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“How is Home?” You Ask

January 28, 2019 3 Comments

Since returning home early last month, nearly all my conversations begin with the same recurrent question; how is Cameroon/home? Roughly eight weeks later, I still haven’t found a suitable way to reply. I say: “It’s just there”. It’s just there as in; it is how I left it, except where it’s worse As in: home is surviving – barely living, As in: Cameroon has managed to retain just the bare minimum of what makes it home- the familiarity of those who are yet to leave, the humid weather which in turn envelopes you like a sweat-inducing fog and reassures your skin that it will not crack here. I say ‘it’s just there’ because to answer ‘how is home?’ would require several contradictory descriptions: Like the security of never doubting where your next meal will come from because there is an endless list of people waiting for me to stop by for a meal since I returned, but also like the hesitation and insecurity I feel at the thought of leaving home to do any visiting because leaving home means passing through a terrifying military checkpoint akin to what stands at the US/Mexico border. And if I were to describe home what would I share? The laughter of the children in our compound; the toddler next door who calls me ‘Nica’ and giggles like it’s the soundtrack for a Disney classic yet to be made, the preteens playing games like ‘dodging’ and assorted versions of hopscotch after their morning chores on ghost-town days… Or do I tell of this air of apprehension which hangs over us all and leaves me feeling like I’m paranoid in my inability to properly describe it? But I’m not paranoid, it is real. Our laughter, our noisy nature is now somewhat muted. We who used to advertise nearly everything with ‘Papa Promo’ a car with massive speakers attached on its roof, blasting Pidgin-English adverts into the eardrums of pedestrians. That car seems to have stopped going around. And Mutengene which was always busy and loud. A distracting hub to pass through, not stop in with its shops and bars blaring music from loudspeakers competing with each other for the attention of customers…. even here the music is not as loud any longer; only one shopkeeper with a speaker has yet to close down and move away, no more competition. And of course, one can’t play music so loud that they don’t hear if gunshots go off and they need to run. If I were to answer ‘how is home’? Which of the homes shall I speak of? Home feels different depending on the neighborhood. That apprehension that cannot be explained is experienced in varying degrees from one quarter to the next. In Mile 16 and Muea it is heavy in the air with closed shops, vacant businesses and the desolation that is breathed in and out by all who invested in the area, by the few who have stayed despite the very real threat to life. From Mile 17 upward to Molyko the apprehension is a crescendo of feeling; with very little felt between 8am and 5pm- just people on their guard for any sudden alarm. Then the crescendo peaking at dusk as we all rush to go home, grown or not, afraid of the dark. Finally, in Sandpit upwards; here there is life, the shops are all open, and people still sit at makeshift bars to eat and drink. But there is also an awareness that the girls selling akara and beans with that old mami by the roadside are not going to school, they have come to Buea to stay with their aunt because their village was burned by the military. That apprehension here is a shadow at the edges of life, like a silhouette. And in the telling of home do I count even the other regions East of the Mungo where in place of apprehension it is a resignation that hangs in the air along with the weight of dust? *** To properly respond to ‘how is Cameroon’ would demand I tell several stories of Cameroonians: The story of how my godmother’s father who suffered kidney failure would have died because his urologist couldn’t come to work on Monday because of Ghost-town and the general practitioner had more than his share of patients to deal with. Similar to the story of expectant mothers who now have an additional fear of going into labor on the wrong day of the week. To respond properly would entail I tell of the number of families split up, with parents having to send kids off to other regions for school possibly with one spouse going as well and how managing two households has made already the lives of people who were already struggling much more difficult. It would require I tell of the loans my neighbors are paying with bitterness every month because the house they took the loan for is complete but they can’t move into it- the area is now a no-go zone. The bushes not too far from there has a shrine where the Amba Boys are said to congregate so it is regularly attacked by the military. The last time the neighbor visited this house, he remarked with palpable frustration on how a house he had yet to sleep in had already seen bullet holes in the walls, need for repair. I would need to tell of the Faculty of Science lecturer who I used to admire for her fashion sense and how she jumped a foot when I greeted her from behind… I was later told that she had been kidnapped and her family had to pay 5.5 million in ransom… she is still traumatized… And she is not alone. Enjema, the younger sister of my neighbor-friend has nightmares periodically now- since witnessing a man being shot in front of her by gendarmes last September. She recounts that the man had been the driver

Resolution Recommendations for Fellow Christians…

January 1, 2019 No Comments

In January of 2018, I committed to sharing my faith through blogging as well. This meant increasing my blogging frequency. All through the year, I made two posts every month; one as usual of my musings which are generally social commentary, and another post chronicling my Christian journey under my ‘About my Faith’ page. I just want to say thank you to those who have been reading and encouraging me. I pray the year 2019 ahead is a better one for us all. As we start yet another year, I have been considering what message I’d like to pass with the last/first post. This end of year period is known for being the period of pledges, resolutions, and decrees of ‘good riddance to all things bad’. So, I think in the spirit of the season, I could raise some resolutions I’m hoping other Christians would take on. Don’t worry, I won’t make a long list self-righteous of things for other people to do in the new year, we all know the longer the list of resolutions the less likely we are to achieve them. I just have three points going forward. 1- Please Be a More Conscious Christian A.K.A WOKE A week ago we celebrated 25th of December as the birthdate of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Except that date is not likely his date of birth. It’s a known fact that Christ was likely not born in December and that the date we are actually celebrating has origins in certain pagan feast which the early crusaders tried to white-wash with faith. I say all this not to deride us as Christians for celebrating Christmas, but rather to illustrate that KNOWING this did not stop me from celebrating Christ’s birth. Because of the knowledge, I do not celebrate the day but the event. which is not being heralded on that day. Yet it was necessary that I know the truth. It is necessary that we all know the origins of what we celebrate, the history of our religious days and norms. That we- especially African Christians, acknowledge that those who brought us God’s word likewise played a role in our subjugation. It is necessary to know this, to acknowledge it to have your faith questioned, tested and proven as a conscious choice rather than a passive inheritance of history, place of birth and socialization. Ours is a faith that calls us to be in a relationship with the one described as the ‘Way, the Truth and the Light’ how then can you ignore the truths of our religious history, religious institutions, and our society today? To be willingly ignorant is to have a fake relationship with the Truth. So resolve to ‘be woke’, research the answers to the hard questions, call out the church’s failure to address social issues which matter, delve into philosophy and hear arguments from those of other faiths – or no faith at all. Trust God enough to know He, being God, can handle your questioning. 2- Resolve to Read More than Just that Verse! Brethren, I beseech you, stop this cherry-picking of bible scripture. Let it end. Do you not see the hypocrisy of using a single verse from Deuteronomy or Leviticus to justify condemning some people all the while overlooking other scripture in the same chapter which ask us to not eat shrimp (crayfish)? Also, can we stop claiming the promise of blessings in a single verse at the end of the book when we failed to read the chapter full of pain and sacrifice which led to that promise? Just the other day I noticed how I was guilty of this; I have been capitalizing on the promise of Philippians 4:19 “And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus”. However, this verse was a prayer for the Philippians who had been helping Paul generously. It was directed at specific people in response to something and before I can claim it, I would need to have been just as generous or be generous by trusting in that scriptural promise. This is the case with many of the verses we often claim, they are often tiny excerpts of a bigger story. So resolve to read more than a single verse, to claim the promise with awareness of context and ensure you read all of Abraham’s trials before claiming Abrahamic blessings. 3- Resolve to Know What and Why You Believe I had dragged my feet about sharing my faith for a long time, but after deciding to share my conversion story in later 2018 and having to outline just why I believe and what, I now think it’s something all adult Christians should be required to do. Too many of us are Christians by indoctrination; believing because we’ve been told, not because we’ve experienced or found out for ourselves. Too many of us can’t delineate where our socialization ends and our faith starts. For this reason, we find it difficult to defend our belief (our belief- not God- God doesn’t need lawyers) without insulting a non-believer, condemning them or worse. I pray that if you’re a Christian reading this, you get to the point in your journey where you can declare your faith confidently, knowing for certain what you believe in and why. May God grow and guide you for the better in 2019.

The Police Are Not Your Friend, Not Here, Not There, Not Anywhere.

December 17, 2018 1 Comment

How would you identify a good country? This question or something similar to it has come up in several conversations with friends recently. In the wake of yet another farce of an election in Cameroon coupled with a crisis which grows more violent and erratic by the day, friends and acquaintances I have spoken with have expressed their disdain at having been born Cameroonian. Some have mentioned wishing they could belong to another nation, or at least be resident there. While I understand that these feelings are a product of frustration, I have found myself responding to their declarations with the question: so what country do you think is better and why? Their responses always expose what they prioritize at the said time as well as what they feel Cameroon fails at the most. After the most recent of such a conversation, I turned the question on myself. What would be evidence of a good country for me? Free and fair elections? Leaders that are changed with regularity? Equitable participation/representation of genders, ages, faiths, and abilities? All of those came to mind, but none stood out as much as the state of law enforcement. *** For a brief period of my childhood, I lived with my immigrant single mother in the United States. It was the mid-1990s and after school, I would be cared for by neighbours who were immigrants themselves but relatively better ‘established’ having lived in the US for longer. It was in those spaces that I learned what I needed to fit in, from the first generation children who had come before me, I would learn of games like UNO, Dominoes and Cops and Robbers. During parties and meetings when the adults had their fun upstairs, we kids would be sent to a basement or backyard to play with each other. If it were a backyard, a game of Cops and Robbers would typically be on the program and it all began with picking those who would be the cops and who would be the robbers; this equalled who would be the good guy and who would be the bad guy. That’s what American culture first taught me of police. They were the good guys, who caught bad guys and saved the day. Even at school, when asked the oft-repeated “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question, several classmates had said they wanted to be policemen. And why not? Back then we watched COPS (if we managed to stay up past bedtimes), we sang the show’s jingle with glee “Bad boys, bad boys whatchu you gonna do, whatchu gonna do when they come for you?” and we believed as we repeated the tune that bad boys got caught by the police, the ‘good guys’ and that it was always best to call 911 so the police come rescue you. By the time I was 11, that idea of who the police are had become a bit tarnished. Only slightly, but still. An African-American classmate had recounted her fear of the cops discovering that she was at home alone most days and in charge of watching over her siblings because her mother worked multiple jobs and her dad was in jail. She warned me after I had received a particularly brutal whooping from my mom, not to let anyone know; because the police could take you away from your family altogether and foster-care was hell, she said. She had been there for some time herself. I took the lesson to heart and soon began noting the fear and apprehensiveness displayed by adults when police passed by. I began noting how my mom and other adults spoke to these men in uniform the way I would speak to adults when weary of stepping on the wrong toe. Nonetheless, at that age the police were still people to be respected, still people I believed one ought to call for help. I returned home at age 12, the first thing I would note about police in Cameroon would be their standing on the roadside. They didn’t always have cars nearby and back then most just held batons and a stick with nails which would be extended out on the road as a threat to drivers: stop or puncture your tires. I recall asking during one trip from Bamenda to Yaoundé what would happen if the driver drove on, what if the driver saw the police ahead and dodged the stick with nails? What could they do without a patrol car and gun? Obviously, Cameroon didn’t have a sophisticated license plate tracking system. The adults I asked just told me it was a bad idea, the policeman would remember you they claimed, or warn the group of police at the next checkpoint to watch out for your vehicle. It seemed lame to me. A lot of things seemed lame to me back then as I compared the country I now call home to the one I had spent some six childhood years in. But the police, in particular, were very lame; all those I came in contact with spoke French, which I couldn’t understand nor speak. They were forever scowling and didn’t even give the impression of being at your service. Rather they were to be served. People would give up their treasured front seats at the bus for the gender me, often at the beckoning of the driver who hoped this ‘esteemed’ passenger would be recognized through the windscreen when the bus was stopped at checkpoints and the driver given less hassle. Those who gave up seats did so for the greater good I suppose. Police in Cameroon as I would come to learn were not those to be called upon for help. At no time have I been taught the emergency number for the Cameroon police, and I bet a vox pop would prove very few know it. The average man won’t even want to know the number; what would they use it for? If

Faith Journey Lessons Inspired by Thoughts of Death

November 13, 2018 2 Comments

Last week I thought about dying. No, not as in suicide. But as in being killed. You see, I’m returning home soon and though I have looked forward to returning home from every trip/stay abroad, this time I am more apprehensive than excited. The crisis in the Anglophone regions which I call home has escalated to the point of guerrilla warfare. On one hand, we have the military shooting indiscriminately, burning villages, and government-ordered arbitrary arrests on the rise; on the other hand, we have the advocates for secessionism proving to be another extreme of evil with kidnappings, butchering and a general ruling by terror. I am returning home to this, both for professional and personal reasons, willingly returning because this is still home. Yet, I have questioned my sanity for desiring to walk into what many are trying to flee from. I have questioned my purpose, what I feel called to do, I have questioned God’s direction, and I have questioned myself in a hundred different ways. I am an over-thinker, I can create something to be anxious about out of thin air, and as this is a very real worry I have magnified it, worrying at an even larger scale. So I didn’t think only of the possibility of physical death (that would be relatively easy), I thought of all the ways I could die emotionally, spiritually, and mentally if hurt in a particular way. For days I thought of home and cried feeling like some foolish character in a horror movie who goes outside in the dark to check for what is making that eerie sound. You might think I’m exaggerating- and perhaps I am given that I’m thinking all this based on reports from home- but please put yourself in my place. Consider yourself someone already prone to worrying and imagine receiving news of shootings every day, a kidnapping for a ransom of 5 million, or teacher from a school 15 mins from your home having their fingers cut off. The truth is reported on the news often enough that I do not need to exaggerate. But this post isn’t about the crisis back home. It’s about what this time, living with this fear and constantly receiving news like this, has taught me about my faith, and my position on my Christian journey. This period, particularly the over-thinking I’ve done this past week has left me with two lessons I’ll be sharing here: On a particularly bad day last week the thoughts of dying hit peak while I was talking with a cherished friend who unknowingly said something hurtful, something that killed some hope I’d had in our relationship. That night I cried thinking of a different type of dying- dying hope. I learned an important lesson then, untimely death scares a lot of us not for what it is (we don’t feel the impact of our death ourselves) but for what it means. It often means the end of hopes enjoy fruits of our labor, feeling some success and some modicum of happiness at the end of the struggle. Christians are often thought to think of this world as a temporary place, we’re passing through. While the ideology is foundational of our faith, I think it’s simplistic to say ‘don’t think of the here and now’. I have learned from this time that we must be more honest, yes we have hope in a life after death, but I also have hope in God bringing about a future I hope for. We invest a lot in that hope of a future we hope for, we work hard in the here and now, to be good disciples while on earth, to have good relationships to live fulfilled lives. So let’s not sum up fear of death and bodily harm to an unwillingness to pass on physically. To me, it’s sometimes an unwillingness to believe God would let all the effort, the dreams sown in your heart be fruitless. Living unhappily, with no hope for the here and now is in itself another type of dying we rarely speak of. Suffice it to say, that as I overanalyzed everything last week I felt like the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes, wondering why we all try so hard and whether it was even worth it. As I was leaving one WhatsApp chat to another discussing my anxiety, plans, questions etc. a friend brought something to my attention which would be my 2nd lesson in this period. She had noted that when I have a decision to make, or some issue on my plate, I repeat the same pattern for dealing it. I say I’m praying over that thing- and I do- but then I carry whatever it is to whoever I can, flesh out the worry, analyze the issue several times with 20 different people, collecting all their opinions till I’ve talked more than I’ve prayed. Debated and questioned more than I could ever hope. At the end of this- the end comes when I’m just plain tired and or have run out of people I like enough to share the issue with- I resign to whatever would be. Such that my trust in God’s will is more out of resignation than actual faith. The friend who brought this pattern to my attention also encouraged me to re-read the book of James. Shortly after I started it, I found verses which summed my actions up exactly James 1:6-7). I meditated on that verse had a heart to heart with another Christian sister-friend and in the course of conversation came up with the term ‘prayer/worry hoarder’ describing my habit for needing other people to help me worry, asking them to pray for what I’ve prayed for and worry about what I’m worrying over- rather than trusting. The revelation into this habit hasn’t resolved anything, I’m still anxious. Yet now I’m conscious of this pattern of mine and taking steps to curb my doubt-based behavior. For instance, knowing

29 Lessons I’ve Learned at 29: A Collection of Personal Epigrams Thus Far…

October 28, 2018 4 Comments

Earlier this month, I celebrated my 29th birthday. I have dubbed this year: My year of testimonies signifying my commitment to share more (particularly of lessons learned and vulnerabilities) by way of personal healing, self-evaluation ahead of the big 3.0 and in hope of encouraging someone else as I have often sought to be encouraged this past year. I began this testimony-themed year by sharing my ‘salvation story’ or the account of how and why I committed to the Christian faith. You can read this HERE. My contemplation on how far I’ve come this year and all there is to share led me to review my journals. I found an entry which reminded me that in 2012 as I completed undergrad, I had made an ambitious seven-year plan for fulfillment by the age of thirty. As per this plan, my 29th year was to be “My Year of Preparation”; it was to be the year I became fully ‘adult’. Underneath 29 I had put bullet points listing the goals for the year or what being ‘fully adult’ meant for me at that time. According to that list, as a twenty-nine-year-old I: – Should have a healthier lifestyle- a healthy weight, diet, skin care routine etc. – Should be getting to solvency, with savings, property, and finally acting on that business idea… -Should be enrolled in a postgraduate program and establishing myself as a writer and educationalist. – Should be setting up a family and preparing myself to be all I needed myself as a child. – Should have complete training at church to be a liturgist occasionally and be an active member of a Christian fellowship -Should have plans for establishing a youth center like the YMCA in the works WELL! Let’s just say I had some ambition way back then eh? I will not be holding myself up to this list, rather I shall think of it with appreciation as it shows that even back then, I knew I had to PREPARE and work on myself to achieve the fulfillment I desired and still desire. I am proud of the younger Monique for having figured that out. There’s a lot more I’ve figured out in these 29 odd years and I’ve coined life quotes from lessons learned which I share in this piece. Consider these 29 original sayings as epigrams to remember me by. Notes on Living, Loving and Being … The worst thing about life isn’t the catastrophes, the losses, the pain or disappointments it brings to us all. The worst thing, in my opinion, is that life goes on. It does not stop for us to collect our bearings, regain our rhythm, restore our hope or reclaim our faith. One may lose their entire family, another may lose their only source of joy, yet another the hope which kept them sane; but still life goes on, others live as though the world had not ended had not ended for one. You can believe all you want. Unlike Hollywood PG 13 movies, wishes don’t come true by believing alone. Believe in good, believe that justice will come someday, and right will conquer wrong. But bear in mind that this may happen on the day after you are buried in your grave. And it doesn’t make it too late for there was never a set date. One of the ironies of life, I have found, is how we are encouraged to dream grandly as children only to be urged to settle soon as adults- and our souls expand and contract with each compromise and negotiation, weathering away. The thing about tomorrow? It never has enough hours or the capacity to fulfill all we wish it would, so we always need another one. I have found that many people don’t notice my hearing impairment in the course or a conversation. To them, my rapt attention is response enough. And I can talk to at length with one whose name I do not know, one whom I have only just met. Because sometimes we do not need words. Everyone smiles in the same language, everyone understands the tilt of a head, can comprehend eyes welling up with tears and a hand outstretched…or withheld.

…And that is the story of how I became a Christian.

October 11, 2018 4 Comments

Hello, I’m Monique and today, 11th October 2018, makes me twenty-nine years old. I added an About My Faith page to this blog at the start of this year as I felt I could do more to share my faith. Recently, after being touched by the testimonies of undergrads shared at the church I’m presently attending and I decided to make an attempt at sharing my salvation story via video. I soon concluded that writing would enable me to be more concise. So with this piece, I share how it all began, or a testimony of how I came to commit to the Christian Journey. I hope my experience with God’s love inspires you on your journey and relationship with God too. *** To begin, I must acknowledge that by some measures, or common (mis)conceptions of what being a Christian is in our society- speaking from a Cameroonian perspective here- one could claim I have always been a Christian. Being born into a family which identifies as Christian, being baptized before I could talk, and being confirmed/taking my first communion by the age of 15 even though I can’t say what that really meant despite the required doctrinal lessons. In fact, I clearly recall that I begged to have my confirmation in school so I could belong, could join the line for communion when others went up and could have my ‘first communion party’ in school which would be a sort of visiting Sunday – cherished by boarding students. So, by the average demographic measure, I was a Christian from age 2, and a fully practicing one by age 15 with my baptismal and communion cards to prove it. Of course, the average view is often wrong. My not being a Christian was obvious in the fact that going to church was an event, not an act of worship nor fellowship. It was something to dress up for once a week. Morning devotions were routines, the songs were the only entertainment we young people were permitted to dance to and the prayers before meals were customary. Something done mindlessly, or out of fear of food-poisoning as seen on Nollywood films. Knowing this, I can say my Christian journey actually began in April of 2007. With neither, a baptism nor a ‘confirmation’. Rather, like most things in Christianity, it began with my pain and death, or my attempted death. *** At the time, I was 17 years old and alone in my cousin’s apartment in Yaoundé after dropping out of school. I had been effectively disowned by most of the family because I decided leave boarding school and was ready to return to the US where my mom and brother were, my cousin who had the apartment likewise left me without a word when he had an opportunity to leave the country. There’s a lot of background to this, but suffice it to say, you should picture a 17-year-old with loads of anger, self-esteem, and belonging issues. One who can’t quite put a finger on the intensity of the emotional pains she feels, knows little about the world, less about her family and no French at all but is now stranded in a francophone city. I was literally at my end. With no adult supervision, after I found out through a friend of my cousins that he had left the country, I began selling stuff to passersby outside the apartment so I could buy food to eat. I did that with some success considering my horrible French LOL! I soon got tired though, soon got fed up and the vacuum I had always filled with food just kept growing. So when I came across a bottle of Advil with expired Ibuprofen tablets already molding to dust form, I thought I’d found the perfect escape route. I was obviously unwanted, unloved and not understood- even by myself. I couldn’t see any reason to keep going, it all seemed like vanity. Wake, eat, perhaps study to impress some people you don’t even like, sleep and repeat. That was life as I knew it. I took a handful of those pills, dressed up and climbed into bed fully intending to die like ‘sleeping beauty’ I still had my vanity. And I recall thinking as I fell asleep crying in bed that I was going to have some very harsh words for God when I met him upon death. But I didn’t die. I slept deep, perhaps from the pills, perhaps from the tears. But I know it was longer than usual for me. Still, I woke up, by myself, feeling nauseous and running to the bathroom to throw up. I spewed out everything I’d consumed and could taste the bitter ibuprofen in my bile. As I was washing up and struggling to get my mouth to taste normal again, I thought of how unfair it was that I couldn’t even die in peace. I was interrupted by a knock on the door and when I went to answer it, the young girl who served my Anglophone neighbors as a house-help was there. She seemed a bit shy but had worked up the courage to come to ask me to teach her how to make pancakes. I had given her some pancakes before, out of guilt. She often cleaned my end of the corridor when she did her chores so I gave her pancakes once as compensation. This girl, who was at least 13 and at most 15 in age had never had that simple pleasure before and had seemingly waited till her bosses had left so she could ask me for how to do it. It was the small thing really but after feeling so useless that you would try to take your own life, being asked to teach someone how to make pancakes has some significance. As I taught her that day, I learned more about her. How she could only complete Primary school in the village and then her mother asked that she follow

What is happening Cameroon? II

September 30, 2018 4 Comments

Dispatches from home read like material for a great historical fiction manuscript. You easily imagine the Whatsapp voice-notes with either news of military abuse of power, chilling threats from frenzied ‘Amba’ fanatics, or worse, news of yet another kidnapping or murder as something fictional characters in the 1970s would have listened to huddled over the lone radio in the house. Because this can’t be happening in now; in the day of intelligence readily manufactured as AI. It can’t be happening in the age of everything smart; smartphones, smartwatches, smart kitchen utensils, yet senseless humans? How can that be? But your inbox proves that it is, that anomaly is possible and real. Four weeks ago, you were informed that the military presence in your hometown has moved your old schoolmate (at the ripe old age of 30) to learn French, the language of the men in uniforms. So she now accompanies her 8-year-old daughter to the house of a teacher who now teaches kids on her veranda because schools are a no-go zone. Your cousin laughs as she tells you “Mo imagine o! If we had known, we would have paid attention to Monsieur Flobeh!” You reply to her statement with laughing Emoji but you think “If we had known, we should have made sure a lot more people paid attention to history lessons. A week later you receive a message from one of your friends-turned-sister as you arrive at your church for Sunday service. It reads: “Sis, I hope you’re well. Please pray for me oo! I received a call from a guy threatening me. He says I should support the movement or else they’ll harm my family” You stand at the doors of the church, immobile but for your fingers readily typing up questions; when, how, why you? She says the call was brief but followed by an SMS of how she should make a deposit to ‘support the struggle’ and she was probably targeted as any other civil servant who people believe have money on the regular. You warn her not to even thinking of making any deposit, lest she is caught and the police arrest her for ‘sponsoring terrorism’. Your mom’s friend is in prison in Yaoundé at the moment on those charges. He had paid ‘Amba boys’ a large sum of money upon receiving threats of kidnapping. Your friend agrees that paying would be dangerous, she can only run away with her kids. You sigh as you read that, and head to a seat for a sermon you will not remember because you were crying silently through the preaching. To think this is what we have come to. When you return home later you check on your friend. She tells you that she’d had the idea to reach out to an acquaintance you both know, a young slightly over-zealous Christian ‘brother’ who is known to have participated in some ‘Amba’ activities. She felt he could help verify if the threats were genuine or just a scam from thieves. And if genuine, she thought he could help her get off their targets lists or at the very least, he would see the error in the company he keeps. No expected outcome came to pass. She tells you that upon narrating her experience, our brother-in-Christ told her that he could introduce her to the guys collecting the ‘support funds’ and explain to them that she doesn’t have much so whatever she can give will be okay. “Just give small money for bullets, sis,” he said. You are shocked. But not for long. You will soon hear that no one can be trusted to be rational now. That irrationality is a norm. You are told that a colleague you didn’t particularly like at your alma mater was attacked recently by ‘Amba boys’, their crime was being from the wrong tribe- Bamileke. Your tribe based on patrilineal traditions which won’t consider other factors of your identity. Suddenly, you feel bad for having disliked this person who is now a victim. You hear that some other colleagues, the educated, the elders at church, the fathers of young children had shrugged at the attack, they saw it as well deserved. After all, Bamilekes are neither here nor there so surely spies. At that moment you determine that Cameroon and its Cameroonians do not warrant your shock. The nation is simply living up to being considered a ‘shit-hole country’. In the days that follow, your inboxes belch out more: Black young men are now an at-risk species in the Anglophone regions, just like in the United States. Are you black, of average to tall stature, possibly aged 17- 30? Then you could possibly be an ‘Amba boy’ and the police (with no questions asked- and even if asked, not in English) would profile you, arrest or possibly execute you at the least provocation. Your neighbor films her daughter, a toddler practicing her hiding technique. Like the fire drills in western schools. Except this is a four-year-old who now recognizes the sound of gunshots and how to hide under the leather sofa even as she has yet to enter a nursery school classroom. You’re told that one of your former neighbors is now fundraising. Asking all and sundry for help as her husband has been kidnapped. The boys asked for 10 million FCFA and the family negotiated the ransom down to half that price. You picture the bargaining over the phone and shake your head. How does one bargain on the life of one’s spouse? By last week, the frequency of the messages had increased, but not their content is different. “Mo I’m in Yaoundé now, I’m safe.” Or “Mo pray for us oo! I am hoping to leave to Douala tomorrow”. Their WhatsApp statuses show they’re okay, the proof is in their taking photos on the sides of the road with and there being no sign of military trucks. These ones had made it safely to the ‘other Cameroon’ despite the risk

Checkpoints on the Christian Journey

September 8, 2018 No Comments

Recently I decided to re-read Rick Warren’s A Purpose Driven Life. This book had a great impact on my discovering my purpose for life, developing a willingness to live a ‘good’ life and commitment to the Christian journey. I always recommend it to those I’m mentoring because I feel Pastor Warren writes clearly, directly and asks poignant questions which anyone can relate to. I’ve read it three times now, taking each of the 40 days as though it were the first time. As I go through it again in these days leading up to my birthday, I can see what struck me the first time I read it is not what stands out for me now. What I highlighted the first two times are interesting and undoubtedly worth noting. Yet, I see not that what was important to me then is no longer the lesson I need to learn. At the end of each day’s reading, I consider the ‘Question to Ponder On’ and not how my responses to the questions are vastly different in this third round. This spoke to me, so I decided to write about noticing growth over the Christian journey. We often feel like we’re stagnant in our faith, at least I do. In some ways, I’m fine with it my level of faith, but in other ways, I notice that others are more certain, more trusting, more convicted and seemingly hear God’s voice in the way I never have. If you have felt like I have, then this message is for you. Note your growth in the little things, this is a journey but not a race. You’re not competing with anyone. You’re being grown; lovingly and perhaps slowly, but you are growing. As I re-read this book, I have noted particular evidence of growth often overlooked- Change in Motives. The phrase ‘God looks at the heart’ is often repeated in Christian space. Yet its often uttered in a way that suggests God looks who you are inside as opposed to physical traits or refers to God looking at one’s reasons for doing something like charity. All these are correct. But recently, I became conscious of how the reasons for my praying for something matters and determines the maturity of the Christian’s request. For instance, when a lot of us pray for prosperity what drives our desire for it? It’s not a bad thing but unless we are asking for it with a motive that gives glory to God then our motives are selfish.Another example on considering motives; On several occasions I have left a church service sad and unimpressed, saying that I felt nothing, likely heard little because of my hearing impairment and so got little out of it. This has often been an excuse for me to stay home and not go to church, I might as well try to get a connection in my own room I’d say. This shows my primary motive for going to church was not to worship God – as should be. My primary motive was myself, going to refill myself with the ‘feeling’ I’d hoped for. And while that is not a bad thing, it shouldn’t have been the primary thing.I’m appreciating this ‘checkpoint’. It forces me to check why I want something so bad, defend my desires and let me tell you, my prayer often sound like a court brief prepared by a lawyer. It is an amazing feeling to know how you may have the same desires but the reasons you want them now are different… In what ways have you noted your growth? What checkpoints have you come along in your Christian journey?I’d love to hear from you!

Ask Yourself: What am I supposed to Be Learning Now?

August 17, 2018 No Comments

The past few weeks have been a struggle with regards to my faith. I’m not where I want to be, there’s no guarantee of me getting where I want to be. It’s something God either blesses me with or not. I can’t earn it. Can’t ‘deserve’ it. Can only pray and hope I’m granted this particular desire. And as this runs around in my mind, the fact that this thing I desire so much is not guaranteed no matter what I do, I feel desolate in waiting. In this state, I didn’t – still don’t- feel like writing an ‘About My Faith’ entry for this month but have to continue for the sake of commitment. So as I considered what I was going to write on I thought of a statement a friend had made when we discussed my not-so-patient wait for the desires I can’t ‘work’ for. She said “try to determine what God wants you to learn in this period. Don’t let your mind be clouded by your frustration over waiting. Learn in the wait.” Now, this is one of those lessons you know to be true facts BUT not something you want to hear at a time when you’re fine being pitiful and bemoaning your fate. Nevertheless, the statement had stayed with me and came to me as I considered the About My Faith post for this month. Particularly because it reminded me of a blog post I published on the Anglophone Crisis in Cameroon in February of 2017 entitled “What’s Happening in Cameroon? Learning I Hope”. Like Cameroon, in going through a crisis, I hope we are all learning. It is hoped that we take away something. It is my prayer that the struggle, the wait, and stress eventually make sense. For now, I’m engaging myself in asking what I have learned in the last year that I hadn’t known before. I ask myself, in what ways have I GROWN in this wait. I have found that it’s a way to cheer myself up; a way to feel better about the situation I can’t help and trust that God does indeed know what he’s doing. So join me this month as I make a list of lessons I am learning. Note, you must not have learned the lessons in all yet. It’s enough to recognize that it’s something you have been taught and are in the process of learning. Appreciate the little growth. May Grace continue to carry us on the journey.

Undoing a Culture of Shaming

August 9, 2018 9 Comments

How do you write about being ashamed of what you are to be proud of? I will try. *** A few weeks ago, a friend and I discussed her options as a mother. She has to travel out of the country and was asking for my input regarding leaving her children with her family back in Cameroon. As we discussed the issue, she mentioned that one of her greatest fears regarding leaving her kids with family to raise is their shaming of children, which they practice even in her presence, talk less of in her absence. Her thoughts triggered several recollections of my own childhood. The number of times I was compared with others: “Why can’t you be like C”, “D who did X or Y, does she have two heads”? “Why can’t you ever do things like X?” I recalled reactions to wetting the bed at 5; being told to stand outside on an anthill while your peers and older relatives alike ululate “shame”. And later on, my name being called on the list of the ‘bottom’ ten to be publicly embarrassed before the entire school as not ‘smart enough’. If you’re Cameroonian you’re familiar with such, and most of us got over it. We laugh about these recollections if at all we remember them. And, unfortunately, a lot of us repeat it. We pass on the buck to our own children because, after all, it worked. Shaming is not an exclusively ‘African’ or ‘Cameroonian’ thing. It’s global. Yet, I think our culture is one of the few which has yet to address the negative effects of this practice, probably because we’re so busy trying to survive physically that we haven’t considered mental and emotional health as much as we should. So we still celebrate shaming. It is seen as an effective instrument to get your kid in order. Competition is healthy after all, so shame one person so they will strive to be like the other. The fact remains: it works. But it works in more ways than one: it works to create unhealthy stereotypes, like in determining what intelligence is; it works to further internalized misogyny and destructive competition between women, who live to avoid shaming or grow to believe they must be better than the next woman and thus bring the other down. Shaming works well, above all, as a destroyer of self-esteem; something we find out too late that we need for literally every part of adulting. Shaming is the bacteria we are infected with as children, one that was to act as a vaccine against complacency and build resistance for a competitive world. Yet this ‘vaccine’ eventually does more harm than good. If not curbed, the ‘bacteria’ grows and spreads. It takes root in our minds, destroys our self-image, tarnishes our ability to empathize with others, and dehumanizes us. We see it regularly, particularly among women. There’s this urge to say “at least I’m better than so and so”, because we feel we can only be enough in comparison. Not by ourselves, not as we are. Comparing women to each other to make one feel lesser than the other is a sadly common and accepted practice. Nearly all entertainment news offers a segment with “who wore it better” comparisons and lifestyle mags intentionally ‘other’ women with articles that compare them and create one set-in-stone ideal. Is it any wonder then that we feel “you are not like other women” is a compliment? As is the case with things which are common, I had taken our shaming culture and competing with other women in stride and for granted. That is to say, though I acknowledged them, they were not things I considered with depth. I’ve been on a journey to self-love for most of my adult life – and I’m still on it –, so I was too busy trying not to think of myself as lesser to bother thinking of someone else as lesser. Yet, recently I was given a rude awakening to this practice and its effects on me – aside from the earlier mentioned conversation with my friend. *** A week ago I posted the following tongue-in-cheek post on Facebook: Tips to know if you should comment on someone’s weight: 1- Did they ask you? 2- Are you their doctor, sponsor/guardian of their health? 3- Are you an intimate friend/partner who is permitted to share any and all opinions? (note that I didn’t ask if you were related, that doesn’t count) If you answered no to all these, here’s the tip: Shut up. As I expected, most of my friends who commented on the post assumed someone had fat-shamed. So they either shared their own experiences with fat-shaming, proffered similarly barbed ‘tips’ to fat-shamers, or tried to assuage me with idioms along the lines of ‘you are not fat, you have fat’. I said nothing. They had assumed wrongly that I had been fat-shamed, yet their reactions proved why I felt bad about being praised for having lost weight recently. Actually, my post was inspired by comments from a few people, who gave me a rude awakening when they approached me to praise me for my recent weight-loss and, in so doing, compared me with either another woman or worse, with myself. The back-handed compliments included: “Ooo Monique I’m so proud of you! See how better you look now! If you had started this sometime back you would be married by now I bet!” “Wow, Monique! You have done it oo! Please tell [X] to follow your example. With your new looks and everything else you will pass those slay queens” “I can see you’re working on your weight; that is good. I’m proud of this new you, she is definitely better” And, with these comments, I felt shame. Shame because, suddenly, my weight-loss journey, something I should be proud of given that it is a testament to my growth in other areas of my life (mental, spiritual, and emotional) was suddenly made shallow. It