What made George B. N. Ayittey what he is today? 25 cents, he says.

I met George about year and a half ago at a conference he was "Keynoting" at.  I'd been a fan of this outspoken Ghanaian Economist who, from his TED talk to his books Africa in Chaos and Africa Unchained, was leading the charge in straight talk about Africa.  He wants to change Africa for the better. Catastrophic failure of leadership, not colonialism, has been the bane of Africa’s development, he says. He dismisses the leadership as an assortment of military coconuts, Swiss bank socialists, quack revolutionaries, crocodile liberators and briefcase bandits. He calls them the Hippo generation. Africa’s salvation, he says, rests on the backs of the Cheetah Generation (yes, he considers me to be one); the young, agile generation of Africans who brook no nonsense about corruption and government dysfunction. They understand democracy, accountability and rule of law and have vowed to take back Africa -- one village at a time.

You may not agree with all of his views – I’m not admitting that I do either – but, what I admire about George is that he does not just call out the "wounds" of our Africa, he sees her hope and participates in it.

In true fashion, George has taken the time to contribute.  I hope his amazing story re-enforces the call to pay attention to the potential that can be found in “25 cent” moments and opportunities.  

Check out the links to some of George’s video speeches and his newest book, Defeating Dictators following his guest blog.

“A  25 cent Potential Unleashed”

George B.N. Ayittey, Ph.D.

(from the Prologue of my book, Africa in Chaos, 1998)

When I was in high school in Ghana, the stock of our school's equipment, books, and materials was insufferably pathetic. We, 32 students in the class, had one textbook to share. Desks were fantasies we day-dreamed about. The hard, sun‑baked, lateritic ground was our seat. The class was conducted under a tree to which was nailed a piece of warped chalkboard.

Since an occasional downpour always resulted in a school cancellation, we were more interested in learning every step of the rain dance. When that failed, one of us would climb the tree and sprinkle a few drops of water from a container. Very often this ruse would precipitate a class dismissal until the teacher finally noticed that it only seemed to "rain" around his desk -- a rickety table with one leg missing. It was stolen as a prank. Once he looked up and there I was, nervously perched with the incriminating evidence.

Pure, unadulterated mischief was our credo in those early years. My younger sister, Sherry, who was in the same class, outperformed me academically. She often placed ninth in the class while I struggled at the twenty‑eighth position. Of course, I was never found wanting of a battery of self‑serving rationalizations. "The teacher liked her," "My dad gave her more pocket money," "You can't learn much with only one textbook to share with thirty‑one others," and "A class under a tree is ridiculous" were some typical excuses. But then there occurred an event that completely changed my life.

One evening, an uncle named Paul came to visit us at home. Uncle Paul was an affable but stern type. He shepherded me and an older brother, Caleb (who is now deceased), into a room to teach us spelling. The grumbling and foot‑dragging were not muted. To overcome that reluctance, he promised the equivalent of 25 cents to the one who could spell "Mississippi" and "hippopotamus" the next day. Back then, that would buy two meaty candy bars or a whole meal of fried plantains and bean stew.

The following day Caleb failed the spelling test. He had lost his exercise book, he lamented. Upon being called, I stumbled a couple of times but successfully managed to spell the words. Much to my astonishment, Uncle Paul, true to his word, gave me the 25 cents. I suddenly believed in my abilities!

Subsequently at school, my position in class improved steadily and dramatically: from twenty‑eighth to second, surpassing Sherry. Within two years I was jumped into a class ahead of her. I went to the University of Ghana and upon graduation secured two scholarships to pursue graduate studies in either Canada or the United States. I chose Canada because the United States, in the latter part of the 1960s, was plagued by race riots in Detroit and other American cities. In 1981, I completed my Ph.D. studies in Economics at the University of Manitoba (Canada) with an overall grade point average of 4.00.

By American standards, that achievement would not be considered stupendous. After all, it did not qualify for a Rhodes or Fulbright Scholarship. In retrospect, it was made possible because someone, who was not even a certified teacher, cared enough to devote a little of his time and attention to offer an incentive, as little as 25 cents, to an incorrigible tyke. That reward, incidentally, was offered by a private individual, not by the government of Ghana.

Over the years, I have often wondered how my life would have turned out if Uncle Paul had withheld that 25 cents. My unsteady faith in the educational process probably would have been terminally shattered and my progress in life perniciously restricted for lack of adequate education. It is purely a matter of speculation at this juncture, but there would have been one certainty: This book would certainly not have emerged.

I often consider myself to be living proof that incentives do work. A little incentive can help surmount hurdles, such as having to share one textbook with thirty‑one other pupils in the blazing tropical sun in Africa. Given the necessary incentives and rewards, Africans too can excel just like any other people. The Economist concurred: "What Africa does not lack are ordinary people who respond to the sort of incentives that ordinary people in most other countries take for granted" (4 March 1989, 14).

 By Western standards, African peasants may seem to be limited by illiteracy, using "primitive and backward" tools and techniques. But the right incentives can unleash their productive and innovative energies to feed Africa and even have surpluses for export. That they are capable is borne out of the fact that, in the 1950s and 1960s, these peasants were doing exactly that: feeding Africa and exporting food.

In the same vein, given a carefully crafted system of incentives and a conducive intellectual environment, the black African mind can develop. The notion that Africans are intellectually inferior is offensive mythology. The illiterate Ashanti peasants were able to use their raw native intelligence to construct a wooden loom with which they continue to weave one of the world's most beautiful hand‑woven cloths, the kente. If the black African intellect can produce the kente, it also can be developed to produce more Nobel laureates, more writers, more novelists, more poets, and, above all, more economists to devise solutions to Africa's economic infirmities. What are needed are sets of inducements, conscious efforts at encouragement, a multitude of "25‑cent" incentives, and a congenial intellectual environment. But rather incongruously, what African governments often mete out is precisely the converse. When their subjects try on their own to excel or to devise solutions to their countries' problems, they are not rewarded with praise, pecuniary awards, or even 25 cents. Instead, they are brutalized with arrest, detention or death. It is this intellectual barbarism, perhaps more than anything else, that lies at the heart of the African crisis.

George B. N. Ayittey Related Links: Video Speeches; Amazon.com: Defeating Dictators

Extreme poverty has been defined as living on the equivalent of 1.25 USD a day.  What is the 25 cent potential contained in that statistic?

There we were, standing on the edge of our first entrepreneurial venture knowing little of what lay ahead.   Now I look back with greater understanding of how much failure benefits our journey if we will hear what it has to say and learn, but right then, in that moment of decision, failure was nowhere to be seen on the horizon for us.   Andy and I stood looking at each other and with one nod, knew what we had to do, “25, thank you sir.”  A slight smile was all we had time for as the throng of unwittingly predestined customers approached us through the crowd.   

I dare say it was not difficult to hand over 25 cents to a bobble headed, grinning six and seven year old as they looked up at you with big blue eyes and assured you that the programmes should be paid for before entering the show.  It did not seem to be an unreasonable request to the attendees, and certainly worked for us as our profits began to visibly stack up in Andy’s trouser pockets.   With little front end investment, our profit margins were skyrocketing.  That was until we looked up to see our older siblings glowering over us, and with them, a chuckling former customer who had (for personal reasons we did not delve in to at the time) decided to leave the auditorium and re-enter through the door they were manning.  As was typical, that meant trouble for us.  When the re-entering gentleman had pulled out 25 cents to pay them for an additional programme and our siblings had responded, “No sir, there is no charge for the programmes”, he’d cheerfully let them know that the “other two” were charging.  And that, as they say, was the end of that.   The next morning Andy and I were summoned into the dining room to account for our sudden, small business startup. 

My parents were on an out of town trip.  We were staying with Andy’s family and had been given the honour of passing out programmes at the very first “Mr. Zimbabwe” Body Building Competition.  Our country had recently gained independence and this was the first national competition heralding it’s new name.  Andy’s father was a heavy weight body building champion under old country name and new, and here we were standing before him answering for our sins.  I have to say, that for such a strong man, he coughed and turned away quite a lot as he seized our profits and we were shattered by his obvious and deep disappointment in us.  When he took us shopping that afternoon, all seemed to be well, however. 

Many years later, in the times we have seen each other, myself and Andy, now a successful professional in the world of Rugby and Rugby Management, still nod, laugh and appreciate that, and other foundational 25 cent building blocks we shared.   The 25 cent moments of our stories are valuable and telling.  They are sign posts of innate potential, resource and possibility, if we will take the time to be still, recognize and hear.   Even when we are involved with individuals and communities whose stories have been impacted by poverty and trauma and whose future perspective extends to survival of the day ahead, the details of the bigger picture of their lives signpost the DNA of their potential.  The lives and potential of people, communities and nations do not begin when we insert our expertise, our knowledge, our money or even our passionate attention into their contexts.   The possibilities in lives have evidence long before we ever get there.  If we are wise enough to see and humble enough to hear, then we may gain the privilege of relating to catalyze that foundational potential into practical opportunity that has long term, positive impact.   

“It is not about what you don’t know, it is about what you do know and don’t use; and, it is not about what you don’t have, it is about what you do have and don’t use.”   This sentence changed my life… or at least initiated the turn signal for what led me out of what was essentially good, to where I am now.  Where is that, you ask?  Well, it is at the beginning of a journey that is taking all I am, all I have and all I know.

The scenery of roads I get to walk on and faces I get to walk with is stunning!   I have never been more challenged, and I have never been more in love with the expression of what I am beginning to get to do.   Giving everything to that is absolutely worth it.  I have lost blood, sweat, tears, fingernails, occupational standing and much else thus far in this journey, but I have not lost sleep.   You see, for me, Red Earth Ventures is not about success or failure, it is about being who I was always meant to be…bruised knees and all!

What I know is that it is not about my vision, but your opportunity.  What I know and have is of greatest value when it opens up the opportunity for you to recognize and walk in what you know and have.  

What I have is skill built through the beautiful process of challenges, successes, rejections, my own errors and the grace of others surrounding them.  I have the experience to fuel my skill, necessarily earned through life and work; great and not so great relationships, great jobs and jobs I thought were simply there to keep the lights on.  I have the ability to ask the questions and the commitment to walk the journeys as you recognize and resource your potential.  I have no fear of competition in what I do, but great faith in the recipes of people connected to impact dimensions of change.  I have no fear of failure, but have great expectation to see you fully participate in the potential of your own story.   I have what I have, and I’m no longer afraid to use it.

What do you know and what do you have?  It very often takes someone to stir the question, but you are the only one who can answer it truthfully.   It does not take two billionaires bidding over the contents of who you are to make them valuable.  It takes simple recognition, simple discipline, simple connection with those who can walk the journey with you, and step by step, decision by decision investment of all you know and all you have.  

I would love to dialogue with you regarding this question of recognizing what you have and know, and about how to apply that to your passions, ideas or to any work you may be doing where you are finding difficulty framing or reaching goals of change, growth or development.  Please feel free to begin the conversation by commenting or by emailing me directly at aemmerson@redearthventures.com.  I look forward to it!

I am in wrestle mode, and I won’t let go until something gives.   This time, the intensity of struggle was heightened as I listened to two young men, just boys really, tell their story of an opportunity given to, and then prematurely taken from them.  It is not a new story and it is not a new struggle, but it has been consistently at the forefront of my last few years.  They are boys from the inner city, full of nonsense and beautiful potential.  They are faced with the dangers of a failing education system, challenged daily by the ridiculously high odds of their failure to live un-incarcerated if they live to be 25 at all, and the ridiculously low odds of ever defying “the odds”.  It isn’t that I am uncomfortable in their context or unfamiliar with the statistics that hang over them like judicial proclamations.  I am not.  It is that I have once again been pounded by the all too familiar failure of promise, often in spite of noble intention, and the sowing of a hunger that is much harder to touch. 

Looking at someone’s eyes and seeing in them one more reason to trust that better days require a greater cost of them than they have left in themselves to pay, is not something I enjoy!   For some reason, the sharpness of this impact made me think of something Mother Teresa said to a western journalist as he watched her touch and comfort the desolate in Calcutta.  He asked her how she handled the desperation.  I don’t recall her response word for word, but her answer to him was something along the lines of, “This hunger can be satisfied with bread. The hunger I see where you are from is much harder to touch; it is a hunger of the soul.”

In our effort s to impact and affect change, are we baking bread or are we sowing deeper hunger?  The truth is, that much of what we intend for good still requires a greater cost of those we seek to impact than it does of us.   We sow what was reflected in the eyes of those boys, and then we struggle with the deeper challenge of entitlement that grows.  Idealism sure can tell a story, but its legacy leaves far too many hungry. 

It is our responsibility to wrestle over the real impacts our investments have on the people who truly pay for them.  We must wrestle.   God willing, our honesty will be at the expense of heroically marketable tales of eleventh hour salvations, and for the gain of generations who are relationally catalyzed beyond their odds.  

Everything in me jumped as I watched the scene from the documentary “Reparando” of a native woman named Tita, looking out over La Limonada, the Guatemalan slum in which she lived and had started a school.  The filmmaker asked Tita about what was apparently assaulting their senses from their vantage point.  Her reply was this, “All I smell is hope, and I like it”.   That, right there, is my “why”.   It is my life driving passion to smell out hope and to dance with it… barefoot wherever possible.  It always has been.

Sound like fun?  The interesting thing I am learning about pursuing hope is that, contrary to the common passive perception of it, it is most often a jagged, relentless challenger, not satisfied to leave me shaped the ways  I was  at first, or last, encounter.   It jolts me at every opportunity, never allowing for comfort in my own ability to formulate solution, never hosting my vanity stemmed from privilege or place, or the relative means I have to walk wherever I may.   Sometimes hope smells like African rain falling on dry ground and when it does, it washes me and I need it.  But mostly it stirs up things that stink and when it does, it grows me and I’m learning to love it.   

Hope is not about dominating or changing the face of me, of you, of a community, of a slum, of the state of a nation.  Hope is about stirring the thrive of a nation, of a slum, of a community, of you and of me.   The target of hope has never been to expose who we are, or are not, in relation to one another.  Its target rather, exposes our own “why’s” and challenges ownership of them for our futures and the futures of those we have the privilege to share in.

Let it stir you.  Let it stink.  Let it challenge who or what your “why’s” are really about.   All I smell in the process is hope, and I like it!