Nowhere in the developing world is the dilemma of continuity
and change more agonizing than in contemporary
Africa. Mesmerized by the spectacle ofWestern affluence
yet repulsed by the bloody trail from slavery toWorldWar
II and the atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
African intellectuals have been torn between the dual images
ofWestern materialism and African exceptionalism.
What is the destiny of Africa? Some Africans still
yearn for the dreams embodied in the program of the
OAU. Novelist Ngugi Wa Thiong’o argues that for his
country, the starting point is a democratic Kenya. More
broadly, he calls for “an internationalization of all the
democratic and social struggles for human equality, justice,
peace, and progress.” 12 Some African political leaders,
however, have apparently discarded the democratic
ideal and turned their attention to what is sometimes
called the “East Asian model,” based on the Confucian
tenet of subordination of the individual to the community
as the guiding principle of national development.
Whether African political culture today is well placed to
imitate the strategy adopted by the fast-growing nations
of East Asia—which in any event are now encountering
problems of their own—is questionable. Like all peoples,
Africans must ultimately find their own solutions within
the context of their own traditions and not by seeking to
imitate the example of others.
For the average African, of course, such intellectual
dilemmas pale before the daily challenge of survival. But
the fundamental gap between the traditional village and
the modern metropolis is perhaps wider in Africa than
anywhere else in the world and may well be harder to
bridge. The solution is not yet visible. In the meantime,
writes Ghanaian author George Awoonor-Williams, all
Africans are exiles:
The return is tedious
And the exiled souls gathered at the beach
Arguing and deciding their future
Should they return home
And face the fences the termites had eaten
And see the dunghill that has mounted their birthplace? . . .
The final strokes will land them on forgotten shores
They committed to the impiety of self-deceit
Slashed, cut and wounded their souls
And left the mangled remainder in manacles.
The moon, the moon is our father’s spir it
At the stars entrance the night revellers gather
To sell their chatter and inhuman sweat to the gateman
And shuffle their feet in agonies of birth.
Lost souls, lost souls, lost souls, that are
still at the gate.
World History
