Of course, Third World leaders love you. By ascribing third world

Host: The city was quiet, wrapped in a thin veil of fog that hung above the river like ghostly breath. The streetlights flickered, casting long, trembling shadows over the wet pavement. In a dimly lit café by the bridge, the air was thick with steam and the bitterness of freshly brewed coffee.
Jack sat, his grey eyes reflecting the neon glow from a sign outside, while Jeeny stirred her cup in silence, the spoon clinking like a clock marking the space between their thoughts.

Jack: (leaning back) “You know, Jeeny, John McCarthy had it right. ‘Of course, Third World leaders love you. By ascribing Third World ills to First World sins, you absolve them of blame for their countries’ failure to advance.’”
He paused, his voice low, husky, and sharp. “People love to find someone else to blame. It’s easier than facing your own failures.”

Jeeny: (looking up, eyes dark, soft, but steady) “You think it’s that simple? That whole nations — people who’ve suffered, bled, starved — are just dodging responsibility?”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windows. The neon sign flickered, casting a blue pulse across Jack’s face. His jawline tightened, a shadow of irritation cutting through the smoke that curled from the ashtray between them.

Jack: “I think it’s exactly that. Look at the leaders who’ve built fortunes while their people starved. Mobutu in Zaire, Mugabe in Zimbabwe, the kleptocrats who’ve drained their nations dry — all while blaming the West. Colonialism ended decades ago, but corruption? That’s homegrown.”

Jeeny: “You speak as if colonialism is a ghost that just disappeared. It didn’t, Jack. Its roots are still in the soil, twisting around the systems left behind — the borders, the economies, the languages of power. You can’t strip a nation for a century, steal its resources, enslave its people, and then expect it to stand upright the moment you walk away.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice quivered, but not with anger — with conviction. The steam from her cup rose between them like a barrier, shimmering in the dim light.

Jack: “Then how long is long enough, Jeeny? Fifty years? A hundred? At what point does the past stop being an excuse and become a choice? Singapore was a colony too. South Korea was devastated by war. Yet they rebuilt, they advanced, because their leaders didn’t blame, they built.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, her eyes narrowing) “And do you think every nation starts with the same deck? You mention Singapore — a city-state with trade routes and Western support. But what about Congo — where the Belgian king mutilated millions and stole the land’s soul? Or Haiti, which paid its former slave-masters for its own freedom? These are not excuses, Jack. They’re scars. And scars don’t just fade because the colonizer has left.”

Host: The tension tightened like a wire between them. Outside, a bus groaned past, its wheels splattering rainwater onto the curb. Jack watched the reflection of headlights ripple across the table, his fingers drumming a slow, measured rhythm.

Jack: “Maybe. But blaming others doesn’t build anything. It’s a narrative that feeds the powerless to keep them quiet. The leaders you defend use that guilt like currency — they trade it for sympathy, for aid, for forgiveness. Meanwhile, their people stay trapped.”

Jeeny: “And the West stays clean, right? Hands washed, hearts light. It’s easy to condemn the corruption of the poor, but who sold them the weapons? Who loaned them the money that crushed them in debt? The IMF, the World Bank — the same institutions that lecture about discipline while tightening the chains.”

Host: The air in the café grew heavy. A waiter passed with a tray of empty glasses, the clinking echoing like bones in a graveyard. The conversation had shifted from philosophy to confession, each word carrying the weight of history.

Jack: “You talk about chains, Jeeny, but what about choices? Rwanda rose from genocide by rejecting that blame. They focused on governance, education, technology. They didn’t wait for apologies; they moved forward.”

Jeeny: “Rwanda is the exception, Jack, not the rule. And even they paid a price — a silenced press, authoritarian order. Progress built on fear isn’t freedom. The question isn’t who’s to blame, it’s who’s still benefiting.”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes fixed on the raindrops sliding down the windowpane, each one catching the streetlight like a tiny truth trying to escape. He sighed, the sound low, rough, almost tired.

Jack: “You make it sound like there’s no way out. That every nation is just a victim chained to its history.”

Jeeny: “Not a victim, Jack. A survivor. There’s a difference. A victim is broken. A survivor remembers and builds — but with truth, not denial. When you erase the sins of the powerful, you rewrite the pain of the powerless.”

Host: Her voice cracked softly on that last word. The sound hung in the air like a note from a sad violin, vibrating through the silence. Jack’s hands tightened around his cup. Steam rose, fading into the dark.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You really believe that truth is enough to heal the world?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Not enough to heal it. But enough to stop the bleeding. The truth makes you accountable — and that’s the beginning of freedom.”

Host: The rain eased. A train whistled in the distance, a melancholy sound that drifted through the open door. Jack leaned forward, his face softened, the hard edges of his skepticism melting under the dim light.

Jack: “Maybe McCarthy wasn’t wrong, though. Maybe he was just warning us — about moral laziness. The danger of blaming everything on someone else, whether you’re a leader, a nation, or just a man with too many excuses.”

Jeeny: “Then perhaps he was also warning the powerful — about the comfort of absolution. Because when the First World says, ‘It’s not our fault anymore,’ that too is a kind of escape.”

Host: The lights in the café dimmed further as the owner swept the floor, the broom whispering over the tiles. Jack and Jeeny sat, silent, their reflection mirrored in the window — two faces, tired, thinking, but not defeated.

Jack: (softly) “So what’s the answer then? If not blame, and not forgetting?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s humility. The West needs to listen without patronizing. The South needs to rise without resenting. Both need to learn that growth is not a competition, but a conversation.”

Host: Jack smiled — just a faint, wry curve of the lips, the kind that belongs to a man who has lost an argument, but gained a truth. Jeeny returned the smile, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, the gesture slow, graceful, forgiving.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe progress is just two voices arguing until they understand each other.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then tonight, we’ve made a start.”

Host: The fog outside had lifted. The bridge gleamed under the streetlights, the river flowing smooth and silent beneath it — like history itself, carrying the weight of the past, yet always moving toward the sea.