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The Boy Who Planted Stars
By Meireles André
Illustrated by Hulan Chadraa
Story Details
Published on November 28, 2025
Age Group: 10-13 years
Word Count: 650 words
Estimated Reading Time: 4 minutes
About the Author
Meireles André (Nkemba Ntando) is an internationally awarded Angolan writer and the author of works such as O Rapaz que Carregava o Tempo nas Costas, Mukwilu – Ecos do Abismo e da Esperança, and Infinito. He has written more than ten books, and his work is born from pain, silence, spirituality, and resistance. Meireles explore themes that cross memory, identity, and transcendence, and his writing has appeared in literary magazines both in Africa and abroad.
Facebook: Meireles Andre (Facebook)
Instagram: Meirels johnson. Meireles André (Instagram)
The Silent One
In the forgotten village of Kalubala, there lived a boy named Lumo. Lumo did not speak much. People said he was strange. He listened to the wind like it was his teacher, touched the bark of trees like it was skin, and stared at the stars like they were telling him secrets.
“Don’t be like Lumo,” the other children were warned. “You’ll end up chasing clouds.”
But Lumo didn’t care. He believed in things that couldn’t be seen.
He had a gift: he could hear the sadness of the world.
And one day, he decided to do something about it.
A Village Without Dreams
Kalubala had changed. It used to be a place of song and stories. Now it was silent. The river had dried. The fields no longer listened to seeds. Fathers left. Mothers wept. Children forgot how to laugh.
Even the sky stopped smiling. No stars. Only a heavy ceiling of black.
“Dreams are dead,” said the elders. “Accept and survive.”
But Lumo wasn’t made to accept.
One night, he asked his grandmother, Bibi Mwana, “Can dreams come back?”
She looked into his eyes, deep and still like the old well, and said, “They can, but only if someone dares to plant them again.”
The Seed of Light
The next morning, Bibi Mwana gave him something wrapped in old cloth: a seed—small, round, glowing faintly like an ember.
“This seed has no name,” she whispered. “It grows only where hope still lives.”
Lumo stared at it. It pulsed in his palm, warm.
“Plant it on the hill,” Bibi said. “Tell it your truth. That’s how it grows.”
That night, while the village slept, Lumo climbed the hill behind the last hut. He dug a hole with his hands, trembling from the cold.
“I believe in light,” he said, burying the seed. “And I believe you can hear me.”
Watering with Stories
Each night, Lumo returned to the hill. But he didn’t bring water.
He brought stories.
He told the seed about the old songs the river used to sing. He spoke of children’s laughter, of mango trees that danced when the wind passed. He whispered about a world that once glowed.
He gave it everything he had—his voice, his pain, his wishes.
And though nothing sprouted from the earth, Lumo felt something inside him beginning to change.
A light was stirring—quiet, patient, alive.
The Light Beneath
On the seventh night, the villagers noticed something strange.
From the hill where Lumo sat, a faint glow rose into the sky—like a star trapped beneath the earth trying to rise.
“Witchcraft,” someone said. “A bad omen,” warned another.
But Bibi Mwana only smiled. “That boy,” she said, “is feeding the world’s hunger.”
The Blooming Above
Then, it happened.
On the twelfth night, a single vine broke through the soil. It had no leaves—only tiny stars, hanging like fruit.
They shimmered with memories. Whoever touched one could remember their childhood dreams.
People came. Mothers who had lost children. Men who had forgotten their purpose. Children who had never dreamed.
Each took a star. Each found a piece of themselves.
Kalubala began to hum again.
The Boy Who Gave Back the Sky
Soon, the stars from the vine began to float into the sky. One by one, they rose—slow, golden, gentle—and repainted the heavens.
“Look!” the children screamed. “He’s giving back the stars!”
And they were right.
Lumo had planted one seed.
But that seed had planted hope in everyone.
Epilogue: The Hill of Light
Years passed.
Lumo grew old, but the vine never died. It waited for others—for those who dared to believe in what could not be seen.
And every year, a child climbs the hill.
Every year, the stars bloom again.
Because somewhere in the dark, there will always be one voice that whispers:
“Grow.”
THE END
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The Boy Who Planted Stars © 2025 Meireles André
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