Rati’s Broken Leg, Broken Dreams, and Redemption

March 13, 2025

In the muddy hills of Simbai, Rati’s world collapsed at six years old. A landslide swallowed his parents, leaving him an orphan—shivering, alone, and lost. Shipped off to Goroka, he landed with relatives who turned his life into a nightmare. They beat him until he bled, starved him until he was skin and bones, and locked him out in howling storms. “You’re trash!” they spat. But Rati clung to a fading echo—his mother’s dying words: “Learn, Rati. Escape.” That whisper became his lifeline.

He fought for it. Sneaking into classrooms, scratching lessons on stonesWITH stolen chalk, weeping as his relatives torched his precious scraps of paper. A teacher, Miss Lani, spotted his hollowed-out eyes and paid his fees from her own empty pockets. Rati studied through tears and aced his exams. At 17, he earned a spot at Unitech in Lae—a dream so close yet impossibly heavy. He’d scraped together K751.50 from odd jobs—cutting grass, hauling bags—plus scraps from pitying kin. It wasn’t enough. At registration, they shut the door in his face: “No money, no entry.” Rati stumbled away, sobbing, his hope strangling him.

Grief blinded him as he wandered Eriku’s streets in Lae. A car screeched—too late. It smashed into him, snapping his right leg like dry wood. Pain erupted; he crumpled, screaming, blood pooling as strangers rushed him to Angau Hospital. There, leg in a cast, Rati lay shattered—body and soul—staring at a cracked ceiling that mocked every dream he’d ever had.

The driver, rattled, spilled the tale to The National. A reporter hunted Rati down at Angau, found him crying in a rusty bed, and unearthed his story—orphan, abused, brilliant, now broken. The next day, the headline screamed: “Boy’s Dream Smashed by Car and Poverty.” Papua New Guinea read it and wept. LotriPlus saw lightning in the tragedy and struck. They launched “Help Rati Enroll at Unitech and WIN K10,000 Cash!” Bright yellow K5 tickets flew off the shelves, Rati’s name blazing across them. The pitch? Buy a ticket, fund his education, maybe win big. Posters plastered towns: “Save Rati! Give Him Wings!” Radio DJs broke down on air, pleading for action. A photo of Rati—leg bandaged, eyes empty—ripped at every heart.

Small businesses—market stalls, mechanics, coffee shops—snapped up tickets by the dozen, yelling “For Rati!” as they slapped cash down. Big corporations—banks, oil companies, airlines—bought thousands, their boardrooms humming with his name. Villagers in Simbai scraped together pennies, clutching tickets like they were lifelines. In three months, K1.5 million poured in—enough for four years at Unitech. Rati, hobbling on crutches, enrolled—leg scarred, spirit ignited. His fees were locked in for all four years, plus a K200 fortnightly allowance to carry him through.

After covering his costs, the leftover funds birthed the Rati School Fee Trust, co-run by Unitech and LotriPlus.com. It’s a lifeline for orphaned students drowning in school fee struggles, proving Rati’s pain could light the way for others.

He tackled Petroleum Engineering, limping to lectures, studying through agony, haunted by his parents’ muddy graves. Four years later, he stood at Unitech’s graduation, degree in hand, tears drenching his gown. The crowd roared; he swore he saw his mother’s ghost smiling. Today, Rati’s a Petroleum Engineer in the UAE, striding oil fields with a stiff leg and a full heart. He sends money back to Simbai, building a school so no kid shatters like he once did.

From a crushed boy in a hospital bed to a desert king, Rati rose—lifted by a car’s crash, a newspaper’s shout, and LotriPlus’s tickets that turned a nation’s tears into triumph.

Footnote: This is a fictional tale, raw and gripping, imagining how tragedy and a bold LotriPlus campaign could hoist Rati from the mud to the top.