The European and the African have an entirely different concept of time. In the European worldview, time exists objectively, and has measurable and linear characteristics. According to Newton, time is absolute: "Absolute, true, mathematical time of itself and from its own nature, it flows equably and without relation to anything external." The European feels himself to be time's slave, dependent on it, subject to it. To exist and function, he must observe its ironclad, inviolate laws, its inflexible principles and rules. He must heed deadlines, dates, days, and hours. He moves within the rigors of time and cannot exist outside them. They impose upon him their requirements and quotas. An unresolvable conflict exists between man and time, one that always ends with man's defeat - time annihilates him.

Africans apprehend time differently. For them, it is a much looser concept, more open, elastic, subjective. It is man who influences time, its shape, course, and rhythm (man acting, of course, with the consent of gods and ancestors)...Time appears as a result of our actions, and vanishes when we neglect or ignore it. It is something that springs to life under our influence, but falls into a state of hibernation, even nonexistence, if we do not direct our energy toward it. It is a subservient, passive essence, and, most importantly, one dependent on man.

The absolute opposite of time as it is understood in the European worldview.

In practical terms, this means that if you go to a village where a meeting is scheduled for the afternoon but find no one at the appointed spot, asking: "When will the meeting take place?" makes no sense. You know the answer: "It will take place when people come."

The spirit of Africa always appears in the guise of an elephant. Because no other animal can vanquish an elephant. Not a lion, not a buffalo, not a snake.

Man cannot survive longer than his shadow.

Every evil thing has its defenders, because everywhere there are those whom evil sustains, for whom it is an opportunity, life itself.

THE WARLORD: he is a former officer, an ex-minister or party functionary, or some other strong individual desiring power and money, ruthless and without scruples, who, taking advantage of the disintegration of the state (to which he contributed and continues to contribute), wants to carve out for himself his own informal ministate, over which he can hold dictatorial sway. Most often, a warlord uses to this end the clan or tribe to which he belongs. Warlords are sowers of tribal and racial hatred. They will never admit to this. They will always proclaim that they are leading a national movement or party. Most often it will be called the Something or Other Liberation Movement, or the Movement to Protect Democracy or Independence - never anything less grand or idealistic.
Having chosen the name, the warlord sets about enlisting an army. This is not difficult. In each country, in each city, thousands of hungry and unemployed boys dream of joining a warlord's brigade. The commander will give them arms, and, equally important, a sense of belonging. Most frequently, their caudillo will not pay them. He will say, You have weapons, feed yourselves. That permission is enough: they know what to do next.
Obtaining weapons is also simple. They are cheap and plentiful. Besides, warlords have money. They either grabbed it from state institutions (as ministers or generals), or they reaped profits by seizing valuable sections of the country, those with mines, factories, forests to be cut down, maritime harbors, airports.
International relief for the poor, starving population is an inexhaustible source of profit to the warlords. From each transport they take as many sacks of wheat and as many litters of oil as they need. For the law in force here is this: whoever has weapons eats first. The hungry may take only that which remains.
The warlords are at once the cause and the product of the crisis in which many of the continent's countries found themselves in the postcolonial era....But what does a warlord do? Theoretically, he fights with other warlords. Most frequently, however, he is busy robbing his own country's unarmed population. The warlord is the opposite of Robin Hood. He takes from the poor to enrich himself and feed his gangs. We are in a world in which misery condemns some to death and transforms others into monsters. The former are the victims, the latter are the executioners. There is no one else.
The number of warlords is growing. They are the new power, the new rulers. They take for themselves the best morsels, the richest parts of the country, with the result that the state, even if it does survive, will be weak, poor, and ineffective...Sometimes the warlords decide that everything worthy of plunder has been extracted, and that the hitherto rich sources of revenue have dried up. Then they begin the so-called peace process. They convene a meeting of the opposing sides, they sign an agreement, and set a date for elections. In response, the World Bank extends to them all manner of loans and credits. Now the warlords are even richer than they were before, because you can get significantly more from the World Bank than from your own starving kinsmen.

My country is where the rain falls.

People are not hungry because there is no food in the world. There is plenty of it; there is a surplus, in fact. But between those who want to eat and the bursting warehouses stands a tall obstacle indeed: politics...Whoever has weapons, has food. Whoever has food, has power. We are here among people who do not contemplate transcendence and the existence of the soul, the meaning of life and the nature of being. We are in a world in which man, crawling on the earth, tries to dig a few grains of wheat out of the mud, just to survive another day.

Our world, seemingly global, is in reality a planet of thousands of the most varied and never intersecting provinces. A trip around the world is a journey from backwater to backwater, each of which considers itself, in its isolation, a shining star. For most people, the real world ends on the threshold of their house, at the edge of their village, or, at the very most, on the border of their alley. That which is beyond is unreal, unimportant, and even useless, whereas that which we have at our fingertips, in our field of vision, expands until it seems an entire universe, overshadowing all else. Often, the native and the newcomer have difficulty finding a common language, because each looks at the same place through a different lens. The newcomer has a wide-angle lens, which gives him distant, diminished view, while the local always employs a telescopic lens that magnifies the slightest detail.

Somewhere on the Sahara there lives a small beetle which the Tuareg call Ngubi. When it is very hot, according to legend, Ngubi is tormented by thirst, desperate to drink. Unfortunately, there is no water anywhere, and only burning sand all around. So the small beetle chooses an incline - this can be a sloping fold of sand - and with determination begins to climb to its summit. It is an enormous effort, a Sisyphean task, because the hot and loose sand constantly gives way, carrying the beetle down with it, right back to where he began his toils. Which is why, before too long, the beetle starts to sweat. A drop of moisture collects at the end of his abdomen and swells. Then Ngubi stops climbing, curls up, and plunges his mouth into that very bead.
He drinks.

You had better be good, or else the mzungu will eat you!

Do you know that long ago, when the Portuguese first arrived here and started buying up ivory, they were struck by the fact that the Africans didn't have a great deal of it. Why, they wondered? After all, the tusks are very rugged and long-lasting, and if it is difficult for them to hunt down a live elephant for its ivory - they usually did this by chasing the animal into a hole they had dug earlier - then why don't they collect the tusks from elephants that have already died, and whose corpses are doubtless lying somewhere? They suggested this idea to their African middlemen, but heard something astonishing by way of reply: there are no dead elephants, there are no elephant cemeteries. The Portuguese were intrigued. How do elephants die? Where are their remains? At issue were the tusks, the ivory, and the large sums of money they commanded.
The manner in which elephants die was a secret Africans long guarded from the white man. The elephant is sacred, and so is his death. What caused the elephant to be so admired was that he had no enemies in the animal world. No other beast could conquer him. He could die (in the past) only a natural death. It occurred usually at dusk, when the elephants came to the water. They would stand at the edge of a lake or river, reach out far with their trunks, and drink. But the day would come when a tired old elephant could no longer raise his trunk, and to drink clear water he would have to walk farther and farther out into the lake. His legs would sink into the muck, deeper and deeper. The lake pulled him into its cavernous interior. He fought for a time, thrashed about, attempted to extricate himself from the bog and get back to the shore, but his own weight was so great, and the pull of the lake's bottom so paralyzing, that finally the animal would lose its balance, fall, and vanish under the water forever.
There, on the bottoms of our lakes, are the age-old elephant cemeteries.

It is not a cup of tea at Tim Hortons.