Mohammed Owusu

Every morning, the acrid smell of burning plastic from Agbogbloshie, Ghana, greets me as I walk to the bus stop. It’s a constant reminder of the harsh reality faced by the thousands of young people who work there. As I wait for the bus, I can’t help but notice the stark contrast between my life and theirs. I’m 43 now, and though life hasn’t always been easy, I’m grateful for the opportunities that have led me to where I am today.

I work for a non-profit here in Accra, focused on keeping children out of Agbogbloshie, a place the locals call "Sodom." The name fits—it's a place of destruction, where the soil is blackened, and the air thick with toxic smoke. It’s difficult to describe the sight of children rummaging through e-waste, their small hands pulling apart old electronics in search of metals like copper. The desperation in their eyes is something I carry with me, even as I try to forget.

Today, I’m headed to our daycare center, one of the few bright spots in this dark situation. The children we care for come from the streets of Accra, many with stories too painful to tell. Here, they receive a warm meal, medical care, and most importantly, the attention of people who genuinely care about their futures. I often find myself spending extra time with the kids, listening to their stories and dreams. Some want to be doctors, others engineers. I encourage them, even though I know the odds are stacked against them.

The bus is late, as usual. But then I think of Kojo, a 10-year-old at the center, full of life despite his hardships. He wants to be an engineer, to build machines that can recycle e-waste safely so that no one else has to work at Agbogbloshie.

It’s children like Kojo that keep me going, even when the work feels overwhelming. The bus finally arrives, and as I step on, I take one last look at the horizon. The smoke from Agbogbloshie is still there, but so is the sun, fighting its way through the haze.