It’s dark, but the darkness is softened by the light of a wavering candle in the corner. When you’re frequently threatened by total blackness, you begin to realize just how much illumination a candle has to offer. We’re sitting — squatting, really — on wooden benches in a small boxy hut constructed from thatched palm leaves. We can see each other, a little, enough. The flickering orange glow casts our features into a ghostly, syrupy relief. It’s a scene with the vividness of a dream, and the palm wine contributes rather successfully to that effect.

Palm wine is to palm trees as maple syrup is to maple trees. Not the palm trees you find in California; it’s a different species. Unlike maple syrup, though, palm wine is alcoholic as soon as it comes out of the tree. Basically it’s a miracle of nature. The substance is a kind of milky juice, a bit sweet, a bit sour, a bit bubbly. Nigerians, as you can probably tell, are quite adept at harnessing the incarnate power of the palm tree. The sap is a popular libation, the leaves a building material, and palm oil is extracted from the fruit.

“We” consists of myself and Hiromi, and John, and Matthew, and Alex. John is an older gentlemen, and his wife is our palm wine dealer (she also deals in stiffer, more dubious beverages.) I’ve talked about him before, but it bears repeating: he used to be a Scout leader, as well as an artist who studied in Glasgow, and he was trained as a soldier in Israel before fighting in the Nigerian Civil War. He is currently a police sergeant and a schoolteacher. Early today he came to our house for dinner, which was spaghetti. Matthew is a new acquaintance. He’s a middle-aged guy, and apparently he knows our employer at Fantsuam Foundation. Through that connection he set up a computer centre in Kagoro a number of years ago, although he is currently a teacher as well. Alex is a younger dude who we’ve met briefly before, although it’s been a while since we ran into one another and I can’t recognize him in the low light. I’m about to have one of those embarrassing moments when someone I don’t remember asks me if I remember them.

“What is wrong with Nigeria?” wonders Matthew. It’s not a challenge; it’s not a denial; it’s a rhetorical question.

“We really appreciate what you’re doing,” continues Matthew, addressing myself and Hiromi. “You’ve sacrificed a lot to come out here and help us. People need to understand this.”

“People need to do their best,” suggests John.

Matthew grows emphatic. “People are lazy! If you want to improve your life then you can do it by taking responsibility and working hard. A boy down the street I know, he just learned to repair GSM handsets. That’s what people can do.”

“But the young men around here just spend their time doing nothing,” says John, completing the thought.

“I brought two computers to this town, with my own hands,” Matthew declares proudly, and angrily. He’s punching his words, intoxicated with passion and palm wine. “Two computers, for free. We brought them to the chief’s palace, and he gave us his blessing, and they gave us the reading room to put them in. Now there’s a media centre.”

There’s a contemplative pause, which often occurs in these sorts of conversations. Matthew continues.

“Developing countries all over, they’re learning. India! Look at India, India can do it. Look at their computers.”

“Malaysia,” adds John.

“Malaysia, Indonesia, Pakistan…”

“Germany,” contributes Alex.

“Germany?! Germany!” Matthew is incredulous. “Shut up! Germany is a world power! Germany, France, USA… China, maybe Canada. Germany!?? Shut up! Germany is where Hitler came from.”

“Didn’t Hitler come from France?” asks John.

“That was Napolean.”

“Ah right. Napolean Bonaparte.”

Matthew can’t quite get over it. “Germany!” he exclaims.

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