My cousin Glory lived in Uvira, a province in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the village where I spent my childhood. Life was peaceful for Glory until the day when destiny took a tragic turn. The sudden death of his beloved mother plunged Glory into an abyss of pain and despair. His pillar, his source of comfort, had disappeared, leaving a gaping void in his already bruised heart. Devastated by the loss of his mother, Glory instinctively turned to his father for support and guidance. However, his father, already distracted by another adulterous relationship with a mistress, seemed unable to meet his son’s emotional needs. As the days passed, Glory’s grief turned into bitterness and resentment towards his father who had left him alone in his pain. Glory decided to leave his father’s house to go and live with his grandmother. He felt she was the only one who could understand his loss. Glory’s grandmother was a widow, and Glory’s mother her only child. Like Glory, she was alone. Although Glory felt he had to be with his grandmother, she lacked the means to take care of his material needs. So he decided to drop out of school. Over time, Glory began to withdraw into himself, seeking refuge in dubious social circles. He was attracted to a group of young rebels, who, like him, seemed to have been broken by life. These new friends led him into illegal activities, they taught him risky behaviors. Together, Glory and his new friends spend their time smoking and drinking alcohol. As the weeks and months passed, Glory drifted further and further from his good manners. His father, blinded by his own guilt and obsessed with his new wife, did not notice his son’s drift. Glory found himself trapped between the grief of losing his mother, the anger towards his father, and the toxic influence of his new friends. As the dark clouds seemed to envelop his existence, a glimmer of hope emerged from the shadows. A kind neighbor, who had known Glory’s mother, saw the boy’s distress and decided to intervene. She took the time to listen to him, to understand his suffering, and to offer him a safe haven away from the bad influences that threatened to consume him. Although it wasn’t too late for him to turn his life around, seeing Glory’s journey has always served as a warning to me to surround myself with good people who help me on my path. This story was peer reviewed by: Niko King-Mahan
Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists
Interview with David
I wrote my story, “Young Person Under Influence,” because I noticed today young people are destroyed by a lack of knowledge, and also by a lack of support from their family members. Let’s take examples here in Nakivale, and elsewhere in Africa. Children are left in the street without education or family supervision, and this creates delinquency in their lives. I hope that my story will be like a big opening door for parents to open their eyes and see the potential that young people can bring into the world. Because this topic does not only affect parents but all people who can see young people in difficulty and give them support so that they can feel loved. Personally, I wanted to share this story with the world to come and help young people in difficulty because young people are supposed to be protected. Because among them there are presidents, senators, businessmen, and mothers of the nation. Thanks for reading my story.
The Old Man in the Village, by Ali Selemani Ibrahim
In a small village nestled in the Atlas mountains in Morocco, there lived an old man named Jack. At ninety years old, he was known for his remarkable strength and endurance. Every morning Jack would venture into the forest to chop wood for the village. He’d swing his ax with precision and power, splitting logs with ease, his muscles rippling beneath his worn, blue flannel shirt. As the seasons passed, Jack’s wood pile grew and so did his reputation. Jack could provide people with raw materials such as firewood, charcoal for cooking and other purposes. People from neighboring villages would marvel at his skills and purchase his neatly stacked cords of wood. Jack took pride in his work, ensuring each log was perfectly split and seasoned to burn warm and long. His dedication and craftsmanship earned him the nickname, “The Wood Chopper Master.” As Jack emerged from the trees after chopping wood, he always felt changed. The act of chopping wood helped him to become a part of something greater than himself. He saw visions of the past and present, and glimpsed the threads of fate that connected all living things. The villagers looked to him with respect, and Jack continued his legacy, chopping wood with a sense of purpose and responsibility to protect the forest and its secrets. Years went by and Jack’s legend grew, people whispered about the giant of a man who could chop wood for hours without rest. Some said that he had a special connection to the forest, that the trees themselves yielded to his ax. Jack just smiled, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mystery, knowing the truth lay in his hard work and love for the simple, satisfying rhythm of chopping wood. This story was peer reviewed by: Stella Charney
