If I could change the world, I would want us to be free. Too many take it for granted while most think it an issue easily solved with funds. They know so very little. A tribal war broke out upon us recently and the death toll mounted. Money did nothing to stop it. I was there when it happened, bare feet feeling the ground tremble with the running feet of thousands of valiant warriors rushing to greet the opposing ranks in a brutal dance of spear and blood. But the women came to shield my eyes from the genocide.

We lost. I saw an armoured man put a hole through my father's head before turning around to fire more rounds. I hid in the shadows of our hut as men entered and raped my mother and sisters, and their every shriek pierced my heart. The animals took me too yet by some cruel miracle, I survived the ordeal. I remained motionless when their rough hands grasped me and refrained from cringing when thrown into a pit of corpses. The nauseating smell coupled with fatigue soon proved too overwhelming and I fainted amidst the people whose spirits now roamed roam another land.

What can a girl child do in the face of destruction, and live with the horror of having seen her family roots chopped off? Nothing. I weep every night for my losses and struggle by day to survive. The seed of fear becomes firmly implanted in me and I am plagued by nightmares.

The following weeks are a hazy blur as I try to resettle into a new life in the orphanage, alongside other refugees of war. Everywhere I turn, blank eyes stare pointedly back at me and I would return the gaze just as indifferently. It doesn't matter; in such a situation, nothing matters. African life is built around your tribe, and my tribe has been obliterated from history, pulverized.

(This paragraph uses 2 different tenses – you start with present then change in the 2nd sentence. Choose just one tense and use it consistently.)

I toil the earth just as I used to with my family, but it is not the same. I'm put in charge of the younger children and even they fail to light up a smile on my face. Lack of resources in the orphanage meant means that we barely had have enough sustenance; just like the old days. The night is haunted by the soft sobs of a childchildren? gone hungry. I remember of the times when I would no longer be able to stand the sound and shivering against the chill of the night, I would gather my blankets and creep over to the crying child. In that overcrowded room, my arms would gently encircle her, rocking her while softly humming the songs my mother used to sing with the mosquitoes as my choir.

(Here you're back to present tense…)

In those desolate hours, I allow my dreams to wander and roam (comma), wild as the antelopes and zebras that depend on Mother Nature for survival. I've always wondered when the much talked of 'international aid' will reach us, when everywhere we turn it is dirty politics that turns its ugly face to greet us. Large foreign corporate bodies tarnish our lands and continue to seduce us with sweet talks of riches, but our lives are still the same. My own tribe was tricked by such people and if nothing else, I have at least grown wiser from the exchange. There is nothing more that I want then than to take back what has been stolen from us, to purge our fertile grounds of these hateful beings and reclaim our heritage.

(Experience has tempered me. I did not notice the change at first, but as my stay at the orphanage seemed to become more permanent yet equally desperate… I felt the first stirrings of anger.) – change of tense again. Why should we sit around helpless, forever dependant dependent upon foreigners outsiders? to rescue us from this hellhole? Why is there so much strive between tribes when we need to stand united against these invaders? Since when did we start to turn against our Mother Land and blame her for all our difficulties? When? Why?

We only have ourselves to blame. And yet I am a child with no resources. I can do nothing for Africa.

(Maybe you should put something here to indicate / smooth over the abrupt change.)

Janna was dying. Kwashiorkor was the cause, murmured many with faces etched with a thousand lines of fatigue. They had all but given up on her yet somehow, I found I could not so easily overlook her impending death. She was too much like the younger sister I'd lost in war, not just in age but also in her bold features. My heart went out to her.

Even now in retrospect I cannot truly comprehend my actions. I had enough education to know that Janna lacked nutrition and so I gave up mine for her, encouraging others to spare what little they could. Some were reluctant at first but there is a spirit of community and friendship that every child cannot deny and soon enough, we found ourselves fighting desperately for Janna's survival.

And live she did; a true miracle. I think it was somewhere along the way, during those dreadful moments when anguish closed in on us, when we felt that Janna was slipping further away from us… that I found my destiny. It was like a calling, the tug of destiny that could not be shoved aside. It just felt so right, for me to become a healer for my people. To go out into the world and preach of peace, drawing from the well of bitter experience that I carried in myself as a burden. Only now, it would no longer be a burden, but a gift to others. To reawaken Africa, that awareness might enter our society.

A lovely celebration was held in conjunction with Janna's recovery. The ambience was buoyant and filled with riotous dancing. At times I would find myself standing at the edge of the crowd, looking in on the scene and noting what a startling contrast we made against our surroundings. Poverty and devastation enclosed us and in the middle of it all, everyone still found the spirit and strength to laugh and cheer each other on. It gladdened me to know that there was still hope for us, and that our will for a better future had not died with our tribes. Tears formed as I recalled the celebrations my tribe used to have. When I was but a toddler some dozen years ago, I saw again the silhouette of dancing men against fire; a heritage I refuse to allow turn to ashes.

"I want Africa to be ours again.'

"You will suffer, child." The man in charge of the orphanage laced his fingers together in consternation, doubt shining from his eyes. I stood my ground firmly, jaws set in a stubborn.

"I am willing to pay the price."

A brief smile touched his lips. "Then so be it."

I look out into a world where the heavens dawn high above a vista that is home to many creatures. Africa is awakening from its slumber and thirsting for uhuru, liberty, and amani, peace. I have travelled to many parts of Africa and been given the chance to help my people. Our situation is improving daily as awareness enters our society.

At last, Africa is coming free.