The Delusion of the Back Way – A Conversation with an African Dreamer

Scene: A dusty roadside in West Africa. The sun is setting, and a lively crowd is moving about. Street vendors are calling out prices, motorcycles weave through traffic, and the smell of roasted maize lingers in the air. I’m standing with Kwame, a young man in his late 20s, who’s pacing back and forth, frustration written all over his face.

Kwame:

Sista, boy, boy sista… you see this country? It’s finished. Kaput! Poverty everywhere, corruption in the government, no jobs, nothing!

Me:

Really? No jobs? But I just saw a guy across the street fixing phones. You have skills, why don’t you do something like that?

Kwame:

Ah, sista boy! That one? Business here is slow slow. People don’t pay. You fix their phone today, tomorrow they tell you “I will come and pay later.” That’s why I must go to Europe.

Me:

Okay… but why not become an apprentice under someone? Learn a trade, maybe plumbing, tailoring—something useful?

Kwame:

Ah! Boooy! Who is going to learn tailoring now? This is 2025! People are importing second-hand clothes. Who will buy from me?

Me:

Alright, so no phone fixing, no apprenticeship. What about driving a taxi?

Kwame:

Sista, are you serious? They will rob me blind in this country! If you find a good driver, he will run away with your car. And the police? They will stop me every day asking for “something small” before I even make money.

Me:

Hmm. So you don’t trust the business? What about opening a small shop? I see kiosks everywhere.

Kwame:

That one? The moment I start making money, my uncle will go and do black magic on me! The village people don’t like to see you progress. They will finish me!

Me:

So… business won’t work, apprenticeship won’t work, driving won’t work, a shop won’t work—so what’s the plan?

Kwame: (eyes lighting up, suddenly hopeful)

Boy, boy, sista! The back way is the only way!

Me:

The what?

Kwame: (lowers voice, leans in like he’s sharing classified information)

The back way. I must get to Libya, then cross the Mediterranean. From there, Italy! Mamma mia! That is the dream!

Me: (staring at him in disbelief)

Your “dream” is to cross the desert on foot, avoid being kidnapped by militias in Libya, get on an overcrowded boat where half the people drown, just so you can sleep under a bridge in Italy?

Kwame: (nods, completely serious)

Yes Boy! Once I get there maan, chaaa… I will find a way. Maybe I will be picked up by a fashion scout. Maybe I will become a footballer. But here? No hope. I just need small help from you—just give me enough money to reach Libya.

Me: (cracking up laughing)

You think that is a plan? You have rejected every real opportunity in front of you, and your best idea is to throw yourself into the sea and hope you randomly become a footballer?

Kwame: (shrugs, completely unfazed)

Sista… boy, you just don’t understand.

(I shake my head, realizing that this is a lost cause. Some people don’t want solutions—they want illusions. So I walk away, leaving Kwame to his “dream.”)