𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗢𝗳 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗼𝘆 𝗪𝗵𝗼 𝗥𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗧𝗼 𝗕𝗲 𝗘𝘅𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱

The rain pounded mercilessly on the rusted rooftop as Obinna sat in a darkened corner of their one-room shack, watching the last candle begin to burn out. The flickering flame cast long shadows on the peeling walls, mirroring the darkness swallowing his world.

His mother lay on the tattered mattress, her breathing shallow, like it was being dragged. The sickness had eaten away at her, leaving only a fragile shell of the woman who once held him close, whispering dreams of a better life.

"Obinna," she rasped, her fingers cold as they brushed his cheek. "You must shine… even if the world tries to put you out."

That night, the candle died. And by morning, so did she.

At the age of ten, Obinna became an orphan. With his father long gone, and with no known surviving relative, he was forced onto the streets of Lagos, where it was a daily war just to survive. Hunger, an ever present monster, gnawed at his insides, and cruelty was an anthem that was sung to boys like him—boys without names, without families, without hope.

One night, desperate and weak, he stole a loaf of bread from a street vendor. He ran until his legs gave out, collapsing in an alleyway. The shop owner caught up to him and said, “I'm going to kill you, you silly little thief.”

"Let him go, Jude," Baba Diran, an old blind respected bookseller’s voice, cut through the chaos. “I will pay whatever it is he stole.”

Jude murmured as he walked away with the price of the bread in his pocket.

Obinna thought the old man was mad. "Why did you help me, sir?"

Baba Diran grinned. “Don't we all need help?”

In Baba Diran’s tiny bookstore, Obinna found a new kind of hunger—the friendly kind, and it was the hunger for knowledge. Though the old man was blind, his mind was sharper than any blade Obinna had ever seen. He taught Obinna how to read, think, and dream again.

"You are not a street rat, my boy," Baba Diran told him one day. "You are a flame, and flames do rise. All you need is the wind of knowledge to become a firestorm."

Soon, Obinna began devouring books by candlelight, balancing learning with the harsh reality of street life.

One evening, as he cleaned the bookstore, Obinna found an old typewriter. He sat down, his fingers hesitating over the keys before he began typing the words which read:

"To anyone who will listen, my name is Obinna. I was born into darkness, but I refuse to let it consume me…"

He poured out his soul into that letter—about losing his mother, about hunger, about hope. With no one to send it to, he admired his effort, left it on Baba Diran’s desk, and thought nothing of it.

Days later, a woman in a suit walked into the bookstore. Madam Kemi, a journalist. She toured the bookstore, seeking for a particular book. When she reached the counter, she took up the letter, and fell into the words as her book was packaged.

"Who wrote this?" she asked.

Obinna swallowed. "I did."

The lady left with Obinna’s letter that day.

A week later, his story was on the front page of the newspaper. The world finally saw him—not as a street boy, but as a voice. Donations poured in, and a scholarship arrived, all through Madam Kemi.

The boy who once stole bread to survive was now sitting in a university classroom, learning to better himself.

Years passed. Obinna became a renowned journalist, using his words to fight for children like he once was. His first book, The Last Candle, became a national bestseller, igniting change across the country.

One evening, he returned to the bookstore, now run by younger street boys whom he had helped. He placed a single candle on Baba Diran’s desk.

"Thank you," Obinna whispered, knowing wherever the old man was, he was proud of him.

And as he walked out into the city lights, he finally understood his mother words. Apparently, his mother was right. Flames do rise.