We need a Gandhi in Africa

After the regular Marhaba(s) and Salaam(s), the first question I ask a foreigner when either of us initiates a conversation is, "Why are you here?"
The reply is nine out of ten times the same. "Money... easy money. Relaxed life. No competition."
That's what Ching Chow (I really don't remember his name, but it definitely was something like this), a japanese, told me, when I asked him the question at Doha's Oasis bar.
Though it didn't seem like one, but I eventually realised what a big mistake I had made. Because then he started talking. Talking. And talking.
I took an hour to finish my first pint of beer (firstly because I was drinking after a long time, and I wasn't in the mood to get drunk. Just felt like getting beer down my throat to remember the taste), and the man spoke non-stop.
A couple of times, while he was going on and on about some weird place in India, I even bent my eyes towards his crotch, thinking, "Man... I could create one extra ball down there, then get up from the stool, ask him to shut up for a second and then burst all three."
After a while though, he started talking to himself. Because niether was I looking at him while he spoke, nor was I concentrating on what he was saying. Believe me I am not exaggerating, there was a time when I had turned by back towards him, and was busy staring at the Filipino women trying to get hitched with someone or the other for the night... and he was still talking, to my back!
Anyway, he left, and then a britisher came and sat beside me. This time though, I didn't make any mistake. he smiled, I smiled, and then I turned my face away.
I am sure he didn't care much because just two seconds later two of the filipino women walked up to him and started quoting him rates for the night.
They gace me a longish stare, but didn't utter a word to me when I sarcastically smiled and shook my head. Unfortunately for them, even the Britisher rejected them (politely though, saying, "I got work at 5 am in the morning." Even the birds in Qatar don't start flying at 5 am!!!)
I went up to the pool table. Saw a man, definitely Afrcian sitting on the sofa (the one like Joey and Chandler have in Friends) watching two people play pool.
"Where are you from?" I asked him, after he smiled at me.
"Sudan," he said.
"What brings you to Qatar?"
"Life," he smiled. "There are only tears in Africa. I get to smile here."
He told me about the war situation in the country. "War is ruining everything there. It's been going on since I was a very young kid. I am 54 now, it still hasn't ended."
What are they fighting for?
"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. They're fighting, killing each other, because it's almost become a tradition, a habit of sorts."
Africa has no unity, he said. "Unlike India," he added. "We need a Gandhi out there."
He said he wanted to beat me at pool.
"I am really good at it," I said.
"I am better," he countered.
He sure was. He had the game when I still had a few striped ones on the table. He purposely missed the shot to let me play on.
I still didn't win. I played well though. He was better, that's it.
Hussain, his name was. A Beach Volleyball coach.
Africa... Sudan... my next stop. My next home. For how many months, how many years? I don't know.
I'll get to know that when I first get there. Before that, there is a lot more to learn about Qatar.
Raise your hand whoever said Qatar was dead...