MidReal Story

The Boy Who Lied About Starlight

Scenario:Goama un enfant africain né d'un père cultivateur et d'une mère ménagère part en ville chez son oncle pour continuer ses études secondaires. Il subit toutes formes de maltraitance qui l'amène à abandonner.
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Goama un enfant africain né d'un père cultivateur et d'une mère ménagère part en ville chez son oncle pour continuer ses études secondaires. Il subit toutes formes de maltraitance qui l'amène à abandonner.

Kofi

He is a young boy from a rural African village, seeking a better life through education. He is resilient, determined, and hopeful. Kofi moves to the city to live with his uncle, facing daily abuse and neglect. Despite this, he holds onto his dream of finishing school and a better future. However, the harsh city life and lack of support from family and city officials eventually lead him to consider alternative paths, like selling goods on the street.

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Kofi's Father

He is a hardworking farmer in a rural African village. He is diligent, patient, and kind. He toils on the land, providing for his family, and is deeply attached to his son. Though he wishes for his son to have more opportunities, he struggles financially and cannot afford to take his son to the city for a better education. His patience is worn down by external factors, leading to frustration and eventual disconnection from his son.

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Kofi's Mother

She is Kofi’s mother living in a rural African village. She is caring, traditional, and nurturing. She nurtures her family with homecooked meals and wraps them in cultural practices. Though she wants the best for her family, she faces economic constraints that prevent her from taking her son to the city for a better future. The distance and lack of means cause emotional strain on their relationship with Kofi.

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I was born in a village in Africa.
My father worked the land and my mother stayed at home to look after us children.
He toiled day and night to bring us up, and I wanted to be a good son to him.
I knew that if I could get an education, I would be able to have a better life than my parents.
So I went to school from the age of six, and every day I walked through the bush for over an hour to get there.
I was determined to learn, because I knew that was the only way out of poverty for me.
When I finished my primary education, I told my parents that I wanted to go on to secondary school.
But we lived in a rural area and the only secondary school was in the city, many miles away.
My father worked hard on our land, but he couldn’t earn enough money to take me to the city for school.
He was heartbroken, because he knew that he couldn’t give me the future I deserved.
My mother cried every night, because she wanted the best for her son, but she didn’t know how she could give it to me.
I knew that my parents were suffering because of me, so I decided to go live with my uncle in the city.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
I sit on the edge of my bed, watching my mother pack my few belongings into a worn cloth bag.
Her hands tremble as she folds my second-best shirt, the one without holes.
She tucks in a small package of groundnut cakes she made specially for my journey.
The morning sun streams through our mud-brick window, casting long shadows across the floor.
Mother keeps her head down, but I notice her wiping her face with her sleeve.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
When she finally looks up at me, her eyes are red but her voice stays steady.
"Stand up, let me check your collar," she says.
I rise and she smooths out the wrinkles on my faded school uniform.
She tucks in the collar one more time, her calloused fingers lingering on the fabric.
I can’t bear to see her cry anymore.
I step forward and wrap my arms around her thin frame.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
"Don’t worry, mother. I will write to you every week," I whisper.
She pulls back slightly, her eyes searching mine.
"Promise me you'll remember where you come from," she says softly.
"I promise, and I'll make you proud," I reply, feeling the weight of her hope on my shoulders.
As I pull away from her embrace, rapid footsteps approach our small mud-brick house.
Amina appears in the doorway, breathless and clutching a small cloth bundle.
"I'm coming with you to the bus stop," she declares, her dark eyes shining with determination.
Mother starts to protest, but Amina cuts her off.
"I've already told my parents. They said it's okay."
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
Relief floods through me.
The thought of walking alone to the main road had been weighing on my mind.
Amina has been my closest friend since we shared mangoes under the big tree in first grade.
She grabs my bag before I can stop her and waits by the door.
"Let's go," she says.
We set off down the dusty path that leads away from my house.
Our feet kick up small clouds with each step.
The morning sun casts long shadows across the fields.
We pass the crooked mango tree where we once carved our initials with a broken knife.
We cross the shallow stream where we caught tiny fish with our bare hands during the rainy season.
My bag bumps against Amina's hip as she insists on carrying it for me.
"No, I can take it," I say, reaching out to grab it back.
She swats my hand away.
"I want to do this. You're always helping me with my books."
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
I let her keep the bag, knowing she needs to feel useful in her own way.
We continue walking in comfortable silence, our footsteps synchronized after years of exploring together.
Amina breaks the quiet first.
"Do you remember when we found that bird's nest in the schoolyard?"
I smile, recalling the excitement of discovering a hidden treasure amidst the chaos of school life.
"We kept it a secret from everyone else," I say, chuckling at the memory of how protective we were over that nest. "And what about that time we climbed to the top of the grand tree near the river?" she asks, her voice catching slightly as she mentions our favorite spot.
We spent countless afternoons perched on its branches, watching the sunset paint the sky with hues of orange and pink.
"Of course, and we swore we'd always come back to that tree," I reply, feeling a pang of nostalgia.
Amina stops walking for a moment, her expression turning serious.
"Then let's promise right now that no matter where life takes us, we'll meet there again someday," she says, extending her pinky finger towards me.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
As we complete our pinky promise, the bag slips from her shoulder and hits the ground hard.
The impact causes a previously invisible seam along the bottom to split open.
A yellowed envelope wedged in the fabric lining of the bag falls out.
I pick it up, recognizing my father's careful handwriting on the envelope.
It's addressed to my uncle in Nairobi, but there's no stamp or any indication that it was ever sent.
The seal is unbroken.
Amina watches silently as I turn the envelope over in my hands, wondering why my father never mentioned this letter to me.
In the distance, we hear the rumble of the bus engine echoing across the savanna.
Amina glances at me, her curiosity barely contained.
"Are you going to open it?" she asks, her voice a mix of excitement and caution.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
I hesitate, feeling the weight of the unknown in my hands.
I stare at the fluttering pages as the wind reveals their contents.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel as if time has slowed down.
Among the papers, a hand-drawn map catches my eye.
It's a crude illustration of our village and its surroundings, complete with familiar landmarks like the old baobab grove and the winding stream that leads to the river.
A red X is marked near the old baobab grove, where Amina and I once shared secrets under its sprawling canopy.
Amina leans closer, her breath warm against my ear as she points to strange numbers scribbled along the edges of the map in my father's messy handwriting.
I can't decipher their meaning, but they seem important.
Suddenly, the approaching bus honks its horn, startling both of us.
We jump apart, and I quickly fold the papers back into their original shape and stuff them deep into my pocket.
The bus pulls up beside us, kicking up clouds of dust that sting our eyes. Amina looks at me with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
"What did you see?" she asks softly as we watch the bus come to a stop in front of us.
I shake my head, unable to process what I've just discovered.
The driver steps out of the bus, his worn leather jacket flapping in the breeze.
He waves impatiently for me to board.
"Come on, boy! We don't have all day!"
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
I nod at him and turn back to Amina.
"I'll tell you everything when I get back," I promise her, even though I'm not sure what there is to tell yet.
The bus doors screech open, revealing a dimly lit interior filled with weary passengers.
I climb the steep bus steps, clutching the envelope inside my shirt pocket while searching for an empty seat.
The worn leather seats are mostly filled with market women carrying baskets of fresh produce and tired workers heading to the city for their daily labor.
I find a spot near the back window and slide into it, feeling the rough fabric against my back.
Through the dusty glass, I watch Amina growing smaller as she waves goodbye, her figure blending into the landscape of our village.
The bus engine roars to life, and I grip the envelope tighter, feeling its edges press against my chest.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
The journey ahead feels uncertain, but the map's red X burns in my mind, a beacon guiding me toward answers I never knew I needed.
I lean my head against the rattling bus window, watching as palm trees blur past in a green haze.
The woman sitting next to me shifts her position, making room for the basket of yams at her feet.
I barely notice, my mind still fixed on Amina's last wave and the secrets hidden in the letter that now rests against my heart.
The bus hits a pothole, jolting me awake from my reverie.
I grab my bag tighter, protecting the precious contents within.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
Through the window, I see the sun beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the vast expanse of savanna.
As the bus rattles along a particularly quiet stretch of road, I glance at my seatmate, who has fallen asleep with her head resting against the window.
I take a deep breath and slowly slide my fingers into my pocket, tracing the edge of the envelope.
It still feels warm from being pressed against my chest.
The bus's interior light flickers overhead, casting shadows on the other passengers' faces.
I carefully slide my thumb under the unsealed flap of the envelope and pull out the letter.
The paper inside feels crisp and untouched, unlike the worn envelope that has traveled far to reach me.
My heart pounds as I unfold the letter, angling it away from prying eyes.
The words on the page blur momentarily as I try to focus, but then they come into sharp relief.
"Are you going to read it now?" a voice whispers beside me, startling me.
I turn to see the woman with the basket of yams watching me intently, her eyes sharp and knowing.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
Under the dim bus light, I hold the letter closer to my face, and she leans in, her warm breath brushing against my shoulder.
The paper trembles in my hands as I scan the first lines.
It's written in a familiar handwriting, one that I haven't seen in years but instantly recognize as my father's.
The words dance across the page, a mix of French and Wolof, our native language.
I read the opening lines, addressed to my uncle.
"Cher frère," it begins, "Dear brother."
The woman beside me shifts closer, her curiosity palpable.
I try to ignore her presence, focusing on the words that spill onto the page.
My father writes about a family treasure buried near the baobab trees on our ancestral land.
He explains how he couldn't afford to send me to school because he had spent all his money searching for it.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
He begs my uncle to help him find it, promising to share the wealth if he succeeds. The words blur together as tears well up in my eyes.
I quickly fold the letter and tuck it back into its envelope, trying to compose myself.
But more passengers have turned their heads toward me, drawn by the commotion.
I feel their eyes on me as I stuff the envelope back into my pocket and look out the window at the passing landscape.
I stare at the woman's weathered hand resting on mine, my heart pounding against my ribs.
She leans closer, her breath smelling of cola nuts and the earthy scent of yams.
"I'm from your village," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the bus's rumble.
"I'm from the neighboring town."
Her eyes dart around the bus, as if searching for something or someone.
"I know stories about treasure buried during colonial times," she continues, her voice filled with a mix of curiosity and urgency.
I try to pull my hand away, but she grips it tighter.
"My grandfather was there when it happened," she insists, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone.
The bus hits another pothole, jolting us both.
She quickly scribbles an address on a scrap of paper and presses it into my palm.
The Boy Who Lied About Starlight
I look at the paper, then back at her, and nod silently as the bus rolls on into the deepening dusk.