Personal Narrative: My Life In Sudan

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again. “Nerve, nerve, nerve!” he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the château. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Rainsford threw himself off the tall cliff. The wind rushing past his face and threw his hair, he had a split second on just peace flying down the cliff preparing to hit the water. The water crashed around Rainsford swallowing him whole, as he started to swim to shore he heard a mysterious yet familiar voice.

My lungs were burning. The wind whipped past my face as I listened to the echos of the cheering crowd. I could see the straight white ribbon stretched across the finish line. I remember complete euphoria as I tore past that ribbon first. Sweat dripping into my eyes, I smiled as I walked off the track. The weight of the gold metal on my chest, was a glorious symbol of all my hard work. I would never get another one for sprinting again.

A bird flies wildly about, twisting and diving. It is panicked, trying to escape the boy on the ground below, who hurls small, painful missiles at it from a slingshot. The creature of the air is a splendid sight; the wings are as if covered in jade paint and the tips dipped in a ferocious scarlet. The breast is a majestic solid blue, its throat a sulphur yellow. And the head and the tail both are a livid, dark purple: beautiful.

His last flutter is silent. Feathers engulf his tiny rusted birdcage. At that moment, I know how insignificant life is. The thought of something coming into this world just to die shortly after is disturbing. Trapped inside his bronze bars, tickled with turquoise peelings, submitting to the small confines of that cage, never knowing anything more that the protection of those iron bars. . . . His minuscule talon makes a last pulse shaking, then goes as still as a rock. Heavy but silent, I stand there bloodstained and shaking; fragility and innocence crushed by petty mistakes.

With the sun beating against my back, I ran through the narrow path, my breaths heavy and jagged. This was my first time running an obstacle course, and the different stations, from rope climbing to log jumping, had left me exhausted. My squad members had started to notice me struggling, but instead of running past me, they started to shout encouragements and cheer me on. Though I was drained of energy by the time I reached the finish line, I was overflowing with appreciation. My squad members, whom I met just four days before, had all teamed up to support me.

Encompassing him were what looked like hundreds of oily, pitch black ravens angling their heads towards him like he was their next meal. Boden gawked at them as he slowly retreated to the edge of the clearing towards the lanky trees, but the ravens perceived this and all as one went screaming through the air towards him. “Skwah! Cah cah! Skwah!” the birds screeched at Boden sounding like a thousand cats dragging their claws down a blackboard. And then, like a cloud swirling feathers and jabbing beaks, the birds rocketed towards Boden. They poked and prodded at him with their monstrous, yellow tinted beaks pecking at anything they could. Boden staggered around, blinded from the birds that encompassed him in their tornado of fringe, fumbling for anything he could use to get the birds to distance themselves from him. As Boden lurched around with one arm desperately swatting at the birds and the other extended in front of him searching this barren land for something, anything, that could help him get away from this atrocious throng of birds his foot tripped on a piece of uprooted dirt and tumbled down to the ground and felt his scratched face land into a puddle of water that calmed him enough to remind him that he could “meanwhile’ out of this detestable place. So, with ambition to get out of this horrid place he stuck his finger into the puddle, swathed it on the bottom of the puddle to get some mud and

The sun embraces me by wrapping its rays all over my visible skin and the wind tickles me as it passes by to say hello. I wait for the track meet to beginning, living off hope that I can feel the ground curves in order to win this meet. I stand in my position, next to a cold arm that has already started sweating and a man talking about his many years of experience. I hear mumbling from a lady with a microphone so far away from me it feels so surreal, and a loud bomb that rattles inside my chest. I speed off, my bare feet hitting the ground with a strong

It was the evening of that fateful day. The deep rasping calls of the ravens can be heard as they hovered above the creaking trees. A menacing voice penetrated through the hollowness of the forest. It was close enough to unnerve the young boy. The mist that wouldn't rise lifted itself as he glanced back quickly and hastily began to run out of fear. As he ran, he would stumble and look back in hesitation only to tear his gaze away, scampering onward again. A fiery light flared its path in front of him, calling him forwards. He ran to it, collapsing in front of unfamiliar figures.

The British occupation of Sudan ended in 1956 and the Sudanese formed a national government. Four years later the natives of the Nuba Mountains of West Sudan observed the independence with a tribal festival. Mohamed, a Nubian, took part in the festivity where he met and wed a young lady, Magbula. With the foreign rule over, the inhabitants of the mountains left their hideouts and explored their homeland. Mohamed and his wife left for Khartoum, the capital, where in 1963 they gave birth to me, Ibrahim. Since my parents were illiterate and spoke only a rare dialect, they failed to fit in a city dominated by educated Arabs. Therefore, we moved to the Central State to work on cotton farms. However, years passed and all that my family earned for hard work was rations and a shed. Fed up with abuse, we left the farm and lived as Nomads. Two years later we settled in a small village.

The feel of eyes staring toward me, drew my eyes to the balcony. A velvety black crow sat in the tree; its tiny beady eyes stared directly into mine for several moments before it flew away. It cannot be Myles, for surely he is dead, I think to myself before closing my eyes

As I walked up to the starting blocks I could feel my legs shaking and tears pooling in my goggles. My pre-race playlist was already blasting in my ears but I slipped my hand into the pocket of my parka and turned up the volume to distract myself. This just might be my last race ever. A sense of panic surged through my body as the heat before me stepped up to the blocks. “A vos marques!” a loud buzzer sounds and eight girls my age launch into the air. Only about two minutes remaining before the heat finishes. With my earbuds in and my tinted race goggles on I am in another world. I was so out of it I almost didn’t notice the girl standing beside me tapping my shoulder. Reluctantly I yanked out an earbud to see what she had to say.

It all started in the summer of nine teen sixty two, ever since I visited my parent’s grave. A equine crow was staring at me. Equine because the crow was the size of a three year old toddler. It’s eyes were blood thirsty red and it had teeth, teeth that are white daggers. It kept staring at me and I couldn’t make myself look away, it felt as if the bird from hell was eating my soul. Then it occurred.

There I was up in the air. There I was standing up on two girls hands’ high in the air with my back spot holding me tight as the crowd stared in aw. I was in a huge building, looking down at a blue mat. One mistake and I fall hard to the ground, and disappoint everyone around. I was sweating like a pig, I felt a drop of sweat hit my neck as I went on. I ran in fear, jumped nervously, all while I tried my hardest, but will it be enough…

Not happy, not excited, I was absolutely astonished. Up till this moment, all it was was a dream. Now that it was real, it was just very difficult to comprehend. I was now the fastest 12 year old in USA swimming history to swim the 400 meter IM. Up till this very day, that label still is amazing to me. My coach immediately hugged me saying, “See, I knew you could do it. Great Job!”The huge smile she had and her extreme excitement was more than I could even muster up at that time. My teammates circled around me and congratulated me, almost as excited as my coach, Then, out of nowhere, the state of shock I was experiencing shifted to a state of pure joy and excitement. Next I hugged my mother, with tears in her eyes. “Mom, why are you crying?” I asked. “I’m crying because I’m so proud of you.” My only response to that, and today I know it was wrong, was “Oh God mom.” My twelve year old self didn’t understand how proud my mother was at that time, and I feel embarrassed and also humored that I couldn't see it at that

I was going to the fields to work the farms. It was like any other day. My wife had gone out to barter food for the family. I was a planter. I had been living in the middle part of Africa for as long as I could remember. I went out to the fields, with my hoe to start farming corn for the harvest. When I was done farming the corn, I continued my daily schedule of taking a bucket of water and going to the well. The water was to be filled up so my family and I could bathe later in the evening. When I was almost done filling up