I'm in a darkened warehouse in *some* war-torn African country. My hands are tied behind my chair and I can't move my feet. I can feel the tight wire bite into my wrist and ankles. I slowly blink to consciousness. A rebel soldier in a blue beret stands over me with a gun, watching my every move. He barks at someone in French and then turns to me. "Good day Miss Pillay," he says, mockingly polite. His AK47 dangles casually from his arm. I pray to God the safety catch is on.
Slowly, menacingly he steps aside to reveal a terrible tableau. I try to scream but my cries are muffled by a mouth gag. All my loved ones are tied up in front of me in a row: ten in all. Their backs are to me so I don't see their faces but they are similarly bound and gagged.
"So we've heard all about your "passion" for Africa," the soldier says, pacing up and down in front of me. Narrow beams of harsh sunlight filter through broken slats above him. The barrel of the gun glints now and then as it catches a beam.
He picks up a folded newspaper from a table and shoves a specific article in my face. In the top left hand corner I see the byline. "Foreign correspondent: Verashni Pillay".
"We've read your 'journalism'." He spits the word out with barely concealed contempt. Slowly he turns around to gaze at my family and friends. He snaps back to face me. "YOU CALL US REBELS???" He screams, his sardonic manner turning suddenly, frighteningly, violent. I cringe as he bends, bringing his face close to mine.
"So we will play a little game, you and I, eh?" He is so close, I can see the yellowed whites of his eyes, smell the whiff of alcohol and sweat coming off of him.
"You people," he sneers. "You come here to 'Africa', say you want to help. DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT AFRICA IS??" Again the sudden, terrible rage.
His return to calm is disquieting. I can hear him suck in air through his nostrils as his eyes bore into me.
"So here is our little game." He picks up a long stick. "I point out a country, you tell me it's name. Simple no?"
His expression darkens.
"But for everyone you get wrong, one of these-" he motions to the row of people before me. "will get shot." I feel my stomach bottom out. My heart is hammering as he signals to another soldier who steps forward and removes my mouth gag.
"Let us begin, shall we?" He grins.
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Yes this is the ridiculous lengths I go to, to motivate myself to do one of those thing I've always 'intended' on doing: knowing my continent well enough to name each country offhand by name instead of referring to anywhere north of Botswana as "Africa". As if I too am not from this generic, amorphous mass of land we call Africa.I am pleased to say that the simulated horror scene above has done its job. Nothing like a bit of good 'ole fashioned stress to get you to achieve something hey? I can now rattle of all the countries- including that terribly difficult chain of tiny countries along the west African coast. AND I've got all the islands down pat. Grin.
There's a really helpful web tool that got me going. Click here to check it out. Try the level 1 quiz first which will break it up by regions and before you know it you'll be grinning triumphantly at that rebel leader as he grudgingly commands his soldiers to untie your family and friends. You then extend your hand in friendship. He hesitates then accepts. He knows you're not just another Western ignoramus wanting to 'help' with no idea of what that requires. He'll accept you into his confidences and you'll sit down with him and beat out a peace treaty between his faction and the government, mediating between the two parties to arrive at a peace agreement that won't be called 'fragile' in the newspapers. An agreement that will pave the way to stability and economic growth for one country on this fractured but, potentially, incredibly rich continent.
And it all starts with some knowledge :)
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