It all started on a warm afternoon, when I was hiking through the forest edge near my village. The sun was golden, the birds were singing, and I was enjoying the peace of nature. But suddenly, I heard a faint, high-pitched cry—like a baby calling out for help. I paused and listened. The sound came again, desperate and frightened.
I followed the sound carefully through the underbrush. It didn’t take long before I found the source of the cry: a tiny monkey, no bigger than a kitten, sitting alone beneath a fallen log. Its fur was dirty, its ribs were showing, and its little face was streaked with tears. It looked up at me with wide, scared eyes and whimpered again.
My heart broke.
It was clear this poor little monkey was an orphan—likely separated from its mother or worse. In many forests like ours, illegal logging, habitat destruction, and poaching make life difficult for wildlife. This baby didn’t stand a chance alone.
I gently reached out my hand and the monkey, instead of running, weakly crawled into my palm, clinging to my fingers like I was the last hope it had. And in that moment, I knew—I couldn’t walk away. I had to give it a home.
Back at my house, I quickly cleared a small area in my bedroom and made a warm bed using old towels and soft cloth. I had never cared for a monkey before, but I knew it needed warmth, safety, and food. I named him Bobo—a name that seemed to fit his tiny, clumsy personality.
Bobo refused food at first. I offered mashed banana and warm milk, but he was too weak and scared. I stayed with him all night, gently stroking his back and whispering softly, hoping he’d feel safe. Around dawn, he finally sipped a bit of milk and curled up against my chest.
That was the beginning of a very special bond.
Caring for Bobo was a full-time job. He needed feeding every few hours, warmth, and constant attention. He was still a baby, after all. I carried him around in a sling tied to my chest so he would feel like he was with his mother. At first, people in the village were surprised.
“You’re raising a monkey?” some asked. “That’s not a pet!”
They were right—it wasn’t just about having a pet. Bobo wasn’t a toy or a cute accessory. He was a soul that had been left alone in the world. He needed love, healing, and a second chance at life.
As the days turned into weeks, Bobo grew stronger. His fur began to shine, his eyes sparkled, and his curiosity bloomed. He explored everything—climbing my curtains, playing with my shoelaces, and trying to drink from my water bottle. He quickly learned how to open containers and loved to sit on my shoulder while I did chores.
He became the heart of my home.
But raising a monkey came with challenges. Bobo was incredibly smart and full of energy. He demanded attention, and if I left him alone too long, he would make a mess—pulling books from shelves or unrolling toilet paper across the floor. I had to monkey-proof the house, just like people baby-proof their homes.
He also had moods. Sometimes he was playful, other times clingy. If he was scared, he’d bury his face in my chest. If he was happy, he’d jump and make cheerful chirps. I began to understand his different sounds and expressions. It was like learning a new language.
He also began to trust me deeply. When he was sleepy, he’d crawl into my arms. When he was excited, he’d leap into my lap. And when I was sad or tired, he would sit quietly beside me, placing his little hand on mine, as if to say, “I’m here.”
Over time, Bobo became a part of the village too. Children loved visiting to see him play. Elders, once skeptical, started offering fruits and laughing at his tricks. He brought joy to everyone. People stopped calling him “that monkey” and started calling him “our Bobo.”
I did my best to give him a proper diet—lots of fruits, leafy greens, nuts, and occasional treats like boiled eggs. He loved mangoes the most and would squeal with joy every time I peeled one.
At night, he had his own sleeping corner, but most nights, he’d crawl into my bed and fall asleep curled up beside me.
But there was always a question in my heart: Was it right to keep him?
I began contacting local wildlife experts and sanctuaries. Some told me that, ideally, orphaned monkeys should be raised with others of their kind and, if possible, returned to the wild. I agreed. I didn’t want to keep Bobo from his natural life—but I also didn’t want to risk giving him up to a place where he’d be caged or neglected.
Eventually, I found a reputable primate rescue center a few hours away. I visited it myself, saw the large open areas where monkeys played and learned to be wild again, and met the caring staff. It felt right.
The decision to let Bobo go was the hardest one I’ve ever made.
The day we drove to the rescue center, Bobo sat quietly in my arms. He looked out the window, then back at me, sensing something different. When we arrived, the staff welcomed us warmly. They showed me where Bobo would stay—a spacious area with other young monkeys, trees to climb, and plenty of room to grow.
I knelt down, looked Bobo in the eyes, and said, “This is your chance to be free, little one.”
He looked confused, then clung to me tightly. I cried.
The staff gave me time. Eventually, I gently placed Bobo on a tree branch inside the enclosure. He looked back at me, hesitated, then reached for a nearby monkey. They touched hands. Within minutes, Bobo began to explore.
He didn’t forget me, not right away. He looked back several times. But he was brave. Just like he had trusted me that first day, now he was trusting the world again.
It’s been a year since that day. I still visit Bobo sometimes. He’s grown into a strong, confident young monkey. He no longer clings to humans—he plays, climbs, and grooms his monkey friends. He’s where he belongs.
And me? I still carry his photo in my wallet and a mango tree grows in my yard—a little tribute to his favorite fruit.
Giving a home to a poor little orphaned monkey was never about ownership. It was about love, healing, and letting go when the time was right.
And I will always be grateful for the chance to love Bobo when he needed it most.
