Once upon a time, my days as a junior auditor took me to a very remote village in CRR. I can't remember the name but it was many kilometres away from Bansang. Going back home, we happened upon a young woman in an apparent state of despair, carrying a sick kid. She was going to meet her husband to get the child to the hospital by cart, because heaven knows how often a means of transport like ours will come her way.
We had to take a diversion from our route home to offer them a ride. By looking, I could tell that the child had high fever. I calmed the young mother, talked to her about how not so serious the kid's condition was, helped reduce the amount of clothes on the child and offered some of my fluids to avoid dehydration, something I learned from my mom.
Imagine if that child grows up, and her mom pays through her nose to make sure he gets the education that she never got. Imagine this kid's schooling bringing him to an uncle in the city or Kombo, but in his bid to fit in, he chooses no better option than to become a member of a feared street gang. Tragic, right? Now this is the sad story of many a youth. They tend to forget their humble origins by copying until they copy the mistakes of those that they're copying. Olof Njie calls it "roye-daha."
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