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Global Campus Benefits

Nord Anglia Junior Writer of the Year

Helen Baker
Helen Baker (2 posts) Primary Teacher - NAE Global Campus Lead Teacher View Profile

Congratulations to Jessie in Year 6, this year's global winner of the Nord Anglia Creative Writing Competition (8 to 11 age category). Jessie is now officially the NAE Junior Writer of the Year for 2018, as well as one of UNICEF's overall winners. What an amazing achievement! 


UNICEF were asked to select some of their favourite stories written by our NAE Creative Writing Competition winners. They were very impressed with the work produced by our students and selected Jessie’s work as one of their overall winners!
Read Jessie's winning story "Rubbish" at the bottom of the page
Jessie GC

Competition in this year's NAE Global Campus Creative Writing contest was tough with over 4,000 Nord Anglia students aged 8 to 18 from 55 schools worldwide taking part and only 88 shortlisted in January 2018. 

From this shortlist, a panel of Nord Anglia Education judges made their final selection and nominated the 3 competition winners, one in each year group:

  • 8 to 11 years old
  • 11 to 14 years old
  • 14 to 18 years old

All winning and shortlisted stories will be published in the 2018 NAE Creative Writing and Visual Arts Anthology and we can't wait to see Jessie's story in print.

We were delighted to hear the news and are very proud that this year's NAE Junior Writer of the Year, as well as one of UNICEF's favourite writers, is an LCIS student.

Bravo Jessie, what a fabulous achievement!

At La Côte International School, we encourage every student to make the most of our Global Campus opportunities, which connect over 49,000 students around the world, inspiring them to collaborate and learn together every day

Creative Writing Competition 2017/18

Jessie: Year 6 - Primary School
Age: Ten Years Old
Full school name: La Côte International School Aubonne

Mountains of it. It covers the ground for miles. This is the dump where I live. In the distance, other families search for something to eat, but find nothing. I was up before the sun to get the mouldy, wet bread I hold in my hand. I found it in a packet, unopened. “Who would throw this away?” I’d thought. But when I looked up and saw the shining city of Nairobi in the distance, I knew the answer: people who have more than they need.
I sit on an upturned bucket, in front of our hut. Inside, my sister Chanua sings, loudly and off-key. She doesn’t know the words.
Mama leads my other sister out of the hut to sit beside me. Endana cocks her head and turns her blind eyes to me.
“Hello Amana.”
“I’ve got bread!” I say, putting a piece in her hand. She laughs delightedly. Chanua toddles out of the hut, still singing. Her eyes widen when she sees the bread. Endana breaks off a piece and holds it out for Chanua.
The child’s laugh is drowned out by the roll of thunder. The sky turns dark purple. Mama scoops Chanua up and I lead Endana into our hut. We built it against a hill, so that, when storms come, we are safe. We pull a plastic sheet across the doorway. Darkness.


It rains for three days, drops banging down on the metal roof of our hut. There are streams of water running from the toilet area past our hut.
One afternoon we find Endana sitting trailing her hand in the water.
“Endana!” I scream. “Get your hand out of that!”


Two days pass and it looks like Endana will be fine. But that moment never leaves my thoughts. I know that you don’t touch sewage and get away with it. I know from Papa.


The midday sun beats down on me. I am sitting playing with Chanua when Mama runs towards me.
“Amana, it’s Endana. Something’s wrong!” We run to where Endana lies. Her face is as grey as the wasteland around her. She is covered in faeces and vomit, and the smell is awful. Mama is sobbing as Endana gasps for air. She lifts her hand and waves us away weakly.

“Go,” she whispers. “I’ll make you sick. I’ve always caused you trouble.”
“We’re not leaving you!” I tell her. We each take one of her hands and bow our heads.

We stay like that for two hours until we no longer see the rise and fall of her chest. Endana is dead.
The evening sun casts a golden glow across the dump. In the distance, I see families searching for something to eat. It’s like I can see the ghosts of the family members who’ve died, walking next to them. They’ve been thrown onto this dump by people who don’t know or care. Forgotten like Endana will be, one day. Branded as rubbish.