They called me Nsah, some called me Main — names that carried warmth and identity, given by those I loved the most. But life never called me softly. It greeted me with hardship.
I was born on January 19, 1999, in Nkot Gam, a forgotten village tucked inside the hills of Nwa subdivision, in Donga-Mantung Division, Northwest Cameroon. The day I came into this world, I was already surrounded by sickness, tension, and struggle. Life was hard from the very beginning.
Our village was the kind you only hear of in stories. A place where houses were built from mud, roofed with grass, and roads were barely walkable. People whispered about witches and practiced fear like religion. Hatred lived like a neighbor. And when you looked around, it often felt like the universe had skipped our land — like growing up there was a curse.
My father, Buinda Clement Njoya, was a primary school teacher. My mother, Buinda Margaret Ngwenda, was a farmer — a woman with rough hands but a tender heart. She was both my strength and my shield. She was strict, but behind her firm words was the deepest kind of love.
There was no peace between them. They fought often, not with fists but with silence and pain. My father never took part in paying school fees or supporting us, and my mother bore it all alone — the tears, the hunger, the debt.
I was the third of eight siblings. My sister Comfort, the one who called me Main, was my light. But light, I learned, doesn't always last. She passed away when I was in Primary 6, and my world changed forever. I still see her face. I still wait, deep in my heart, for her to return — to call my name one more time.
In the village, I was a playful but frightened boy. I remember once being sent out alone after disobeying my mother. At 9:56 p.m., I walked down a pitch-black path to fetch water. The stream was 500 meters away. I heard footsteps behind me — loud, human-like — but no one ever came. Just the silence of fear.
School was my hiding place. It was where I could laugh, forget hunger for a few hours, and feel like a child. But even school reminded me of our poverty. I was sent home often because fees were unpaid. And the hardest part? My father was a teacher… in that same school… yet he did nothing. I sat with shame burning in my chest.
Then came 2013 — the year that broke and rebuilt me.
After a painful disagreement, my father gathered his younger brothers and publicly disowned me. That same night, at just 14 years old, he ordered me to leave. It was 8 p.m. — dark, cold, and heavy with rejection.
With only 50 francs in my pocket, I began my journey alone. I left my home, my mother, and everything I knew, traveling through Ndu, Bui, and Ndop before arriving in Bamenda. I stood at Amour Mezam Park in Nkwen, hungry, tired, and completely alone in a world I didn't recognize.
I had no one waiting for me. No plan. No place to sleep. Just a heavy heart and a mind filled with my mother's voice:
"Son, someday you will face life alone. But always think of your younger ones. Be kind to every elder and person you meet."
The next morning, thirsty and desperate, I wandered the streets hoping to find work or even just water. And then, like a thread from home, I saw Manassas — an old bearer from our village. He pointed me toward someone familiar, and for the first time in days, I felt the smallest spark of hope.
Eventually, I connected with a cousin, Fahda Ferdinand, who lived in Mankon. He hadn't known I was coming. But sometimes, survival doesn't come from preparation — it comes from mercy, from courage, from not giving up.
I didn't think about dreams back then. I just wanted food and sleep. But when I looked at the roads, the cars, and the tall buildings I saw from Ndu to Bamenda, a seed of vision grew inside me. I wanted more. I wanted a life where I didn't have to beg, hide, or be sent away. I imagined a day I'd walk with pride, not shame.
If I could speak to that little boy in Nkot Gam today, I would hold him tight and say:
"Study hard. Work harder. Your life won't end in that village. You were born there, but you will not die there. There's a whole world ahead of you, and you're going to make it."
I share this story not for pity, but for truth. Because I know there are many others like me — born into silence, raised in fear, and thrown into the world too soon. But I am here to say: you can survive. You can dream. You can rise.
This is my story.
A story of sorrow, but also of strength.
A story of rejection, but also of resilience.
A story of a boy who was called Main…
…and who still believes in a better tomorrow.