Deportation: Where Fashola Fumbled By Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo.

Rivers of Hope

Columnist:

By Rudolph Okonkwo

During both winter and summer, in the same layers and layers of clothes, he sits each morning on the platform of Forest Hills train station. The stench from his body, unwashed for months, hits your nostril from 200 yards. His unkempt hair and beard rest on a heap of clothes stuffed in a plastic bag as he dozes off. Inside the F train heading to downtown Manhattan, his other colleague occupies half a section of the coach. Straphangers congregate at the other end, hands over their noses. Some days, he would be sleeping, mouth open and saliva dripping. Other days he would be in the pool of his urine or vomit or any other bodily fluid. Before you get off on 34th St, the woman with the baby would come into your coach, with a toddler in tow. In a foreign accent she would plead for…

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