Unnoticed wonders of Africa

Sripathy Jayamaha

Africa was once called the continent that God created in anger. The Dark Continent. Black Africa, with man eating cannibals, witch doctors and poisoned arrows. Suddenly they realized that it was indeed the most blessed continent in Gods creation. Rich in gold, emeralds, copper, oil, breathtaking waterfalls, valleys, exotic fauna, flora and a population of sturdy inhabitants.

Then the plundering began. A game of dice. 'This is mine', 'This is yours'. Inhabitants are ours. Auctions with signs 'very strong, has human blood, though like animals'. Time passed. History, past and present has shown most beautifully the whole world and their invaders, that this continent has given singers, musicians, sportsmen, sportswomen, politicians, intellectuals of no mean caliber. The Africa that some wanted the world to know was rotating.

May I share with you some lovely memories of the other side of Africa. Nigeria, December 30, 1983. We were returning home. A group of Sri Lankans in three cars. A 500 odd kilometre drive from the North. To the South. We started early. Surprised to see no vehicles on the road. Only a few jeeps. Shops were closed. Stopped on the way for breakfast and lunch. Waves from the occupants of military vehicles that sped past. A real relaxed weekend as always we guessed. By dusk we were at a checkpoint usually manned by the police. Today it was the army.

We stopped. The men alighted. An army officer approached us “Good evening Sir, pray where are you heading to?”. We explained. He smiled “Did you listen to the news Sirs?” We told him then about our trip. We were not in the need to listen to news. “Wonderful, now let me tell you the news. “As of midnight the military took over the country. Midnight to dawn curfew. We apologized. “You people are great,” he said. Since we were the nearest to the checkpoint, all were requested to remain at our place till 6 a.m. “I want you happy people to have an uninterrupted ride. I will give you a motorcycle escort. Three more checkpoints ahead. So he said, “plain sailing and happy New Year - you all are the limit.” What an officer and gentleman. The two officers on the motorcycle would not even accept a soft drink or a beer. “Today,” one said, today is our day. We have to honour that privilege. Thank you Sirs very shyly they accepted a few pieces of Christmas cake. Some for the patriotic Army officer commanding the checkpoint. A high security point. He was a Brigadier. Sandhurst trained.

The country was under the military. I was at the bank to cash a cheque. A small queue at the savings account counter. A few army personnel walked in. One filled the withdrawal form and walked up to the counter with his savings book. An elderly gentleman in the queue walked up to him took his arm “Now, now young officer, you all are running the country. We are proud and you must also be proud and set an example. You know there is a queue.” The army officer, looked at the gentleman and at once put his hand into his pocket. A gun? I was scared. It was a hanky. He was perspiring. “I am sorry Sir. Thank you Sir”. He took his place at rear of the queue. “Well done. Ignatius,” said one of his comrades seated on the settee. He clapped. All clapped. Me too. Then the sweet old gentleman, went up to the officer. Shook his hands and escorted the thoroughly embarrassed young officer to the head of the counter amidst lots of cheering and clapping.

Kenya – 1992. First multiparty elections. I was watching a massive opposition procession. They were passing the GPO. A number of movable telephone booths on other side of the office. Some with facilities for those in wheelchairs. Those in the vanguard, bodily lifted the booths. Gently placed them on the pavement and moved on. A sign of protest. Unbelievable, those at the rear up righted the booths checked the workings and moved on. I looked at our driver. He smiled and said.

“I know what you are thinking. Just a gesture, Sir. It is the poor people who use these booths. They should not be broken. They are the telephones of poor people. Dog-eared telephone directories of the year could be found up to December of that year even in isolated unlit booths. Amazing.

Kenya tea is as good as ours. When commented on the lovely aroma of the tea, even in the smallest tea packets sold in the market, the manager of a tea factory in their tea district Kericho said, “My friend, this tea is grown in our country shouldn't her citizens enjoy the best. Others come next. Thoughts most sad raced through my mind - Our own tea to our own people. We were in a five star international hotel in Nairobi. My family and I.

A not too well dressed elderly lady walked in. Had passed security and the doorman. Inquiries. Tea was brought by the waiter. The waiter prepared a cup. He guessed the lady's uneasiness, shown. The manager spoke to the waiter. Smiles. Biscuits and cheese.

Another cup of tea. She called for the bill, while staring at the eatables. The manager came upto her. Said something. Smiles. Handshakes. A parcel and an envelope to the guest. She left. I spoke to the manager. “We did not charge her. Gave her biscuits and cheese. Also 1,000 shillings. Did not want to embarrass her, said she was the winner of the 100th guest competition. I congratulated him”. “Sir,” he said, “She is more valuable to us than all the dollar coated tourists. She is our very own.”

Yes I cried for my dear Mother Lanka.