When I first sat at my bamboo desk to learn the computer codes, my fingers were slow as old sewing needles—but I remembered how I used to repair a transistor radio by listening for the one broken frequency everyone else ignored. These admission numbers and cut-off marks, they tell only one story, not the whole tune. I saw my neighbour’s son, bright with his hands in the Sunday fish market, denied a place because his family couldn’t afford the coaching classes. The system needs someone inside who has counted the cost of that loss, not just the points.
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