Dust swirled around Steve’s bare feet as he chased a makeshift ball down the cracked dirt road. The midday Kenyan sun beat down mercilessly, but Steve barely noticed. His eyes were glued to the flickering TV in the local bodega, where grainy images of the NBA finals danced across the screen. Michael Jordan, a whirlwind of grace and power, soared through the air, his crimson Air Jordans blurring with each electrifying dunk.
Envy gnawed at Steve’s heart. Shoes weren’t a luxury in his world; they were a distant dream. School shoes were a communal pair, passed down between siblings until they resembled tattered ghosts of their former selves. But on the screen, those basketball players, his heroes, danced in a kaleidoscope of colors and innovation. Each shoe whispered of impossible feats, of defying gravity and achieving greatness.
Steve dreamt of feeling that magic on his own feet. He imagined the spring in his step, the confidence it would bring, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than the dust and poverty that clung to his bare soles. He started sketching shoes in the dirt, each design more fantastical than the last, fueled by the yearning in his heart.
