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under their breath, but the people devoted to the campaign screwed up their faces.
    I looked at Addie, who shrugged at the insensitivity of those who had pledged their energy to the African crisis. We whispered to each other that this was probably how most people in the West saw every human crisis over in Africa. If this crisis had erupted anyplace in Europe or Asia or Latin America, relief and supplies would have been airlifted to the area.
    Owen was undaunted in his mission of good will. “We’re not there to solve the political questions. We’re there to meet their basic health needs. You’re mistaken if you think that we’re the UN, that we have a cure for the rampant corruption or the ethnic hatred engulfing the region. We’re trying to do the Lord’s will. We’re trying to reach out to those who need our help and support.”
    The image of a relief worker, a healthy young white woman, carrying a starving boy with a ravaged face and a bloated stomach appeared on the screen. Flies settled in the child’s nostrils and mouth. The people gathered around the table stopped talking, while others in the room covered their eyes. It was a pitiful sight.
    â€œCharity or philanthropy?” Owen asked.
    The white faces turned to the speaker, who continued talking as images of malnourished children and women, of corpses lined up beside refugee tents, of staffers trying to force liquids down parched throats, and of villagers without limbs, reprisals by the rebels, flashed on the screen.
    â€œThe Congo is a mess,” Owen said angrily. “It has been a mess for a long time. This is the region where the Mobutu dictatorship reigned for over three decades and was violently overthrown only in nineteen ninety-seven. Then Mobutu was followed by another despot, Laurent Kabila, and now there are unceasing waves of killing and bloodshed throughout the land.”
    A black woman dressed severely in black, with a large gold cross around her neck, stood up and asked one of the most important questions of the meeting. “Why must Americans always have to come to the rescue? We’ve got enough to do on our shores. There’s all kinds of misery and need here. Africans need to stand up and take responsibility for their own actions—”
    Addie interrupted her. “That could be said about American blacks. Maybe if we stood up and redirected our energy in our communities, we’d end the misery here.”
    The woman jerked her face toward Addie. “And who are you? Who invited you to this private meeting?”
    â€œI’m a guest of Dr. Gomes, who is a friend of Mr. Yemma there,” she replied. “Just call me Addie. I don’t like your snooty tone, ma’am. I thought this was a Christian organization.”
    â€œWe’re all good Christians here,” the woman retorted.
    Owen put a finger to his lips, trying to nip the brewing dispute in the bud. “Whether it’s volunteerism or grassroots goodwill, this is not about Rudyard Kipling’s ‘white man’s burden.’ We’re trying to keep people alive, trying to give them peace and comfort. This is why we’re meeting all this week with a number of charitable foundations and individual donors. We need medical supplies, doctors and nurses, and essentials like water, food, clothing, and tents. We cannot turn our backs on these underserved areas.”
    Another color image of lifeless bodies covered with blankets in a large tent appeared on the screen behind Owen as he turned the audience’s attention to the quintet of Africans in the room, who looked around at the prosperous men and women in their midst.
    â€œLook at these poor souls,” Owen said mournfully. “There are all kinds of evil going on over there. Murders, numerous cases of child and woman rape, plunder, displacement. When it’s time, the plague of flagrant human rights abuses will need to be addressed, but that