The battered jeep, the only way to get around in Africa, rumbles loudly as it ambles unhurriedly along the pot-hole-ridden dirt road. The ride is made more uncomfortably so by the tango the driver seems to be performing spiritedly with the road, inadvertently caused by his futile efforts to dodge the calabash-sized pot-holes. Flanked on either side of the road, extending as far as the eye can see, is the veldt of the country, Afrika. And lounging, indifferent to the wondrous stares and gaping mouths of the mostly white tourists (whom am I kidding…all white tourists) are rhinos and zebras, elephants and giraffes and the occasional lion. But be careful though; the rhinos and lion may angrily pursue you with criminal intent, whether you agitated them or not, because you know, Africa is a savage country overrun with wild animals.
A cloud of dust settles in the wake of the jeep which rolls to a screeching stop in the centre of the country. The disturbance alerts the children who quickly descend on the jeep with surprising agility despite their malnourished state; pot bellied children with flies buzzing incessantly around their puffed- up bruised lips and coconut-shaped heads atop frail jaundiced bodies. Their cackle, indistinguishable due to the fact that all Africans speak the same language, heavy with the famous African accent, brings others over from the beach of the African coastline (because Africa has a single coastline), all looking identical in appearance because well, all Africans look alike.
The driver steps out to make the necessary introductions; the men of the country of Africa are the first to be introduced to the tourists, who observe the Africans with the same degree of scrutiny one would subject alien matter lodged under nails. They emerge from mud houses thatched with straw and walk bare-footed and in the nude, save for strips of cow hide hanging around their loins. Hanging from their shoulders are machine guns and missiles because yeah, the main preoccupation of African men is blood shedding. They love them some non-stop violence. The African women are all repressed, also sport the same amount of clothing as their males, and are a hair’s breath away from being infected with HIV/AIDS. Plus, majority of the country has died from Ebola already.
The harsh, dry and scorching weather is prevalent in Africa all year round. The only protection from the element is that provided by the leafy trees the young African men climb so dexterously. The tourists begin to capture the lush African scenery with their high-end cameras and phones to the bewilderment of the Africans, who are flummoxed by these sleek devices. The driver explains in hushed tones- even though he need not to since the Africans are illiterate and know not a word of English- that technology has not made its way to Africa yet.
The tourists look pitiably at the grinning Africans. Nie, they decide with righteous indignation. They must help Africa become like the West, that’s the only way Africa the country can develop. They must help these people who refuse to help themselves and lack the basic principles of self-governance. They must inundate Africa with Eurocentric-themed literature and teach Africans about the glorious West and maybe, just maybe, they will discard their way of life which is obviously bad for them. And oh, also teach them how to party because the closest Africans have to pop music is harmonized warbles sang in perfect sync to the rhythmic and vigorous stomping of feet interspersed with the occasional ululation.
Gasp! Werklik? Are all of these true?!
Next topic, ‘The Earth is Flat and Pluto is not Really a Ball of Gas”.
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