Governance

You Lazy (Intellectual) African Scum!

So I got this in my e-mail few days back. I can’t hold myself from sharing this with you.

Caution: Please do reflect on this by substituting the name of your country for Zambia as read along.

They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day.

“It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.”

Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist.

“My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat. I told him mine with a precautious smile.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Zambia.”

“Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.”

“Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.”
“But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.”
My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those
cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who
shuttle between Africa and the U.S.

“I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and
dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many
other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the
IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put
me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga.
From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and
the healthy.”

“Are you still with the IMF?” I asked.

“I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the
next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the
cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your
government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in
Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a
check twenty times greater.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …”

He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has
not fallen for the carrot and stick.”

Quett Masire’s name popped up.

“Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the
World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.”

At midnight we were airborne. The captain wished us a happy 2012 and urged
us to watch the fireworks across Los Angeles.

“Isn’t that beautiful,” Walter said looking down.

From my middle seat, I took a glance and nodded admirably.

“That’s white man’s country,” he said. “We came here on Mayflower and turned
Indian land into a paradise and now the most powerful nation on earth. We discovered the bulb, and built this aircraft to fly us to pleasure resorts like Lake Zambia.”

I grinned. “There is no Lake Zambia.”

He curled his lips into a smug smile. “That’s what we call your country. You
guys are as stagnant as the water in the lake. We come in with our large
boats and fish your minerals and your wildlife and leave morsels—crumbs.
That’s your staple food, crumbs. That corn-meal you eat, that’s crumbs, the
small Tilapia fish you call Kapenta is crumbs. We the Bwanas (whites) take
the cat fish. I am the Bwana and you are the Muntu. I get what I want and
you get what you deserve, crumbs. That’s what lazy people get—Zambians,
Africans, the entire Third World.”

The smile vanished from my face.

“I see you are getting pissed off,” Walter said and lowered his voice. “You
are thinking this Bwana is a racist. That’s how most Zambians respond when I
tell them the truth. They go ballistic. Okay. Let’s for a moment put our skin pigmentations, this black and white crap, aside. Tell me, my friend, what is the difference between you and me?”

“There’s no difference.”

“Absolutely none,” he exclaimed. “Scientists in the Human Genome Project
have proved that. It took them thirteen years to determine the complete
sequence of the three billion DNA subunits. After they were all done it was clear that 99.9% nucleotide bases were exactly the same in you and me. We are the same people. All white, Asian, Latino, and black people on this aircraft are the same.”

I gladly nodded.

“And yet I feel superior,” he smiled fatalistically. “Every white person on
this plane feels superior to a black person. The white guy who picks up
garbage, the homeless white trash on drugs, feels superior to you no matter
his status or education. I can pick up a nincompoop from the New York
streets, clean him up, and take him to Lusaka and you all be crowding around
him chanting muzungu, muzungu and yet he’s a riffraff. Tell me why my angry
friend.”

For a moment I was wordless.

“Please don’t blame it on slavery like the African Americans do, or colonialism, or some psychological impact or some kind of stigmatization. And don’t give me the brainwash poppycock. Give me a better answer.”

I was thinking.

He continued. “Excuse what I am about to say. Please do not take offense.”

I felt a slap of blood rush to my head and prepared for the worst.

“You my friend flying with me and all your kind are lazy,” he said. “When
you rest your head on the pillow you don’t dream big. You and other
so-called African intellectuals are damn lazy, each one of you. It is you,
and not those poor starving people, who is the reason Africa is in such a
deplorable state.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I protested.

He was implacable. “Oh yes it is and I will say it again, you are lazy. Poor
and uneducated Africans are the most hardworking people on earth. I saw them
in the Lusaka markets and on the street selling merchandise. I saw them in
villages toiling away. I saw women on Kafue Road crushing stones for sell
and I wept. I said to myself where are the Zambian intellectuals? Are the
Zambian engineers so imperceptive they cannot invent a simple stone crusher,
or a simple water filter to purify well water for those poor villagers? Are
you telling me that after thirty-seven years of independence your university
school of engineering has not produced a scientist or an engineer who can
make simple small machines for mass use? What is the school there for?”

I held my breath.

“Do you know where I found your intellectuals? They were in bars quaffing.
They were at the Lusaka Golf Club, Lusaka Central Club, Lusaka Playhouse,
and Lusaka Flying Club. I saw with my own eyes a bunch of alcoholic
graduates. Zambian intellectuals work from eight to five and spend the
evening drinking. We don’t. We reserve the evening for brainstorming.”

He looked me in the eye.

“And you flying to Boston and all of you Zambians in the Diaspora are just
as lazy and apathetic to your country. You don’t care about your country and
yet your very own parents, brothers and sisters are in Mtendere, Chawama,
and in villages, all of them living in squalor. Many have died or are dying
of neglect by you. They are dying of AIDS because you cannot come up with
your own cure. You are here calling yourselves graduates, researchers and
scientists and are fast at articulating your credentials once asked—oh, I
have a PhD in this and that—PhD my foot!”

I was deflated.

“Wake up you all!” he exclaimed, attracting the attention of nearby
passengers. “You should be busy lifting ideas, formulae, recipes, and
diagrams from American manufacturing factories and sending them to your own
factories. All those research findings and dissertation papers you compile
should be your country’s treasure. Why do you think the Asians are a force
to reckon with? They stole our ideas and turned them into their own. Look at
Japan, China, India, just look at them.”

He paused. “The Bwana has spoken,” he said and grinned. “As long as you are
dependent on my plane, I shall feel superior and you my friend shall remain
inferior, how about that? The Chinese, Japanese, Indians, even Latinos are a
notch better. You Africans are at the bottom of the totem pole.”

He tempered his voice. “Get over this white skin syndrome and begin to feel
confident. Become innovative and make your own stuff for god’s sake.”

At 8 a.m. the plane touched down at Boston’s Logan International Airport.
Walter reached for my hand.

“I know I was too strong, but I don’t give it a damn. I have been to Zambia
and have seen too much poverty.” He pulled out a piece of paper and
scribbled something. “Here, read this. It was written by a friend.”

He had written only the title: “Lords of Poverty.”

Thunderstruck, I had a sinking feeling. I watched Walter walk through the
airport doors to a waiting car. He had left a huge dust devil twirling in my
mind, stirring up sad memories of home. I could see Zambia’s literati—the
cognoscente, intelligentsia, academics, highbrows, and scholars in the
places he had mentioned guzzling and talking irrelevancies. I remembered
some who have since passed—how they got the highest grades in mathematics
and the sciences and attained the highest education on the planet. They had
been to Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT),
only to leave us with not a single invention or discovery. I knew some by
name and drunk with them at the Lusaka Playhouse and Central Sports.

Walter is right. It is true that since independence we have failed to
nurture creativity and collective orientations. We as a nation lack a
workhorse mentality and behave like 13 million civil servants dependent on a
government pay cheque. We believe that development is generated 8-to-5
behind a desk wearing a tie with our degrees hanging on the wall. Such a
working environment does not offer the opportunity for fellowship, the
excitement of competition, and the spectacle of innovative rituals.

But the intelligentsia is not solely, or even mainly, to blame. The larger
failure is due to political circumstances over which they have had little
control. The past governments failed to create an environment of possibility
that fosters camaraderie, rewards innovative ideas and encourages
resilience. KK, Chiluba, Mwanawasa, and Banda embraced orthodox ideas and
therefore failed to offer many opportunities for drawing outside the line.

I believe King Cobra’s reset has been cast in the same faculties as those of
his predecessors. If today I told him that we can build our own car, he
would throw me out.

“Naupena? Fuma apa.” (Are you mad? Get out of here)

Knowing well that King Cobra will not embody innovation at Walter’s level
let’s begin to look for a technologically active-positive leader who can
succeed him after a term or two. That way we can make our own stone
crushers, water filters, water pumps, razor blades, and harvesters. Let’s
dream big and make tractors, cars, and planes, or, like Walter said, forever
remain inferior.

A fundamental transformation of our country from what is essentially
non-innovative to a strategic superior African country requires a bold
risk-taking educated leader with a triumphalist attitude and we have one in
YOU. Don’t be highly strung and feel insulted by Walter. Take a moment and
think about our country. Our journey from 1964 has been marked by tears. It
has been an emotionally overwhelming experience. Each one of us has lost a
loved one to poverty, hunger, and disease. The number of graves is catching
up with the population. It’s time to change our political culture. It’s time
for Zambian intellectuals to cultivate an active-positive progressive
movement that will change our lives forever. Don’t be afraid or dispirited,
rise to the challenge and salvage the remaining few of your beloved ones.

Field Ruwe is a US-based Zambian media practitioner and author. He is a PhD
candidate with a B.A. in Mass Communication and Journalism, and an M.A. in
History.

Let’s discuss your take on this. You can find me on twitter @bisiogunwale

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3 thoughts on “You Lazy (Intellectual) African Scum!

  1. First of, this is a very annoying script to read. The annoyance or anger though is born out of our ironic ignorance and collective incompetence. The theme and manner at which Walter sensitized his thoughts couldn’t be done any better to catalyze actions for transformation. Though harsh, his intents were good.

    Secondly, until we resist from being a homogeneous transactional society instead of a heterogeneous transformative one, consistently promoting and soliciting for value creation and not individual survival strategies, we’ll continue to cater for development only as a desire.

    Thanks so much for sharing this…I would love to also share on my blog but only after your permission. Cheers.

    1. Hi Jide,

      Thanks for the kind words.

      I’m sure you know that I do not own any copyright on the above article. I got it from a friend and I thought to share so please feel free to share also.

      I must also tell you that the article is sort of old and has been widely circulated on the internet early this year. However, what remains evergreen is the message it passes. The most important thing is getting the message across.

      Do have a great week ahead.

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