People see him shouting on the streets, chasing after danfo buses, wrapped in grime and temper. They call him a hooligan. A menace. A lost cause. But they don’t know him. They don’t know he once dreamed of being a pilot. That as a child, his head was filled with clouds and the roar of engines. That his hands weren’t made for fighting, but for flying. He’s just a product of the world he was born into. And under different skies, he would have soared. They don’t know how quickly dreams collapse under the weight of poverty, broken systems, and survival. They don’t know, so they call him…

‘Rosko, the hooligan‘