"Growing up in Sudan"

I grew up in the back of beyond – South Sudan, Africa in the 1950's. No T.V. No radio. No books - except the King James version of the Bible.

Daytime activities included learning the oral history of seven African tribes who attended dad's school and playing with their children. Our toys? empty tin cans - kick the can - telephone (a string tied through a hole in two cans). Sardine cans made awesome boats when dad flooded the irrigation channels in mum's orchard. First Responders - rescuing ants and bugs from the waters in our 'boats' and getting them to dry land. But best of all, the native children taught us to make animals and people from the mud along the banks of the channels. We used acacia thorns for the Brahma bull’s horns and the men's spears. We built roads and villages and filled them with people, the men waging war on the next village and destroying.

Then in the evening, Dad entertained us with stories of his first years in Africa as a British pioneer missionary. He also told stories about the wild animals around us and created stories about children like us. One of his Christmas stories was about a little boy, the son of a wise man who went to see Jesus. That story was the catalyst that started my writing experience decades later.
(Check out "Legends of Ruby Heart" in the links above.)

"All in a Day's Play"

Tall, waving grass almost completely hides the path in front of me, isolating me from the soccer field where the other kids are playing and the compound surrounding our house. The rule is always stay in pairs. I was ignoring it as I often did, this time because the older kids were playing a rough form of tag. And besides, my arms were already burning from the blazing sun and heat.
I’m running on tiptoe, making little puffs of dust with each dust, but hardly any sound so that the soft “chuff” of a big cat rang out as loudly as the school bell.
I froze, trying to take tiny breaths through my parted lips to refill my suddenly empty lungs.
How far away was the house? I couldn’t see it. The soccer field? The sounds from there were muffled by distance.
The tall grass to one side of the path sways, the movement slowly approaching. I’m a gonner!
Loud barking! Attack language erupts as a dark body leaps past me and into the grass. Feline snarls and screams increase the cacophony. I leap down the path and run full tilt for the house. As I open the screen door, Pal, our Alsatian Shephard catches up with me, flopping on the porch floor at my side, his tongue lolling through the grin on his face.
“Good boy, Pal! Did you give it what for?” He gives me a slobbery kiss in response.

"Lions, Leopards and Hippos! Oh My!!"

Our sleeping arrangements at Obel for the five of us kids were two bunk beds and one single bed. Jessie, the oldest got the single bed. David and Robin got the top bunks, and Nellie and I were relegated to the bottom bunks. Because it was so hot all year round, we slept on a screened in porch that allowed for any zephyr from three points of the compass to pass over us. The porch was surrounded by a four-foot brick wall topped by screening which was backed by chicken wire. That was all that there was between us and the hippos which had taken a liking to Mum’s vegetable patch not far from the porch, plus lions, leopards, cheetahs, or anything else that might decide to wreak havoc. They were real, we could hear them. The hippos in the river laughing their unk, unk, unk; Lions roaring in the distance; the sudden quiet of the night insects warning that something was moving about; the hiss and slithering sound of a large, legless body moving across the dirt.

Typical boys, my brothers took advantage of the near proximity of the dangerous animals by telling me – Jessie and Nellie knew better – that there was a lion, crocodile, python or even a hippo under my bed and that if I even moved, it would grab me and tear me limb from limb, or, because I was so small, just swallow me whole.

One night I’d had enough, so terrified of dying that the fear of Dad being cross because I disturbed his Bible study with his students paled in comparison. I screwed up my courage, stood on my bed and jumped for the steps to the house door, then raced through the room to the front porch, stopping only when I could grab Dad’s arm and hang on for dear life.

“Marian! What are you doing here? You should be in bed!”

“Tuan(sir), she look like she seen a ghost, Tuan!”

“Did you have a bad dream?” He lifted me on his lap. I shook my head, then thought better of it and nodded.

“Daddy, I am so frightened! I must make sure I belong to Jesus!”

“Of course!”

"If the lion under my bed gets me before I’m sure, I won’t go to heaven!”

“Lion under her bed, Tuan?” The students jumped from their chairs and ran for their spears they had left by the front door.

“Hold it! Hold it, Deng!” Dad waved them back to their chairs. “I doubt there’s a lion under her bed. It’s most likely the boys teasing her. Isn’t that right, Marian?”
I swallowed hard. “Daddy, please! I want to, I have to ask Jesus into my heart right now!”

“Very well!” He waved the students back to their chairs, then together we prayed the Sinner’s Prayer.

“Are you ready to go back to bed now, Marian?” He asked gently. I hesitated, drew a deep breath and squared my little shoulders and nodded. “You just tell them you don’t care what’s under your bed because Jesus is on top of it!” I giggled, jumped down off his lap and scampered to my bed.

“I don’t care what’s under my bed!” I yelled as I scrambled under my sheet. “Because JESUS is on top of it!”

Nary a word from my brothers. And never again was I teased about animals under my bed.