Digital Underground - uXu - Underground eXperts United #uxu-563

### ### ### ### ### #### ### ### ### #### ### ### ##### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ### ##### ### ### ########## ### ### ########## ### ### ### ### Underground eXperts United Presents... ####### ## ## ####### # # ####### ####### ####### ## ## ## ## ##### ## ## # ## #### ## ## #### # # ####### ####### #### ## ## ## ## ##### ## ## ## # ## ## ## ####### ####### # # ####### ####### ####### [ A Saga Of The African Child ] [ By Simon Moleke-Njie ] ____________________________________________________________________ ____________________________________________________________________ A SAGA OF THE AFRICAN CHILD by Simon Moleke-Njie "Zo'o! Zo'o! Get up, it is already 3:30 am. You will be late!" the mother called. She sleeps in the only room of the plantation apartment, which consists of a bedroom and parlour. Zo'o sleeps in the parlour, on chair cushions. They had the flat thanks to the fact that he works with one of the many sub-contractors who has to supply the necessary man labour to tap the rubber trees in the large Gabonese rubber company. This is a luxury, as accommodation poses a serious problem in the overcrowded camps. Aliens from across sub-Sahara Africa - Ghana, Nigeria, Burkina Faso, Mali, Senegal, Equatorial Guinea, etc. - are here in their numbers to seek greener pasture. The 12 year-old kid stretched on his bed, sitting up. He got up, and walked to the adjacent wall mistaking it for the door. He hit his head and cursed. "Look where you are going now!" the mother said, "you are still drunk with sleep, my poor boy!" Zo'o stretched again - like a cat, and released a yawn. He went to the veranda, to empty his bladder. "Your breakfast is ready. You should eat it on your way, or you will be really late if you want to eat here," she said. The breakfast consists of 'baton de manioc' (a local delicacy made from fermented cassava). He wrapped it in a nylon bag, and embarked on the 10 km trek to the forest to work in the rubber plantation. He is the 'carrier' for a taper, and is expected to carry a basket on his back and walk behind his taper to pick coagulated rubber balls. Before the morning runs out, he would have walked several kilometres in the to and fro trips of loading and emptying his basket. He would also have carried several tens of kilograms of the product, and would return home worn out from fatigue, stinking of the rubber stench. Zo'o is a victim of child labour. Now living and working in a rubber plantation in the central African state of Gabon, revered for its relative economic prosperity as compared to the other neighbouring countries. He was withdrawn from primary school to become a bred winner for his family. He has X-shaped legs. For those who know the game of football, this is a potential for defensive talent. He is just this; a fantastic footballer who never will get a chance to exhibit his innate abilities, as he now considers mediocrity as the highest form of excellence. Zo'o is from the village of Ndengue, in the South province of Cameroonian. Born and raised here, there exists an emotional bond between him and his village. It was a painful divorce when he was forced to travel away from it, to the neighbouring boarder district of Gabon to work in the rubber plantation. The decision was reached by his mother who was more interested in the financial dimension of the adventure, than his feature. He had no choice whatsoever to decide his fate, and now finds consolation in nostalgic contemplation. He could sometimes be seen sitting quietly in solitude and contemplating about Ndengue... ... Ndengue is a typical African village; mud wall huts and thatched roofs for the average villagers, and block walls and Zinc roofs for the village bourgeois. The village is without any complications from a rural perspective. A major third world high way road runs through it, uniting all the villages along the way from the provincial capital to the river Ntem, which separates Cameroon from Gabon; a distance of about one hundred kilometres. The dusty road characterised by pot holes and large stones cuts through the tick equatorial forest, through rickety bridges and lethal hills; (quite slippery and muddy during raining seasons), ending on the banks of the river. Only very old and battered Toyota vehicles, usually pick-up trucks ply the road. Clusters of bushes and forests separate the villages. The drivers, mostly young men, take to the wheel usually after a few glasses of the locally fabricated illicit gin called 'Hah'. It is dangerous driving all through, with the Speedo-metre fluctuating nonchalantly between 60 and 180 Km per hour. Dangerous acrobatic swings of the car tell the expertise of a driver. This is a criterion for judging good driving according to their ethics and standards. Usually, an illegal rally would unfold, pitching a driver against the Police. Such a case is quite common; the Police eager to squeeze money and the driver not willing to part with anything, especially when he has in his car illegal immigrants heading for Gabon. The car would end up for repairs afterwards, having overtaxed its engine with suicidal over speeding. Sobriquets like "Fire-Man" etc. are boldly printed on rear screens; something the drivers are proud of. "I took 45 minutes from Ebolowa to Ambam", a driver would boast to his friends. This is a distance that going at 60Km/Hour, would require an hour and half to cover. It is quite often for them to increase speed in an attempt to hit an antelope crossing the road. "Ha! We missed it"; "it is a lucky antelope," passengers would yell. From time to time, a hit would be made, and the car would stop in the next village, where the dead antelope would be shared among the passengers. Zo'o sometimes thought about all these events which characterise village life. His greatest rapture is to think about the third semester school vacation that lasts for three months. As it brings home the village students from the cities, it is lively with colourful cultural, social and sporting activities. It is the period of ' who is who' in the village. College boys running after young girls dressed in the latest fashion designs are the talks of such times. Local nightclubs operating only within this period, are often times the rendezvous points for romantic encounters. And sometimes, some unfortunate young girls would have their academic dreams shattered by unscrupulous pregnancy. Zo'o thought often of how they would sneak on tip-toe silently to peep through holes on the walls of mud houses, when they see a boy and a girl go inside. His greatest fantasy centres on the sporting activities, especially football, which is his favourite game. There is an annual come-together within this period, which brings all the surrounding villages to vie for a local football trophy, popularly known as 'inter-village'. He was one of the kids who helped to wash and clean the village sports equipment, and local pitch. It is a highly competitive tournament, which unites each village; the coming together to defend their pride. The 'man of the match' would be the talk of the moment till the next match. Old men would be seen sitting in the Village Square talking excitedly about the latest match over local gin and palm wine. Each would come with something edible to liven up their debates. It was a moral obligation, sometimes, for Zo'o and his mates to watch and listen to the old men attentively as they spill wisdom in their narratives on various subjects about life, their experiences etc, while chewing cola nut or snuffing tobacco, with bare chests under the heat of the fiercely burning midday sun. Most of the old men would be simply dressed; usually with only a half loin on their waist. Zo'o was really missing all these excitement. Once after watching him display his soccer skill, he was asked what his greatest dream was as a potential footballer. "My greatest dream is to go back to Ndengue someday, and defend my village in the local tournament." Zo'o now imagines no life outside his village. Each time he watches his favourite soccer idol (Kunde Emmanuel) on Television, or his photo in magazines, he affirms the self-conceived fact that there is an unbridgeable gap between them, willed by the hand of fate. This philosophy he inherited from his environment that worships excellence as a gift reserved for the wealthy. Zo'o's fate was weave not by some blind forces, but by his society's opinion leaders, who shape policies to protect the interests of a few opportunists. Most of these intellectual dictators take delight in spreading the epidemic of ignorance so as to manipulate their subjects without any resistance. Zo'o is considered now 'a non-potential intellectual risk'. He has being properly dealt with, and many like him have being conquered for a lifetime; reduced to play the 'tropical tool', at the services of perverted sadists. With a clustered brain mechanism that harbours no worthy civilised ambition, he now takes pleasures in ignorant simplicity - eat, drink and procreate. As if this is not enough for one lifetime, his path has been marked to pursue vain shadows. No doubt his parents are directly responsible for his present fate, but they too are even greater victims of the perpetrators of national economic perversion. Today, his mother plays the role of his financial secretary. She has a book where she records all his hours of labour, and at the end of the month, she collects his salary. Zo'o has no knowledge about his income, nor does he care. He is satiated with a packed of chocolate, sweet- milk and a bottle of 'Top Orange'; his favourite juice, which his mother flatters him with after collecting his salary. Across the length and breadth of his country, it is a common practise for parents to condemn their children to mediocrity with the assumption of "I would rather my child learn a trade after primary school, than waste money in furthering his education. What is the use? Most graduates end up jobless, some return home to be fed by their parents again like babies. All they have to show for education are certificates and big grammar. Do we eat certificates?" Like this, the demise of education gathers strength. Who is responsible for this pessimistic school of thought? Could J.S. Mill's question on Liberty be raised here, that 'is it not a self-evident axiom that the state should compel the education up to a certain standard of every human being who is born its citizen?' Perhaps the most detrimental dimension of this tragic philosophy is the forced marriage imposed by a disillusioned society between education and financial prosperity. Of course one should get a job after education to end an honest living, but is this the greatest aim of education? ... Many philosophers of the past propounded theories on the subject; Epictetus in his Discourse, said 'we must not believe the man who says that free persons only ought to be educated, but we should rather believe the philosophers who say that the educated only are free'. This is a serious challenge that faces any legitimate regime, as Rousseau, on Political Economy said 'Public education is one of the fundamental rules of popular or legitimate government'. A bad Educational Policy is a moral crime against a state. The consequences might be misted by the present, but only a fool would underestimate the long-term impact. A nation inherited by a mediocre intelligentsia is doomed to become the boot-licker of her superiors - 'wisdom is the fruit of a balanced development. It is this balance growth of individuality which it should be the aim of education to secure', Whitehead said in his Science and the Modern World. When citizens pursue a strictly financially oriented education, the criminal class is being strengthened, and evil geniuses are brewed- patriotism then faces extinction. 'That education should be regulated by law and should be an affair of the state is not to be denied, but what should be the character of this public education, and how young persons should be educated, are questions which remain to be considered' - Aristotle. Polemics would do little for Zo'o now. He is the victim of a moral ailment; a socio-political system which has dehumanised the fibres of national ethics. His greatest teacher now is the world; his lessons are geared toward making more money. Parochial heroes influence his dreams, and his ambitions are fuelled by the desire to go back to Ndengue someday, and be the village idol. His psyche will never pulsate to the thoughts of great minds from the past found behind the sacred leafs of books... he cannot read! The story however is slightly different for the 7 year old Adjua, in the West African state of Ghana... ... It is noon, and Adjua is back from school. She rushes through a meagre lunch of kenkey and pepper, with the head of a little fried fish (a luxury to her). She unbuttons her school uniform, and searches around for her old dress, which usually hangs on a nail by the wall. She is surprised that it isn't there, and this inflates her annoyance provoked by the very hot weather, which zoomed within 40 degrees. There is nowhere else to look for it, as she lives with her parents and six brothers and sisters in this single little room. They all sleep on floor mats, except for her mother, who sleeps with their baby on a little bed. It is difficult to discern this fact except at night, as during the day, they all leave like birds to the different 'worlds' of city life; with one aim, to try and make a few dollars. And now, back from school, she has to play her role of selling chilled water to support the home. She finally sees her old dress under the bed. "Certainly it was dragged there by some hungry rat," she reasoned with herself silently. The building is infested by them. She dresses and collects a bucket of chilled water in little plastic bags from a neighbour's house. They employ the service of his refrigerator, and pay for it weekly. With the bucket on her head, she heads for the busiest spot of the city- the car station full of travellers and petty vendors. She does not forget her popular cry of "ice water here", that she employs to attract the thirsty. It is her only medium of publicity. This is a routine, and Adjua would return home usually at night. A bag of ice water was 50 cedis; and a return of 1000 cedis is considered a successful day indeed. It is worth noting that a 1000 cedis is not worth half a dollar, as a US dollar is the equivalent of 2500 cedis. Adjua has been trained to employ dishonesty to increase her return. This is usually employed through a lie. She uses her judgement to detect a client who would not bother about parting with a few cedis. When a potential victim gives say 100 cedis and ask for a bag of water, it is normal for Adjua to persuade with the words "sorry sir, but I no get change." Most often the victim would simply leave it behind. Her mother taught her this trick. It is a common practise among elders as well. "The total amount of 50, and 100 cedis I have left with you on the excuse of you not having 'change', would buy me a new suit in six months," a client once told a food vendor. "This no be true," was her reply. No qualm is felt about this, and the gnashing economic quagmire justifies this petty misconduct, according to the verdict of public judgement. Like in Zo'o's case, who would fathom the moral consequences this will have on Adjua? But Adjua would perhaps be considered the luckiest, while Zo'o's case would pale into insignificance, when one reads through an interesting News article once carried.... On November 26th 1997, the foreign page of a popular Ghanaian weekly Newspaper carried a story sub-titled 'Child Slavery hits West and Central Africa'. The story was quite moving... The slave trade is not over yet! In the central African State of Gabon, the buying and selling of children to do hard labour without salary was recently reported. According to reports from Radio Africa N0.1, Libreville Gabon, the case of a Togolese 17 year old was recently uncovered. This child, as investigations reveal, was sold by a relative to a Gabonese household for the sum of 50,000 CFA (about 85 US dollars). The relative had earlier on promised the parent of the child that she was taking him to Nigeria to continue his education. The child was 7 years old then. He worked for ten years as a slave, until early this year when he ran from home, and was advised to go to the Police, who took up the matter. As he narrated his story to Africa N0.1, he did all the menial jobs in the house, slept on the floor, and had enough food only when there was leftovers. The Police are still looking for the perpetrators of this unholy trade, who when caught would be brought to book, according to Gabonese law. As sources disclosed, the child would be paid ten years salary as stipulated by the Gabonese labour constitution, which fixes a minimum monthly salary at 60.000CFA ($100 US). This will net him about 7.2 million CFA a decade, about $13.000 US. He was sent to Togo by the Gabonese authorities, while investigations continued. The authorities are trying to crack down on the unholy trade which reports say, is greatly practised in West Africa. Children are kidnapped or stolen and smuggled from especially Togo, Benin, and Nigeria to be sold in Gabon for between fifty and seventy-five thousand CFA, to do all sorts of menial jobs including house cleaning, to selling for their masters. A Stringer in one part of the continent was going through the three cases. The case of the Togolese kid forced tears from his eyes. He thought about children in other parts of the world who had total freed of choice... choosing what they wanted to be in life, in the centre of countless possibilities. For the first time in his career, he wept as a result of a story. He felt even worse upon thinking that such cases are lost to the larger world. And that the unholy trade is going on while he is writing his story, and would go on still. He felt bad that his story would just create a 'nine-day wonder', and pale into insignificance. He knew there is nothing he could do, or anyone, to arrest the situation. The Stringer pondered over all these cases. He realised that the culpable culprit is a monster with indefatigable tentacles buried in the conscience of the perpetrators - people ready to do anything to earn money, even at the expense of their fellow beings, and their very souls! "What is the root cause of it all?" he asked himself; "could it be greed?, ignorance?, is it the result of deliberately misapplied Political and economic rules?; or still could it be the repercussion of violated natural laws; the working of things arcane - the consequences of deeds buried in the abyss of manifested evil, far removed than the rational mind would fathom?" He sat behind his typewriter to punch the keys for a story; he did not know how to start. For a long time he was lost in thought. Finally, struck by an idea, the intro in his head took a philosophical literary form... There was a pause. A fatal, unearthly pause that stretched beyond time and space. For a brief moment the fate of Christ rested in the hands of the people, by virtue of their constitution which conferred on public opinion the mandate to decide the fate of a condemned criminal on the day of the Sabbath feast; the power to mete out death or freedom. On this day, it was to be Christ the Messiah or Barabbas the murderer. When Pontius Pilate asked for their verdict, the axe of death fell on divinity. For the second time mankind betrayed 'Truth', and let loose 'Evil'. The first was in the Garden of Eden when prototypal parenthood; Adam and Eve, sacrificed immortality for a ball of apple. At that crucial point in time and history, when the people demonstrated their democratic rights as stipulated by their ancient constitution by opting for the release of Barabbas the murderer to the death of Christ, a fatal blow was dealt the archetypal conscience of mankind which caged truth, and liberated evil. And when in sadistic ignorance the people echoed this with the shout of "his blood be upon us and our children!", what better way to describe the infernal consequences than Marie Correlie; that - 'the hideous, withering, irrevocable curse rose shudderingly up to Heaven - there to be inscribed by the Recording Angel in letters of flame, as the self-invoked doom of a people... What better... The Stringer was at this point with his intro, when a vexing electrical blackout announced its unwelcome presence. MOL SIMON. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- uXu #563 Underground eXperts United 2000 uXu #563 http://www.textfiles.com/ | http://scene.textfiles.com/ ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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