Not our kind of development.

Famine poverty dirt malnutrition starvation rotting decay AIDS aid disease contagious hostile brutal uncivil tribal wars hot sun animals safari children children children flies trash pollution trees developing poor corrupt development.

I can say, with sincere certainty, that many people would most likely use these words in combination with each other to describe Africa—this great “mysterious” continent that has been in the eye of many a poet and on the maps of many explorers. The narrative is old, pedestrian and worn. We know it, the conscious few. And it dulls our sword. Let me share a narrative that dives into these images that have become so easily and widely accepted they are sterile.

The interim director at my work now shares my “home” in Cantonments. A little awkward? Perhaps. But former Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs), as is she, are very well adept to awkward moments, which really, are only moments of vulnerability. I digress. On our way “home” our conversation was becoming interesting, as she is generally an interesting human being. I expressed my curiosity for African literature and with such enthusiasm and energy she suggested a book by Ben Okri. The Famished Road. I asked her to tell me about it. The road, she says, is built across villages and while it gives new methods for communication, transportation, and the like, it takes away so much because it requires so much, it is literally famished. Ah, Mr. Okri is talking about the concept of development in Nigeria. Beautiful, I thought. Then something interesting happened in the middle of my thought, an interruption—“but not our kind of development,” she said. This reverberation of voice echoed throughout my ears. I was sitting in the back seat of the car but was certain all of Ghana had heard this statement. Not that it was said in any ridiculously loud manner—no. But it was said with such conviction, such acceptance, that it was stunning.

Not our kind of development.

I became quiet. I know how I can get—we know how I can get. I thought it best not to piss off the interim director who is so kind-hearted whilst we have to share the same house for 2 weeks. I wondered what kind of development hers was? And why was I included in it? Ours. I felt like I found myself on the wrong side of enemy territory and was now being forced to become one of their soldiers. I did not sign up for this. She automatically assumed that I agreed with or accepted “this” kind of development as truth, as good, as progress. But even to claim possession over a concept like development is very Eurocentric of “us,” isn’t it?

So here I am, sitting—stuck in this car, about to enter a house, whereby I am sure “our kind of development” will be greeting us with cookies at the front door and I am desperately wanting fufu instead. I am terrified. This is the moment I wished I read DEAD AID by Dambisa Moyo instead of falling asleep the other night for the sole purpose of spitting out some facts, some data, anything concrete that could politely dismantle her statement. These “development” people like facts. But then I realized, it didn’t matter—the facts. The truth is the truth. It will always be there.

How is one kind of development better than the other? That term in and of it is overused, overrated and just plain essentialist. I thought we knew this? I thought this discussion was becoming tiresome because we already knew? But here is the truth behind the lie: they know, the ones who seem to not know. They know that no matter how many times they wash their hands, the blood is still stained on their fingers. 

It is smog. We all see it and yet we still breathe. That would be our kind of development.