On the corner of Jeremy Doku’s old street, a hotchpotch of colour and designs with climbing plants suspended between houses over the road, rests a nameless bar. It’s been there for generations. Smoke-filled, nine men drink halves and stare at the television airing a talk show. Nobody speaks.
That is how Luitenant Naeyaertplein is. A little area of Antwerp’s smallest but densely populated district, the culturally diverse Borgerhout, is beaten up and worn out, recently mentioned in dispatches on drugs and violence.
Just down from the local woodchipper, an independent brewery has only one customer. Along the arches of Noordersingel bridge, a playground emerges. The rain is persistent but two young brothers, carrying their family’s shopping home to the apartment blocks just before dinner, cannot resist striding onto the square.
They’re armed with a football; size three – perfect for futsal – and this cage with two nets gets its fair share of wear, the epicentre of the community. Not long ago, that was Doku and his elder brother, Jefferson, who now represents him. Their real house. Day and night, kicked to bits on the hard surface.
That is when the place livens up, creates a buzz. Doku would mesmerise on that court, becoming the street footballer who embarrassed boys much older than him. He’d dance, dance a lot. And he still does, with young Manchester City supporters going to the Etihad Stadium in the hope of seeing him perform the ‘Griddy’.
Still just 21, Dancing Doku has not even started yet.
Anderlecht’s academy director, Jean Kindermans, was struck by the insistency of his scouts during a monthly meeting where they debate signings for the youth teams. A kid from north of Brussels, excelling with Beerschot, needed looking at.
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