Ten years ago, I left New York on a dark, snow-lashed night and stepped down the next day into the morning glare of Dakar, in Senegal. It was an exciting, expectant time for the newly independent countries of Africa. Since that moment in Dakar, I have spent most of the last decade in Africa. Those ten years did not transform a gullible fool into a mean and narrow cynic, but I feel more critical, more doubtful, more skeptical, more pessimistic than I did in 1962. I still feel sympathetic and understanding. But I have learned that sympathy and understanding are not enough. Africa needs to be looked at with cold hardness as well. There have been more disappointments than accomplishments in Africa in the ten years. Two events — the Nigerian civil war and the assassination of Tom Mboya — struck like body blows at the sympathies of an outsider. The war was probably the greatest scourge in black Africa since the slave trade, and it was largely self-made. Murder cut down the man who seemed most to represent all that was modern in new Africa, and it was probably done for the glory of tribal chauvinism. On top of this, the decade has produced a host of other unpleasant events...

For more than a decade, an obscure civil war has ravaged the Sudan. Largely ignored by the rest of the world, it is Africa’s longest war, paralyzing the Sudan’s three southern provinces intermittently from 1955 and continuously from 1963. The war has led to perhaps a half-million deaths and has forced 200,000 southerners to flee for refuge in neighboring countries. All the terror and turmoil have come from cultural hatred. A visitor can catch the meaning of the war on a Saturday night at the dance hall in Juba, the main town of the southern Sudan. As a southern quartet blares out its kinetic jazz, tall, black southerners and their callipygous women leave their opened bottles of “Camel” beer on metal tables and move toward the enormous dance floor, their legs suddenly beating, their rumps shaking with the first step on the floor. A few young northern men, who work in the government offices of Juba, ask southern girls to dance. The northerners, a shade or two lighter in skin color, flail their arms and beat the steps. Their heads bob and their knees shake, but somehow they miss. They seem awkward, ill at ease, out of beat. In the words of the racial cliché, the northerners, though African, don’t have rhythm. Or, to be more accurate, they have a rhythm that is culturally different from that of the black southerners. Northerners look to the Middle East and Arabic culture; southerners to the heart of Africa and black culture...