Seeds of Change: Wangari's Gift to the World
Jen Cullerton Johnson
As a young girl in Kenya, Wangari was taught to respect nature. She grew up loving the land, plants, and animals that surrounded her -from the giant mugumo trees her people, the Kikuyu, revered to the tiny tadpoles that swam in the river. Although most Kenyan girls were not educated, Wangari, curious and hardworking, was allowed to go to school. There, her mind sprouted like a seed. She excelled at science and went on to study in the United States. After returning home, Wangari blazed a trail across Kenya, using her knowledge and compassion to promote the rights of her countrywomen and to help save the land, one tree at a time. Seeds of Change: Planting a Path to Peace brings to life the empowering story of Wangari Maathai, the first African woman, and environmentalist, to win a Nobel Peace Prize. Engaging narrative and vibrant images paint a robust portrait of this inspiring champion of the land and of women's rights.
sighed. “How do you mean?” Stephanie shook her head. “Ideas, that’s all she could think about. Everything’s an idea to her. She loves me because I gave her some intellectual glimpse into the future? Someone had to remind her to tell me she loves me?” Her father’s demon let go of her hand and stepped away. “That is her way. She’s so passionate about ideas that she sometimes forgets to see the people behind them.” “And I hate that,” Stephanie growled. Her father said nothing. “There were times
spoiling for a fight all day, ever since the Tin Men busted Ransom. “Cerulean,” Niles said, and the color flashed through our heads and everybody calmed down just a little. “Go on, you can come back tomorrow. This is my studio, don’t forget it, ’kay?” Zinger nodded, then turned and ran up the stone steps to street level. Niles sighed and finished handing out the moss-in-a-can. “We supposed to Make with this instead of paint? It’s all one color,” Tops said, his voice all whiny like some spoiled
men were torn limb from limb, their bloody remains scattered all over the swampy land. Those who escaped told reporters that nothing would stop the Zombies. A soldier had even thrown a grenade at one, but the thing protected itself with the very force field it had been built to use during pipeline explosions. The soldier said the force field looked like a crackling bubble made of lightning. “Wahala! Trouble!” the soldier frantically told television reporters. His face was greasy with sweat and
smelled like freshly lit matches. Even through the palms of my hands, I could hear the responses from down the pipeline. The clicking was so numerous that it sounded like a rain of tiny pebbles falling on the pipeline. Udide shuddered, scrambled back and stood on it, waiting. They came in a great mob. About twenty of them. The first thing that I noticed was their eyes. They were all a deep angry red. The others scrambled around Udide, tapping their feet in complex rhythms on the pipe. I couldn’t
colony. The voter simulations kept taking up energy, so the master processing program came up with a more elegant solution: me. Why run millions of emulators, when it could fuse them all into a single expression of its will that would run the government?” “A clever solution,” Pepper said. “A techno-democracy, even more so than the vanilla kind, is messy. Dangerously so. With study committees and votes on everything, things that needed to be done quickly didn’t get done in time. “So the