Lamine was eight years old and a cavity smile. He lived with his mother in a dusty neighborhood on the outskirts of Dakar.

His father had disappeared a while ago at sea, looking for fortune. Since then, his mother raised him alone, selling fruit under a steep awning.

Lamine walked five miles to school every day. She did it proudly, with her canvas backpack on her back and a notebook almost always dry, despite the rain. But her right shoe had a hole so big it could stick a toe out.

One day, while crossing the market, he saw a small workshop with an open door. Inside, between old tools and leather hanging from the walls, an old man with a white beard worked crooked.

— Mister? —Lamine asked, respectfully.

The man looked up. She was wearing thick glasses and a patchwork shirt.

– Yes, Little One ?

—Do you fix shoes?

The old man nodded, wiping his hands in the apron.

—That’s what I do. What are you bringing?

Lamine took off his right shoe and spread it shyly.

—This… it’s almost not a shoe anymore. But it’s the only one I have.

The man gently took it into his hands, as if it were a relic.

—It has a soul. And as long as something has soul, it can be saved.

Lamine looked at him, without completely understanding. The old man smiled and pointed to a wooden chair.

—Take a seat. Let’s give it a new life.

While working, the old man — who was called Amadou — spoke in a low voice, as if he were telling secrets to the leather. Lamine watched every move, mesmerized by the needle, the thread, the rhythm of the punches.

—How many shoes has he saved? —asked Lamine.

—Miles — Amadou replied, without stopping sewing—. Some were children who became teachers. More of moms who travel entire cities to feed their kids. And others, like this one, who still have a long way to go.

“I want to be a teacher,” said Lamine, almost in a whisper.

Amadou looked at him over the glasses.

—So this shoe has an important mission.

When he finished, he gently laid it on the ground.

—Try it.

Lamine put it on. It fit perfectly. Almost like new, but with intact memory.

-How much do I owe you? —he asked, nervous, pulling out three wrinkled coins.

Amadou denied his head.

—Nothing. But promise me something.

—What?

—That whenever you can, you also help someone in need. It doesn’t have to be with shoes. May be in words, with time… with heart.

Lamine winked, bright-eyed.

He left the workshop and walked back home, feeling the restored shoe like a treasure on his right foot. Didn’t run, didn’t jump. He walked slowly, as if each step had a new meaning.

Since that day, Lamine stopped by the workshop from time to time, just to say hello. Sometimes I wore broken notebooks that Amadou sewed with shoemaker thread. Sometimes they just sat and talked, in silence, as if the time didn’t matter.

Years later, at a new school across town, a young teacher hung in his classroom an old shoe with a small plaque underneath that read:

“This shoe taught me not to give up. And this man, to never stop believing. ”