government of President Mwai Kibaki as an assistant minister for Environment and Natural Resources. But for more than thirty years I have remained a keen member of civil society, especially through my work with the Green Belt Movement.
I was raised in central Kenya in a rural village with no modern amenities. I grew up in the shadow of both Mount Kenya and colonialism's last throes. My community, the Kikuyus, was adversely affected by colonial expansion: traumatized by physical displacement, the gradual and systematic extermination of many good aspects of our culture, and the oppressive reaction to the Mau Mau struggle for self-determination and Kenya's independence. This history has challenged the community's ability to raise subsequent generations of children, many of whom have drifted onto the streets or are members ofthe outlawed Mungiki sect. Many African peoples experienced similar assaults on their societies over the course of several centuries. Such deculturation has left many Africans ill-equipped to deal with the forces of modernity, principally political and economic systems that are still alien to them, and may not be in their, or Africa's, best interests.
Yet I'm also someone who benefited extensively from the opportunities provided by a Western model of education, introduced by the colonial administration. I know firsthand how the liberating self-determination of Western culture can act as a positive force in one's life. (Without it, I probably wouldn't be writing this book and sharing my thoughts.) Nevertheless, I believe passionately in the need for African communities to discover the value of embracing their
own
destiny and determining their
own
futures, rather than solely and passively relying on outside forces.
My dual identities—both “Western” and “African,” local and international, a member of the elite and someone from a rural background—capture the essence of what might be perhaps the deepest and most complex issue of all facing Africa: what it means to be an African today. Part of this identity is one not determined by Africans themselves. Too often, it seems, Africa has been seen as ungovernable, incomprehensible, and immune to the efforts of more enlightened nations' attempts to civilize it—in short, as unable to help itself. Africans too often have allowed themselves to be defined by these retrogressive stereotypes and have not seen themselves as they are: a spectacularly varied and dynamic cluster of what I call “micro-nations”—communities bound together by their environment, experiences, culture, and history that interact with other communities within the larger nation-state and region. Africans must reclaim and embrace their diversity if they are to flourish.
As the title of this book suggests, the work that needs tobe done will be hard, for those who lead as well as for those who are led. And while Africans should continue to welcome the international agencies, donor nations, and private ventures that have expressed an interest in helping the continent develop in a manner both sustainable and just, ultimately the fate of the continent depends on its citizens. It cannot be overemphasized: Africans must decide to manage their natural resources responsibly and accountably, agree to share them more equitably, and use them for the good of fellow Africans. Otherwise, they will continue to allow outside forces to seduce or bully their governments into arrangements that allow those resources to be removed from the continent for a pittance. It is for Africans to determine whether they will work hard to build up their own talents and abilities, strengthen their democracies and institutions of governance, and foster their peoples' creativity and industry. Or, instead, whether they will continue to nurture a culture of dependency through the acceptance of loans and development assistance, which has resulted in too many Africans waiting for outside help instead of unleashing their