Seven years old girl saved president ibrahim traoré from an Ev1l cook who was sent to k1ll him

President Ibrahim Traoré woke up very early that morning and decided to dress like an ordinary man and walk alone on the streets of Bob Yulaso. He wanted to see how people were living. No guards. No sirens. No cameras. Just him, walking with a small bag in his hand.

As he walked past shops and corners, he saw poor children playing with empty cans, women sitting by the roadside, and old men begging. His heart was heavy. He wanted to help everyone, but he knew he couldn’t do it all in one day.

As he turned into a quiet street, he heard a soft voice.

“Mister, please… I’m hungry.”

He stopped and looked around. Sitting by the corner of the road was a little girl. She looked about seven years old. Her clothes were torn and dirty. Her face and feet were covered with dust. She looked weak and tired.

People were walking past her like she didn’t exist. Some looked at her with disgust. One woman even said, “Dirty child, go away.”

President Ibrahim didn’t pass by. He stopped and walked toward her. The girl got scared and tried to crawl away, but he said gently, “Don’t be afraid. Come.”

She looked at him, confused.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Divine,” she replied quietly.

He sat beside her and opened his small bag. He brought out a wrapped sandwich and gave it to her.

“Eat.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re giving me food?”

“Yes,” he said.

She took it with both hands and started eating fast. She hadn’t eaten in two days. She sat on the ground and ate every bite like it was her last meal. When she finished, she looked up at him and smiled.

“Thank you, sir.”

He nodded and reached into his pocket again. He gave her 2,000 CFA francs.

“Buy water and some food for tomorrow.”

She looked at the money and began to cry.

“No one has ever helped me like this.”

He patted her head and stood up.

“Take care of yourself. Stay strong.”

She hugged his leg and said, “You are a good man.”

He smiled and walked away. She sat there and stared at him as he disappeared down the street.

Back at the State House, his guards were worried.

“Sir, where did you go? This is dangerous.”

“I needed to see something,” he said calmly. “Don’t worry.”

That night, Divine used the money to buy bread and a bottle of water. She slept peacefully under a wooden table at the market. Before she closed her eyes, she said, “God bless that man.”

She had no idea who he was. And he had no idea she would soon save his life.

Days passed. President Ibrahim Traoré returned to his normal duties—meetings, speeches, planning, and late nights became routine again. But unknown to him, not everyone in his circle was loyal. Some men inside the palace were planning something evil. They pretended to support him, but behind his back, they wanted to remove him from power.

One of them was a kitchen officer. Another was a high-ranking official in the security team. They were working with foreign enemies and greedy businessmen who didn’t like the president’s policies. They said he was too focused on helping the poor. They hated how he cut off foreign control and started building Burkina Faso for the people. They wanted him gone.

The plan was simple—poison his evening tea during his regular garden walk. The kitchen staff had already agreed. The officer in charge of guarding the garden was part of the plot. Everything was set. They picked Thursday evening to strike. They believed no one would know. No one would suspect.

But someone heard them—Divine.

The little girl from the street had started selling water around the presidential area. She didn’t know who the man who fed her truly was, but she wanted to work hard and be strong like him. Every morning and evening, she carried a small bucket and sold cold water and sachets.

Two days had passed, but President Ibrahim Traoré could not stop thinking about her—that little girl, Divine. She was still in the streets, still poor, still selling water, still sleeping outside. He had left her alone because she said she was on a mission. But something inside his heart wouldn’t let him rest.

How can a child so small carry such a burden?

That morning, he sat at his breakfast table and pushed his plate away. He wasn’t hungry. His heart was heavy. He stood up and told his driver, “Take me back to where I met Divine.”

“No guards, sir?” the driver asked.

“No guards,” the president replied. “Just me.”

When they got to the street, he came down quickly and walked straight to the spot where she usually sat. And there she was again—sitting under the tree barefoot, holding her small plastic bucket with sachets of water. She looked up and saw him coming. This time, he walked with confidence—not like a stranger, but like someone with something to say.

He reached her and stopped.

“Hello again,” he said gently.

She looked up and stood slowly.

“You came back.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “But this time, not just to thank you.”

She looked confused.

“I didn’t tell you the truth the first time we met,” he said. “But I think you deserve to know. I am the president of Burkina Faso.”

Divine’s eyes widened in shock.

“You?”

He nodded. “Yes. I didn’t want you to treat me differently. But now I must be honest.”

She looked at the ground quietly.

He sat beside her on a wooden bench and looked into her face.

“Where are your parents?” he asked softly.

She answered without looking up. “My mother died last year. I never knew my father. Since then, I’ve been alone.”

He felt something heavy in his chest. A child alone in the world.

“I want you to come with me,” he said. “Come to my house. Let me help you. I’ll put you in school. You’ll have a bed, food, a new life. No more street. No more suffering.”

Divine looked at him, tears in her eyes.

“You’re kind,” she said. “But I can’t go with you.”

He frowned gently. “Why?”

“I’m not here for comfort. I’m here for a mission. Someone’s life is in danger. I was sent to save them. That’s why I’m still on the street.”

“Who are you sent to save?”

“I don’t know yet,” she replied. “But I will know when the time is right.”

President Ibrahim was quiet. He didn’t know what to say. She was young, but she spoke with wisdom. A deep kind of wisdom.

“I still want to help you,” he said. “If you change your mind, the door’s always open.”

She nodded. He stood up to leave. As he turned to go, she said:

“Thank you for seeing me even when I was dirty. That’s why I’ll never ignore the voice that told me to protect you.”

He stopped and looked back at her.

“What voice?”

She didn’t answer. She just gave him a small smile.

That same afternoon, the palace kitchen was busy. One of the staff, Paul—a senior kitchen officer—was alone near the storage room. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white packet. His hands shook as he looked around. Then he quietly dropped the packet into a jar of powdered tea.

No one saw him.

Or so he thought…

Far away, Divine sat under her tree, resting her head on her knees. Suddenly, her eyes opened wide. She sat up straight. Her body shook. Her chest became tight.

She saw something—not with her eyes, but with her spirit.

In a vision, she saw a table inside a palace kitchen. She saw a man holding a small packet. He poured something into a jar. Then she saw President Ibrahim sitting under a tree, drinking tea. Slowly, he fell to the ground. His cup rolled away.

Then a voice came, strong and clear:

“The cup has been touched. Warn him before the sun goes down.”

Divine jumped up. She didn’t wait. She didn’t think. She picked her small bucket and ran. She knew where to go. This time, she wouldn’t wait for him to come to her.

At the palace gate, a guard stopped her.

“You can’t enter here,” one of them said.

“I must see the president now,” she said, breathing heavily.

“Who are you?”

“Tell him Divine is here. He’ll understand.”

They laughed. “Child, go away.”

“Please,” she begged. “It’s urgent.”

Just then, the president’s assistant walked by and recognized her from the day before.

“Let her in,” he said.

Within minutes, Divine was standing before President Ibrahim inside his private office. She looked serious. Her voice was steady.

“They want to poison your tea.”

He stood slowly, shocked. “What?”

“I saw it—not with my eyes, but in my spirit. One of your kitchen officers has added something to the tea. If you drink it this evening, you will be… unalived.”

The room went silent. He sat down slowly, breathing heavily.

“How do you know this?”

“I saw it just now. I was told to come quickly.”

He picked up the phone. “Call the security chief now—and bring the tea jar from the kitchen.”

Within 30 minutes, the tea powder was tested in the lab. It was poisoned.

The kitchen officer was called in. He tried to lie, but the evidence was clear. Under pressure, he confessed.

“I was paid to do it,” he said. “They said they would take care of my family if I did it. I thought it would be easy.”

“Who paid you?” the president asked.

He mentioned names—another palace worker, a foreign agent, and two high-ranking officials working against the government.

By midnight, four people had been arrested.

The news didn’t reach the public. It was handled quietly. But the truth was clear: Divine had saved the president’s life.

Somewhere in the palace, Divine had been given food, new clothes, and a warm bed to sleep in. But she said one thing before lying down:

“I’m only resting. I’m not staying. My mission is not yet complete.”

And she meant it.

It had been three days since the poison plot was uncovered. The atmosphere inside the presidential palace had changed. The staff worked quietly. Security was tighter. Many faces were no longer seen in the kitchen or garden. The cook who tried to poison President Ibrahim Traoré was now in prison.

But there was one more person still inside the palace who hadn’t left—his wife.

Her name was Gift. She worked in the palace as a cleaner. She had been there long before her husband joined the kitchen team. Many people didn’t know they were married.

When her husband was arrested, she cried and begged. She wasn’t arrested, but everyone watched her closely.

One afternoon, she gathered the courage to go to the president’s office. She fell on her knees and began to beg.

“Please, sir. My husband made a mistake. I swear I didn’t know. He was under pressure. I beg you, in the name of God, show mercy.”

President Ibrahim looked at her calmly.

“I am not God,” he replied. “And this is not a matter of begging. Your husband tried to take my life. That is not a mistake. That is evil.”

She wept bitterly.

“I still allowed you to remain here,” he added. “Because of your age. Because of your parents who depend on your salary. If not for them, you would have been sent away too.”

She said nothing else. She stood up and left the office with tears in her eyes. But in her heart, something was growing—anger.

The next day, she cleaned the hallway near the president’s private quarters. When he walked past, she smiled and greeted politely. He responded and continued walking.

Later that evening, she went to his office with a tray, pretending to bring water. The guards let her in because she was staff.

When she entered, she placed the tray on the table and stood there, looking at him in a strange way. The president noticed.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

She stepped closer.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said slowly.

“For what?” he asked, confused.

“For being kind,” she said with a small smile. “For allowing me to stay. Most men wouldn’t be this gentle.”

He stood up straight.

“Gift,” he said. “Say what you came to say.”

She took another step closer and lowered her voice.

“Sir, I can make you happy. I know you carry so much stress. I can ease your burden.”

Before she could finish, he raised his voice.

“Stop.”

She froze.

He walked around the desk and faced her.

“Let me tell you something clearly,” he said, firm and angry. “I am not a man who can be caught with this… rubbish.”

She stepped back, shocked.

“You are lucky I allowed you to stay in this palace,” he continued. “I did it for the sake of your old parents. Now you come here and speak nonsense? Don’t ever try this again,” he warned. “If you do, I will send you to join your husband in prison. Do you understand?”

She nodded slowly, her face burning with shame.

“Get out,” he said.

She walked out quickly, humiliated. But as she stepped outside the office, she clenched her teeth.

“All these people with power,” she muttered. “Who does he think he is?”

That night, she sat alone in her room. She didn’t cry. She didn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling and whispered to herself:

“I will deal with him. One day, I will bring him down. Let’s see how powerful he really is.”

Gift didn’t speak to anyone the next day. She moved from one end of the palace to another with a broom in her hand, but her heart was boiling with anger. No one knew what was going through her mind—not the guards, not the other cleaners. She smiled when needed, greeted when expected, but deep inside, she was planning something terrible.

She felt insulted. Humiliated. Rejected.

She thought, “Who is President Ibrahim Traoré? Is he better than others? He walks around like a saint. He acts like he’s too holy to touch. But I will show him. He embarrassed me. He shamed me. I will disgrace him too.”

That night, she wrote down names in a small notebook—people in the palace who didn’t like the president, workers who had lost positions, officials who were angry because they were no longer getting bribes.

Gift began to meet them one by one in secret, pretending to check on them but dropping small comments like:

“The president has too much pride. He doesn’t know we are the ones who make this palace run. If he falls, we all rise.”

Some agreed with her. Others stayed silent. But Gift didn’t stop. She was slowly gathering bitter hearts and weak minds. She knew she couldn’t attack the president with her hands—but she could use people.

Meanwhile, Divine was in her small room not far from the president’s private quarters. The staff who had been trusted by the president took care of her, fed her, and respected her. They called her “The Little Prophet.” But Divine did not feel special.

She still woke up at 4:00 a.m. every day to pray. She would sit quietly with her eyes closed, listening—not to voices, but to the silence in her heart.

That morning, her spirit was heavy. She sat on the floor, held her knees, and whispered:

“Something is coming again.”

She felt it clearly—like a dark cloud trying to hide itself.

Later that evening, she walked to the president’s private office. One of the guards allowed her in without question.

President Ibrahim Traoré was reading documents when she entered.

“Divine,” he said, smiling. “I was just thinking about you.”

She didn’t smile back. She stood quietly for a moment, then said:

“Sir, there is danger again.”

He sat up. “Someone close to you is planning something bad. She feels insulted. She is full of anger. She wants revenge. But she is not working alone.”

“Who?” the president asked.

Divine closed her eyes. “She works in this house. She sweeps floors. But her heart is full of fire.”

President Ibrahim Traoré was silent for a moment.

“Gift,” he said slowly.

Divine opened her eyes and nodded.

“She tried to pull you down with words. When you refused her, she changed her plan. Now she wants to use people.”

The president stood up and walked to the window. He remembered what happened just two nights ago—how Gift tried to seduce him, and he rejected her. Now it all made sense.

“She is recruiting bitter people,” Divine continued. “People who already don’t like you. They’re talking in secret. You must act before the seed grows.”

President Ibrahim nodded. “I believe you.”

He turned to one of his most trusted guards and said quietly:

“Find Gift. Bring her to me.”

Within minutes, she was standing in front of him. Her hands were shaking.

“Gift,” he said. “Do you remember what I told you last time?”

She nodded.

“I told you not to try anything foolish again. But you didn’t listen.”

She dropped to her knees. “Sir, I didn’t—”

“Enough,” he said. “I have proof. You’ve been moving from room to room, talking to people, spreading poison. You’re trying to turn my house into a trap.”

She began to cry.

“I’ll ask you one question,” the president said. “Who are you working with?”

She stayed silent.

“If you don’t talk now, you’ll talk in prison.”

That night, Gift confessed. She gave names. Five others were arrested quietly. They were planning to leak false information to foreign journalists—to create fake news that would damage the president’s image. Their hope was to make the people rise against him. The plan was still young, but it was already burning.

But because of Divine’s warning, it was stopped before it began.

Later that night, President Ibrahim sat with Divine again.

“You’ve saved me twice now,” he said softly.

Divine looked at him and replied:

“It’s not me. It’s the Spirit that sees what eyes cannot see.”

He nodded. “Still, I thank you. You are a gift to this country.”

She looked at him calmly. “I was sent to protect one life. I don’t know if my work is done yet.”

He smiled. “Well, as long as you’re here, I’m safe.”

But Divine looked away and whispered:

“Maybe for now.”

The palace was quieter now. The staff moved with extra care. After the recent arrests, nobody wanted to be suspected of anything. The air felt heavy with fear and watchfulness. Everyone knew that if a little girl could uncover two serious plots, then nobody was truly safe if they had evil plans in their heart.

But inside President Ibrahim Traoré’s private quarters, peace was beginning to return. The president was grateful. He ate well again. He smiled more. He worked with fresh energy.

Every morning, he made sure to check on Divine—sometimes with a gift, sometimes just to hear if she had seen anything again. He never forced her to speak, but he always listened.

Divine, on the other hand, was not relaxed. Yes, the poison plot was stopped. Yes, Gift’s revenge plan was uncovered. But inside her, something didn’t feel settled. Her mission wasn’t finished. She could feel it deep in her spirit, a gentle unrest that kept her awake at night.

One evening, as she sat by the window of her room, she began to cry quietly. Not because of fear. Not because of hunger. She cried because the burden in her heart was growing. She whispered:

“Lord, what else must I do?”

Suddenly, she heard clearly in her spirit:

“It is not about saving one man. It is about saving a nation.”

She froze.

Then the voice repeated:

“Burkina Faso is the mission.”

Her tears stopped. She sat still for a long time. This wasn’t just about President Ibrahim. There were children like her still begging on the streets. There were innocent workers being used as tools. There were leaders pretending to serve the people while stealing in secret. There were foreign hands pulling strings from the shadows.

And somehow… she was sent to light a fire that would expose all of it.

The next morning, Divine woke up early and requested to see the president. President Ibrahim welcomed her warmly.

“You look serious,” he said.

“I need to speak to you privately,” she replied.

He sent his guards away and sat down.

“I’ve come to understand something,” she began. “My mission is not just to protect your life. It’s bigger than that.”

He leaned forward. “Go on.”

“You are the leader. But many things around you are broken. There are hidden evils in your system. Some wear suits. Some wear uniforms. They smile during the day but meet at night to destroy everything you are building.”

The president’s face hardened.

“I know.”

“They are the reason the poor remain poor. They are the reason villages still drink dirty water. They are the reason the young have no jobs. You are trying to fight it. But they are many.”

President Ibrahim nodded slowly.

“Then what do I do?” he asked. “I can’t arrest everyone. I can’t trust everyone either.”

“You don’t need to trust everybody,” Divine said. “But you need to listen. You need to open your ears and your heart—not just to reports and files, but to the cries of the common people.”

He looked at her deeply.

“You need to visit the poor again. Not with cameras. Not with a convoy. Just you, walking through the dust. The same way you met me.”

He smiled faintly.

“You need to remember what their eyes looked like,” she said. “If you forget the people, you’ll become like those you’re fighting.”

The room fell silent. President Ibrahim stood and walked to the window. He watched the flag of Burkina Faso waving outside. He thought about his childhood, his dreams, his purpose. Then he turned to her.

“You’re right.”

“I’m only speaking what was given to me,” she replied.

That same day, the president canceled all public appearances. He wore plain clothes and quietly left the palace with only one guard. He visited an old village—Suru—where young children were still using bare feet to walk two hours to school. Where a sick woman had no access to medicine. Where men built their homes with mud—not because of tradition, but because cement was too expensive.

He listened. He asked questions. He sat on a mat and ate roasted yam with locals.

When he returned to the palace that night, he didn’t speak to anyone. He went straight to his room—and cried. He had forgotten how much pain was still outside his gates.

That night, he called a new emergency meeting. He told his cabinet:

“From today, we are returning to the people. Every ministry must cut its spending by half and invest in local development. No more luxury trips. No more empty speeches. We’re building roads, clinics, schools, and clean water—village by village. Let the people feel our presence… or we don’t deserve to lead.”

Some ministers were shocked. Others were angry. But they dared not speak against him—because they now knew Divine was still in the palace.

And she wasn’t guessing.

She was hearing. She was seeing.

And anything hidden… would be exposed.

Days turned to weeks, and peace slowly returned to the presidential palace. The president had started acting on Divine’s advice—visiting villages quietly, reducing government waste, investing in schools and hospitals, and speaking directly with ordinary citizens.

People began to talk. They saw the change. They felt the difference.

Burkina Faso was healing.

But in the middle of all the progress, Divine became quieter. She spent more time in her room, praying and watching. She no longer rushed to warn the president. She no longer spoke unless spoken to.

Something had changed in her.

One morning, just as the sun began to rise, she knocked on the president’s door. He opened it quickly, smiling.

“Divine. Good morning.”

She didn’t return the smile. Her eyes were calm. Serious.

“My mission here is over… for now.”

His smile faded. “What do you mean?”

“I was sent to protect you from what was coming. And I have done it,” she said.

He stood in silence.

“But I must leave now. And if more danger comes, my Maker will send another. Someone else will rise to help you.”

The president’s voice was soft. “But… can’t you stay?”

She shook her head.

“I go where I am sent. That’s the way it works.”

She turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“Be careful, sir. Not everybody that smiles with you, eats with you, or drinks with you is your friend.”

Those words hit him deeply. He stepped closer.

“Thank you, Divine. I will never forget you.”

She nodded once.

“You were kind to me when I was nothing. That kindness saved your life. Never stop being kind.”

And with that, she stepped out into the hallway.

A guard passed by a minute later.

“Where’s the little girl?” the president asked.

The guard looked confused. “Sir… I didn’t see her leave.”

They searched the kitchen, the prayer room, the courtyard. But Divine was gone.

Just like the day she first arrived—gone without a sound. Gone without a trace.

But her presence remained.

And the president never forgot her words: Not everyone who smiles at you is your friend.

From that day forward, he ruled with wisdom… with caution… and with deep love for his country. And whenever things got too hard, he looked up to the sky and whispered:

“Thank you for sending her.”

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