Monkeys and Malaria

This edition features samples of my students' work. For this assignment, they each wrote a narrative story of something unique that happened to them in their childhood. Enjoy!

Sweet Revenge

By Katelyn Jackson

Since I grew up in Cameroon, Africa, my family has owned many interesting pets. One of the amazing animals we owned was a putty-nose monkey, and this is her story.

Three weeks of having cute Vicky was enough to know her real personality. She stole chairs, during school she would steal our pencils and erasers and throw them at us and it was always a hassle trying to get her in the cage. When I was little I had the loving nature of torturing animals (to show them who’s the boss). I would lock our cat in a box or tie a rope and to the cat’s neck and take it for a walk (drag it across the hall and back). It was fun and satisfying.

One lovely afternoon, I decided to see what would happen if I swung the monkey by its tail. I knew that Vicky bit, but she had never bitten me before, so I was safe. I picked up the monkey its tail while it was fast asleep, then I yanked it to the middle of the living room so I wouldn’t hit the monkey against something. I went around and around, and soon enough I got dizzy, so I slowed down and let the monkey go. The monkey flew into a chair.

When I finally figured out that I was on solid ground I looked to see where Vicky was: I thought it was fun and I wanted to try again! However, when I saw Vicky angry face I could see that I would have to wait till she fell asleep again. I ran in the hallway to watch for her eyes to close, but Karissa came out and saw that Vicky was walking funny. Vicky didn’t care who she attacked she wanted revenge! Vicky attacked and bit Karissa on her right arm. I was too overwhelmed by my selfish thoughts that I didn’t even bother helping my older sister, who was now on the ground in agony. “Better her than me,” I thought. I chuckled a little, I felt good. However, after my joy warred off, senses came to my head and I went to go get Mom and Dad. “Lets get this monkey out of here!” dad yelled. Unfortunately, before we could, Vicky decided that we were boring and went exploring in the market. We soon found out that someone in the village ate her for dinner.

God the True Healer

By Lum Ngwa

Have you ever been in a situation where you almost die or everyone at least thinks you’re going to die? This story is about the time I almost died of malaria. The story I’m about to tell you is mainly about my mom and me, but my father, godmother and friends will also be introduced.

One day, when I was just six years old playing around in the yard, I suddenly started feeling severe headaches and felt weak as well. I went inside and laid down. When my mom, walked in, she didn’t even have to ask what was wrong. When she felt my forehead, she knew something was wrong and when I started throwing up, something was definitely wrong. My mom was scared. I wouldn’t eat anything or drink anything, so she bathed me with cold water, put some light clothes on me and rushed me to the nearest hospital. After being there for a few days, they said they didn’t know what to do, so my mom took me to a different hospital much further away but better. There I got lab tests and I didn’t even cry because I was so weak. After getting tests, they took me to a ward and put me on an IV. That day I got twelve IVs total and I still didn’t show any signs of getting better. The ward was full of nauseating smells and rows of beds. They kept giving me shots, pills and IVs, but I still didn’t get any better. The doctor said, “Constance we don’t know how to help your daughter.”

“But doctor,” my mom replied, “She could die. You need to find a ways to help her, please.”

“I’m sorry. You need to take her to Mbingo: maybe there you can get better help.” So my mom took me to a different hospital even further away, and much better than the last. There I got agonizing shots and that time I cried and kicked and fought and screamed. My mom cried uncontrollably just watching how much pain I was in. The doctors were sure I wouldn’t live and all they could do after the shots was to give me IVs and wait.

The doctors and nurses had to stay alert just in case something happened and they had to do things fast. Part of this included checking on me constantly to make sure I wasn’t dehydrated from throwing up. I had them watching me twenty-four hours straight. My mom was giving up hope and was running out of money. She called my godmother Caro, (who was in Switzerland at the time) to let her know that I was very sick and that it seemed like I wasn’t going to make it. So many people were scared. Many people were praying. At the moment, that is all they could do.

My father, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. He checked on us a few times, but that was it. He didn’t even want to help pay for the medicine and lab tests. People were upset with him, but he paid no heed to their pleas for help. My mom persevered and didn’t give up hope. She was always by my side making sure I didn’t wake up and panic. The second day in the hospital, the doctors thought I was doing better, but when I woke up I couldn’t even say a word I was so weak, and my fever had risen high again. There were more IVs, medicine and prayers.

After a few weeks, the doctors saw a little improvement. They said they weren’t entirely sure, but it was more likely now that I would have a chance in living. About a week later, I could say full sentences without help, I could lift up my hands and smile. My mom, family and friends were all rejoicing and praising the Lord: it was a miracle! My mom cooked me some chicken once I had a little appetite. All the nurses and doctors were relieved and finally got to sleep without having to worry too much about me. My mom cried, but this time with tears of joy.

This miraculous healing couldn’t have just happened because of good doctors and medicine: God was present all along. He is the true healer.