With love, dedicated to all the hungry and needy children of the world, for they too deserve the very best.
Preface
This story is about hope and courage, about how one voice can awaken hearts and change destinies. In a world filled with injustice and suffering, there are children who, despite their poverty, dream of a better future. They are like stars lost in the boundless night sky, searching for light and warmth.
Our hero, N'golo, is one of these children who, while battling hunger and deprivation, never loses hope. His story reminds us that even in the darkest times, it is important to believe in change and not be afraid to share our sorrow with the world. May this story be not only a reminder of suffering but also a source of inspiration for those seeking strength in their dreams.
Chapter 1: "A Day Like Any Other"
The first rays of the sun barely touched the horizon when N’golo, already awake, quietly slipped out from under the torn blanket that served as his bed. He moved carefully so as not to wake his younger siblings. His sister, Amara, and his little brother, Kofi, were still sound asleep, their faces peaceful, unaware of the struggles the new day would bring.
N’golo stepped outside, feeling the cool morning air against his skin. The dry earth crunched under his bare feet as he made his way toward the nearby well. His daily routine began early—before the village stirred, before the relentless heat of the sun took over the sky. Water was the first task of the day.
The well, like everything else in the village, seemed to echo the weariness of life. Its wooden frame was worn down, just like the people who used it. N’golo filled the battered container, watching the ripples of water dance in the dim light. His thoughts wandered as he pulled the bucket up. Another day had begun, just like every other.
Returning home, he poured the water into a clay pot and checked on his mother. She lay on a thin mat in the corner of their small house, coughing weakly. Her illness had worsened, and the thin broth they could afford did little to nourish her. Every time N’golo looked at her, his heart sank a little more. Her once bright eyes, full of life and energy, now reflected only fatigue and sorrow.
"Amara, Kofi, wake up," N’golo whispered, nudging his siblings gently. Their sleepy eyes blinked open, but there was no time for a slow start to the day. They needed to help gather what little food they could find.
The children set off, heading toward the fields where they could sometimes find fruit or scavenge what was left after the harvest. The land was unforgiving. Drought had turned once fertile soil into dust. But this was their life—searching, hoping, and working tirelessly for the smallest chance to eat.
N’golo, being the eldest, felt the weight of responsibility. At thirteen, he had already learned too much about hardship. His father had died when N’golo was just a boy, and since then, the burden of caring for his family had fallen squarely on his young shoulders. There was no time for childhood dreams. Each day was a battle to survive.
The village market was another destination. Here, N’golo sometimes found work—carrying bags, tending to small tasks for vendors, or helping older villagers with errands. The pay was meager, but every coin counted. It wasn’t enough to fill their stomachs, but it kept them going.
As the sun climbed higher, the heat became unbearable. Sweat dripped down N’golo’s face, but he pressed on, determined to make the most of the day. Today, like every other, was a day for survival.
In the midst of his toil, N’golo’s thoughts often drifted to something larger, something beyond the dusty paths of his village. He remembered the stories told by the older villagers, stories of places where food was abundant, where people didn’t wake up hungry. He wondered what those places were like. He wondered if people there ever thought about children like him and his siblings, scraping by each day.
But such thoughts were fleeting. Reality was relentless, and N’golo knew that dreaming of a better life wouldn’t put food on the table. It wouldn’t heal his mother, and it wouldn’t ease the pain in his heart. So he kept working, kept pushing through the exhaustion, because what else could he do?
By evening, N’golo and his siblings returned home, their hands carrying whatever small bits of food they had managed to gather. It wasn’t much—some overripe fruit, a handful of grains—but it would have to do. They shared their modest meal in silence, the weight of the day pressing down on them.
As the night settled in, N’golo lay down beside his family. The stars shone brightly above, indifferent to the struggles of those below. He closed his eyes, knowing that tomorrow would be another day, just like this one.
But deep inside, a small spark remained. A spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, something could change. Something could shift, even if he didn’t know how or when.
Tomorrow, he would wake up before the sun again. Tomorrow, he would work as hard as he had today. But for now, in the quiet of the night, he allowed himself a moment to dream.
