Among the few PhDs in the village, I often sit at the front row during academic days in schools, called upon to give motivational speeches to young dreamers. I wear my best suit—polished shoes, and carry a worn-out briefcase filled with hope, and a voice tempered by the fires of research. I talk about resilience, hard work, and the value of education. They call me “Daktari!” with pride. Yet now, I stand at a crossroads of brutal irony. In one hand, an invitations to pre-university parties; in the other, a redundancy letter—cold, impersonal, and final. My walking style has changed—less…