Het planten van Monocultural van graan rond de wereld is niet in de beste rente van mensen of aard. De pesticiden worden gebruikt meer in Afrika dan in Australië, Europa, Noord-Amerika, Zuid-Amerika of Azië.

Het was taai op mijn vriend. Zijn hoop was, onlangs niettemin omhoog geweest. Hij vertelde me van zijn plan van zijn cabine bij de parkerengarage onderaan de Communautaire Universiteit van Philadelphia op de straat van de Tuin van de Lente.

Hier was hij een agronoom en ervoer in het organische voedsel groeiend methode-maar hij had niet op de werkelijkheid die van de Verenigde Staten van Amerika geteld op hem als dit daagt.

In zijn inheems Guinea, was het holistic idee van het planten van, het neigen van en het oogsten van pesticide vrije vruchten en groenten zo gewoon zoals ademend. Door de historische cursus van tijd en politieke werkelijkheid van Sékou Touré verwerpend Franse „hulp“ bij de onafhankelijkheid van 1958 van Guinea, zorgde ervoor dit Afrikanen van klassieke landbouw afhingen.

Tot slot was het kunnen de firma in de voorsteden van Philadelphia Rodale, een beroemd Amerikaans organisch voedsel en een natuurlijke levende organisatie ontmoeten een droom geweest.

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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