Monocultural planting of corn around the world is not in the best interest of people or nature. Pesticides are used more in Africa than in Australia, Europe, North America, South America or Asia.
It was tough on my friend. His hopes had been up, recently though. He told me of his plan from his booth at the parking garage underneath Philadelphia Community College on Spring Garden street.
Here he was an agronomist and experienced in the organic food growing methods-but he hadn’t counted on the United States of America reality dawning on him like this.
In his native Guinea, the holistic idea of planting, tending and harvesting pesticide free fruits and vegetables was as ordinary as breathing. Through the historical course of time and political realities of Sékou Touré rejecting French “aid” at Guinea’s 1958 independence, this made sure Africans depended on classical agriculture.
Finally being able to meet the suburban Philadelphia Rodale firm, a famous American organic food and natural living organization had been a dream.
His prior contact with Rodale had been through the US government and Guinea’s officials. By the mid 1980s, the outlook for the slim, good natured man was structured by several events that emerged unseen to change his life.
The Marxist Muslim (leader from ‘58 and from a line of warriors) since the final days of colonial French control, Touré, died in early 1984.
The West, eager however late in the Cold War game to finish off Moscow’s links to Africa, had no problem with Lansana Conté moving into office. In cruised capitalist interests: Guinea is a world giant in bauxite, the raw material for aluminum and needed for various metallic industry items. By then, the “friendly” arms of the USAID and it’s international corporate/governmental cousins were closing in.
My friend, forced to declare himself a refugee on the east coast of the USA, went seeking Rodale’s help. I saw him off from 30th Street station, bound for the areas most people that resembled us weren’t seen unless we were janitors or maids.
When he returned, he sadly explained that he was not needed, even as a volunteer. Back in the chilly windowless West Philly apartment, he had me sit and we both had a juice.
Even though he had the seniority of nearly all the Americans and the ties academically and in the field to prove it, he was not ‘official’ anymore.
As he popped in his favorite National Dance Theater of Guinea videotape, I saw the longing for home in his weary eyes.
Development had come to another corner of the globe.
Outside, the gunshots on dark 60th street bucked.
“Chock!”
“Chock Chock!”
A son of Africa had his hands bound, unable to do more than stare at his hands and remember.
7 February 2008
From Exile,
Bankole
http://www.geocities.com/exiledone2002
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