The first light of dawn crept gently over the red hills of Kivuli, painting the village in gold. In a small mud-walled house, nine-year-old Amani stirred under her thin blanket. The rooster’s call echoed faintly, and the smell of boiling porridge drifted in from the kitchen fire her mother was tending. It was another school day, but for Amani, mornings always began with something bigger than breakfast — they began with dreams.
She was small for her age, with skin the deep, rich shade of midnight. Her hair was tightly coiled, her smile wide and warm. But in a world where beauty was often measured by fairness of skin and the weight of one’s pockets, Amani had learned early that not everyone saw her light.
At school, children sometimes whispered behind her back. “Too dark,” some teased. Others pointed at her faded dress and worn-out shoes. Their words stung, but she never let them see her cry. She saved her tears for the quiet moments at night, lying on her mat, staring at the shadows dancing on the wall.
There was one person, however, who always reminded Amani of her worth — her grandmother, Mama Zawadi. She was the oldest woman in the village, her hair silver like moonlight, her voice rich and steady. Mama Zawadi had a way of making Amani feel like she belonged to something far greater than the world around her.
“Black child,” Mama Zawadi would say, cupping Amani’s face in her weathered hands, “you are carved from the night sky itself. Do you know what that means?”
Amani would shake her head, eager for the answer.
“It means,” Mama Zawadi would whisper, “you carry the stars within you. When people look at you, they should see galaxies — endless, beautiful, and full of promise.”
Those words became Amani’s shield. Whenever she felt small, she would remember that she was the night sky, and her dreams were stars.
One afternoon at school, the headteacher announced a public speaking competition to be held in the village square. Every pupil was invited to speak on a topic of their choice. The winner would receive a stack of new exercise books and a fountain pen — luxuries in Kivuli.
When Amani heard this, her heart pounded. She loved stories, loved the way words could paint pictures and change how people saw the world. But she was also the youngest in her class, and she could already hear the mocking voices in her head: Who will listen to you? You, with your old dress and dusty shoes?
That evening, she went to her grandmother. “Mama Zawadi,” she began, “I want to join the competition, but… what if they laugh?”
Her grandmother smiled knowingly. “Then you let them laugh,” she said. “You see, laughter is only noise. Stars shine whether or not anyone claps for them. If you believe in what you say, your words will plant seeds in hearts — seeds that will grow even in silence.”
For the next two weeks, Amani prepared. After school, she would sit under the old mango tree and practice speaking to the wind. Her topic was simple yet bold: ‘The Worth of a Child’. She spoke about how every child — whether dressed in silk or rags, whether their skin was pale as dawn or dark as midnight — carried greatness within them.
On the morning of the competition, the village square buzzed with excitement. Parents, elders, and children gathered, forming a wide circle around the small wooden stage. Contestants stood in a row, each waiting for their turn.
When Amani’s name was called, she felt her knees tremble. She climbed the stage, the boards creaking under her feet. The faces in the crowd blurred for a moment, but then she spotted her grandmother in the front row, her silver hair catching the sunlight. Mama Zawadi nodded once, slowly, as if to say, Shine, my child.
Amani took a deep breath and began.
“I stand before you as a black child,” she said, her voice steady. “I stand before you as a child whose worth cannot be measured by the clothes she wears, the shade of her skin, or the size of her home. I stand before you carrying the dreams of my mother, the wisdom of my grandmother, and the hope of every child who has ever been told they are not enough.”
The murmurs faded. Even the little ones stopped fidgeting.
“We are more than the names they call us,” Amani continued. “We are more than the limits others place on us. We are the future builders, the dream carriers, the light-bringers. If you look at us closely — truly see us — you will find stars.”
She paused, letting the words settle over the crowd. “So, to every child here — black, brown, or any color the Creator painted you — know this: you are enough. You are more than enough.”
When she finished, the silence hung for a heartbeat, then broke into applause that rolled through the square like a wave. Her grandmother’s eyes shone with pride, and Amani felt warmth spread through her chest.
The headteacher stepped forward and handed her the prize — the stack of exercise books and the fountain pen. But to Amani, the real prize was the way the villagers now looked at her. It wasn’t with pity or mockery. It was with respect.
That night, Amani and her grandmother sat outside under the vast African sky. The stars glittered like scattered diamonds.
“You see them?” Mama Zawadi asked, pointing upward.
“Yes,” Amani said softly.
“They shine for you,” her grandmother whispered. “Every one of them.”
Amani leaned against her grandmother’s shoulder. “Mama Zawadi?”
“Yes, child?”
“Do you think one day I can shine like that for others?”
Her grandmother smiled. “You already do.”
From that night on, Amani carried herself differently. She no longer lowered her gaze when teased. She walked as if she had a crown no one could take away — a crown of stars. And though she would face more challenges as she grew, she knew that she was, and would always be, more than enough.
For she was a black child — carved from the night sky, with galaxies in her soul.
