Child of Providence

Chapter 4 Sample
Akini: Child of Providence Book Cover


A thirteen-page composition, written March 28, 1990, by a thirteen-year-old, was never submitted to the English 7 Period “A” classroom  teacher at Lorbeer Junior High School, Diamond Bar, California, because I wanted my son to remember the importance of excluding one inappropriate topic from his discussions as well as from his compositions—guns or explosives.  However, I was surprised on July 6, 2010, when I found the essay that I had withheld.  I was creating a portfolio of Akini’s past assignments, letters, and awards as memorabilia.  At the same time, I was making arrangements for a short visit to take my terminally ill mother, back home, to Guyana, South America.  It was Mother’s dying wish to return home.  Hence, I tried hurriedly to reread the discarded essay.  It was twenty years since it had been written.  Tears of disbelief flowed uncontrollably at the accuracy of events predicted in the story written fifteen years earlier.  Startling similarities abounded in the childhood dreams of that thirteen-year-old boy, and life accomplishments of the twenty-eight-year-old special service naval officer, Explosive Ordinance Division, D.C. 2 Belle, who died in an auto accident on his way to work in Segonella, Italy, on October 6, 2005.  However, it is the detailed events of the epilogue that unravel the somewhat perplexing but providential occurrences of this story, Akini: Child of Providence.  Accordingly, because the significance of this book is disclosed in somewhat unanticipated occurrences, I do encourage readers not to be distracted by those providential incidents, but rather to stay focused and encouraged in the mysterious hand of The Master Weaver, in times when life-shattering events render us helpless or hopeless.


The Ultimate Battle


I was twenty-six years old when my world caved in. World War III was a dreadful event. It had begun! My dreams were totally shattered, for I was a reserve soldier, I had to serve in the United States Army in time of war.  All I saw for six months was blood.


Tension built up among the grandchildren while listening to this phase of the war report.


“Pops, were you ever shot during the war?” Scillon asked.


I smiled and said, with a whimsical look at him, “I am getting to that part, my son.”


“Gramps, did it have an effect on your nerves?” asked Alvin.


“Yes, but before I continue, let’s grab a bite to eat.”


Both boys looked disappointed at my request for a snack break. We quickly ate our snacks and the boys eagerly listened as I continued.


In fact, I had found my weapons and equipment on the battle-field.  My radiation suit and mask were slowly  wearing out. I had to think quickly. I managed to radio a chopper for help, and was picked up.


Later I decided to use my skills as a Phantom jet fighter. I bombed China, Russia, and Japan. During an exchange of bullets, my plane was shot at and hit, and I was shot as well by a sniper’s slug that hit my left leg. I tried to escape after making a forced landing, but I was shot again with a 45 Colt in my right arm. A bullet pierced my lungs, went through my humerus, and destroyed some of the cartilages between the fifth and sixth ribs. Immediately, I felt a deep burning inside my chest and on my foot. I fainted.


When I returned to consciousness, I was, covered in bandages, lying on a bed. A nurse observed me. I did not ask any questions, for I realized that I had been captured by the Russian soldier who had shot me. The nurse was of Oriental origin about 5 feet 4 inches tall with thin dark hair. The room looked like a normal hospital room, except that it was very small, and had six other patients in it. There were two other nurses in the room– all of Oriental ethnicity. I was burning up inside, and it seemed to go on forever. There was nothing I could do but endure the nerve rocking sensation. Slowly, the burning stopped.


I grew stronger every day. Also, I frequently saw the nurse who had stood beside my bed that first night when I regained consciousness. I learned that her name was Gayla Chin, and she was from China. About the time that I began to know her a little better, I was suddenly shifted to a prison camp in another part of Russia. One day, in the camp for Prisoners of War (POWs), I learned that an American underground force was helping prisoners escape. Someone sneaked in a diving set with powerful engine capability of fifteen thousand miles per hour. I used it to escape from Russia with dynamic speed. What an experience! Finally, I was flown home to the United States of America from Mongolia.


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July 2017