The Deadly Letter of the African Boy. Atokhon Ghaniev

      Chapter 1: "A Day Like Any Other"

      The first rays of the sun barely touched the horizon when N’golo, already awake, quietly slipped out from under the torn blanket that served as his bed. He moved carefully so as not to wake his younger siblings. His sister, Amara, and his little brother, Kofi, were still sound asleep, their faces peaceful, unaware of the struggles the new day would bring.

      N’golo stepped outside, feeling the cool morning air against his skin. The dry earth crunched under his bare feet as he made his way toward the nearby well. His daily routine began early—before the village stirred, before the relentless heat of the sun took over the sky. Water was the first task of the day.

      The well, like everything else in the village, seemed to echo the weariness of life. Its wooden frame was worn down, just like the people who used it. N’golo filled the battered container, watching the ripples of water dance in the dim light. His thoughts wandered as he pulled the bucket up. Another day had begun, just like every other.

      Returning home, he poured the water into a clay pot and checked on his mother. She lay on a thin mat in the corner of their small house, coughing weakly. Her illness had worsened, and the thin broth they could afford did little to nourish her. Every time N’golo looked at her, his heart sank a little more. Her once bright eyes, full of life and energy, now reflected only fatigue and sorrow.

      "Amara, Kofi, wake up," N’golo whispered, nudging his siblings gently. Their sleepy eyes blinked open, but there was no time for a slow start to the day. They needed to help gather what little food they could find.

      The children set off, heading toward the fields where they could sometimes find fruit or scavenge what was left after the harvest. The land was unforgiving. Drought had turned once fertile soil into dust. But this was their life—searching, hoping, and working tirelessly for the smallest chance to eat.

      N’golo, being the eldest, felt the weight of responsibility. At thirteen, he had already learned too much about hardship. His father had died when N’golo was just a boy, and since then, the burden of caring for his family had fallen squarely on his young shoulders. There was no time for childhood dreams. Each day was a battle to survive.

      The village market was another destination. Here, N’golo sometimes found work—carrying bags, tending to small tasks for vendors, or helping older villagers with errands. The pay was meager, but every coin counted. It wasn’t enough to fill their stomachs, but it kept them going.

      As the sun climbed higher, the heat became unbearable. Sweat dripped down N’golo’s face, but he pressed on, determined to make the most of the day. Today, like every other, was a day for survival.

      In the midst of his toil, N’golo’s thoughts often drifted to something larger, something beyond the dusty paths of his village. He remembered the stories told by the older villagers, stories of places where food was abundant, where people didn’t wake up hungry. He wondered what those places were like. He wondered if people there ever thought about children like him and his siblings, scraping by each day.

      But such thoughts were fleeting. Reality was relentless, and N’golo knew that dreaming of a better life wouldn’t put food on the table. It wouldn’t heal his mother, and it wouldn’t ease the pain in his heart. So he kept working, kept pushing through the exhaustion, because what else could he do?

      By evening, N’golo and his siblings returned home, their hands carrying whatever small bits of food they had managed to gather. It wasn’t much—some overripe fruit, a handful of grains—but it would have to do. They shared their modest meal in silence, the weight of the day pressing down on them.

      As the night settled in, N’golo lay down beside his family. The stars shone brightly above, indifferent to the struggles of those below. He closed his eyes, knowing that tomorrow would be another day, just like this one.

      But deep inside, a small spark remained. A spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, something could change. Something could shift, even if he didn’t know how or when.

      Tomorrow, he would wake up before the sun again. Tomorrow, he would work as hard as he had today. But for now, in the quiet of the night, he allowed himself a moment to dream.

      Chapter 2: "A World of Gold"

      Far across the ocean, in a world completely different from N’golo’s, life glittered with extravagance. Here, in a grand mansion surrounded by lush, manicured gardens, lived Mr. Albert g— a man who knew no hunger, no want. His wealth was legendary, passed down through generations, and now he reveled in it, expanding it with the sharp mind of a businessman and the ruthlessness of a predator.

      This morning, like every morning, Mr. Albert awoke in his vast bedroom, the walls adorned with paintings worth more than entire villages. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the room with a soft, golden glow. A servant was already waiting at his bedside, offering a silver tray with freshly brewed coffee and delicate pastries. The smell filled the air, but to Mr. Albert, it was nothing special. It was simply routine.

      He rose lazily from his bed, stretching as his feet sank into the plush carpet beneath him. His eyes glanced over the various items in the room—expensive sculptures, rare antiques, and a collection of books that he had never read. Everything around him screamed opulence, yet Mr. Albert hardly noticed. It was the life he had always known, a life where abundance was the norm.

      After his leisurely breakfast, he strolled through the corridors of his mansion, each step echoing in the vast, empty space. He passed by rooms that were rarely used—ballrooms, dining halls, and lounges, each one more grand than the last. Outside, the fountain in the courtyard sparkled under the sun, its crystal-clear water flowing endlessly, a symbol of the wealth that seemed as eternal as the mansion itself.

      Mr. Albert’s thoughts, as always, were consumed by numbers. Investments, stocks, profits. His mind constantly raced with ideas of how to expand his empire, how to turn millions into billions. The world was a marketplace, and he knew exactly how to exploit it. He had no time for compassion, no patience for the weak. Life was a game, and he played it to win.

      Today, he had a meeting with his financial advisors. They gathered in his private study, a room lined with dark wood and leather-bound books that gave off an air of old-world sophistication. Mr. Albert listened as they presented their reports—stocks had risen, real estate investments were flourishing, and a new acquisition promised even greater returns.

      "Good," he said, his voice smooth and calculated. "Make sure we close that deal by the end of the week. I want no delays."

      His advisors nodded obediently. No one questioned Mr. Albert. His word was final, his decisions unchallenged. He had built his empire on the belief that wealth was the ultimate measure of success, and nothing would stand in his way.

      As the meeting concluded, Mr. Albert leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the day’s progress. Everything was under control. The world outside his golden bubble seemed distant and irrelevant. He had no need to think about the struggles of others. Hunger, poverty, and suffering were abstract concepts, things he occasionally heard about but never truly understood. In his world, there was no room for weakness. Only power and wealth mattered.

      Later that evening, Mr. Albert hosted a lavish dinner party for his wealthy friends and business associates. The dining hall sparkled with chandeliers, their light reflecting off the finest crystal and silverware. The table was laden