Angel's POV.
After that dream…
I couldn't let it go.
It stayed with me—haunting my thoughts, slipping into every quiet moment, refusing to fade. No matter how hard I tried to focus on school, on chores, on anything else… my mind always found its way back to it.
Future Liberia.
I prayed about it.
Not just once.
Not just twice.
For weeks.
Every night before I slept, I whispered the same words, hoping—believing—that the dream meant something. That it wasn't just my imagination playing tricks on me.
Eventually… I couldn't keep it to myself anymore.
I needed someone to understand.
So I told my history teacher, Mr. Weah.
He was my favorite teacher.
Or… at least, he used to be.
I stood in front of his desk that day, my hands clasped tightly together, my heart beating fast as I explained everything—my dream, my vision, my desire to change Liberia.
For a moment, he just stared at me.
Then—
He laughed.
Not a small laugh.
Not a kind one.
A loud, mocking laugh that filled the classroom and made my chest tighten.
"Angel," he said, shaking his head, "you need to stop hallucinating."
The word hit me like a slap.
Hallucinating?
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Did you drink something before coming to school? Or maybe you've started smoking?" he added, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
The class chuckled.
My fingers curled into fists.
"I'm serious, sir," I said quietly, my voice barely steady.
But he didn't listen.
"Richardson," he continued, his voice louder now, "you should stop dreaming such nonsense. Females will never become president in Liberia again."
The room went silent for a second.
Then whispers started.
Laughter followed.
My ears rang.
My throat tightened.
How was that even possible?
How could someone tell me to stop dreaming?
Was I supposed to control my mind? My hopes? My vision?
Or was I just supposed to accept that everything would always stay the same?
A dull ache settled deep in my chest.
I felt… small.
But something inside me refused to break.
I wasn't the kind of person who backed down easily.
Still… his words stayed with me.
They followed me.
Echoing.
Relentless.
"Liberia is a hell on earth," he said one day in class, his voice cold and certain.
"It will never be a paradise."
"It will always have corrupt leaders."
"Liberia will never change."
Each sentence felt like a weight pressing down on me.
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to stand up and prove him wrong.
But I was only twelve.
What power did I have against a man twice—no, almost four times—my age?
So I stayed quiet.
Swallowing my words.
Swallowing my anger.
Because deep down, I knew…
It was useless to argue with someone who had already decided not to believe.
---
But it didn't end there.
Mr. Weah told others.
My classmates.
Other teachers.
Even people outside the school.
Soon, everyone knew.
And they didn't see me the same way anymore.
They laughed.
They whispered.
They pointed.
"The crazy dreamer," they called me.
One day, someone showed me my picture online.
My heart dropped.
There I was—my face, my name—posted for everyone to see.
"The crazy dreamer of Liberia's future."
The words blurred as tears filled my eyes.
Everywhere I went, it followed me.
On the streets.
At school.
Even in places where I used to feel safe.
People stared.
Some laughed openly.
Others shook their heads like I had lost my mind.
I felt exposed.
Broken.
Ashamed.
That dream… the one that once filled me with hope…
Now it felt like a curse.
I couldn't take it anymore.
The weight of it all pressed down on me until I could barely breathe.
So I made a decision.
If no one believed in me…
If the world had already decided who I was…
Then maybe it was time to let it go.
I wiped my tears, my chest tight, my heart heavy.
I would go see Sister Agnes.
One last time.
To say goodbye.