:: Africans In Ireland
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Conspiracy Theory (Part One) 
By Baba G. Jallow As his plane touched the tarmac at Anjula international airport, Moses Mijofa felt a galloping sensation in his chest. No, it was not the bumping effect of the landing that made him feel as if a horse suddenly galloped off in his heart. It was the prospect of returning home after so many years of exile. The prospect of walking the beloved grounds of his dear homeland after twelve long years was in itself almost unreal. But even more surreal was the thought of what awaits him on the ground. Below leaving his safe haven in distant Europe, he had received all manner of assurances that he would be just fine. But how could he be sure of those assurances? Now that he had taken the great plunge into uncertainty, he figured he would just have to wait and see what happens and to hope, almost against all hope, that everything would be just fine. Down the plane he walked, pausing briefly to scour the environment with a pair of dazed eyes. Everything looked strange and somehow filled with a certain sense of gloom. Everything looked gray and dusty compared to the neat illumination of European airports and topography. He felt as if he had traveled out of the real world into some distant country buried in the gray and archaic past. He walked down, holding on to the rails for fear that he might get dizzy and fall headlong onto that sizzling tarmac. He managed the descent and walked along with the trickle of passengers towards the quaint airport terminal. International Airport indeed, he thought. This looks like a hamlet compared to even the smallest airports in Europe. And this regime makes so much noise about building the best airport in Africa! He almost spat out in disgust but managed to keep from doing so. With a sense of trepidation and a biting expectation of the unknown, Moses Mijofa waited nervously in line as Immigration officers checked the passports of the arriving passengers and waved them through. He knew without any doubt that there were some secret service agents at that passport checking point, just as they were everywhere in this country. But he had been assured that everything would be just fine, and those assurances helped him retain enough self-control to keep from displaying the torrents of anxiety raging inside his tummy and making his chest tight. At long last, it was his turn to be processed. He handed over his passport to a stone-faced Immigration officer with blood-shot eyes. He wondered if that officer was not on alcohol or some kind of drug. It was inconceivable that a man's eyes could be that naturally red. The officer looked at the passport and looked up at him. He then reached down and pulled out a drawer, lifting out what looked like a picture from it. He compared the picture in the passport to the one he had taken out of the drawer. Then he called out to one of the men seated in a corner behind him. The man came over and looked at the passport and the picture the Immigration man was showing him. He looked up at Moses Mijofa. "Aha, so you are the famous Mr. Moses Mijofa," the second man said with a hint of a cynical smile on his lips. "Well, Moses Mijofa is my name. I'm not sure I am the famous one you referring to," Moses said, his heart throbbing wildly inside his chest. "But you are this man in this picture," the man said, showing him the picture. Moses looked. "Yes, that's definitely me," he said. "All right," the man said. "We need you to come with us Mr. Mijofa." Moses Mijofa picked up his brief case and walked round the counter. He was escorted by two men out of the terminal and towards a brand new SUV packed a few meters away. "I need to pick up my luggage," Moses said. "And I need to tell my family what's happening and have them take my luggage home." "Your luggage will be taken care of Mr. Mijofa," one of the men told him as he held the door of the SUV open for him. "And you can see your family later, after we have finished with you. You can call them with my cell phone and tell them that just we need to ask you a few questions and that everything is fine." "But who are you?" Moses asked. "State security," the man said. "Just say that state security wants to ask you a few questions and then you will be back home in a little while. Now get in the car Mr. Mijofa." Moses Mijofa climbed into the car and the man climbed in after him. He was sandwiched between two stone-faced men as the SUV got onto the highway and sped off into the growing darkness of the dusty evening. The room into which Moses Mijofa was escorted looked more like a long, wide corridor, completely dark except for the flicker of two candlelights on either side of the wall halfway inside. Just before the flickering candles in the middle of the room stood an empty chair looking eerily like the chairs in which dead row inmates are electrocuted in the movies. When he reached the chair, he was asked to please sit down Mr. Mijofa. He walked over and sat in the chair, facing the dimly visible wall of the long dark corridor of a room several meters away. His two escorts stood behind him, their arms folded across their chests, as if they were waiting for somebody to appear or something to happen. A deep, ominous silence fell on the room, except for the dim noise and chatter of the outside world, which seemed to come from some other strange planet. Strange how the world could be reduced to such dark, restricted spaces Moses thought. He remembered Agamben's spaces of exception - created by law yet outside law, in which human beings are reduced to mere bodies that can be killed but cannot be sacrificed, mere homo sacer. He still hung on to the many assurances he had received that everything would be just fine, even though events since he stepped off that plane had proven otherwise so far. Was this a torture chamber, an interrogation room, an execution chamber? He remembered gruesome details from the stories of victims of this regime's torture tactics. They spoke of being soaked naked in ice-cold water in the mornings, followed by severe caning, tongue-pulling, violent tooth-uprooting by pincers, electrocution of the ears, the nose and the genitals. But he could see no electric outlet in this dark corridor of a room, and that gave him some kind of strange relief. "Oho oho, so this is our famous radical Moses Mijofa!" The booming voice seemingly coming from everywhere made Moses start. He glanced back and peered ahead into the semi-darkness from where he thought the voice came. "Welcome, welcome Mr. Moses. We are very happy to have you here with us tonight. Well, let me introduce you to our chat room where we are right now. Our boys like to call it the dungeon, but I prefer to just call it the chat room because that's all we do in here, chat with our distinguished guests like you." Moses could still not see the source of that voice. He glanced up at the faces of his two
statue-like escorts but could not catch their eyes. They seemed totally unconscious of his presence or the booming sound of that strange voice. Yet he knew they all heard it. He was not dreaming. "Relax, relax Mr. Moses," the voice continued. "You cannot see us from where you are but we are seeing you just fine and that is the important thing. Now tell us Mr. Moses, what brings you to our corrupt country as you like to call it in your speeches and lectures and writings?" ‘This is my homeland," Moses said, trying to sound as composed as he could in the circumstances. "I have a right to visit my homeland." "Ho ho ho ho ho. Oh yes, I almost forgot about your human rights and your rule of law. You like to use those words Mr. Moses. Yes, yes you have your rights and your rule of law and you always use those rights and rule of law to insult His Excellency the President of this country; and you use those rights and rule of law to call us animals - no, sorry not animals, what's the word I'm looking for - ehm - oh yes, you call us dictators and depots or something like that. And you say that we have destroyed this country and that we kill people and even that His Excellency himself kills people with his own hands and gives them to his crocodiles and steals this country's money. Did you not say all those things Mr. Moses? And were you not afraid that as killers we would kill you if you come here? Just a friendly chat here Mr. Moses. Just a friendly chat." Moses Mijofa was stunned. He was in a complete daze and did not know where or how to begin talking to his invisible interrogator. He had imagined that things might get difficult, but this was beyond his wildest nightmares. He tried to resign himself to his fate. If he must die, he must die with his integrity. "No I was not afraid. I have the right to express my opinions about things going on in my country." "All right, you have the right to express your opinions Mr. Moses. But can you prove that we kill people in this country and that His Excellency kills people and gives them to his crocodiles? Who told you that His Excellency has crocodiles in the first place? If you have your rights to make accusations Mr. Moses, you must be ready to provide evidence to prove them when required by your rule of law. So, do you have proof to back up your serious allegations against all of us in this room and even against His Excellency the President of this republic?" Moses Mijofa stayed silent. In spite of himself, he was almost trembling on the chair. Drops of cold sweat plopped up on his forehead and he felt as if he was being suffocated. He just could not believe what was happening. And he could not think of any sensible answers to give that insistent interrogator. He had not expected any of this. He had trusted in the many strong assurances he received that nothing would happen to him. That everything would be just fine. Now, his life seemed to be hanging by a tiny thread. "And just so you know Mr. Moses," the voice continued, "we have many, many files and documents about your activities in Europe and around the world. You think we don't know what you are doing out there but we know. We also have our rights and our rule of law. We know about your connections with some bad elements planning to overthrow the democratically elected government of His Excellency the President. And we expect you to tell us more about that in the morning. But we will let you get some sleep for now if you can. Take him away boys." The two men grabbed Moses Mijofa by the armpits and roughly lifted him up from the chair. They pushed him before them and marched him towards the entrance to that ominous corridor of a room. He wondered who the man with the booming voice was and what the hell all that nonsense about connections with bad elements was.
Caliban's Theory By Baba Jallow The voice startled me. I turned around. I was sure I was alone in the room and the door was closed. I thought perhaps someone was passing outside. But the voice sounded as if it was in the room. It was so loud and clear. I had arrived at school 45 minutes early and had gone into the classroom and sat on my chair. "Well you must be surprised to hear me talk." The voice again. I peeped under the table and walked to the door. I opened it and looked outside, left right, in front. No sign of any person. I closed the door again, fearing I might be going crazy or having a hallucination. I had heard of hallucinations but it had never happened to me. I sat back in my chair and vigorously shook my head. I plucked my fingers into my ears to see if I would hear any funny noises in my head. Nothing. "Well, well, well. You keep staring at me anytime you come into this room and you are frightened out of your wits when I talk to you." I got up and picked my book bag. "No need to run, my friend. It's me, Caliban, right here on the wall. I won't harm you. I can't. Just thought you wanted to talk because you look at me all the time. Figured you'd be interested in talking before your classmates come in." I stopped, staring at the Caliban poster hanging on the opposite wall. "Caliban? Are you really talking to me?" I struggled to keep from shouting or rushing out of the room. "Yes, I am talking to you. Of course, no one would believe you if you told them I talked to you. No one shows any interest in me like you do. For all the many years I have been hanging here. So relax and let's have a chat." I sat back down. "So you can talk?" "How else would I be talking to you if I couldn't? But tell me. Why do you show so much interest in me? You don't stare at the other posters in this room like you stare at me." "That's true, Caliban," I said. "I guess I am intrigued by your story, the difficult times you had on your island with Prospero, Ariel and the other spirits." "Ha! Prospero! The devil break his nose!" he cursed. "Prospero stole my island from me after my mother died and enslaved me by his magic - termites eat his eyes! Would I were able to lay my hands on him! Or have a single hour with that wench of his! He accused me of trying to seduce her. If I had the chance, I would turn his entire race into Calibans - the devil pluck his eyes!" "But Prospero is long dead, Caliban. How come you are still alive? Or are you?" "Dead? Prospero dead? Death is an illusion, my friend. Maybe half-dead, I would say. He is at least half-alive. You see him everywhere around you, don't you? If he were dead, he wouldn't have been able to keep me in this tortured position, these heavy logs on my shoulders, these devil's scales on my skin. You think I was born like this, all green with fish scales, stunted and ugly? It was Prospero made me like this - may his entrails fall!" "Me? Seen Prospero? How could I possibly see Prospero?" "Well, do you not see men everywhere with iron faces, their noses turned up as if they are perpetually smelling shit? Do you not see men on the streets, in the train stations, the airports, the malls, the offices - everywhere, pretending that they don't poop, regarding you as if you were some beast, monster, some sub-human creature? Don't you encounter such men all the time? Well, they are all Prospero - the dogs take his liver!" "Well, that's an interesting proposition, Caliban. I figure you'd say then that you too are out there on the streets, the shops, the offices . . . ?" "But of course. But unlike Prospero, I am fully alive. I'm you. We are all Calibans. You, me, everyone who does not look like Prospero - may he feed on rot! In this world, there are only two people my friend - Prospero and Caliban. True, some Prosperos are more Prospero than others while some Calibans are more Caliban than others. But there are only two people. Us Caliban and them Prospero." "Us?" "Oh, didn't you hear me? You are Caliban too, my friend, and you very well know it." "Hmmn. Another interesting proposition, Caliban. But tell me: where then do you place the Asians and Latinos? They certainly are not Prospero; neither are they Caliban. Aren't they somewhere in between?" "They ARE Caliban," he said, emphatically. "Maybe less Caliban than you and me, but Caliban." "Wow!" I exclaimed. "I guess you ARE right, Caliban. In a sense, you ARE right. But tell me, since you are alive, why don't you ever put down those logs and rest your shoulders?" "For the same reason that you can't put down your burden," he said. "My burden? I'm not carrying any burden, Caliban." "Or yes you are," he said. "All Calibans are carrying a heavy burden on their shoulders. Unlike mine, yours is invisible but you feel its weight nevertheless. Some of us carry it with pride and refuse to feel burdened and sad as Prospero would wish us to be. Some of us sink under it; take refuge in drugs, or some other self-destructive habit. Some of us try to become Prosperos by replacing our flat noses with pointed plastic ones, like that rat of a singer who now has no nose. Poor guy. Always getting into trouble with kids. And some of us end our lives in despair. You see it every day, my friend, don't you?" "Yes, Caliban. I see it everyday," I said. "It is very clear what you are saying. You certainly are very knowledgeable and intelligent. You cretainly are not the Caliban Shakespeare shows us in his play." "Ha, Shakespeare! He's just another Prospero, isn't he? But I don't blame him. It is all that devil Prospero's fault - the buzzards peck his lungs! He stole my island and subdued me with his magic and made a slave of me. He made me work like an ass and gave me the cramps and the pinches whenever I dared talk back to him. He hated the very idea that I could talk like him. He claimed to teach me language - may bees sting his green heart! Teach me language? He did not teach me language. He taught me his language, the fool! I already had my language before he came to my island." "He certainly was very unfair to you, Caliban. He refused to see that you were human like him." "He still just reluctantly accepts me and you as human beings because he is forced by law to do so. Once a devil always a devil! Did you see all those terrible names he called me?" "Yes, he was very harsh," I said. "You certainly are not a beast or a monster. I'm just sorry that you could not get rid of him as planned with Trinculo and Stephano." "Ha! I was a fool to trust those drunkards. They gave me wine and loosened my tongue. And I babbled all that nonsense about submitting to them and helping them kill Prospero - the dog pee in his mouth! And what terrible names those idiots called me! Devil, delicate monster, weak monster, credulous monster, perfidious monster, drunken monster, scurvy monster, puppy-headed monster, abominable monster, ridiculous monster, howling monster - they almost monstered me to death, the devil take them! And then in their drunkenness, they botched the assassination plan and gained us all the cramps and the stings and some time in that hell of a cell! Would I had never met them!" "But Prospero forgave you, in the end," I said. "According to Prospero-Shakespeare," he corrected me. "If he had forgiven me, would he give me these green scales, these fat red lips, this flat head, and have me stand barefooted on these sharp rocks, carrying these heavy logs forever? Look around you. Who else in this room is like me? But I will meet him in hell, and I swear I will ram these logs down his ghoulish throat. But hey, I hear someone coming. So, let's talk some more some other time." The door opened and two of my classmates walked in. A few moments later, Dr. Barbarese and the rest of the class came in. We all went along and had a cheerful breakfast at Tiffany's, remembering good old Holly Golightly and wondering what on earth became of her. Every once in a while, I glanced up at the silent Caliban and thought he was not so silent after all. I kept repressing the urge to tell my colleagues that I just had a chat with Caliban. They probably would have called 911 and asked for medics. Baba Jallow, a native of The Gambia, West Africa, is a doctoral student in African Studies at Howard University USA.
An open letter to the Grand Panjandrum By Baba Galleh Jallow You grand panjandrum. You call yourselves our saviors, yet seek to butcher our souls. You plant your malice-soled boots on our throats, yet claim to give us voices. You seek to cut our tongues with machetes of greed yet proclaim that you are teaching us the speech of freedom. You slouch in the dark and stab us from behind but claim that you are watching our backs. Now listen to what we have to say. You grand panjandrum, masters of deceit and pretension. Your white robes cannot hide the dark, baked scales of the devil's hide that bites your flesh. You cannot hide the hot streams of dark blood rushing beneath the white enamel of your teeth. We see the green malice flowing in the veins of your heart. We know that in the dark of night you become your true selves and melt into the darkness of the night. And you go about setting fire to our stores of knowledge and cutting short the lives of the innocent. You profess to be carriers of truth and wisdom, yet your minds are bursting with the slime of ignorance. The light of wisdom burns your souls and you would have us live in the perpetual night of ignorance, for therein lies your salvation. You grand panjandrum. You pretend to be philosopher kings and guardians of the lost. But you mortally dread the light of knowledge. Facing the truth is, for you, like staring at the blazing midday sun. The truth burns your eyes; knowledge scorches your souls. So you frantically catch and lock and burn. You run amok with the indelible blood of innocents on your hands. You frantically search for the magic wand so that with one wave, you can extinguish the light of wisdom and keep us all in the darkness of grand ignorance. For only in darkness can you grow and thrive. You grand panjandrum. You profess to be clad in the mantles of truth, but your palace is built with bricks of lies. Pillars of falsehood hold the skies of your world. The very legs of your thrones are built of deceit, the pillage and plunder of the blood and sweat of innocent souls. You chant songs of peace, but you think thoughts of war against all who would not bend down to the dictates of your perverted reason. You claim to feed the hungry by day, but steal their meager grain by night. You snatch the livelihood of the poor and wallow in the stench of ill-gotten wealth. You stuff yourselves with the choicest meats while keeping locked the granaries of the starving poor. You encourage greed and mediocrity among us. You claim to unite the land, but work to divide the people. You dish out meager crumbs to the unprincipled with orders to shred our social fabric to make us too weak to see your evil deeds. You have failed, grand panjandrum, for we see you in all your ugly nakedness. You grand panjandrum. You claim to liberate us, but try to shackle our minds with the chains of ignorance and unquestioning docility. You claim to open our eyes, but seek to pluck them out with spears of deceit. Arrows of poison fly out of your mouths, even as you chant your songs of life to us. You purport to build a nation of giants, but can only stand the growth of dwarfs. For it is only among unquestioning dwarfs that you can thrive. You cannot stand the towering size of truth. You are too meek to face the real questions of the day. So you gather around yourselves only those who can ask no questions or can ask only lame questions or questions pertaining to how great you are, how you are taller than the rest, more righteous that righteousness itself. Your excellencies sir, are you not really great? Those who dare to ask tough questions you brand as thieves and liars, evil forces that should be decimated, enemies of progress according to St. Power, threateners of the peace. The peace of unquestioning mental slavery and damnation. The only kind of peace that you can thrive in. You sirs, are the real enemies of peace. You specialize in waging war on innocent souls, and gloat over your malicious victories over unarmed and harmless innocents. You grand panjandrum. You erect mountains of immorality and call them the highest pillars of morality. You set up monuments of seething hypocrisy and call them the highest standards of honesty. You insist that your acts of cruelty are acts of kindness. You paint your unjust actions with a fake veneer of justice. You claim to give us life and happiness, but bring death and misery to the abodes of the weak and innocent. To talk of life in your presence is to talk of that which will never end. For you, the end must never be contemplated. You live in a never-ending stretch of a fantastic present and madly crave for a never-ending future, a future that will be the present unchanged. You insist that we all swallow your stinking lies as truth. No sir, we refuse to obey you. You grand panjandrum. You want us to weep and beg for mercy, to quake in our boots and tremble at the prospect of offending your weak sensibilities. No, we will not weep, for we know what you are. And we will not be silenced either. We will forever chant the dreadful truth in your tortured ears. We will shout it into the smoldering halls of your tortured minds like the deafening tolls of ten thousand gongs. We will shout the truth to silence your glorified lies. Your claims of omnipotence we will lay, like tiny grains of nothingness, beside the Illuminated and Illuminating Majesty of the Ultimate Truth - the Great Bestower of peace and freedom, the Awakening and Sustaining Glory of the Great Subduer, the Terrific Majesty of the Eternal Presence who fires us with the love of truth. And you shall lose. No, you shall not live forever. The end must come one day. So get ready, O you grand panjandrum! For you cannot avoid tomorrow.
Mercenary justice revisited By Baba Galleh Jallow Justice Immasculate Fanabululu sat there, his chin on his palms, his elbows on the large mahogany desk. He stared below at the defense counsel as the lawyer listed the various reasons why his client should be granted bail. Justice Immasculate Fanabululu did not really hear what the defense counsel was saying. All he needed to know was that counsel was applying for bail. The rest, as far as he was concerned, was of little consequence to him because he was in no position to grant or refuse bail. He was there to do whatever it was the powers that be wanted him to do with any accused person brought before his court. So Justice Immasculate Fanabululu, bored to death, just sat there and day-dreamed as counsel for the defense ranted on about constitutional rights etc etc. Suddenly aware that counsel for the defense had finished ranting about constitutional rights and the right to be presumed innocent until proven guilty and similar nonsense, the magistrate ordered silence and announced that this court would take a brief recess in order to consider the matter of the defense counsel's application for bail. Back in his office, Justice Immasculate Fanabululu picked up his phone and dialed. Some one picked up the phone. "Hello. This is Justice Immasculate Fanabululu, trying a case for His Excellency the President. I would like to speak to His Excellency please. He said to call him with any questions." Justice Immasculate Fanabululu was put on hold. For thirty long minutes, he sat there holding the receiver in his sweating palm to his sweating ear. He felt sleepy but dared not so much as move lest His Excellency comes on the line. He wanted to take a leak but dared not move. He pressed his legs together to prevent the pee from licking out. He was in such a hurry to get His Excellency on the line that he had forgotten to use the bathroom before calling. Now he was paying for his stupid mistake. He had been made to hold the line for up to one hour or more before and if that happened today, he would have no option but to let it go and change into his other gown. He had done it before and found himself in a serious quandary. That is why he always brought an extra gown with him to the court and kept it in his drawer, just in case. He hated this stupid case because unlike the others, he had received no specific orders at to what to do. Often he was told jail the defendant for ten, fifteen, twenty years, for life, as the case might be. Or he was just told, kill him. Then he knew exactly what to do. But on this one, His Excellency had not issued any specific order to follow. He had just said, I want the defendant jailed. And so he had to call to make sure because he did not want to do anything stupid. One never knows with the Big Oga. Better sure than sorry. And so he pressed his thighs together and held on to the line for dear life. After thirty minutes, Justice Immasculate Fanabululu jumped in his seat when the unmistakable voice of His Powerful Excellency suddenly boomed into his buzzing head. "Who is this?" "Eh Your Excellency, It is me Sir, Justice Immasculate Fanabululu. Sorry to interrupt your busy schedule Sir. Hope your day is going well sir." Justice Immasculate Fanabululu had almost forgotten what he had called the president about. Beads of cold sweat ran down his face as he tried frantically to remember. "Yes?" "Yes sir Your Excellency. You know we are always here to serve you sir and sometimes we hate to disturb your busy schedule sir." "Look you better tell me why you called. Don't you know that as head of state I have other important things to do?" "Oh yes sir please accept my apologies sir. Eh - it's about Case X sir. The defense lawyer is applying for bail and making a lot of noise about the constitution and human rights sir. But for me what is important is what Your Excellency wants me to do sir." "So why did you call then?" His Excellency sounded miffed, and that was not a good sign. Justice Immasculate Fanabululu could almost feel his very neck shaking. "Just to know what Your Excellency wants me to do sir because this lawyer is making a lot of noise in my court about bail and stuff sir." "You want to tell me that you don't know what I expect you to do? If that is the case you better prepare to go back to your country. I have no time for this nonsense. Anyway, send them to jail without possibility of fines." "Yes Your Excellency sir . . ." The line went dead. Justice Immasculate Fanabululu froze in mid sentence. His Powerful Excellency had loudly banged the phone on his ears and left him with the mournful drone of a dead line. Justice Immasculate Fanabululu was sweating profusely and shaking from head to toes. He had forgotten all about wanting to pee. He grabbed a kerchief and wiped his drenched face and neck. Clumsily placing down the receiver, he struggled to compose himself well enough to go back into the courtroom. He cursed himself for his stupidity. He was simply trying to please the Big Oga and look what he has done to himself. The thought that he might be fired and sent back to his native country to become just another face among the crowds of uneducated tricksters was too terrible to contemplate. He could never go through the same shit he had endured before receiving the support he needed to get on the list of interested candidates for magistracy in this country. He winced at the memory of the extreme humiliation he felt working as a pimp for corrupt politicians, cleaning the offices and toilets of useful contacts, sometimes being forced to bend down and get injected with streams of slimy rot. No, he would die if he was fired from that position. He would rather die. But maybe if he did the right thing today . . . Back in the courtroom, a loud murmur arose from the audience as a stone-faced Justice Immasculate Fanabululu surfaced after what seemed like a century. He wasted no time in declaring the outcome of his reflection on the propriety of granting bail to the accused. As soon as order returned to the court, he announced his decision. "After due consideration of the complexities involved in this very important case, I recognize that the accused have a right to bail according to the constitution and laws of this land," he announced, pausing for dramatic effect as smiles lightened up the faces of the accused, the defense counsel, and the family and friends of the accused. "However," Justice Immasculate Fanabululu declared, "the defense counsel's application for bail is hereby denied. The defendants are hereby sentenced to serve indefinite prison terms with no option of fines. Case closed."
Is aid, like Aids, killing Africa? AFRICA has had over forty years of empty talk and public gestures. But the impression that Africa is fatally troubled and can be saved only by outside help - not to mention celebrities- is destructive, very misleading and maybe all we can expect from the opinionated developed world.
I am not speaking of humanitarian aid, disaster relief, Aids education or affordable drugs. Nor am I speaking of small-scale, closely watched efforts. I am speaking of the "more money" platform: the notion that what Africa needs is more prestige projects, volunteer labour and debt relief. We should know better by now. The development of Africa is a story of many chapters. We forget that there are a myriad of answers. Things like Geldof's live aid and Bono's much publicised debt relief are just the first chapter or two.
I wouldn't send any of my hard earned money to a charity or foreign aid to a government unless every euro was accounted for - and this never happens. Dumping more money in the same old way is not only wasteful but intellectually challenged and harmful; and proves that no one is paying attention
If Malawi is worse educated, more plagued by illness and bad services, poorer than it was in the early 1960s, it is not for lack of outside help or donor money. Malawi has been the beneficiary of many thousands of foreign teachers, doctors and nurses and ship loads of financial aid, and yet it has declined from being a country with promise.
In the early and mid-1960s JFK's Peace Corps believed that Malawi would soon be self-sufficient in schoolteachers. And it would have been, except that rather than sending a limited wave of volunteers to train local instructors, for decades the US kept on sending Peace Corps teachers.
Malawians, who avoided teaching because the pay and status were low, came to depend on the American volunteers to teach in bush schools, while educated Malawians emigrated. When Malawi's university was established, more foreign teachers were welcomed, but few of them were replaced by Malawians,
Medical educators also arrived from elsewhere. Malawi began graduating nurses, but the nurses were lured away to Britain, and Australia and the United States, which meant more foreign volunteer nurses were needed in Malawi.
When millions of dollars disappeared from Malawi's education budget, and a Zambian politician was charged with stealing from the treasury, and Nigeria squandered its oil wealth, what happened? The simplifiers of Africa's problems kept calling for debt relief and more aid.
Donors enable embezzlement by turning a blind eye to bad governance, rigged elections and the deeper reasons why these countries are failing.
Many Malawians, I meet, think they need a computer, to add to the mobile phones they already have: -for what, I ask. Sending computers to Malawi is an unproductive not to say maybe an insane idea, without first doing the basics, like electricity to rural schools with maybe solar panels (Oh school buildings and better trained teachers might come first) . I would offer pencils and paper, mops and brooms: as the schools I have been in Malawi need them badly.
By the way, I only note what I see and make nothing up.
I wouldn't send more teachers either. I would expect Malawians themselves to stay and teach. There ought to be an insistence, in the form of a contract, for Malawians trained in medicine and education, at the state's expense, to work in their own countries. If they do emigrate then at least the country they go to should pay for their training.
Malawi had two presidents in its first 40 years: the first, a megalomaniac who called himself the messiah, the second a man whose first official act was to put his face on the money. When first elected, the current President, Bingu wa Mutharika, inaugurated his regime by announcing that he was going to buy a fleet of Maybachs, one of the most expensive cars in the world. After an international outcry the order was cancelled.
Many of the schools of 40 years ago are now in ruins, covered with graffiti, with broken windows and standing in tall grass. Money will not fix this problem. Educated Malawians are to be found, of course, working in the United States and Britain. It does not occur to anyone to encourage Malawians themselves to volunteer in the same way that foreigners have done for decades. There are plenty of educated and capable young adults, who would make a much greater difference than outsiders could ever do.
Malawi is a lovely place - much lovelier, more peaceful and more resilient and, if not prosperous, innately more self-sufficient than it is usually portrayed. But because it seems unfinished and so different from the rest of the world, a landscape on which a person can sketch a new personality, it attracts mythomaniacs, people who wish to convince the world of their own worth.
Such people come in all forms and they loom large. White celebrities, busybodying in Africa loom especially large. You might see them, cuddling African children and lecturing the world on charity, some even reminiscent of Tarzan and Jane.
Ireland's Bono, in a 10-gallon hat, not only believes that he has the solution to Africa's ills but he is also shouting so loud that other people seem to believe him. In recent times Madonna has hit the Malawi scene as well. I am fully behind visitors as everyone makes a contribution, but could someone move us on to chapter 3.
The arrival of celebrities has some benefits, but few answers. People with money feel more and more money can solve all problems and don't consider why this approach hasn't worked in 40 years. The answers lie in Malawi. If Malawians can't solve it, it won't be solved. And until every Kwacha of donor money is fully accounted for, no progress will be made and the ordinary people of Malawi will continue to get poorer.
It is a sad thought that it is easier for many Malawians to travel to New York or London than to their own hinterlands. The exodus of skilled Malawians is having disastrous effects.
Ireland must be a leader in the imigration stakes, but it has been immigration with a difference. Our Irish emigrants often left, uneducated, educated themselves and returned to make great contributions, having sent money home to their families in the interim. Malawians who leave are well educated and seem to have little interest in returning to the land that spent valuable resources on their education, particularly since third level education is practically free. I'm not that sure that there is a culture of a cheque in the post, in Malawi, but that too was a great boost for Ireland in the bad old days.
Malawi has no real shortage of capable people - or even of money. The patronising attention of donors has done a disservice to Malawi's belief in itself. Even in the absence of responsible leadership, Malawians themselves have proven how resilient they can be, something they rarely get credit for.
Again, Ireland may be the model for an answer. After centuries of descending on other countries, the Irish found that education, rational government, people staying put and simple diligence could turn Ireland from an economic basket case into a prosperous nation. - the Irish have proved that there is something to be said for staying home, working hard being a patriot.
Sadly the next few years may put that new found patriotism to the test, but, in Malawi, it may be worth a try. (Source: http://wellsforzoe.wordpress.com/2009/09/09/is-aid-like-aids-killing-africa/)
Oris Erhuero: Our Rennaisance Man On Nollywood, Modeling and Life I remember coming across Oris's name a couple of years ago and I wondered what part of Africa he was from. Oris, an Urhobo name from Nigeria, means ‘God's timing', and I guess it will be safe to say his life story seems to be tied to his name. Oris, the first of seven children, was born in the United Kingdom and found himself transported back to Nigeria at the young age of five where he found himself saturated with what it often means to be Nigerian: adaptability. Oris found himself watching the change in leadership in the Nigerian government and how much this change affected the citizens of Nigeria. All these experiences definitely became a place to gain inspiration in later life, as he found himself on the famous catwalks of the world (one of the few black men in the United States at the time he started), in music, acting and other industries. I got a chance to interview this man and one of the things that struck me was his depth and calmness. I was impressed. I hope you will be too. Enjoy the interview!
You are simply a man of many worlds - having been involved and still involved in acting, modeling, music industry, film and television industry- is there something that you just don't do?
I am flattered by your statement and view point on my personal characteristics. It humbles me dearly. I am passionate about my work as an actor. As actors, it is our responsibility to entertain people to make them feel better about themselves and their life circumstance. Since we do not know their situation and feelings, we have to stimulate their thoughts by our acting roles. I do my best to diversify myself and practice in many activities, concerning my acting career. I enjoy my work and hopefully would be considered a role model to others who intend on pursuing their career in acting. I can't be everywhere at once, and I do my best to manage my time wisely. No acting role is ever too big or small for me. The size of the role is concluded by the perception of the individual judging and classifying. I am content with seizing the opportunity!
So let's begin with modeling - how did you get involved in modeling? How were you found?
After attending drama school in the 90s, I moved to South Beach Miami. A close friend of mine, who was a photographer, coaxed me into the modeling industry. He saw the potential I had to become a model. During that time era, not many black men were employed by the modeling industry. Modeling was not my passion and I did not foresee how this opportunity would benefit my acting career. My friend begged to differ, and wanted me to establish myself as a model. This would lead me to gain the public recognition and exposure I needed. In order for models to become successful, we traveled to Milan and Paris to work the catwalks.
Being an African man - were there any challenges that you faced within the modeling industry?
Yes, there were a few challenges and hardships that I experienced when modeling. I worked a lot which overlapped with the balancing of my life and acting career. This made me unhappy, and agents felt that I should be grateful for being employed. Being first generation of a black model was difficult in the modeling industry, due to stereotypes and biases. It is easy to forget, that the world we live in, has unlimited possibilities and vast space, but never enough exposure for a single person to overcome.
What are the aspects of modeling you feel that many Africans aren't aware of?
I felt that we lacked confidence in ourselves, and believed that we could not make a difference in the modeling industry. In reality, we are a huge population that can impact the world if we would all do our part. There are other countries in this world with magnitudes of people who do not express themselves or their voices, because they are afraid of rejection from the modeling agencies. The agencies are busy capitalizing on black athletes and established stars, rather than focusing on upcoming new talent. It is easy to forget that it took five to six years for Naomi Campbell, Tyson Beckford, and Imani to have established careers. As a whole, we need to support our black designers and magazines. Thanks to fashion moguls such as Russell Simons, John Daymond, Jay Z, 50 Cent, and PDiddy, they have taken a major stake of the European fashion industry which can no longer be ignored and transformed their mentality by placing black models into their urban campaigns. Since the 90s, the urban fashion industry alone is grossing an average of more than one billion dollars a year in revenue and their primarily focus and target was on European designers and advertising agencies, thus discriminating amongst other races. We as black people, tend to be unaware of our own buying power and presence to take command, and move the fashion industry. We just need to retrain our feeble minds, change our attitudes, and change our mentality. Embrace the Obama affect. Educate our agents and advertising agencies. Don't become a displacement, and fall for the typical stereotype.
What advice will you give a young African who wants to become a model?
If it is your dream to become a model, please follow your heart felt desire. It is the excitement of your life journey that will continue to fuel that passionate flame that burns within. Never stop dreaming. Here are simple steps: follow your heart, passion, and desire. If you do so, you will always overcome and not fail. One of my favorite quotes is written by my mentor, Daisaku Ikeda: "There is no self-improvement without effort. Without taking action, happiness will never come, no matter how long you wait. A life without peaks and valleys is a fairy tale. Reality is strict, because it is a win-or-lose struggle. This is the way it is for human beings. Therefore, you should not allow yourselves to be battered about by reality but rather willingly rise to its challenges and use them as opportunities to train and strengthen yourselves." (Wisdom for Modern Life)
You have one of those timeless looks - do you still model?
Modeling is not my passion, but I do still model. I have been encouraged by my family and close friends. They repeatedly remind me of my many blessings and without being arrogant or selfish I continue to strive along this path. Throughout the years, I have keep in good contact with designers. I have noticed that with age, wisdom flourishes beauty. I have been told on numerous occasions, that I look tremendously better than ever!
Now, I know that you have acted in some African movies - "My" while in South Africa, "Sometimes in April" - which was set in Rwanda and "Hurricane in the rose garden" - which of these movies was the most challenging for you?
"Sometimes in April" was challenging for me, due to the fact that I had to be UNCOMFORTABLE myself in order to get into character. Let me elaborate on my definition of the word, "UNCOMFORTABLE" that I used in my previous statement. As actors, we need to go that private, deep, dark, place within ourselves in order to develop our character role. My vision was to have the world be educated about the tragedy and events that happened in Rwanda during the genocide of 1994. A lot of people were unaware of the truth or had distorted view points about what really occurred in Rwanda. I lived amongst the locals and became immensely involved with the locals. It was easy for me to communicate in depth dialogue with them. As each day passed, I grew into my character. I am grateful for the opportunity to have been able to visit the actual places where the events took place. This will forever remain near and dear to my heart.
I had the opportunity to watch "Sometimes in April" which was a very troubling time in Rwandan history. I know that you were in Nigeria during some of our politically troubling times - did you find it especially emotionally challenging being involved in the movie. Most especially, did you draw inspiration from our troubling past to act so realistically in this movie?
I was fortunate enough to grow up in Nigeria during the 70s. At that present time, I was a young child who observed my surrounding environment changing on a daily basis. I learned about politics, military life, government, and survival at a young age due to my exposure. I was fortunate enough to witness and experience life in Nigeria during those struggling times. It is honorable for me to have this educational knowledge. This special type of education is not found in textbooks.
"Hurricane in the rose garden" is a movie that discusses intercultural relationship between a Nigerian and an African American? Now, there has been a lot of noise about where to group movies such as these - should they be considered as being part of Nollywood or not? What are your thoughts?
A film depicts a story. It is classified as a film. It should not be categorized any further than that.
What is Nollywood to you?
Nollywood is the largest growing, and affordable digital film industry for Nigeria. It is a forceful and a passionate driven film platform that Nigeria utilizes to share their stories worldwide. Compelling and mystical are understatements, compared to changeable and adaptable.
Are there any improvements that you have seen in the Nollywood industry?
I am a firm believer of continuous improvements. I see that the Nollywood industry is extending itself to other artists in the west. People appear to be happy and content. There is no dire need for strict guidelines. They give the public what is requested, and so far no questions asked. I suggest that we continue to support Nollywood and be actively involved. Let's continue to keep making films. Perfection does not exist. The film industry is consistently evolving, and thriving to move forward.
I have to ask this question, being Nigerian and we both know how the average Nigerian parent is insistent that their child be one of the top threes (doctor, lawyer, engineer) - how did you convince your parents that you wanted to go this route in terms of your career?
I am responsible for myself, choices, and actions or lack thereof. I do not allow others to dictate my choices and my career path family. It is nothing personal. We choose our own career paths, regardless of the status cultural quo. I remain to be unwavering in my life choices. My parents taught me how to be self sufficient and to accept the consequences of my choices. I stood my ground, because I believed in it. My parents saw my heart's desire, determination, and sacrifices I took to manifest my career. After my parents saw me on television, they did not realize the compensation was more than comparable to what a doctor or lawyer earned within a month. I easily made their salary within a week. Being of first generation, it was instilled in me that I had to prove myself and push myself to work harder. Everything is perceived by visualization in my family, and thus created a learning curb for all.
What do you do to relax?
To relax, I enjoy the arts of cooking, studying, chanting, and working out. In essence, I practice to be well balanced (physical, mental, and spiritual). On a regular basis, I attend Buddhist discussion meetings and participate in extracurricular activities as well.
What next for you Oris?
I continue to utilize my innumerable talents by embarking on film production, screen writing, concept and visual ideas. My passionate desire, ambition, and determination is to restore the film industry back to what it used to be prior to this state of recession that we are currently experiencing. This is the single reason why I have my own film company, Myoho Films. Myoho Films is a privately owned company whose headquarters is located in the United States. I classify my film company as being quite unique, and it is crossing barriers in the filming industry that no one has ever seen or experience before. The impact that will be made by my company within the next five years will up the film producing ante.
I have once again reunited with the renowned, award winning, Haitian director, Raoul Peck to star in his movie, Molach Tropical. His movie will be premiering at the Toronto International Film Festival on September 12, 2009. This is the most eagerly anticipated film by movie critics everywhere. In conjunction with this project, I will be playing a cameo in the movie, Chicago Pulaski Jones, directed by Cedric the Entertainer. The release date has yet to be determined.
Are there any words of advice you have for someone reading this that just wants to be like you?
The best piece of advice I can give someone who is interested in being like me, is to look beyond what their naked eyes see. I encourage that person to be himself. It is impossible to be exactly like someone else. Feel comfortable in your own skin and be confident in your abilities and talents that you have. We live in a society based upon criticism and discouragement. People thrive on gossip, negativity, and egotism. Embrace and hold onto love, honesty, peace, prayer, and faith. Continue to seek and surround yourself with positive and uplifting people. Never give up on yourself. When you feel that you can no longer pursue your life journey; that is the ultimate test for you to keep pressing forward. My parents have been great inspirations to me. I have been instilled by my father with the following words, "get on with it my son." By having mentors and spiritual guidance, helps builds our foundation for our youth to grow and excel. People do not realize that encouraging words, gives us the daily strength that we need in order for us to unlock our fullest potential.
(http://www.africanloft.com)
Africa - China: A relationship of hope?
By Konye Obaji Ori After many years of enduring the rigors, manipulation and exploitation of Western colonial powers, Africans are hoping that patronage, peace and progress may come at last from the East, aligned by China. After centuries of slavery, wars and poverty, China has stepped forward to offer what appears to be a trustable hand of friendship to a lagging continent. 
The Chinese President While China has the capacity |
