Which came first?
It is a fair point to raise, whether the expats contribute to the mess that can be African aviation or whether they are partially responsible. I think you need to spend some time there first before you can understand the situation.
The funniest part of that one is how often we see well-meaning people, all warm and fuzzy, coming to Africa with their liberal ideals. After about three days of being thoroughly worked over by these poor, little, semi-retarded, disadvantaged Africans whom they think they love (why?) there they are in the bar, spitting venom and saying they should drop the Bomb on the place. Yeah, well, turns out the indigenes are fully-formed, often highly intelligent adults who make the perfectly informed decision to take full advantage of these idealistic schnooks.
I used to see them come, the Chosen Ones sent to reform aviation in Africa with their wisdom, superior airmanship and their compassion. I used to hear them losing their rags with ATC. And then I used to see them go.
The record-holder in my last outfit was the 24-hour German. Okay, to be fair it was maybe 27 hours if you count the time between the arrival of LH560 and the departure of LH561. He came in the bar freaked out over having seen a group of black men with guns on the corner of the main road from the airport (police, actually) and decided that Lagos just wasn't for him.
Guys would rock up, lose the plot and disappear over the horizon cursing the entire Nigerian nation and every sick, racist, white bastard who was working there, all in the name of African reality failing to conform to their precious, little liberal preconceptions.
On the other hand, this Swedish lady showed up to be shocked by my crude ways with our local driver when he missed a turn-off I had been pointing out for 500 metres. "It is that one right there so slow down now... We are almost there and you are going to miss it... HERE! Turn HERE, godammit! Oh, FARK! That was it back there, you dozy git! Call yourself a driver! My granny could have made that and you missed it after staring at it for 500 metres! Now we have to go 3 klicks, turn around, drive through that nasty slum area and turn back to show up late for the client's Christmas party. If you miss it on the way back you are sacked!" Blah-blah-blah... the Oyingbo is blowing big, big grammar again, ho-hum... Like when you shout at your dog for eating your slippers, actually.
So Inger was shocked by meeting this crudely-spoken maniac. Fast forward three months and it was Inger who would go to the driver to say, "You stink. Here is soap. Go wash." (He really could skunk out our little Mexican-built Nissan if he went about three or four days without a bath. I guess he ate a lot of spicy stuff. We men used that to keep the car for ourselves but Inger was made of finer stuff.) She was not stupid and she clicked on the idea that this was not Sweden, actually, where a weakling would have retired hurt.