[ 2010-09-03 ]

How one African country emerged intact from its post-colonial struggles
Early one December morning in 1965, a few months
after my arrival in Ghana, I was jolted out of a
tropical sleep by a pile of Daily Graphic
newspapers whumping onto the concrete floor of my
small room.

“What are those for, Atinga?” I called out
groggily to Atinga Naga, the residence cleaner, as
he stood at the door, several more such loads
balanced in his arms.

“You’ll see!”

And indeed I did. Within minutes came an eruption
of shouts, rubber flip-flopped footsteps, and
slamming screen doors — unusual noises amid the
staid gentlemanliness of Legon Hall, my University
of Ghana residence. I leaped up and joined the
swarm now flying from bathroom to bathroom, where
we found our worst fears realized: the country, in
its ninth year of independence, had run out of
toilet paper. The new Ghana on which I had staked
my future was in crisis.

Not many weeks later, in the dark early morning of
February 24, 1966, we heard the sound of distant
guns and knew instantly there had been a coup
d’état. The campus — and the capital, Accra —
erupted as cheering crowds danced in euphoric and
spontaneous celebration.

The sudden dearth of toilet paper was far from the
only warning sign. Many of my new university
friends had claimed for some time that Kwame
Nkrumah, the nation’s first president, had lost
his way. At the end of October, Nkrumah had hosted
a summit of the Organization of African Unity,
founded in 1963 in the wake of a continent-wide
flood of successful independence movements. He saw
the Accra meeting as his chance to win support for
his vision of a united Africa, and to show what
his brand of socialism had wrought in Ghana’s own
eight years of freedom. To him, all Africa was
embarked on an irreversible wave toward political
and economic independence. And he and Ghana should
lead the way.

As it turned out, he was disappointed. Armed with
his engaging smile, Nkrumah took centre stage at
the oau summit, but soon found that most of the
continent’s new leaders shared the British and
American suspicion of his obsession with a united
continent, and distrusted his motives for and
commitment to “scientific socialism.” Only
thirteen of thirty-six African heads of state
actually came to Accra, and the conference ended
with neither continental commitment nor popular
enthusiasm at home.

In the Legon Hall residence, the excitement of the
event was quickly forgotten. International
journalists billeted with us had eaten up our
entire year’s allotment of rice and meat. As a
result, we suffered an unpopular Yam Festival,
consisting of two meals a day of yam: boiled,
fried, roasted, and mashed. No rice, no meat. Just
yam.

More seriously, disenchanted Legonites accused
Nkrumah of fixating on grandiose infrastructure
projects: the new seaport and planned city at Tema
were a waste of hard-won cocoa earnings; likewise
the vast hydroelectric dam, the man-made Volta
Lake and its aluminum smelter, the new airport,
and the four-lane highway connecting Accra to the
port at Tema. Most vociferously, they condemned
Job 600, the huge luxury-lodging project designed
to impress upon visiting oau leaders the
suitability of Accra as the future capital of the
United States of Africa.

For a small-town boy from Ontario, this was
confusing stuff. I was reminded daily that the
African independence wave had moved with proud
visibility and relative order to sever the
colonial bonds with Britain or France. But I could
sense that for new African countries like Ghana
there was a hidden cost: Ghanaians, like so many
other Africans, were becoming irreconcilably
divided between the traditional elites who had
expected to take over from the colonialists, and
the popular “masses” who had in fact led the
struggle, and whom Nkrumah represented. I was
surrounded at the university by both the
disaffected and the Nkrumah loyalists. Within days
of my arrival, three hall mates, suspecting that I
might be an American cia plant, had climbed over
my balcony, intent on converting me into a solid
Nkrumahist.

Their altruism was buttressed by a growing horde
of professors from Eastern Europe, Fabian
socialists from the London School of Economics,
American communists, and hopeful African-American
academics, all of whom wanted to help build in
now-independent Africa the socialist utopia denied
them at home. None of them seemed overly concerned
by the increasing security presence, arrests
(Ghana had some 1,200 political prisoners in
1965), or disingenuous propaganda issuing forth
from the leader’s ubiquitous Convention People’s
Party media. To the contrary, Nkrumah’s message
sounded to them quite credible: if Ghana and its
African neighbours were to be truly independent,
they had to outwit the neo-colonialists, control
the market, produce centralized five-year economic
plans, and borrow however much it took to
manufacture anything and everything then being
imported from the former colonial powers. If this
meant collectivized farming and tight bureaucratic
control of prices, wages, imports, foreign travel,
and currency — or a few years in James Fort Prison
for members of the country’s traditional elite —
so be it. The end, the Nkrumahists believed,
really did justify the means.

I was all for this, too. Ghana had paid for my
Commonwealth Scholarship. Now, here, I had found
everything a young man could want: Oxbridge on a
tropical hill just beyond Accra; luxurious
residence halls, gardens, courtyards, and
fountains; an Institute of African Studies with a
roster of remarkable international experts; all
the Star beer one could drink; good friends; and
lively dances under the palms to Ghana’s
infectious highlife music. I was impressed, too,
with the country’s free health care, and with its
free post-secondary education, which my
hard-working Ghanaian colleagues seemed to regard
as a serious responsibility (not for them the
nightclubs of Accra). Though a law school graduate
from Toronto, I was no match for their broad
classical educations, their debating skills, and
the sheer elegance of their written and spoken
English.

These Ghanaians were confident, assured, and
welcoming. They were in at the start of the new
Africa then, and they are very much part of a new
Africa now. Today their names are quite
recognizable: John Atta Mills, then a field hockey
star and law student, now president of Ghana; Nana
Akufo-Addo, in 1965 a dedicated Nkrumahist, now
the converted free market presidential candidate
for the New Patriotic Party; Kwadwo Afari-Gyan,
then a high-achieving student, now the
internationally respected head of the Electoral
Commission of Ghana; Kwesi Botchwey, then an
undeniably smart man about campus, now a professor
at Tufts, and, until he quit in frustration, the
architect of Ghana’s eventual transition to
liberal market policies.

They were a seemingly random group at the time,
but their lives have come to reflect both the
evolution of much of Africa over a half century of
independence, and the changing relationship
between Africa and Canada. They illustrate, too,
what has happened to disappoint and then encourage
in Ghana, neatly mirroring the good times and the
bad across much of Africa. Their stories have been
repeated in Botswana, Sierra Leone, Mali,
Tanzania, Senegal, Nigeria. If they have now
become the bedrock of Ghana, they are equally a
portent of Africa’s future. Encouragingly, their
lives prove the exception to the sense of drift
and malevolent change that descended on all newly
independent African countries in the decades
following that initial burst of pride and hope.

The first frenzy of rejoicing at Nkrumah’s demise
soon wore off. Ghana’s coffers were bare. Where
Nkrumah was said to have wept upon hearing there
was no money left to finish the Volta River
project, we at the university cried as our hall
residence tables were cleared of Milo, Ovaltine,
and Maggi sauce. We were being forced to join the
masses in losing the small luxuries most Ghanaians
now saw as the stuff of life: Norwegian sardines,
Argentine corned beef, American Uncle Ben’s rice.

I, too, found the new situation disconcerting. I
had lost both the subject of my master’s thesis —
the Convention People’s Party — and a good deal of
my naïveté. I had come to Ghana expecting to be
part of a new vision for an independent Africa.
Then, overnight on February 24, 1966, the coup
rendered Nkrumah and all that he stood for
unmentionable.

I was far from the only Canadian who had arrived
hoping to take part in Ghana’s bright future.
During my first year there, a friend named John
Bentum-Williams, recently returned with a degree
from the University of Western Ontario, whisked me
away for a holiday in a small northern town.
Surrounded by Ghanaian friends and cooled by big,
cheap bottles of beer, I thought myself a
modern-day explorer. This happy delusion fell
apart when I spotted, on the opposite side of the
bar, another white face, a woman’s. For most of
the night, we managed to avoid each other, but in
the end pressure from Ghanaians baffled by such
jealousy resulted in an introduction: she was Lynn
Taylor and, like me, from London, Ontario. She was
in Ghana for two years as part of an enthusiastic
contingent of volunteer secondary school teachers
fielded by Canadian University Students Overseas
and the World University Service of Canada.
Adventurous and committed young people like her
were scattered in villages throughout Ghana and,
for that matter, all over Africa.


The traffic between Africa and Canada during the
1960s — sponsored by governments, churches,
service clubs, and universities — spoke of an
infectious desire to be involved in the changes
sweeping the continent. And it went both ways.
Those bringing the best of African youth to Canada
hoped to help train the next presidents, senior
civil servants, doctors, lawyers, etymologists,
and engineers of post-independence African
nations. Some, like John Bentum-Williams, returned
home to bolster the leadership pool. As the
continent struggled, however, many other African
elites began to stay abroad, the start of a
problematic but ongoing bonanza for Canada. What
persuaded growing numbers to leave their homes,
friends, and families? How did Africa get from the
heady days of independence to a continent that
many in Canada perceive only as a place of
despair? In the bad, as eventually in the good,
Ghana showed the way.

After the coup, the military government initially
set about putting the country on a democratic
foundation, promoting the candidacy of Kofi Busia,
a diminutive, scholarly sociology professor,
representative of the right-of-centre elite, who
had fled the country under Nkrumah’s rule. He was
elected prime minister, and the Western world
rejoiced. Canada quickly invited him to pay a
state visit, which he did in November 1970. By
this point, I had returned to Canada, and the
first task of my first real job in what was then
the Department of External Affairs was to hold
Busia’s briefcase as he was rushed from Rideau
Hall to the Office of the Prime Minister, from
parliamentary question period to talks with top
Canadian International Development Agency
officials about more Canadian aid. Though
continued Canadian funding for Ghana was certainly
forthcoming, the trip was not entirely successful.
Busia and his entourage looked askance at having
to brave a cold winter rain to plant a
commemorative tree in the gardens of Rideau Hall.
They rushed away from Canada early to attend
French president Charles de Gaulle’s funeral, as
much impressed by the dreariness of Ottawa in
November as by the generosity of Canadian
hospitality and our support for African
development.

Back home in Ghana, Busia didn’t last long. His
promises of good government went unfulfilled, the
economy continued to decline, and he acquired many
of the habits that had been Nkrumah’s undoing.
Ghanaians quickly grew disillusioned with his
inability to put more money in their pockets, and
suspicious of his apparent ties to the United
States and Britain. They were incensed when he
sharply devalued Ghana’s currency; they were
irritated by his flashy motorcades and
ostentatious security. For most Ghanaians, life in
Busia’s “Western” democracy was no better than it
had been during Nkrumah’s socialism.

Like so many other Africans, Ghanaians had become
ensnared in the Cold War trap, pulled in opposite
directions by the ideological proxy battles being
waged across the continent by the Soviet Union and
the United States. Newly independent nations like
Ghana found themselves playing one side against
the other to win more aid; imposing trade and
business controls; and silencing opposition
instead of developing a capacity for independent
policy formulation and effective government. The
heroes of freedom struggles across Africa
eventually became all too proficient at this game,
winning Soviet or Western military support and
often-self-serving aid, but sacrificing much of
the independence they had fought for. To maintain
their hold on power, they exploited the pull of
petty local nationalism and maintained an
enveloping government media. And so Africa sank
into an abyss of inflation, corruption, one-party
states, dictatorships, conflict, and coups. When
Busia was tossed out in another military putsch,
in 1972, it was no surprise to my friends from the
University of Ghana — or to me, in my new post as
a junior officer with the Canadian High Commission
in nearby Lagos, Nigeria.

As always with the military governments that drove
out so many of Africa’s early leaders, the new
Ghanaian regime only accelerated the state of
decline. Much the same had happened in Nigeria. We
had arrived in Lagos as a newly minted embassy
family in 1971, with the country still
reverberating from the bloody civil war that had
pitted the central government and much of the
country against a doughty but soon
all-but-destroyed Biafra (Nigeria’s former Eastern
Region). We drove frequently over the next few
years from Lagos to Accra, relying on our two
small children to win the hearts of the customs
and police officers who manned the countless
roadblocks and border crossings. Amid
near-universal economic collapse, these petty
officials were bent mainly on collecting a “dash”
from defenceless travellers making their already
unpleasant journey from Nigeria through Dahomey
(now Benin), across Togo, and into Ghana.

Once in Accra, the financial straits were no less
distressing. Looking for a way to take their minds
off the seeming dead end of life in Accra, some of
my friends from Legon had opened up rudimentary
disco bars to replace the traditional
under-the-palms clubs of earlier, more prosperous
years. But even the most lively music and dancing
could not disguise the decline of life in Ghana.
The military government was stumbling toward seven
years of continued economic strife. Inflation
climbed; professionals and students went on
strike. Rural Ghanaians in particular grew poorer
as the country’s farmers, faced with shortages of
fertilizers and pesticides, and forced to sell
their crops at well below market value, smuggled
their cocoa across the border to Togo and Côte
d’Ivoire. Another military leader replaced the old
one. As far as my Ghanaian mates were concerned,
life in those years was truly a descent into hell.
They had been betrayed by greedy politicians, a
dissipated civil service, and corrupt business
leaders. Post-colonial pride and rhetoric had
transmogrified into bitter disillusionment.

My family left Nigeria in the midst of this, in
1974, sailing from Lagos via Ghana. We were among
a faded, rather colonial group sharing one of the
final voyages of the Elder Dempster passenger
liner Aureol. It was a sad trip: the days of ship
travel were over, and as we called at Tema in
Ghana and then at Freetown in Sierra Leone, we
were bluntly reminded that we were leaving West
Africa in worse trouble than we had found it. Our
own high hopes at independence had turned to
despair. I was on my way to a legal job in Ottawa,
and then, in one of those quirks of the foreign
service, to a three-year posting in the
Philippines.

While I was still in the Philippines, in June of
1979, a young, impetuous Ghana Air Force flight
lieutenant named Jerry John Rawlings led a coup
d’état against his own officers, installing
himself as head of a self-styled “revolutionary
council.” His first acts were to establish a
people’s court, destroy the main market in Accra,
order men and women publicly flogged for alleged
corruption, and execute the generals who had led
Ghana’s earlier, abrupt changes in government.
Then, rare among coup leaders, he did as he had
promised: in September 1979, he handed the
government back to elected politicians.

It took no time for them to outstay their welcome,
however, and, frustrated with the newly elected
government’s inability to resolve the country’s
economic drift, Rawlings pounced again. On the
last day of 1981, he staged a comeback. He had
lost none of his fervour, praising Castro and
Gadhafi, abjuring the West, and denouncing
politicians and business leaders alike.

In 1982, I was assigned to the Canadian High
Commission in London, once again to be in close
contact with African issues, and with many of our
friends, now either in self-exile in London, or,
like a fortunate few from Nigeria, recently
wealthy enough to afford substantial homes in
Chelsea or The Bishops Avenue in Hampstead. For
the rest at home — both my Legon mates and the
working-class Atingas of the country — life during
the ’80s was to be at best a challenge, and at
worst a constant fight.

Many of my friends were dismayed that their
country was once again controlled by an unelected
military junta, but they were more optimistic than
most Ghanaians, who were fed up with government of
any sort. Instead of the proud “Black Star of
Africa” Nkrumah had promised, Ghana had descended
into a country where nothing worked: health and
education had fallen from among the best in Africa
at independence to among the most neglected; food
supplies were unreliable; and production of cocoa,
timber, and gold had fallen disastrously,
destroying Ghana’s ability to earn foreign
exchange for imports. Rawlings seemed unlikely to
provide the leadership Ghana needed. But then, to
everyone’s surprise, he did.

During all of Ghana’s strife, donors had not given
up on the country. It remained the site of one of
Canada’s biggest and longest-standing aid programs
in Africa and the Middle East; we worked there
hopefully, in tandem with the Nordic countries,
the Netherlands, the UK, and the US. Still
involved, too, were the International Monetary
Fund and the World Bank. Throughout the early
years of Rawlings’ rule and into the 1990s, the
two global finance institutions attempted to
rescue a number of all-but-bankrupt African
nations.

To be eligible for this essential financial help,
governments had to agree to implement a demanding
“structural adjustment program,” which sought to
eliminate tariff and exchange controls; cut civil
service, health, and education expenditures; and
emphasize free market over government-led economic
policies. These saps were politically dangerous:
they offended notions of African sovereignty,
appearing to some to be a new manifestation of
Western imperialism; they went against the
inclinations of those who had cut their political
teeth on socialist economics; they were untried;
and, as some prescient leaders and finance
ministers noted, they carried with them the risk
of social upheaval. But to Western aid experts at
the World Bank — and at the Canadian International
Development Agency — social and political concerns
were less immediate than the need to save Africa
from bankruptcy by restraining government spending
and opening up markets.

Selling the concept was no easier in Ghana than in
most other African countries, in particular
because of Rawlings. Like many of Africa’s
military leaders and “big men,” he was accustomed
to getting his way. Even as a junior officer in
the military, he had established himself as a
formidable personality. When I first met him, back
in the mid-1970s, he was still in the barracks at
Burma Camp in Accra. It was fashionable then to be
radical, to admire strong socialist leaders, to
drink whisky, and to talk tough. Rawlings was
frighteningly good at all of these. He prided
himself on speaking forcefully and directly, and
on taking fast action to right perceived wrongs.
Once at the head of Ghana’s government, he paid
little attention to most of his ministers, and
even less to government bureaucrats. He was also
suspicious of his country’s increasingly affluent
middle class, which was building huge gated houses
on land around the university that had
traditionally been the preserve of poor migrants
from Ghana’s neglected north. He was more
comfortable leading teams to clean out Accra’s
gutters than fraternizing with the country’s
rising bankers, industrialists, and importers.

Nor was Rawlings given to policy subtleties. His
decisions, demands, and actions often appeared
bizarre, even embarrassing. At one well-attended
commemoration in Black Star Square — speaking
before the full diplomatic corps, his ministers,
the international media, and a huge crowd of
supporters — he called his vice-president a
traitor. At a university convocation, after
delivering a few appreciative, scripted words
thanking the university’s largest private donor,
he suddenly turned against the honouree, shouting,
“The man’s a crook! Everything he has given the
university has come straight from the taxpayers’
pockets!”

Thus, when the World Bank and the imf arrived,
preaching structural adjustment, Rawlings was ill
disposed toward them. He saw them as an imposition
from abroad — one that would weaken his control
over patronage and make the economy the fiefdom of
Western politicians and businessmen. Only when the
economy continued to deteriorate toward complete
collapse in 1983 was he persuaded to move,
reluctantly, from his populist radicalism to
something closer to liberal realism.

Much of the credit for this conversion must go to
Rawlings’ reticent finance minister, Kwesi
Botchwey. A Legon Hall graduate, once known as
much for his charm and love of the good life as
for his wisdom, he had matured into a dab hand at
economics and political strategy. He, often alone
among government ministers, was willing to take
Rawlings on, working deftly and against
considerable odds to persuade a skeptical
president with little background in economics that
Ghana had to enter into a devil’s pact with the
imf.

Rawlings himself attributes some of his change of
heart to Fred Livingston, then the Canadian High
Commissioner to Ghana. Like Rawlings, he was an
air force man who swore freely and liked to drink
Scotch into the wee hours of the night. Back in
Ottawa at External Affairs, I was incredulous to
hear Livingston’s reports of these late-night
chats with the head of a foreign government — yet
also unsurprised, after my three years in Manila
and four in London, to see what could be
accomplished in diplomacy through good personal
relationships.

Much later, after I returned to Ghana in August of
1994 as Canada’s High Commissioner, Rawlings
confirmed to me that Livingston’s accounts were
true. Like many African leaders, he had a soft
spot for Canada. He and his ministers attributed
to Canadians an integrity, altruism, and
commitment that now may seem naive, but which was
then not entirely misplaced. Connections and
friendships that had grown between leaders of
developing countries in the Commonwealth and la
Francophonie and Canadian prime ministers —
especially Trudeau and Mulroney, and later
Chrétien — convinced Africans of Canada’s bona
fides.

The feeling was mutual. By 1994, Canada, in
concert with other donors and the World Bank,
regarded Ghana as an all-too-rare success story.
Many African governments had rejected World Bank
sap aid and strictures altogether; others had
taken them on only half-heartedly. Ghana had not
only embraced structural adjustment, it had shown
strong evidence of the improvement in economic
growth and stability the saps were intended to
bring. It had also seen one very large residual
benefit: under Rawlings, Ghana grew into a mature
democracy — here, too, an example for the
continent.

After twelve years of rule, in 1992, Rawlings and
his National Democratic Congress had submitted to
national elections. These votes, and the ones held
four years later, were judged by the donor
community to represent the will of the Ghanaian
people — a feat duplicated by few other African
leaders. Each time, Rawlings and his National
Democratic Congress party won, admittedly. But a
larger victory was being won by my Legon mate
Kwadwo Afari-Gyan and his electoral commission,
which ran the votes with an impartiality, a
transparency, and a professionalism unknown in
much of the rest of Africa. The elections
represented a victory for free speech and the
media: the Rawlings era had spawned a flourishing
opposition press and several private FM radio
stations. These provided a constant flow of
comment on popular call-in talk shows, ensuring
that every step of the election process became
instant public knowledge. And, of course, the
elections were a triumph for those Ghanaians who
had learned to bide their time in parliamentary
opposition, confident their turn would come.

Which it did. In 2000, Rawlings stepped down at
the end of his second term as elected president,
as mandated by Ghana’s constitution. Perhaps he
was drawn in by an immensely successful visit in
1998 from US president Bill Clinton; perhaps he
was determined to be one of what was then being
referred to as Africa’s “new generation” of
leaders. But Rawlings did what so few of his
counterparts elsewhere in Africa had done: he
agreed to leave the fate of the ndc government in
the hands of his chosen successor, the highly
respected law professor, senior civil servant, and
Legon Hall alumnus John Atta Mills.

By a small margin, Mills lost. Rawlings is said to
have been deeply unhappy with Mills for conceding,
but his successor held firm, and Rawlings was
persuaded to accept his party’s move into
opposition. John Kufuor and the New Patriotic
Party took over. Kufuor won re-election in 2004,
but now he, too, is a past president, and his
party is once again in opposition. The story of
how that happened is perhaps the single most
remarkable proof of success in governance on the
African continent since the independence wave.

When John Kufuor came to the end of his second
constitutional term as president in 2008, he, like
Rawlings, stepped aside, making way for yet
another Legon Hall alum, his long-time rival and
cabinet minister Nana Akufo-Addo. Akufo-Addo lost
the 2008 presidential election by less than one
percent — a difference of 40,500 votes out of nine
million. For several hours, it seemed that Ghana
could go the way of Kenya in 2007. Akufo-Addo was
under party pressure to refuse to accept the
tally, a move that would have inflamed ethnic
loyalties.

But it didn’t happen. Akufo-Addo was persuaded by
his old Legon mate Afari-Gyan — and, some say, by
his countryman and friend, the former UN
Secretary-General Kofi Annan — to follow his own
good inclinations and accept that he had lost. For
the second time in a decade, Ghana changed
presidents and governing parties with less ado
than the United States did when George W. Bush was
declared president over Al Gore. And John Atta
Mills became president.

Today the maturing democracy in Ghana is the envy
of much of the continent. Freedom House, an
American think tank, rates it as one of only nine
African countries that are truly “free”:
twenty-three others, including some with
post-colonial histories rather like Ghana’s, such
as Nigeria, Tanzania, and Kenya, are only “partly
free.” The remaining sixteen are not free at all.
Atta Mills, Akufo-Addo, and Afari-Gyan could show
them a thing or two about how to run a democracy.

Since i moved on in 1998 from Ghana to Ethiopia,
then in 2002 to Zimbabwe, I have dealt with many
countries where the prognosis for Africa seems far
from hopeful. There is little in Eritrea, Sudan,
Angola, or Zimbabwe to suggest that the next
decade will be better than the initial
post-independence era. But flying into Accra each
of these past twelve years — whether from the
problems of Addis Ababa and Harare or, more
recently, from the satisfied security of Queen’s
and Carleton universities in Canada — has always
brought me a blood rush of hope, not just for
Ghana but for much of the continent.

Last June, I found myself being ushered into Atta
Mills’s office, acting for a change not as
Canadian High Commissioner seeking out the
president, but as one aging university friend
seeking out another. There was no Star beer on
hand, but there was plenty of reflection. We
concluded that we, our other Legon friends, Ghana,
and Africa had come a long way over the years.

After our talk, I drove out to Legon Hall to speak
with Atinga Naga, the man who had thumped those
Daily Graphic newspapers into my room forty-five
years ago. He had recently retired. Once a poor
man from a northern village, a member of Ghana’s
marginalized majority, he had achieved relative
prosperity and secured a future for his children
in Accra as part owner of a small shop in nearby
Achimota, where he owns land and a house. My mates
may have built castles in East Legon, but perhaps
the best story for Ghana and for Africa belongs to
Naga. Fifty years on from Africa’s great wave of
independence, his is the dream most Africans still
seek for themselves.

Source - John Schram - ex-Canadian HC

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