Once upon a time, my father declared, “Paradise is here!”

Just like that – out of the blue. We were walking down a street amid the noise and haste. The sun was going to bed for the night leaving traces of red clouds in the background.

I couldn’t figure out what made him say that.

“Where?” I asked. It was the only stupid question I could think of.

“Here and now!” he replied.

I looked around and paradise was no where to be seen.

“The problem is…” he began to explain in his usual and brief way of hammering words together, “We can’t see it.”

Paradise lost… I thought.

“We spend our short bloody life looking for it when it’s actually right under our noses!” He reaffirmed.

“If we can’t see it or smell its aroma, where the hell is it then?” I demanded to know.

“You are too young to realise what I am talking about,” he says, ignoring my inquiry.

We kept walking on it, I guess. I was thinking in terms of ‘under our own feet’ – before we go six-feet under.

That was two full decades ago - almost to the month.

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A good friend of mine joins the table. Let’s call him Paul. His real name is beside the point.

“You seem miles away,” he says, with a pint of beer in his hand.

I woke up from my dream holiday. “Yes, I was.”

“Where exactly?” he asks.

“Africa.”

“Poor Africa! One sad story after another, isn’t it?” he said.

It shattered my short-lived dream. Hell can’t be that far from here, I thought.

“What do you think is going wrong in Africa?” Paul asked.

My holiday was over – there and then.

“Has been going wrong – you mean?” I asked back.

Whatever! He would have liked to say but he’s not of that type.

“Do you really want to know?” I demanded to know.

“Please!” he pleaded.

“Do you have the time?”

“Take your time!”

You see, I wanted to say… it all started during the industrial revolution. Long before the scramble for Africa, slavery was another story. When colonization became legalized rape of resources for such a long time, Africans lost the link to a tradition that kept them going for ages. White became the new black. It was a whitewash of such magnitude and effect that all you see now is the sun setting wherever you go in Africa while the rising sun is cut short. It just went on for far too long. We have so many coconut heads of state who think the country is their property and educated and well to do Africans living abroad doing their best to maintain these heads of so-called African states.

Almost all these states went through a colonial experience, wars of independence, civil wars, statehood, more civil wars, coup d’etats, military rules, border wars, corruption, misappropriation of resources, economic melt-down, civil strife, abuse of human rights, no free press, famine, disease, malnutrition, bribery, nepotism, dictatorships, more lies and endless suffering… for absolutely nothing.

But I didn’t say all that. How could I?

“Well,” I said instead, “it’s a long story.”

“Why is it so difficult for Africans themselves to reward those people who are trying so hard to bring about change… in the simplest and most humble way? Look at African women and the young people – for heaven’s sake?” He was almost shouting at me.

“Don’t get me wrong…” he corrected himself, “all I am trying to say is ‘why is it next to impossible to sustain something good that could mean so much to so many?’”

He was much more frustrated about Africa than I thought. All I could do was… listen.

“Let me give you an example…” he started again. “If there was a boy or a girl who are performing well at school, does your community give or show support of any kind?”

It took me some time to think about that.

“Well?” He was putting me under pressure here.

“Most probably not,” I replied.

“There you are! You guys are lost in big stuff thinking about the coconut heads of your nation states that you forgot to deal with the small… SM-all… changes you could make on the vast majority. Think about it!” It felt like an order alright.

I was shaking and nodding my head all the way - hopefully at the right moments - when an Eritrean friend joined the table with a pint of beer in his hand.

It was the first time he met Paul. I did the introductions. Paul couldn’t pronounce or spell his name. So we settled for ‘your money or your life.’

A few minutes later, Paul kept on talking about an idea: to raise funds for children who perform well at school or maybe for other community oriented financial support.

“Our kind of culture,” I interrupted, “serves the dead more than the living. People are much more supportive and eager to help when a very close relative dies.”

“Why should it be that way?” Paul asked.

Our Eritrean friend didn’t have the slightest idea what we were talking about and neither did he have the patience to find out.

“I don’t mind giving a monthly contribution of £10.00 to raise funds.” He said.

“For what?” asked Paul and I – almost in tandem.

“Well,” he said, “suppose an Eritrean dies in London… the relatives would definitely need some financial support to send the body home for a decent burial. It is quite expensive, you know?”

We looked at each other in amazement.

“You proved my point!” declared Paul.

And I had nothing left to say except to raise the dead from six-feet under… or probably from much deeper.