The Slum Boy Who Became an International Speaker

My name is Rob Kamara. I was born to a poor mother. I never knew my father. For two years after I was born, my mother struggled to find treatment for a sickly child as I was always in and out of hospital. Frustrated and depressed, she never gave up as she sat on ward beds while I wailed in her arms admitted for the umpteenth time. She tells me those were her darkest days. When she depended on the generosity of friends and strangers for survival.   

By the time I was five, the storm had passed. I was victorious. A pyrrhic victory for me because while the infections were gone, I also lost part of my hearing. My mother was just grateful those days had passed.

It was then that a wealthy expatriate family hired her as their housekeeper. She would clean, cook and nanny their children. As years passed, a strong bond formed between my mother and members of the family. They treated her as one of their own. She would carry me along and I would play side by side with the children of the house. They valued her and her wage showed so. In gratitude, she never abused their trust.    

My mother was a wise woman. She wanted a better life for me, better than hers. Back then, it was common for her to take three buses to get to the wealthy family’s house and back. When together, she would point out the disparity between the rich side and the poor side of town where we lived.

She taught me a game ‘spot the difference’. “Mommy the rich side is cleaner; there are more trees and fewer people in the streets. There are green lush estates too. The poor side is dirty with garbage everywhere, with few trees and many people lazing around.”

The difference became marked as I grew order. I constantly asked myself why the poor thought and behaved as they did.

My mother was a great observer, and she insisted we adopt good habits from the wealthy family that we could afford. They rarely watched television and occupied their time with books. She gave away her television and we soon realized how much time we wasted in front of it.

Instead, she started buying a second-hand book or two every week. She also got a library membership, and when I was six years old, I got a large ‘Puss in Boots’ pop-up book. I remember holding the book that was longer than my torso with both arms as we walked through the slum. I also remember spending the whole night lost in the story.

I became alienated early from the slum life. I was more comfortable playing with Agatha and Marcel, children of the wealthy family. Their father was an exceptional man, a great orator. We would sit in his study listening to him practice his speeches. We the children would then give our advice. “My message needs to make sense to children, and then it will make sense to everyone,” he would insist.   

He was also a vociferous reader and when I showed interest, he shared books for me to read. I honestly think he trained me, to be a great thinker from an early age. Every book he gave me, I struggled to read, and then I would come back and ask many questions.

One day as we walked up the driveway, having just gotten off the bus, Marcel came running down. He was laughing heartedly, as he pulled me along through the foyer into the dining room, where the family assembled.

“Angela, you have served us well for the last five years and we have decided as a family to take Rob to the best school in the country, where Marcel and Agatha go to, we will pay for his education, and all his needs,” said Martha, the lady of the house.

“I have given books to your son and I believe he has a keen mind, an exceptional gift that needs to be nurtured,” insisted Derrick, Marcel’s father.

Tears began streaming down mother’s cheeks, as she stood rooted. “Please stop crying or you will make me also cry,” Martha insisted. Her efforts were futile. Soon the two women were crying as they shared an embrace.

I was shy and felt like an outsider observing a tribal dance. I was unsure of what emotion I should display. Agatha and Marcel smiled and brought out Pina Colada Cake. It was nice. They loved to celebrate everything with cake.

I was enrolled at the most prestigious international school in the country the following month. The children of dignitaries, government ministers and powerful men attended this school. I remember two weeks prior; a tailor and a cobbler were at the mansion measuring my fittings and shoe size. The first time anyone had ever done that. By the end of the week, I had brand new uniform and shoes. I did not want to take them off. 

That day, I went home still dressed in uniform. As we got into the slum, I could see boys gawking with envy. “Please run and buy some milk from the shop,” mother directed. The shop was a distance past an open field. As I crossed the open barren field, five boys appeared from one end and came running towards me. “Stop!” shouted one. “Who do you think you are, showing off new clothes?” They lunged out, caught me and started shoving me around. I fell and they started kicking. “You fatherless bastard. You think you are better? You cannot even speak properly and you insult us with these clothes?”

One of them pulled my shirt at the seam, and it tore away from my body. Another lifted me up and my shoes came off. One shoe went flying across the field, thrown away from their offended presence. The other became a plaything kicked in the opposite direction.

At that very moment, a group of men was crossing the field on their way from the factory that socked up most of the labor from the slum. I could see them as I lay in a fetal position in the dirt. The five boys had their backs to them. The men drew closer forming a circle around the boys. One of the men then shouted, “What are you fools doing?” Stunned the boys turned and tried to scamper away. They were cornered. They were round up and one of the men pulled his belt out and whipped them thoroughly. I just lay there bleeding from my nose and mouth. “Sit down!” demanded one of the men pointing to the dirt beside me. “You fight with each other instead of celebrating one of your own who may come back to help if he gets a good education. What kind of foolishness is this?” The boys were downcast and deeply embarrassed, as a crowd formed, and was laughing at them. They glared at me, vengefully.     

Then the man said something that stuck with me, “Young boys, if anyone touches Kamara, I will personally find your homes and help your parents whoop you back to good behavior. Is that clear,” he rumbled. They suddenly cowered. That was the last I heard of the five bullies for a while. 

When I got back to the house with a torn shirt and no shoes, my mom was deeply distressed. She visited the five families the same evening, but when she got back home, she was angrier. She kept saying, “The jealousy people have poisons their children too.”

The following day Martha had one look at my uniform and ordered two pairs extra. She also suggested that I move in with the wealthy family. My mother agreed and I moved in. I was given a room that held an extensive collection of books.   

As I boarded the school bus. The first thing that I noticed was how immaculate the students looked. Their English was impeccable, and their holiday stories were beyond my imagination. Travels to Europe, South Asia and America. My heart was pounding. I did not want anyone to know I had never traveled outside the city. I still had a speech impediment that rose a crescendo when around strangers.

I had a propensity to attract bullies. They smelled me from a mile away. In the bus, one in particular picked my scent, and zoned in. Reginald was the scion of a wealthy real estate family. He had a round plumb pimpled face. He was spoilt, loud and a know it all. 

In the bus, he observed me from a distance, but as we went into our individual classes, I found he was my classmate. Initially he seemed friendly asking many questions about who I was and what I was doing there. I was naïve and told him everything. Reginald contorted his face and that is when the abuse began. 

“This guy is from a poor family. He begged himself into this school. He borrowed clothes to be here. He does not have a father. He is a bastard.” My class soon parted like the Red Sea, to the right, were those who stuck their noses at me, to the left my sympathizers. 

The first days were very difficult. I shared my experience with Martha, and she called the principal, who moved me to another class.

As I sat in my new classroom whispers and rumors swarming around me, the sunniest person walked in. She had the broadest smile and a fragrance that turned gloom into rainbow colors. I instantly fell in love. Ms. Darley was her name and she would forever change my life.

She was my English teacher. She asked me to stay behind after the class. “I am also your class teacher and know your story and the bullying that happened. You were transferred to my class because I believe I can mentor you,” she confirmed. “I need you to enroll to the Debate Club as soon as you leave this room,” I was stunned. “I cannot even talk right,” I stuttered resisting her suggestion. “Do not be afraid I will guide you,” she said comfortingly, cognizant that sweat was building up on my brow. The thought of speaking scared me greatly. I would rather stand in a jungle with lions than in front of people to speak.

I walked behind Ms. Darley into the debate club session. I wanted to ground to rise up and swallow me. I could feel eyes of veteran debaters pierce me from the safety of her back.

“Good morning Oaks of Valor,” she saluted them. “Good morning Ms. Darley,” they responded warmly in unison. I have brought someone new to join the group today. I want you to give him a warm hand. His name is Rob Kamara. I want you to walk with him, like I walked with you to becoming exceptional speakers.” She turned to each of them individually, “Valerie remember when you came to me 3 years ago? Timothy, when you were but a frightened young boy? Now you are assertive award-winning speakers joining Ivy League colleges. This is our tradition.”

“My duty is to turn you from blubbering young minds into exceptional, eloquent, assertive young men and women. I do so with passion.” Ms. Darley said a spark charging through her eyes. “We have won awards throughout the region and are highly respected and feared.”   

The secret was not purely in Ms. Darley’s training but the comradery and appreciation that tied the group together. As soon as she stepped out. Timothy the alpha in the group walked up to me. He was a tall imposing figure for his age. “You are only here because of her. You are neither eloquent nor gifted,” my heart sank. Then as suddenly, his frown turned into a smile. “But so was everyone else when we came to her.” He patted me and brought me to the center of the group. Twelve debaters sat round. “Rob we baptize you with fire. Introduce yourself. Tell us who you are and why you deserve our attention.”

Timothy then stepped back from the circle. I was still recovering from Timothy’s initial jarring comments. My mouth was dry and I had a problem speaking. Mainly because I had never spoken before a group.

 “I, I, I am Rob Kamara, I come from Laguna, the slum area. I am here because of the providence of my mother’s employer. I, I, I do not know why I am in the debate club. I think you all speak really well. I would love to do so one day.” My eyes went to my feet and I started shuffling. I whispered, “I have a hearing problem and I am not sure where my voice lies.” I then fell silent, as my eyes began to water.

Timothy must have sensed the emotional turmoil I was going through, “Well that is a good beginning,” he said, his face failing to confirm his statement. Rather, every person in the group had a sorry look. I immediately knew I was far from being a good speaker or debater.

“Team we have some work with this one. Charles, practice with Rob daily from now on. Every day 30 minutes stand with him in the hall, build his confidence and poise. Mabel take care of his reeducation as a speaker. The rest of us will turn him into a debater. Let us commence people, love your roles, be your roles and let us make this happen.” Timothy had spoken.

For the following weeks, every day after class I found myself with Charles and Mercy. They trained me on posture, pitch, energy, projection and so on. They had to rewire my thinking and compensate for my slight deafness. They were gracious, I was grateful.

One day after 3 months of continuous training and attending debate competitions, Ms. Dailey came with a list. “Team I have the arrangement for the placement of ‘The Continental Debate Competitions’. I have all of you taking different categories. New to the list and in his own category, the youngest in the group is Rob.” Everyone clapped and sounded positive about my inclusion. Nevertheless, I could sense their collective gasp.

“Yes! Most of you took at least a year to get to the competitive stage, with a lot of practice. Yet in Rob’s case, the opportunity is there for us to risk it all, and learn in the process. We have remained undefeated in this region for more than 6 years, but in the same period, we have never scaled to the continental competitions. The more I think about it, the more I believe we are approaching it the wrong way. Charles, Mercy and Timothy, double your effort with Rob. Also, double your weekly debate sessions. You will be spending more time prepping.”  

There was a collective gasp, this time audible.

“If we don’t put in double the effort, we are not going to achieve our goal. We need to master our material. I am introducing Professor Thune from the University. He will be joining us for the second time in six years to walk this journey with us. You all know him from his lectures on public speaking and debate, done last semester.” The whole team celebrated. The professor was a joy. His humor and wit were legendary despite his old age. An unkempt man, he wore a single woolen suit for extended periods. He had long hair, a small stub of moustache and barely any beard. He looked younger than his 64 years. He had a youthful spark in his eyes that twinkled with mischief.

When I saw him, he walked up to me and patted me on the head, and then pulled my cheeks. “Young man you need some food to fill these cheeks. He then handed me a piece of homemade sandwich. We talked for a long time about my short life and my dreams. I guess he took a liking to me because the following day he came to my practice session and took charge. The difference a week later was striking.

I was standing in front of an auditorium. The hall full, and as tradition dictated before competition season began, the school would hold debate night where teams would present for and against topics pertinent for the competition season. I was the 11 year old who would represent the school in the junior category. The lowest category in the competition. This was a first and everyone wanted to know what the new kid with a speech impediment, from the slum could do. As I rose to walk to the podium, my mouth went dry. I could sense the fear creeping up my spine on its way to my brain.

Professor Thune had given me a mental picture to work with, “imagine speaking to a stadium of people, where every word you speak carries an emotion. If well served this word can carry thousands into a vortex. A rollercoaster only you can express.” He made me practice this repeatedly until I could visualize what I wanted to say, and then articulate it despite the fear.  

It was time for me to show whether his training was of any value. I took the steps and rose slightly behind the podium. Two stacks of boxes allowed me to rise to a height seen clearly.

I swallowed, and then began.

Ladies and gentlemen, young and old. I would like to tell you a story...

That is how my speaking career began. It was interesting to observe people smile, some riveted by the story I shared giving them an insight into my life. After 10 minutes, I ended my short speech by thanking the audience. There was a pause, then a clap, then two, and then thunderous clapping filled the hall. As everyone stood up. I was shocked.

For 10 minutes, I had been able to tell my story with such emotional tone that I connected with everyone, whether for me or against me.

After my speech, the debate began. I was able to defend the ideas I had sufficiently. The school magazine said, “Rob is posed to be a great speaker and orator.” Dubbed the “Viral One”. As the debate season began, I took the debating world by storm. My desire to rise to the top was intense. I was competing with people 2 years older, and they assumed the small looking timid boy was a push over. What a fatal mistake they made. I was ferocious, winning all my debates and by great margins. For the first time, my category tipped the scale for the school and we attended the continental competitions where we were second overall.

When we came back home, we were invited to state house. I again spoke for 10 minutes to the president and a host of dignitaries. I had become a child star.

Suddenly I was ushered into the public eye, and all my insecurities began to rear their ugly head. Under Ms. Dailey, Professor Thune and the debate team, I was disciplined. Success brought out my dark side. I distrusted people, and only wanted to be around people who confirmed my brilliance. I became part of a crowd of wealthy students, who embraced me because of my star quality. As a teenager, I began drinking and partying. This soon led to recreational drugs.  

My mother warned me. “Son you need to know the opportunity you have is a rare one. You only have it because of providence. What is given can be taken. I was too high on my own supply. I had just sealed a contract with a local speaking agency and they were getting me nice gigs for a few thousand dollars weekly. I had no problem graduating at the top of my class, but I was proud, arrogant, egoistic and spiteful of Martha and her wealth.

My mother and Martha would sit. Mom would cry and confess that she had lost control of her beloved son. He was making too much money not knowing what to do with it. Martha asked my mother to be patient.

I moved to my own house when I was eighteen (18) and bunked with rich friends. I would spend my weekends balancing between clubbing and speaking engagements. I tried to maintain this duality. One day as I was giving a motivational speech I hit rock bottom. I was overwhelmed by guilt. I was a terrible liar. I had started using recreational drugs, and living a debased life. I begged to leave the event early and went to my house. For the next month, I did not take any calls and went through one of the darkest moments in my life. I lost credibility and the contract with the speaking agency evaporated.

It was during this time that Martha came to visit. The two bedroomed apartment was airy and nicely patched overlooking the sea, but there was still a stench of drugs. Clothes were lying everywhere and I had not taken a shower for a while.

“Rob you know I never told you about my life.” She paused looking for the right words, “I grew up poor and went through a lot of physical abuse from my parents. I ran away before I was 15 and led a life of hard drugs. Years later, I was able to find sanity, went to school, and became a lawyer.”

“Your story of pain and rejection needs to be heard, you need to heal from that or it will destroy you. You may have thought success and money would save you, but being respected at a young age, and becoming a celebrated child speaker, only brought you closer to the pain you needed to handle.”

“I want you to take some time to talk to someone, heal, before you get back to speaking and affecting lives. You have a gift Rob. Despite your hearing impediment, you can move people. When we listen to you, we feel anything is possible. Appreciate that, and be grateful. No one is born in the wild and becomes successful by themselves. If they think so, they are setting themselves up for failure.” I nodded.

A few days later, I was at mother’s house eating a lovely meal she had made me. “I feel I have missed out on something.”  I said. “What is it son?” She inquired.  “I am not sure.” I responded halfheartedly.

As I lived with his mother, I noticed I was the center of attention for many people. One evening as I walked through a dark alley, I suddenly felt hands dragging me into a darker corner. I could not see faces, but I sensed five people. Instinctively I knew it was the five bullies from back in the day.   

“You think you can come here and flaunt your wealth,” a voice in the dark spoke loathingly. I felt fists landing on me, and then heavy objects started hitting my back, head and arms with ferocity. I faded away as kicks and punches intensified.

When I faded back in, I was still lying in the dirt, alone. I tried crawling to the light, then lost consciousness.

When I woke up again, I had heavy casts on both legs, and one of my arms, and I could not open one eye. I was in excruciating pain. All I could spare was a groan. My mother was standing and looking down at me lovingly. She had been crying for a while. Martha was by her side, holding her arm. They took care of me for the 2 months it took for the casts to come off.

I had compound fractures on both legs and arm. The injury to my eye required specialized surgery, which called for all the money I had in the bank and more. For a long time I lost any taste for food and was mildly depressed. “You are lucky to be alive, they beat you to an inch of your life,” said the police officer who came to visit me at Martha’s mansion where I was recuperating. “We were able to investigate and discover the five young men who attacked you. Unfortunately, we do not have any leads to connect them to this crime. Intelligence confirms they are part of a gang that is terrorizing the area.”

After the police left, I slept in fits of rage wondering why the world was so unfair. Why did I deserve such a vicious attack? I had nightmares where I woke up drenched in sweat and the pain in my heart was more potent than the broken bones. As the weeks passed, another complication arose with one of the fractures developing an infection. I was rushed to hospital.

I was so sick I felt like I was tottering on death. I shared a room with another patient in his late 50s, a pleasant man who smiled when I was brought back from the operating table. He spoke gently and laughed often.

“Young man, your last few weeks have been horrid, but I think there is a deeper reason why you survived and are going through such pain. I think it is a gift to wake up and still be alive. I think we live not for our own gain but for the gain of others. I have lived with pancreatic cancer for the last decade and the pain has been distressing, I have gone in and out of depression over this time, and lost weight and the ability to function, as I would have wished. In this journey, I discovered my purpose. I have set up a foundation that helps terminal cancer victims and their families. I have found more meaning in the last 4 years, than all my successful years in business. I am actually ready to die, because I know I have done good. You are lucky because you found and nurtured your gift, you need to turn it into good use or else, you are no better than the people who did you harm.”

 That night as I tossed and turned, I felt ashamed entertaining my self-indulgent pain. Two weeks later, the man was rushed to ICU. He was pronounced dead a few hours later. I wept bitterly that day.

I had a few more weeks to medicate in bed, but by the time I was coming for therapy, I knew what I was going to do with my future. Rather than run away from what had happened I was going to go back to the slum, and set up a foundation.

“I am going to start a foundation that funds education for the poor living in this slum, through my speaking. I will set up a center in the slum with books, and invite the youth to come and gain a skill.” I mentioned this to Martha and my mother. They were so excited. Martha and Derrick offered to fund the launch. In the weeks that followed, I was able to get money from friends to fund five students who were brilliant in school, but lacked the funds to pay for school fees, uniforms and books. Almost instantaneously, I started having people who were looking out for me.

Three months later, I got an anonymous call. “I know what we did to you was wrong but, I have been feeling guilty for what we did especially after three of us died in a botched violent robbery. I want you to know that we respect what you are doing in the slum, and you don’t have to be scared.”

This took me back because it meant people were observing me. I was connecting with them at a deeper level. Even those who had been jealous were moved by my desire to go back to the place where I had been broken.

The following day the leader of the gang came to visit me at the center. It was very confusing, but he promised to support me, and asked for my forgiveness. I was not sure whether to be afraid, act a saint or simmer in my anger. Wisdom told me to smile and wish for the best.

Fortunately, at the same time, I was invited to keynote an event in another city. In attendance was an old man, who approached me afterwards and asked that I visit him the following day before he left the country. I was taken aback by the request but I still paid him a courtesy call. His minders ushered me to a decent room in the five star hotel he was staying. My first inkling of his influence was how his minders treated him. I sat across the table from him.

I kept quiet as he introduced himself. “My name is Gerald Godan,” and I run Godan Enterprises. I have been coming to your country for a few years and I have invested heavily in a number of sectors, through subsidiaries. I heard your story of pain and redemption at the event and I believe I can assist you achieve your dream of funding education. I also believe I can connect you to one ‘Sparaco Inc’ one of the premier speaking agencies in the world.”

My mouth fell open. I had written myriad emails and letters to ‘Sparaco Inc’ to represent me, and here just because I had started giving back; it was handed to me on a platter. I tried to keep my cool. “Kindly direct me to the washroom,” I asked. “Sure, straight on to the third door,” I was directed. I got up and went as per directions.  

In the washroom, I sat down, and wept into a towel, for what felt like eternity. I then came back and thanked Gerald. Two weeks later, I was on a flight to New York to sign a contract. Suddenly everything aligned. I became the fastest rising star, appearing in prime time and travelling the world to give $50,000 half hour speeches.

As I got older and headlined stadiums filled with, 20,000 people and my name appeared in brilliant billboards. I was humbled by the reception I got. I was shocked by how powerful people wanted to associate, interact or be seen with me.

Every time one of my legs or arm felt intense pain because of the cold, I would remember that this was human nature. The attraction that my position elicited. I was introduced to some very wise people, who became my friends, mentors and teachers in business and life. By the time, I turned 30 I had started five businesses that were doing very well. Through my foundation, 10,000 children had received a scholarship, and I had spearheaded a training center that empowered low skilled people to get better paying jobs in the slum I grew up in.

And Yes! I still have that limp to remind me that I need to be humble. That despite my success I am here only because I serve humanity.

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