The sun blazed like molten gold over the red earth of Zambia. Dust swirled in the air, and cicadas buzzed their endless song as Blessings Banda, an 8-year-old boy with curious eyes and calloused hands, crouched over his latest creation. A broken radio, salvaged from the trash, lay in front of him. Sparks flew as he twisted wires together, his lips murmuring calculations only he could understand.
"Blessings! Stop wasting your time with that rubbish!"
His father's voice was sharp, slicing through the stillness. Blessings froze, his heart pounding. He looked up to see Mr. Banda standing in the doorway, his face dark with frustration. Behind him, the small hut where the family lived seemed to sag under the weight of years of struggle.
"Baba," Blessings said hesitantly, holding up the radio. "I fixed it. It works now."
"Fixed?" Mr. Banda stepped closer, his rough hands grabbing the radio. "What good is this thing, huh? Will it grow maize? Will it bring money for food?" His voice cracked like a whip, each word landing heavily on Blessings' small shoulders.
Blessings swallowed hard. "I thought… I thought maybe it could help—"
"Enough!" Mr. Banda's voice echoed in the small yard. "You're wasting your time, boy. Focus on what matters. School. The fields. Forget these useless dreams!"
Blessings' hands trembled as his father stormed off. He clutched the radio tightly, his chest tightening with the ache of rejection.
In the doorway, Mrs. Banda appeared, her soft gaze filled with concern. "My son," she said gently, sitting beside him. "Your father only wants what's best for you. He fears for your future. These machines… they are not for us. Our world is different. Survival comes first."
Blessings said nothing, his throat burning with unshed tears. He turned back to his creation, the small motorized fan he had spent weeks building from scraps. It wasn't much, but it worked. In his mind, it was more than a fan. It was hope—a way to make life better for his family. But nobody seemed to see it.
At school, things weren't much different.
"Blessings Banda!" The teacher's voice boomed, snapping him out of his thoughts. Blessings looked up from the blueprint he was sketching—an idea for a windmill that could pump water for the village.
"Are you even paying attention?" the teacher demanded, holding up his notebook. "What is this? Machines? Flying things? You waste your time daydreaming!"
The class erupted in laughter. Blessings' cheeks burned, but he refused to let the taunts break him.
As the sun set that evening, Blessings sat outside their hut, watching the horizon where the fiery sky met the endless earth. His brothers—Ali, Joseph, and little Daniel—played nearby, but Blessings remained still, clutching his sketches to his chest.
"Maybe they're right," he whispered to himself. "Maybe my dreams don't belong here."
But then, a gentle breeze brushed against his face, carrying with it a strange, quiet reassurance. Somewhere deep within him, the fire he thought had dimmed flickered back to life.
"No," he murmured, his voice stronger now. "I may be small. But my dreams are not."
The stars began to appear, one by one, as Blessings made a silent vow. He would not let the weight of doubt or tradition extinguish his fire. He would dream, no matter the cost.
Because somewhere beyond the horizon, a future awaited him—a future he would build with his own hands.