wins. Tomorrow, the World comes harder.”

B Kenyan (shaking his hand, smiling wide):
“And the day after, Africa gets stronger still. That’s how legends grow.”

The night settled over Clark Park, the lights of East Van flickering alive. For one evening, that cracked court became the center of the basketball world.