The Boy Who Never Threw Anything Away

Chapter One

“You’ll never stop bringing rubbish into this house, will you?”

My mother stood at the doorway with both hands on her waist, staring at the pile of cardboard boxes I had dragged into the sitting room. There were cereal cartons, old shoe boxes, pieces of plywood someone had thrown away, a broken standing fan, and enough bottle caps to fill a small bowl.

I looked up at her and smiled.

“They’re not rubbish.”

She sighed.

“They’re not?”

I shook my head.

“No, Mama.”

She looked around the room again.

“Then what are they?”

I honestly didn’t know.

Not yet.

But I knew they were going to become something.

That was enough for me.

She laughed the way mothers do when they have given up trying to understand their children.

“Just make sure you clean this place before your father comes back.”

“I will.”

She walked away, still shaking her head.

I waited until I heard her footsteps disappear into the kitchen before picking up one of the cartons.

To everyone else, it was just a box.

To me, it was the body of a truck.

The bottle caps became wheels.

The broomstick behind the kitchen became an axle after I secretly borrowed a small piece from the broken end.

Old wires became decorations.

Within an hour, I had built something that looked nothing like the picture inside my head, but somehow I still loved it.

I pushed it across the floor with a grin so wide my cheeks hurt.

The front wheels fell off.

I stopped.

Picked them up.

Fixed them.

Pushed it again.

This time, the entire body collapsed.

I sat there staring at it.

Anyone else would probably have thrown it away.

Instead, I started smiling.

Now I knew why it failed.

That meant I could build it better.

…

Children in my neighbourhood spent most evenings chasing footballs across the dusty field at the end of our street.

I joined them sometimes.

it wasn’t really football that fascinated me, my friends did.

After every match, while everyone argued over who had scored the best goal, I found myself staring at things most people ignored.

An abandoned bicycle.

A broken radio.

A cracked plastic chair.

A television someone had left outside because it no longer worked.

I always wondered the same thing.

Can it be fixed?

That question followed me everywhere.

When an electric bulb stopped working, I wanted to know why.

When a toy broke, I wanted to open it.

When a neighbour complained about a fan that refused to spin, I wanted permission to see its inside.

Adults thought I was merely curious.

They had no idea curiosity was becoming a habit.

One Saturday afternoon, I disappeared without telling anyone.

oh, I wasn’t stubborn.

it was 'cause I had found treasure.

Behind an old mechanic’s workshop was a heap of discarded machines. Rusty bolts, broken switches, cracked speakers, tiny electric motors, wires of different colours, and pieces of metal were scattered everywhere.

It looked like a dumping ground.

To me, it looked like a market.

I carefully filled a small sack with everything I thought might still be useful.

By the time I reached home, my shirt was covered in dust, my hands were black with grease, and the sack weighed almost as much as I did.

My mother opened the gate.

She looked at me.

Then at the sack.

Then back at me.

“Prince…”

Whenever she called my name that slowly, I already knew I was in trouble.

“What exactly is inside that bag?”

I smiled.

“Parts.”

She folded her arms.

“For what?”

I scratched my head.

“I don’t know yet.”

She laughed so hard she had to lean against the wall.

“Only you can carry a whole bag of broken things home without knowing what they’re for.”

I laughed too.

Because she was right.

I didn’t know.

Not yet.

That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I spread every single piece across the floor.

Some were useless.

Some were damaged beyond repair.

Some still worked.

I had no idea what I was building.

But somehow, I already believed one thing.

Every great invention must have started with someone looking at ordinary things and imagining something extraordinary.

I wasn’t trying to become an inventor.

I didn’t even know what that word truly meant.

I was just a little boy who couldn’t walk past broken things without wondering what they could become.

Years later, I would realize…

I wasn’t really collecting broken machines.

I was collecting pieces of the person I was slowly becoming.