The Mango Seller

Balbir was asked to contribute a reflection on the question, “Why Save Africa?” His reflection was published in a 2011 book titled “Hope for Africa.”

In the fall of 1982, I was invited to an Africa – America conference hosted by the government of Zimbabwe.

In the early 1980s, America was still fighting communism and our foreign policy regarding Africa was caught in a dichotomy. On the one hand, we were backing the South African government’s apartheid and, on the other hand, we had our eyes on the raw materials and markets of Africa. We didn’t want them to fall into the hands of communists, so we were wooing the newly- emerging African nations.

At that time, Nelson Mandela was still in prison and Robert Mugabe was an African hero.

The top echelon of African ambassadors and politicians was at the conference, along with their entourage. The American delegation included members of the State Department, high-level politicians, and businessmen. I remember names like Senator Nancy Kassebaum, Ambassador Andrew Young, Mayor Tom Bradley, and the colorful Anthony Lewis of the New York Times. But the one who stole the show was Thabo Mbeki, an exiled leader of the African National Congress of South Africa, who later became President after Nelson Mandela.

This was my first trip to the continent of Africa. When I landed in Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, to me it represented all of Africa. After checking into my hotel, I was eager to explore “Africa,” so I hired a taxi and requested that the driver give me a tour of the city.

“What would you like to see?” he inquired.

“You’re the boss,” I said. “Show me everything.”

The driver showed me the best parts of the city, where the rich and powerful lived. After an hour or so, I asked him to show me where the poor lived. He turned around in total disbelief and told me that it was not a good idea. I could understand his reasoning. Racial tensions in Zimbabwe were very high, and this was not a good time for a foreigner to be cruising around all by himself. But I persisted in my request.

The poor slum area was not far away. It was obvious the taxi driver was not going to take me inside the slum, but I was grateful that I could at least view it from the outskirts. Small shacks with tin or thatched roofs—a symbol of poverty and slums throughout the world—were scattered all around. This was Sunday afternoon and people were sitting around in groups under shady trees or taking leisurely walks.

The scene was a stark contrast to the rich areas I had just visited. There I saw large, impressive British bungalows with manicured lawns. The homes of the Indian business community stood out because of the luxury cars in their driveways, most of which were gold Mercedes. However, there were practically no people on the streets.

Here, in the midst of poverty, there were people outside mingling with one another.

As we drove along a bumpy dirt road, I saw a woman selling mangoes. I expressed a desire to stop and buy some. Again, the taxi driver told me that it was not a good idea. He offered to deliver mangoes to me at my hotel. But to his dismay, I insisted.

The driver parked at the side of the road, and I walked across a patch of bare ground to where the mango seller sat, about ten yards away. Dressed in traditional clothing, she was sitting on the dirt under a tree with a couple dozen mangoes in front of her, a common sight in most developing countries.

By this time, the sight of a foreigner getting out of a taxi and walking towards the mango seller had attracted attention. Several bystanders crossed their arms and eyed me with suspicion, as if to say, “Who do you think you are?”

I threw a glance at the taxi driver. I could see nervousness on his face.

Once she realized I wanted to buy mangoes, the mango seller was delighted to have my business. As I paid her, she stood up and started to sing their traditional “thank-you” song. It was more than just a song—she clapped along and her whole body swayed in a rhythmic motion.

“Wait, wait, wait!” I pleaded in English, and I touched her arm to stop the action. “Please teach me.” She smiled and complied. I tried to repeat her words and motions. I was clumsy. My body was not as supple as her tall, slender body. I was totally butchering the words, and I was out of rhythm. She burst out laughing.

By this time, several bystanders had surrounded us. They all broke into a spontaneous act of mimicking the comical rendition of this clumsy foreigner. Soon we were all dancing and singing, but I was the one leading the butchered version of their traditional dance. While I was not good at imitating my teacher, the crowd was very good at imitating me. Everyone was laughing at me, and I was ham enough to lead them on.

I looked back at the taxi driver again. Now he was laughing his head off.

Finally, the mango seller grasped the hands of this stranger and looked straight into my eyes. She was perhaps in her mid-forties, but the lines in her face indicated that during those years she must have lived a long and hard life. I remember clearly the broad grin on her face and the gentleness and mirth in her eyes.

As the taxi driver and I drove off, I took one last look back at the mango seller from a distance. Everyone was gazing at the departing taxi.

Before that day, for me, Africa was a huge unknown continent. Statistics said it was the second-largest continent on Earth, more than three times the size of Europe. From that day onward, however, that mango seller became Africa for me.

xxx

Not long after that experience, I gave up my international consulting business and started Trees for Life. I have spent the past quarter-century of my life serving people like that mango seller. Thus, I can now better speak from the perspective of that mango seller than from the perspective of the elite “power brokers” like those who attended that conference in 1982.

Which brings me to the question in hand: “Why save Africa?”

From the perspective of the poor and disempowered, this question itself is an enigma. Their perspective is well-expressed in the wisdom of Lilla Watson, the Aboriginal academic and activist from Australia who said:

“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time.
But if your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”

Remember the picture of our planet that the Apollo 8 astronauts took from the moon on December 24, 1968? That image forever changed how we look at our Earth. Before that, we could only see our Earth by looking down. Under our feet we saw this giant clod of brown dirt. But then we looked up, and saw this giant planet as a little blue sphere the size of a soccer ball—a heavenly body, floating serenely in space. And we fell in love.

Of this small heavenly body, Africa is 20 percent of the landmass. Imagine if one-fifth of our own body were on fire. Would we even stop to ask the question, “Why save that part when we still have 80 percent of our body left?”

Africa not only represents 20 percent of our landmass. It is also the place where the human species is supposed to have originated. It is where our roots are. Regardless of how big a tree might grow or how delicious its fruits might be, it cannot survive without its roots.

From the perspective of people like the mango seller—people with great pride and dignity—one has to question the question itself. The question of “saving” Africa misses the point. What people really want are opportunities—opportunities to help themselves, not to be “saved” by the rich and powerful.

Embedded within this question is also a great warning. For several centuries, “missionaries” in one guise or another have been trying to “save” Africa. Missionaries who were trying to save Africa were the forerunners of the slave trade. Now we want to save the people from the mess our “saving” created.

There is a well-known story of a child who sees a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. The tiny creature seems to be trapped, in great pain. So, the child “saves” the butterfly by removing the cocoon for it. But the child doesn’t realize that the butterfly’s struggle to free itself is essential to its development, strengthening and enlivening its newly transformed body. Robbed of that struggle, the butterfly is crippled and cannot fly, and it soon dies.

So, let me suggest that we not try to “save” Africa, or we will make a still bigger mess out of it. Instead, let us serve the people so they can manifest their own destiny.

Sometimes we can learn the most by turning a mirror on ourselves. There must be a reason why this question “Why save Africa?” is arising at this point in history. Perhaps, in our modern rush of technological progress, we have a sense that Africa could become our savior. As we place more and more value upon machine-like qualities like efficiency, speed, and physical power, these values are reflected in human tendencies to become more robot-like. Perhaps the spirit that shone forth in the song of the mango seller might be what saves us.