This bottom-of-the-world view of Africa came as much from the media as it did from me. All our old clothes were saved up for the "naked children in Africa." All the leftover food could "feed 10 slowly starving children in Africa." Didn't do the dishes, eh? Off with you to Grandma in the village where you'd have to wake up, walk two miles to the stream to do the dishes, fetch water, walk back — all before the cock crows — and then work in the farms until roosting time. There was, of course, a bit of truth in those mock threats — and seeing it firsthand would change their lives.

We began to prepare for our trip. Cassandra packed half a dozen bottles of water; Blake bequeathed his favorite skateboard to his best friend "in case I don't come back"; I packed seven suitcases of clothes, cookies, and candies to give away at Christmas.

In the customs line at Abuja, the Nigerian capital, a shadowy pitch-black customs officer appeared from nowhere, cleared his throat, and said: "Madam, we hungry-o. Government never pay us for fife months now." What I understood him to really be saying was: "Madam, we don't care what you have or don't have inside those suitcases. Pay up or else we'll delay you for as long as it takes."

So I placed a $10 bill on his palm and we "cleared" customs.

My sister, Kate, picked us up in her Suburban and we drove into the darkness, only to be stopped at a police checkpoint. Two policemen with machine guns drawn, approached us. Blake, who'd just seen the movie "Hotel Rwanda," held my hands. Kate rolled down her window and the taller policeman peered into the van, cleared his throat and said: "Madam, we hungry-o."

Kate placed a few crumpled bills on his outstretched hand and they let us go.

Our car slowed down as we wound through the city streets and Kate dutifully showed us the $5 million Grand Square, the five-star Sheraton and Hilton Hotels, the world-class presidential palace, the Central Bank of Nigeria, and other government buildings that lined the streets on both sides. We stopped at a traffic light, and Blake and Cassandra watched numerous Mercedes Benzes and SUVs — new and monstrous — stream past. "A Hummer?!" Blake's mouth was agape. "And a Rolls Royce!" Cassandra exclaimed.

At Kate's two-story stucco house, behind security gates and massive mahogany doors, we entered a large living room with marble floors and Turkish rugs. My niece and nephew, dressed in FUBU jeans and Tommy Hilfiger T-shirts, welcomed us. In the middle of the greetings, Blake chortled and darted across the room to the 42-inch plasma screen EDTV sitting atop the ivory-topped end table. A gliding servant soon appeared in the dining room, laying out fine china, place mats, and matching cloth napkins.