Last Friday afternoon I was leaving Lesotho via the Maseru airport. An African gentleman — country unknown — was standing in front of me in the short line for the immigration passport check. The immigration officer greeted the man in Sesotho, asking him a question. From behind his body language seemed confused, and then he asked a question in English.
The immigration officer said, “Oh! You are not Basotho. I mistook you for one of my brothers.”
“No, no,” laughing. “But I am still an African. We are all brothers.”
He takes his passport, examines it, and stamps. “Yes, we are brothers.”
“We have the same problems, so we are brothers.”
“Yes, we do have those.”