Write a story ending with the expression: ''Then, I realized that everyone is important in his or her own way.''

Model story

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, and by Wednesday the whole of Form Five could talk of nothing else. Our school had been invited to build and demonstrate a working model at the Regional Young Inventors' Fair, and Mr. Adeyemi, our physics master, had chosen a team of six to represent us. When he read out the names, my own came first. I was Ebun, the girl who topped every science test, the girl whose hand shot up before a question was finished. I walked home that evening certain that the prize was already mine, and that the five others were merely there to carry my equipment.

I planned our project alone: a small solar-powered water pump that could lift water from a shallow well into a raised tank. On paper it was elegant. In my head, it was already glittering on the winners' table. The others I regarded with a kind of polite impatience. There was Kunle, slow of speech, who liked to take things apart and lay every screw in a neat row. There was Halima, forever sketching in the margins of her notebook instead of copying formulae. There was quiet Sadiq, who spoke to the school gardener more than to us and knew the name of every plant in the compound. There was Ngozi, who counted our money to the last coin, and stammering little Obi, who only smiled and fetched what he was told to fetch. What could such people add, I thought, to a mind like mine?

For three weeks we met in the workshop after class. I lectured; they listened. I soldered the circuit; they watched. When Kunle gently suggested that a joint I had made looked loose, I waved him away. When Halima offered a drawing to show how the tubing might be arranged, I did not even glance at it. I was the leader, and leaders, I believed, did not need help.

The day of the fair broke hot and cloudless. Rows of tables filled the great hall, each crowded with lights, wires and eager young faces. When our turn came, I stepped forward, switched on the pump, and waited for the water to rise and the judges to gasp. Nothing happened. The little motor gave a weak groan and fell silent. My throat tightened. I flicked the switch again; still nothing. The judges shifted, glancing at their watches, and a cold sweat crept down my back. My beautiful project, my certain victory, was dying in front of a hundred people, and I did not know why.

Then, without a word, my team moved. Kunle knelt and traced the wiring with a patient finger until he found the loose joint he had warned me about, and pressed it firm. Halima spread her sketch on the table and showed the judges, in clear bright lines, exactly how the system was meant to work, so that they leaned in with new interest. Ngozi quietly explained the cost of the whole design and how cheaply it could serve a real village. Sadiq spoke, in his soft voice, of the farm gardens such a pump could water in the dry season, and the judges nodded as though he had opened a window. And little Obi, who never finished a sentence, said only, "Try it now," and pointed. I switched it on. Water climbed the tube, spilled bright and singing into the tank, and the hall broke into applause.

We did not win first prize that day; we won second, and a special mention for the most practical design. But as we walked out into the evening light, our small trophy passing from hand to hand, I saw at last what I had been too proud to see. My cleverness had built a machine that failed; it was Kunle's care, Halima's eye, Ngozi's sense, Sadiq's wisdom and Obi's quiet faith that had made it live. Not one of us, alone, could have carried that table. Then, I realized that everyone is important in his or her own way.

A brief note on how a narrative like this is marked

Story-writing at this level is usually assessed under two broad headings, content and organisation and expression and mechanical accuracy. An examiner rewards a script that treats the given sentence as a true destination, not a label pasted on at the end.

• Relevance and the fixed ending: the story must finish with the exact prescribed words and must clearly earn them. Here the narrator's discovery, that each teammate mattered, grows directly out of the plot, so the final line reads as a genuine lesson rather than an afterthought.
• Plot and structure: a top-band story shows a shaped narrative with an opening that sets character and situation, rising action, a clear climax (the pump failing before the judges) and a satisfying resolution. Paragraphing should follow the movement of the story, one clear step of the action to each paragraph.
• Characterisation and setting: named, distinct characters and a concrete setting (the workshop, the crowded hall) make the events believable and let the moral feel earned instead of preached.
• Expression: credit is given for varied sentence length, precise word choice, and controlled use of description and, where suitable, dialogue. Avoid a flat string of "and then" sentences.
• Accuracy: correct spelling, punctuation and grammar protect the marks already won by good content. A single careless script can slip a band, so a final reading for errors is time well spent.

Examination reminder: when a paper fixes the last sentence, plan backwards from it. Decide first what realisation or event that sentence describes, then design characters and incidents whose outcome makes those exact words the natural, inevitable close.