By Azore Opio (The Post Newspaper)
It was 1996. Early in the evening of a summer day, I stood staring out my Hong Kong apartment window at a hazy grey horizon. The Pacific, calm at this moment, was lapping lazily on the stony shores of Stanley. The sweet and sour smell of frying pork wafting from a nearby restaurant tickled my nostrils. In a few days I would be flying to Cameroon, missing America by so many longitudes.
Coming from the skyscrapers and the bubbling waters of rocky Hong Kong, I felt like a gigantic object sailing along the rubber-tree and banana-lined strip of tarmac that wove towards Buea. I had planned to do two years in Buea and keep on going on my itchy feet (I have done 10 so far).
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