Lived Experience

Country: Ghana | Gender: Male | Age at time of incident: 16

Note: Names, locations and elements of the story have been changed to protect the identity of the child involved.

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Background
Kojo (not his real name) was a 16-year-old boy from a small coastal town in Ghana. He was strikingly handsome-people often commented on his features. He spent most of his time near the ocean, where his father worked as a fisherman. Life was simple, and though his family was poor, there was a certain dignity in how they lived. Kojo's mother was absent, so he was raised mostly by his father, who, despite his rough edges, was present and affectionate in his own way.

 

What Happened
Over time, an older man with dreadlocks-known in the area as "Rasta"-began frequenting the beach where Kojo played. He would give him small amounts of money, send him to buy cigarettes, and gradually built what appeared to be a harmless rapport.  But what began as kindness turned into grooming.  Rasta started making sexual advances toward the boy and eventually coerced him into acts of sodomy. Kojo didn't know how to process what was happening. He was too young, too
confused-and eventually, too numb. The abuse continued until Kojo began to accept it as a part
of life.  Then, one day, Kojo was caught sexually abusing a five-year-old neighbor's son. The community
was horrified. He was arrested, placed on remand, and later transferred to a juvenile detention
facility.  

 

What Influenced the Behavior
Kojo's actions were devastating. But beneath the offense was a story of brokenness. He had been violated, confused, and left with no tools to understand or resist the abuse. Without guidance or intervention, the lines between victim and offender blurred.  This is the uncomfortable truth many don't want to face: abuse often reproduces itself when left
unchecked. Kojo was not just a boy who did something wrong—he was also a boy to whom something terribly wrong had been done. 

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Legal Outcome / Consequence

Kojo was committed to a juvenile rehabilitation center. Like most boys in the system, he came from a deprived background. But even within that space, there were levels of deprivation.  Unlike many of his peers, Kojo’s father visited regularly, often bringing fried fish and gari—a West African staple made from grated cassava. This made Kojo, in some ways, more fortunate.  But what he did with that advantage was heartbreaking.  Inside the facility, he began promising gari and fish to other boys in exchange for sex. He used food and attention—things he himself had once lacked—as currency. The cycle continued. When this came to light, Kojo was placed in isolation.

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Rehabilitation & Turning Point

And yet—even in isolation—something redemptive began to take shape.  Kojo began to show real prowess in dressmaking at the center. With just a few months of training, he became adept at using the sewing machines. His measurements were precise, his hands steady, and he showed great promise in tailoring. Despite all the pain and brokenness, there was
a quiet brilliance in how he worked with fabric—like someone who finally found something he could control, shape, and make beautiful.  When I met him, there was still a deep sadness in his eyes—but also a spark. He had found
something that made him feel capable. Something that didn’t involve survival or shame. Just skill.  Just purpose.  Hopefully, that gift will help him rebuild his future—one stitch at a time.

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Reflections

There are many like Kojo—children whose lives have been distorted by abuse, poverty, and neglect. By the time society meets them, they’re already labeled. Already condemned. But if we’re honest, we must ask: Who failed them first?

The justice system must uphold consequences—but rehabilitation must also be real. These are not just “juvenile delinquents.” They are stories interrupted. Lives still forming. Children who still need a chance to become more than what was done to them—or what they’ve done.  Kojo’s story is not an excuse. It is a cry for deeper justice. The kind that heals, not just punishes.

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Jasmin Zubida