“I’ve just come from the market, Yaw,” Dulmog announced to his friend who was having breakfast, as he started to put away his purchases, “and I saw this poor man sitting on the pavement with an apple–probably given to him by a kind stall keeper. Then along came this well-dressed kid who grabbed the apple before the old man could take a bite, then ran munching away. Where’s the justice, I ask. What’s a few centimes to that punk?”

“Aaah, Mog,” Abayaw sighed, as he put his coffee cup down on its saucer. “Rare are people like you who still harbour naive illusions of the existence of a utopian state where the right conquer the wrong, and everybody lives in peace and harmony. The rich and powerful have exploited the poor for centuries and centuries. The First World abuse and the Third World cower or protest…A sense of justice among Homo Sapiens? Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“What is life, Yaw, if one does not have ideals to strive for?”

“But, Mog, you can never be in a position to dissent with someone who is armed. Power really comes down to that…”

Just Capuchin Monkeys