Last week, I watched two people hail a cab in Monrovia.
Each was 7 -- maybe 8 -- years old.
(And I thought I was pushing it on subways at 13.)
Despite VICE guides and World's Worst lists and Wikipedia articles, Liberians confidently send their little ones out into the world each day.
There are no known kidnappings.
Parenting looks very different in Liberia: there are no school buses or foam-padded playgrounds. (There are, however, plenty of Crocs.) Every day I spot youths selling single sticks of Winterfresh between lanes of cars during rush hour. Babies tied to their mothers in cloth take six-person taxi rides and motorbikes. Almost any elder is "Pa" or "Auntie" and you can totally spank your niece or neighbor: the child belongs to the community. (DNA be damned! Apparently, it takes a village.)
Parenting took on a new form today on my way from work when I spotted a woman (a first!) selling newspapers between lanes of cars during rush hour.
She was 7 -- maybe 8 -- months pregnant.
Parenting took on a new form today on my way from work when I spotted a woman (a first!) selling newspapers between lanes of cars during rush hour.
She was 7 -- maybe 8 -- months pregnant.
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