Michael Scales Shared His Past Experiences In Africa!

Dear Mr. Editor,

From an early age, ever since my father found me that Zulu  war shield, in the local Parish Church Jumble sale, I have been fascinated by The African. As a child, how many battles did I fight against all those enemies of my domain protected by my black and white cow hide. I was always victorious. To compare my child's illusions to the reality of the true African I have found in The Gambia and Nigeria.....I must admit to some disappointment. For Africa is not the land of the fearless and brave warrior that I had always come to believe. In my many campside fires, speaking to African's about their forefathers, all remember with reverence the great uncle or the great grandfather, who stalked the antelope amongst the Lions ..hunting for food and provisions. The fabled African did exist once as an independent and fearless hunter, armed with only that same shield and trusty spear and experience on how to survive in the most hostile climate.

One of my favorite places in Banjul was the hut outside Banjul City Council, near that small mosque where I spoke the words of Allah. To kneel with African's, looking to the left and right whilst I bowed my head to the floor..and guided my finger, before I kneeled and bowed my head once more.

I often sat with those council drivers, sharing a cup of ataya....with laughter and wisdom as they remembered the old days. Their wage of 900 dalasis a month did not go far, but they remained ever ready to serve the beck and call of The Mayor and other officials. A long day in the sun which never changed for their lifetime.

Looking at their  two roomed concrete homes in Talinding and Bundung....their was the feel that these once proud sons of village hero's had become the human battery hens of a forgotten way of proud living. The rent was small for this small luxury of privacy....but it did not fit the character of the forgotten warriors of time and my child's mind.

I recall one late evening calling to deliver the baby clothes and shoes to a long time friend of mine, for her new born baby boy. At the entrance of this tiny  humid abode, sat the grandmother, next to a large mirror on the wall.

She was in her 70's and was flicking a stick at the mirror. I asked my friend what was she doing..? to be told the mosquito is attracted by the mirror and she kills them as they settle on its surface. In that small room lived three generations of history. It resembled an unkempt garage back home where we throw our unwanted items. On the floor was a pile of dead mosquito's.

That was her vocation in life. Yet I have seen many Gambian's with Malaria and how they curl up in sweat and pain as the illness overtakes their bodies. Her vocation to protect the children..three small boys and two girls with runny noses....had a profound meaning for her existence and left a mark on my heart that is difficult to forget. Is this development or just another development I asked?

There  was running water at a stand pipe and a communal shower shared by scores of people. Yet the true African still lives..... when there is an occasion like a naming ceremony. Here they form a large circle and move together around and around chanting the old African songs of customs past. It is a glorious sight to behold..and a privilege to see. But once done they return to the order of life that is foreign to them and to their heritage. How they survive from day to day is beyond me. I have never seen or witnessed one complaint to their condition.

It remains unimaginable to see lines of yellow taxi drivers waiting at Westfield Junction for perhaps one fare per day..of maybe 50 dalasis. Or the scores of trucks and vans lined up adjacent to the Jimpex road..waiting all day in the relentless heat for someone who needs a van and driver.

I recall a government Minister who asked why I should open the window of his Pajero to leave 50 dalasis in the outstretched hand of a mother, with baby strapped to her back. She waited by the traffic lights at Koto....for Mr Michael. I said if she had the initiative to ask..I had the compulsion to give. I am glad these people never said thank you to me....for I would have been insulted.

Poverty is insulting. Poverty to the African is insulting. The whole edifice of life for so many in The Gambia is insulting.

In my last visit to The Gambia, in April 2006, I was accompanied by an Executive of Young Enterprise UK. We were joined near The Mayor of Banjul's chambers by a young school boy carrying a satchel full of homework and books. My eyes were fixed upon his white shirt....which brought back the horror of what I saw happen to another schoolboy on April 10th 2000. That day his white shirt was covered in blood as he lay helpless amongst that nightmare of frenzy. I have often reproached myself to ask could I have done more.? This little boy said proudly...".I am going to be the President of The Gambia. You see.... I will, one day replace our President." He stuck to us like glue...but did not ask for or require anything. He was a remarkable little boy with a career mapped out in his mind.

I said Your President is a powerful man.. what makes you so convinced you can out smart him?

He laughed !!!...."When I grow up I will be educated, President Jammeh is a big man but he is not smart. I am smart and each day I become smarter" Good God I thought....My lady executive and I laughed loudly. I said," You know young man.....I believe you." I enquired of his name so I could watch his progress from a distance.... To which he replied...".My name is the future, you will remember me then. I know who you are.....You are Mr. Michael. I have seen you on TV. Everybody knows who you are....You are a different kind of Whiteman." I said, as we walked quickly in step " should I take that as a compliment then ? Do I meet with your highness's approval "? He said, " You will always be a Whiteman "

I was destroyed in one sentence and laughed long into the evening. He was right.

My executive friend and I met recently in our local supermarket. amongst the lines of processed food....and she still remembered this little boy. Our conversation was dominated by the memory of this boy who would be King one day.

Perhaps now you understand why I love Gambian's so much I asked ? she said Yes !" I was impressed and I will never forget that boy. In fact I often compare our British boy's to this Gambian boy when I am having a bad day in our schools dominated by mayhem. He was inspiration personified." You see she went to The Gambia to give inspiration...but returned the one inspired.

Where there is Hope you will always find salvation.