A few (moving) visuals

Here are a few videos and a picture from my home, my village, the road between my village and Saboba after a storm, and the bus from Bimbilla to Yendi. Enjoy.

Seeing People for People

Preconceptions can be hard to shake. They are idealized images of the way the world should be, formed in ignorance, when reality is still shrouded; yet they are given so much weight in our consciousness. When our preconceptions come up against truth, it is often difficult to accept that truth and reject false though long and deeply held belief. Sometimes, even after seeing what is plain to those with an open mind, we reject it in favour of our previous notions. It couldn’t be that we were wrong all that time; we must simply be looking in the wrong place. We search for vindication of our beliefs, throwing away that which does not fit and including that which lends support. Slowly, we build up a fortress of falsehood from scraps of truth, blinded to fact by a more comfortable fiction.

Or, in the face of contradiction with our preconceptions, we change our beliefs. A radical notion, perhaps, but one that should be embraced a little more tightly if our thinking and discourse are to move closer to reality. Even if changing beliefs is something of a painful process.

A little context may be required for this line of thought. I recently spent four days in a  village about half an hour from Saboba, doing nothing but living with the people. The purpose of my visit was to see how poor rural farmers live and work, to experience some of what they experience, and in doing so to grasp the reality of the people we’re trying to help. The hypothesis is that by such an experience we will better know their problems, their opportunities, and their thoughts, and thus be in a more suitable position to design our interventions. Straightforward enough, except when what I see in the village collides full force with my ideas of what a poor farmer should be like. Luckily, village life is slow; there’s lots of time to think.

As mentioned before in this space, EWB promotes a certain type of villager: the driven, entrepreneurial farmer, always looking for ways to do better. People fitting that description exist, of course, it’s not fantasy; it’s simply a fortress built on scraps of truth. Whether or not it’s a sensible messaging tactic is an argument for another day; what it doesn’t do is prepare volunteers for meeting poverty face-to-face. The village I visited was not full of people pushing to improve their condition, working twelve hour days to feed their families and pay school fees. In this village the necessary work was done but not more, with the remainder of the men’s time devoted to leisure. Moving slowly from day to day, sitting around, listening to the radio, complaining to the white man about how they struggle; never once did they seem to be grasping at a better future. Even more depressing was my sense that they would never change, that they would never attempt to exploit their opportunities. People living without change and without initiative: not exactly the image expounded by my organization.

At first I rebelled against what I was seeing, trying to convince myself that the community was an anomaly sitting amidst a sea of motivated, hard-working villages. I thought that perhaps I had chosen the wrong village for my stay, that it was giving me an inaccurate perception of village life. But I soon realized that looking for the “perfect” poor person was not the point of this experience; the point was to learn how life actually works for the people we are working with. Whether or not it fit with what I wanted to see, these are the lives of our beneficiaries and we need to know their realities if we are to create profitable change. I needed to stop looking and simply see what was in front of me.

What I saw wasn’t the most motivating. I want to work with people that are pressing for something better every day, as those people seem the most deserving and will give the best return on our investment. But that’s not most people, in Ghana, Canada, or anywhere else. Most people just get by, without pouring themselves into work or being innovative. Yet the farmers in the village are still poor, regardless of their level of ingenuity or work ethic, and they could still use our help. These are the rural poor, our beneficiaries; these are the people we need to learn about to make ourselves effective. We can’t see only the ideal just as we can’t focus solely on the worst if we are going to design programs that make sense for most farmers. Programs that have ambitions of scale and impact have to be applicable to the average farmer, the farmer that isn’t entrepreneurial, that isn’t willing to sacrifice everything else for a few more stalks of maize. It’s that farmer we need to know.

I could have seen only what I wanted to see in the village and so maintained my inaccurate picture of village life, and I nearly went down that path. I almost rejected everything that didn’t fit, and almost thought about all the other villages I could have visited where surely people were making a go of things. I almost let my preconceived notions of what a poor farmer should be like blind me to the facts of how people really live. But if we are to do our work properly, we must see what’s there, see people for who they are rather than for who we want them to be. Let us cast off our ignorance, and so better serve.

Duncan

It’s not easy oh…

The time is winding down rather quickly, my days left in the office few, and in the field even fewer. Due to my tendency to procrastinate, the last couple weeks of my placement are quite packed with workshops, report-writing, and farming; I need to finish everything I can and load in as many experiences as possible before the flight home. I will leave Saboba on the 21st of August, early in the morning, and begin the ten-day odyssey to Canada. Soon, I will not be able to get anything else done, and I will have to be content with what I have achieved. And I will have to ask myself that most difficult of questions: did I really do anything worth doing here? Did I have any impact?

Impact is the watchword of EWB: we always strive, or at least strive to strive, for impact. For us, having impact means helping people in poverty, having a positive influence on the lives of poor people. In each of our activities, no matter overseas or in Canada, our aim is always the same. If we are not having impact through our actions, then we need to change our actions; if we are not having impact as an organization, then we need to change our organization. So it’s important, when all is said and done, to look back and assess whether you actually achieved anything for poor people. Because if you didn’t, something needs to change.

It is commonly recognized in EWB and across most development organizations that it’s difficult to have real impact when you are working overseas for just three months (which is the total amount of time I will have spent in Saboba). You just start to get your feet wet, gain a little confidence, and then you pack your bags and say goodbye. Every Junior Fellow knows this, and each one, before she goes overseas, thinks that she will be the one to break it, that she will have impact even though her colleagues and her predecessors failed or will fail. But then a funny thing happens: she lands in country, settles in, begins work, and realizes the mountainous barriers before her. The differences in communication and culture, the low capacity of her co-workers, and the ridiculous organizational structures rear their heads, and she is thrown back. She attempts to learn a new job, pick up a new culture, fit in in a new home, and stop missing friends and family in Canada, and she tries to do this all at once. It’s not easy, oh.

Once things finally settle down and she starts to figure it out, it’s back to Canada to tell everyone about Africa and development. And she wonders if there was any point in her little trip, whether all the money, sweat and tears was spent for any purpose. Most of all, whether any poor people are better off for her struggles. Often, the answer has to be no, or at least probably not, if our volunteer is going to honest with herself. Four months, and what gained? That can be hard to take.

Yet there is a little hope for our tortured JF. I said that EWB strives for impact, and that if we are not having it, we change what we are doing. So, if we don’t think the JF program is having impact overseas, why does it continue? It continues because we believe that spending four months living and working with people in poverty changes people. How can you spend that amount of time here and remain blind to poverty, live as you did before without attempting to do anything about the inequality in our world? It may sound a little absurd, but EWB is trying to create “development champions”, people who will come back to Canada, share their experiences, connect Canadians to Africans, and continue to work for the poor for as long as they live. That’s the rationale behind the JF program, and that’s how we hope to have impact, because three months just isn’t long enough. As difficult as it is to accept that.

Duncan

Simple Practicality

Canadians aren’t always so practical. We live with so many rules and hang ups that getting things done isn’t always easy. Obstructions built by us into our social codes make simple things difficult, even though the logic behind such rules is often hazy at best. You don’t quite realize how constricting parts of our society are until you live elsewhere, in a place with a different set of rules and mores. It’s a lot easier to see what’s what from the outside, and question why it’s so.

Take getting from place to place. In Canada, I would have to find formal means. I would have to buy a ticket, go to a station and wait for my appointed vehicle to come at the appointed time, taking my appointed seat. In Ghana, on the other hand, I can simply stand at the side of the road and flag down anything that comes by, whether it be a bus, pick-up truck or cargo trailer. They stop, tell me where they’re going, and if our destinations match I jump in the back. Sometimes they ask for a few dollars for the trip, sometimes not. We’re both going to the same place, so why not take a few passengers and make a little pocket change? Yet hitchhiking in Canada is a practice abhorred by decent people, who think formal methods of travel are the only ones possible, despite the inconvenience.

Or look at what would happen if the motorbike ran out of fuel on the highway. In Ghana, I would flag down a vehicle, pay a few dollars and siphon off a little fuel. They get money and I get fuel, and everyone’s happy. Siphoning fuel is another activity generally seen in Canada with disdain, and I doubt very much I would be successful bartering for fuel at the roadside in Manitoba. I for one can’t see any reason why this should be the case.

I’m not going to argue the Ghanaians are particularly practical either, especially given the institutionalized stupidity and inefficiency I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing. And I know I’ve only provided a few examples to stir your thoughts. But every once in a while I see something that makes sense here, yet I know would be scorned by the masses in Canada. Such contempt would come not on account of reason but rather by way of our social rules, rules that should be a little better considered before being enforced so stringently.

Duncan

Smiles Grace the Night

You awake, with the light on and your bed net tangled around your torso. Alas, you have fallen asleep reading again, and the night has flown by. Only a few hours remain until daybreak, but you may as well get a little proper sleep before dragging yourself to the latrine at dawn. But first, teeth must be brushed clean of maize and groundnut paste; coming back to Canada with brown teeth would not be the most glorious return. So you pull yourself free of your annoying though necessary malaria-preventer, and grab your toothbrush from your bag (its permanent home, to protect it from mice). Then it’s to the out of doors, flip flops on, straight across the compound and through the entrance hut. Careful going through the entrance hut at any speed, though: at night, your family ties the goats inside the hut, creating moving tripping hazards for all night wanderers. If you don’t catch your foot on a goat, the ropes will surely get you.

Outside the compound, the sheep, pigs and fowl wander slowly or sleep quietly just off the path. You need not wander far to find a place to spit, though it’s a little rude to do it right in front of the compound entrance. You move towards the edge of the village, only a few meters away, aiming for the space between a couple of mud brick granaries. This is your usual spot for spitting, and you know the paths well, minimizing the chances of falling in the darkness; on occasion, however, a certain pig likes to sleep across the route, and you must be vigilant.

On the short walk, though, you notice that your flashlight doesn’t seem to be providing much in the way of illumination; the black pig can be easily seen sprawled out in front of you, even without aiming your beam in his direction. As well, your shadow bobs beside you as if it is not the dead of night but the early morning. Soft radiance filters through the leaves of the trees at the village boundary; the night itself seems to glow. Taking your stand on the path, you look up to find a brilliant moon watching over you, shining with an intensity you have never seen in Canada. Outside its circle of light, the sky is filled with stars, more densely packed than you knew was possible; the Milky Way stretches across the darker portions of the expanse. The man in the moon seems happier than you have ever known him, and his smile takes all the fear and uncertainty out of the darkness; no one is alone on a night like this. You spit, and wonder at the life you will so soon give up, and what you will miss. This will certainly make the list.

Duncan

Unattainable Dreams, and Sad Smiles

We are not trained to concede the impossibility of a dream. We encourage every child to reach as far as they can imagine, to set ambitions in the clouds even if we know that they cannot conceivably achieve them. We talk about our dreams and futures constantly, always looking towards a brighter day to come and fantastic new accomplishments to boast about. Only rarely do we bring a person’s hopes down to earth, even if to do so shows realism and reason; to crush dreams is cruel in the utmost. Perhaps this attitude makes sense: in our society, more so than in any other society existing elsewhere in time or space, our highest aspirations are often possible, because of the opportunities allowed us by our wealth, laws, and culture. But such is not the case everywhere, which, as you may have already surmised, is why I’m writing this post.

Nearly everyone I talk to here, if the conversation lasts more than a few minutes, expresses their desire to go to Canada. They see our country as a panacea to all their problems: if they could only get to Canada, they would be released from their poverty and gain the prosperity now held from them. While not exactly accurate, they’re not quite wrong either: even as unskilled workers in Canada, these farmers and petty traders would have a much higher standard of living than they do in Ghana. Often, my relationships with these people are so shallow and transitory that I just laugh off their requests to take them with me, and tell them to come and visit me when they find a way in. Such a response seems harmless enough, and keeps me from the awkward position of making promises I can’t possibly fulfill. But things are not so simple when I’m having the same conversation with my host brother, who means much more to me than randoms off the street. With him, I can’t make a joke of the idea so easily, not when he speaks so dreamily of the possibility of solving all his problems at a stroke.

Most evenings we sit under the mango tree or in the compound, discussing whatever comes to mind. Often, the topic comes back to Canada, and the differences between my country and his. We talk of how almost everything in subsistence Ghanaian agriculture is done by hand, versus the mechanization of nearly every part of Manitoban agriculture. The culinary differences between the two countries comes up, but the differences are so vast that it is very hard to explain Canadian food to a Ghanaian, and vice versa; I make my best effort, but I doubt he understands. Construction jobs are few and far between in Saboba, which, given that construction is Samson’s field (in addition to farming, of course; almost everyone farms, no matter what else they do), is always worrisome for the family. So we speak of how construction is done in Canada, and the potential for Samson of working for a Canadian construction company. The conversation takes a realistic turn: we talk about the difficulty of getting a visa, the impossible cost of a flight, the low relevance of his skills in the Canadian construction industry. And we fall silent, quietly reflecting on Samson’s dream, sadly acknowledging the impossibility even while recognizing the difference it would make in his life. It breaks your heart to see him smile sadly, looking off into nowhere, as he recognizes that he will live and die in this village, and never get the chance to make from his life what he wants of it. There is no need for me to crush his dream with realism, as he does it to himself.

The part that nearly broke me was when I told him that if he ever needed money for something, especially for something necessary like fertilizer, he should ask me. As he said he wouldn’t do that, I listed off the kindnesses he and his family have shown me, how they are hosting me without accepting rent payments, and how I want to help if I can. He turned to me, and explained with a smile that this is how guests are treated in their culture, and he hopes that if he visits me at my home in Canada I will return the kindness. There was little I could say except that if he came to Canada I would host him for as long as he liked, and I would show him around my city; knowing all the while, of course, that I was making promises I would never have to keep.

Lives predetermined by poverty, simple aspirations rendered into inconceivable fantasies by factors so beyond one’s control. It’s hard to accept the inevitability of an impoverished fate; it’s hard to concede the impossibility of a dream.

Duncan

Cross-Cultural Swordplay

Certainty is always lacking when living in another place with an unfamiliar language and confusing culture. I never quite know if I’m doing the right thing, whether people are appreciating my attempts at integration or laughing at my foolishness, if I’m fitting in or offending everyone around me. It’s particularly tricky with my host family, as my relationship with them is substantially more important than any others, and thus each interaction is magnified in significance. They are a constant puzzle to be solved, and even after a seemingly favourable encounter I’m never entirely convinced I’ve been successful, even if their smiles suggest that I’m not going to be evicted immediately.

Cross-cultural communication, a favourite phrase of traveler’s companion books everywhere, is compounded in difficulty when staying with one family for a long period of time. On the surface, the more time you have the more opportunities to make mistakes, meaning you are bound to slip up at least once in a while. As well, given the greater depths of your interactions with the family, as compared to people on the street, there are more rules and nuances to be observed, which are often hidden until you trip over them. At a more complicated level, it is difficult to keep up a culture that is not your own all the time, and not desirable (at least in my opinion) in the case of a long stay. I have my own culture as much as they have theirs, and each of us have to adjust to the other. Such is not so with people only seen once in a while: in that case, I can simply adopt the culture as best I know how for the duration of our interaction. But within my own home, with my host family, I will not wholly abandon my culture for theirs just as I would not expect them to give up theirs for mine if they were to come to Canada. To do so would be to discard my ideals, my thoughts on right and wrong, and my identity in addition to my comfort and happiness, which is not a pleasant way to spend the summer. I will adjust much more than they, of course, given my status as a visitor in their country and in their home, but I will not abandon everything for the sake of integration. Perhaps that is selfish, as they have been so kind to me in providing a roof, sustenance, and warm company, but it’s more than I can give to abandon my culture and be miserable so that my family will be better pleased. And so we each make changes, in true cross-culutral fashion, warily stepping around each other, stroke met by counter-stroke, until we find something that works for both of us.

Which leads to some interesting experiences, even if uncomfortable and nerve-wracking. The stakes are high: this is home for your stay in the country, which in my case means several months, and if you don’t get along with your family, things are not going to be agreeable for you. Luckily for me, my host family is wonderful, but things can still be touchy at times. Like when I’m scolded in another language by the matriarch of the household for coming home late the night before, and have to make excuses about working late through my host sister. Or when that same host sister demands that I have breakfast before going to work, even though I just got off the phone with my colleague and I’m supposed to meet him right away (not that right away means right away, but I digress). Or best of all, when I’m arguing with my host brother about the validity of a certain religion, arguing what I think is right while attempting not to piss him off. I try to keep things on an even keel, but I often don’t know how exactly to do that: will they be angry if I stay out late? What kind of reaction will I get if I return my dinner only half-finished? Will they think it’s nice if I sit on the floor of the compound to play with the children, or will they think I’m a fool and yell at me to sit on a chair (decidedly the later)? Can I join in with the work, like pulling the goats into their hut in the evening, or will they be offended that the white man, the visitor, is getting his hands dirty? Every day is a new adventure in trying to keep them happy, while not sacrificing my own happiness in the process and staying true to my ideas.

I keep trying, making mistakes, celebrating successes, and forging real relationships that will be difficult to break when I leave in a month. My white man/visitor status has been slow to wear off, though with my active intervention to deny their special care, I inch towards becoming truly part of the family. It’s a constant struggle, but one that I am happy to take on, if only for the smiles of acceptance I am able to glean on occasion, and the feelings of belonging they inspire.

Duncan

The Furry Little Bastard, or Saboba’s Charm

I’m sitting in my small, stifling room, attempting to come up with something insightful to put up on my blog. I have turned down dinner this evening, as I don’t think I can handle two maize-based dough balls in one day. Of course, to get out of it I had to answer concerned questions about what else I had eaten today and assure my benefactress that I really, truly will survive without dinner tonight. Making such excuses is not my favourite activity, and not something I do often, but Sundays I occasionally make an exception. As always, I have a small bag of groundnut paste handy in my room, which, for those uninitiated unto Ghanaian cuisine, is akin to exceptionally smooth peanut butter and is devoured in large quantities by yours truly as an after dinner snack. Today, groundnut paste has taken the place of dinner entirely, which is probably not the healthiest choice but one that my taste buds are pleased about.

My quest for interesting blog materials is being severely disrupted by my room’s resident mouse. He has shown his face a few times before, but today he is particularly bold, and has run down my bed frame not once but twice, even after my threatening gestures the first time. To my satisfaction, I found a metal rod with a wooden handle under my bed, seemingly designed for smashing mice, so if the little demon gives me half a chance again he’ll have another thing coming. My dexterity is not stellar, but I’m hoping my rage will make up for it and I’ll get in a luck shot. Perhaps I should inquire about mouse traps…

The heat of the day has worn off to some extent, aided by a brief shower, and my room, although it is always warmer than outside, is becoming more livable by the minute. The washing from a few days ago still hangs on lines across my room, even though it was probably dry within a few hours of going up (such are the benefits, few as they are, of this climate). A gecko is attempting to reach my light by hanging out on the window screen, but luckily he’s not as smart as the mouse and can’t figure out a way to get in. Just as well, considering I don’t know if my gecko-smashing skills are as developed as those involving rodents.

Unfortunately, not all those who seek the light are as easily deterred as the gecko. At the moment, insects are gathering around my hanging bulb, and their numbers are growing. The fact that my door doesn’t seal properly probably has something to do with it. My bed mat is looking more and more inviting, although my mosquito net has seen better days, and I’m just hoping it can keep the fleets of insects away for at least one more night. It’s funny how the smell of one’s own sweat isn’t nearly as repulsive as that of other people, and how one can even become a little attached to it. My bed mat has acquired quite the unique odour this past month; it grows on me every day.

Groundnut paste, mouse hunting, and sweat-saturated bed mats: another evening in Saboba, my own little corner of Africa. She’s got a charm and a beauty all her own.

Duncan

Shades of Gray on the Continent

I sit on a stone under the setting sun, surrounded by farmers keenly interested in the photos I have in my hand. The motorbike has broken down once again, and my unreliable colleague is getting it repaired in the next town, although who knows if he will return once the job is done. The savannah rolls out before me while village life continues on its unwavering course behind me. The laughter builds as the crowd grows, the photos a novelty in the village and thus worth gathering for. I’m lost in a sea of incomprehensible conversations, but that is nothing new, so I just stand there, trying to smile and conceal my anger. Once again, the work we were supposed to do has not come off, spoiled by motorbikes, poor planning and a lack of consideration for the other parties. The African sun, a perfect ball of faint yellow through the haze, begins to disappear as my colleague returns on a motorbike I can only hope will last long enough to get us home.

The frustrations and pleasures of living and working in Ghana and in Africa. The broken roads, deeply rutted, impassable in the rainy season, full of threatening obstacles even the most skillful motorbike drivers have trouble avoiding. The rudimentary school system, where learning by rote is the main activity, producing generations of workers without even basic critical thinking or problem solving skills. The ease and frequency with which time is ignored, regardless of what commitments have been made. The provincialism of thought and the preservation of incredible sexism, even among your friends. The accountability upward to the boss rather than downward to those you are supposed to serve. Every day, being singled out as someone different, as a white man in a black town, even when all you want to do is fade into the crowd.

Yet perhaps I judge too quickly. As with everything, there is another side, things that brighten days and make you want to stay past your time. Like being able to greet everyone you pass, and receiving a greeting and a big smile from many of them in return. Or like your host sister bringing you hot tea and bread when you are too sick to take much else. Maybe watching that same sun break through the morning mist on the long trek to the latrine, or gazing at the herd of cattle being shepherded across the low-lying plain by a small boy armed with a slingshot. Feeling the resilience of people who should have long ago been broken, seeing them work harder than you ever have and yet always keeping a smile ready for you. Being overwhelmed by the friendliness of strangers who don’t remain strangers for long; being along is not an option. Sitting in the compound in the cool earning morning air, taking in the life around you and feeling part of it, part of a community in a way not found at home in Winnipeg.

Mixed is an adjective I think I will adopt with increasing frequency over the next little while. “How was Africa?” is a question I am sure to encounter often upon my return; “mixed” will be my reply. How can I characterize it otherwise? I work in a demotivated office with poorly educated colleagues, constantly foiled at every effort, yet on occasion everything comes together and a breakthrough seems possible, if only for a moment. I have to deal with a few jackasses on the street complaining about the racism of white people everywhere, but then there is Mohammed, who always has welcoming words and a place reserved for me at his stand. There is nothing I can say to make my experience simply good or bad; shades of gray will have to do.

Much the same can be said of Africa. Even the way I generalize about Africa suggests a simplicity that does not exist. I could speak of desperate poverty or inspiring drive, for I have seen both, but neither would be accurate as a description of the continent and its people. You can choose to feel pity or celebrate entrepreneurship, but I hope you will choose something a little more difficult. See a place with a mix of people, personalities, contexts, and opportunities, where the vast majority are not beggars nor are they entrepreneurs but simply people looking to work and feed their families. The challenges are incredible but not insurmountable, and the people are doing what they can to break down the barriers separating them from prosperity; yet often they don’t know how. We can make change in this place, and we will do a better job if we see Africa for what it is, rather than for what is easy on the mind. It’s considerably less trying to view things in black and white, and Africa has been subject to this sort of lens more often than most, yet reality is what is needed if we’re going to meet the challenge before us. Africa is mixed, and this is what we must see if we are to avoid failure.

Duncan

The incredible challenge, and those who will meet it

Watching talent and leadership squandered due to bad circumstances and stupid systems isn’t pleasant anywhere. But when those characteristics are desperately needed by the very country whose systems are wasting them, the frustration is almost unbearable. Such is constantly the case in Ghana: the system, in combination with poverty, hold back the most able and prevent them from contributing to the development of the country. For example, the educational system emphasizes learning by rote rather than applying concepts to problems, leaving students ill-equipped for the problem-solving and critical thinking skills so necessary to be successful in any field. Nor is that the only problem: teacher absenteeism, poor quality educators, and a horrendously long turnover period on exam grades (necessitating idleness even for the best students) further inhibit the potential leaders of Ghana. But I don’t want to dwell on the big picture; rather, I want to give a snapshot of inspiration and a story of obstruction, which together illustrate how far this country has to go and the incredible people it has to get it there.

Yussif is a friend of mine in Saboba, and until recently ran a food stand downtown. He completed secondary school eight years ago, although he did not get his certificate because he did not pass the standardized mathematics exam at the end of his final year. For the last three years of secondary school, his math teacher was not, in fact, a math teacher, but a teacher of a different specialization told to teach math because that was what the school required. Needless to say, Yussif and his classmates did not learn much from a man that knew as little or less than they did about the discipline, and thus were severely handicapped for the final exam. Because he did not complete math, Yussif could not enter the university, and because his father refused to assist him (a necessity, as paying for school yourself is almost impossible), he has remained out of school, supporting his family and attempting to pass the exam. Each time he makes an attempt, he must travel to the regional capital for months at a time, an expensive proposition, and take courses to prepare for the final exams in all subject areas. Although he has completed the other subjects, if he only registers for one exam, the examiners will know he only needs that course, and Yussif claims they will thus fail him automatically so that he keeps coming back and paying fees. So each time he must study for subjects he has already passed, and write the exams, just to get his mathematics credit.

Frustrating, yes, but common as well, and I might not write this if I did not know the talent and passion being squandered by poverty and poor government. Yussif knows nine languages, has an amazing way with people, and possesses the sort of natural leadership that is seldom taught but rather gifted. His repeated attempts to pass the examinations, the long and arduous path he has set for himself in order to pay his way through university and support his family at the same time, and his unfailing ambition to study abroad speak to his determination and high aspirations. Here is a man who can help to lead his country out of poverty towards a better existence, yet it is that country that is putting a thousand roadblocks in the way. There’s no malice in it, with the possible exception of the examiners at the remedial school; the problems are in the system and in the circumstances. An educational system that does not teach how to learn or think, incompetent teachers and administrators, a government that fails to promote the best and brightest to achieve everything they are capable of, poverty that stunts development and cages brilliance to where it can accomplish nothing. Everyone knows development will not happen without African leaders to lead it; the first step is for the continent to produce the leaders it needs. At the moment, it is failing to do so.

Yussif is now back in the regional capital of Tamale, after scraping together the funds for the course and exam registration and living accommodations. How exactly he will study through the next few months and keep his stomach full at the same time, he is not quite sure. Though we miss him in Saboba, nothing would be worse than him being forced home for a lack of money. I wish him luck, and hope to be showing him around my country someday soon to return the favour.

Duncan