I consider myself an avid reader, but I must guiltily confess that I read as means of escape and entertainment than I do for the purpose of learning. For this reason it took me a while to get into literary fiction in general and African literary fiction in particular. Literary fiction is great with its ‘classics’ like Bronte’s Jane Eyre or Sembene’s God’s Bits of Wood, but not what I’d call ‘fun, curl-up-on-the-couch reading’. Though I have read and appreciate aspects of the likes of Oyono’s The Old Man and the Medal and Ngugi’s Wizard of the Crow the books I have re-read, the books whose covers are worn from being carried around everywhere are those whose plots were structured to entertain me rather than pass on some satirical message. Pop-fiction is popular for a reason and up till a few years back I couldn’t say there was an African equivalent to the western pop-fiction I binged on as a young reader. Today the story is different, I can list a wide array of contemporary African literature offering a variety of themes to appeal to all sorts of readers. A new wave of Cameroonian writers are contributing to this new era in African literature and I couldn’t be happier. Imbolo Mbue’s Behold the Dreamers is one of the new additions I’m particularly pleased about. When this book was announced in 2015 with a million dollar book deal my curiosity was piqued but I made a mental note not to expect much as several first-releases are often over-hyped (and in expectation is rooted all disappointment). Upon reading it last month however I was extremely pleased to find myself agreeing with the hype this book has received. Behold the Dreamers takes an honest look at the ‘American Dream’ from the point of view of a Cameroonian immigrant family vis a vis their upper crust employers. The reader navigates the ups and downs of the Jongas’ and Edwards’ lives. With easy-to-relate to characters readers witness how experiences, painful and foreign, mature and change people, how some things remain the same despite differences in class, race and place of birth, but above all how each character defines home and craves fulfillment in different ways. This is a story simply told, poignant yet without heavy didacticism, and obviously written with extreme caution. For the first time I read a book with Cameroonian characters my generation could relate to. I had to stop and appreciate how the author avoided as many generalisations as possible, often specifying an attribute to natives of Limbe rather than Cameroon at large. I felt as though she was aware this book would be picked apart and sought to cover all basis. She cautiously walked a tightrope avoiding poverty porn as much as ‘Afropolitanism’and tried her best to ensure that she wasn’t accused of “writing for a western audience” etc. With African literature something is sure to be over-analysed nonetheless. For me, Mbue makes a laudable attempt at depicting the immigrant struggle hidden in the small things like Jende looking for someone to rejoice with upon landing his job with Mr. Edwards “He needed to rejoice with someone who knew his name and his story” and Neni re-discovering faith and singing gospel choruses far from home where she had learned them but not practiced. What I loved most about the story (aside from how easy it is to curl up with because you’re getting an intriguing plot rather than a sermon/lesson) and what I feel has been overlooked in reviews and discussions is the transformation from aspiring after the American dream to configuring what I perceive to be the ‘Cameroonian Dream’. The former dream entails making it in the US with a middle-class income, ‘papers’, a house with a mortgage and as Neni’s friend Fatou states shopping at “fine white people store like Target”. The latter dream, the ambitions of a majority of Cameroonians which till this time had not been verbalized is, to ‘fall bush’, hustle by all means possible and return home financially able to defy the odds of unemployment, ‘buy’ a better social status and live comfortably where one knows for sure they cannot be treated as alien because they belong. The story reminds us that while it is easy to get trapped abroad either by becoming too used to the comforts or for lack of choice, the majority of us left because we had to rather than because we want to. The Jongas may not have achieved one dream, but they retained their dignity, and left us with a happy ending inspiring hope beyond “bush”. Behold the Dreamers has been compared to Adichie’s Americannah, I am of the opinion that it’s a poor comparison. While Adichie’s third novel is essentially a love story which boldly covers a variety of themes above all an African immigrants perception on race relations in the US, Mbue’s debut novel focuses particularly on exploring immigrant survival, aspirations, adjustments and the universality of human needs, pains and flaws. To compare them would be to compare an apple to a bowl of fruit salad with chopped apples in it. Suffice it to say I thoroughly enjoyed this book and would encourage all Cameroonians to read it. Before you go, I’m interested in you opinion on “the Cameroonian Dream” do we have one? What do we as individuals and a people envisage? I look forward to your comments!
An Ode to Those We’ve Lost
Last month I visited the United States briefly. After having spent almost seven years of my childhood there and returning home to Cameroon indefinitely, this trip was my first in fifteen years. Messages from friends spanned from “watch out for the police” to “buy me shoes” to ” we hope you’re coming back”. One particular writer friend wrote me asking how long I was traveling for. When I told her I was just going to be out for just over a week, she had this to say: “Ah okay. I’d been worried that we’ve lost another ???????????? Not that I would have told you if you were moving. I’d just have said congratulations and all the best and stuff like that. Then wished I had all African Presidents on speed dial so I could berate Biya for losing [another] top brain” It is this comment in particular and the experience of the trip which inspired this post. I traveled for a conference, my first academic conference. I was happy, proud of the achievement, but above all proud of the fact that I was going to the US on my own merit and for my own purpose after years of witnessing first-hand the lengths at which people go to leave Cameroon. As happy and proud as I was, I was also nervous. First about the conference, then about meeting family and friends I had not seen in fifteen years. I am not the Monique I had been before, life and various experiences which had come my way had changed me to the complex being I am now. And I am still changing, and metamorphosing to my fulfillment gradually. Would they respect that, I wondered. Or would they look at me with the prejudiced ideas a lot of those abroad have of those back home; that we are all just making do, that we all wish and pray for 1st world lives. I went in prepared to dispel myths, ready to make it clear some of us could ‘choose’ to be in Cameroon, ready to snub those bushfallers who would suggest I stay indefinitely, or laugh at my decision to return home. With this sort of thinking I unwittingly went in with my own prejudice. This prejudice however didn’t last long, it began cracking on my first day in Maryland (a.k.a Cameroon annex). It was a Sunday and we were celebrating my younger brother’s baptism at Silverspring Presbyterian Church. All through the church service I ran a commentary in my mind: Only three white people in this church? The pastor and two elderly… Are the rest Cameroonian then? Oh, there’s an African-American assistant pastor… probably ninety percent Cameroonian… At least ninety Lord this might as well be P.C Bastos, I mean look at the outfits, and look at the faces… the choir is singing in Bakweri or is that Douala…The pastor must be resigned, his church has been colonized. See these kids, most of them 1stgeneration Americans, singing “Everybody blow your trumpet” but without the accompanying gestures. How would they know what gestures to make? It’s close, but it can never be the same as Cameroon… <==={Cameroonian choir singing in at Silverspring Presbyterian Church, Maryland-USA With every thought I felt slight shame and a well of pity deepen within me. It is easy to get derailed by the younger bushfallers on social media who would have you think life is forever better on the other side, easy to feel annoyed when the embassy puts you through a tedious process because others have literally used up all the lies possible to get visas and leave the country for good, it is easy to forget that these people who now generalize about Cameroon as much as western media does, are victims. Yes, victims of the government that did not care for them. Victims aren’t always blameless, they don’t need to be. They are the injured party nonetheless. I was reminded of this as we closed service that morning and I was enveloped by the crowd of Cameroonians welcoming me to the country they were yet to consider their own. Most of them were elderly women, my mom’s friends and senior, each of them hugged me tight as though hugging the place I came from rather than me, they each had the same questions on their lips “How is Cameroon? How is home?” Cross-section of worshipers at Silverspring Presbyterian Church, Maryland If anything, it was obvious that irrespective of better standard of living (based on GDP), despite the guise most would put up about their American life, these were people walking around homesick. These were mothers who longed to retire but cannot do that with others depending on them and never ending bills, these were brothers who missed simple pleasures of a cheap cab ride to a bar where the barman might as well be a family friend. I had hoped the people I met would recognize and respect that I was not the same Monique, but not until that moment did I respect that those people had also changed. While there were still those who could care less, the majority were more up to date on Cameroonian news than those back home. They were not all the eager bushfallers they once had been, a lot of them had left Cameroon by choice but were now trapped out of it by circumstances. They now wondered if their kids would consider Cameroon home as they do, and try not to let it matter even though it does. About ten days ago, after the fatal Eseka train crash rocked the country, several comments bemoaned our having a president who obviously lacks a sense of duty to our country. The nation collectively mourned the lives we had lost to negligence. In a Whatsapp group I’m in, my friends took turns comparing what the worse consequence of our president’s rule has been. The corruption? The tribalism? Embezzlement? Laissez-faire culture? A failing healthcare system? The hazardous transportation system? Unemployment and underemployment?
Murdering Poverty: A review
Ever heard of the ‘development-aid debate’? Well unless you are a follower of politics, news, or a scholar of the humanities, you may not recognize the debate in so many words. While the average African citizen has most likely questioned the motives of international agencies dishing out aid and the method used in dishing out aid to developing countries which constitute most of the continent, the layman wouldn’t necessarily term it the ‘development aid debate’. Terminology aside, it is one and the same thing, and this debate is what Arrey E. Ntui delves into with his inaugural publication Murdering Poverty: How to fix aid. With this book, Ntui sets out to offer a simple, creative rendition of the development aid debate and initiatives for the turnaround of aid for the successful ‘murder of poverty. The author situates his book within the fields of development, development economics and international relations. However there is no definition of these concepts nor is there a guiding theory for his debate within these fields. On the contrary, in certain areas the author proposes his own theories, and creates analogies to better outline his personal opinions on the topic. It is exactly as he states at introduction, his creative take on this long-winding debate. With a mixture of casual language and political jargon Ntui resurrects arguments against donor aid as we know it under the subheading ‘The 24 Sins of Development Aid’. He goes on to assess the possible efficiency of the 0.7% aid target which was set by developed countries (and is yet to met) for donations to the global south. The author makes three main arguments; poor people as a result of their poverty have certain characteristics which contribute to their continued predicament, Africa cannot be developed from the outside, and aid must be a two-way street as the African continent has a lot to contribute to other countries as well. As the work is not written with academic guidelines in mind, there is little in terms of method or evidence to prove the veracity of these arguments. Nonetheless the author’s values (and this is a very value-laden piece of work) are clear; the African continent cannot continue to be a short-sighted recipient of aid. Our dependency on aid as is robs us of our dignity and nothing is worth that. If the reader had yet to comprehend his stance, the author closes off by drawing lessons from a fable, specifically the Churchill-Fleming myth, which illustrates both the power of being charitable as well as the necessity of that charity being given and received with finite principles. Principles which would assure the benefactor as well as the beneficiaries are satisfied and fulfilled at the end of the day, the aid being fully thought out. Frankly, I would have preferred some theoretical background showing what has been covered thus far by scholars and clear outlines of what the author agrees/disagrees with. I would have liked more of a Cameroonian take. The use of Cameroon to illustrate problems with aid and practical suggestion on how Cameroonians need to approach aid. This of course would be the scholarly approach, not what the author had in mind.. This was an attempt at offering the layman a simplistic and creative perspective of this global debate is laudable and the author is commended for it. We definitely need a “Development Aid for Dummies” book; something you can give young people who hunger to know more but are put off by the long string of citations and academic lingo. Necessary though this is, it is far from easy to achieve. It is difficult to simplify and condense arguments on development aid which cut across geo-politics, economics, sociology, history and international relations and in my opinion the author fell short of his laudable goal. In avoiding theoretical jargon the author still used political lingo, analogies to Shakespeare, and made references to theories and schools of thought which are not common knowledge. Midway into the book, I was grateful for background knowledge on development theory and literary devices, they undoubtedly facilitated the read. As such I felt the book should come with a warning: If you have followed the development aid debate and would like the unique opinion of a not-so anti-intellectual Cameroonian, here you go 🙂 In all, Murdering Poverty makes a unique contribution to wider literature on development aid, offering a casual op-ed style to an overly drab and serious topic which concerns us all.
My ‘Returnee Anniversary’: 15 Reasons I Love My Country
The day was 25thAugust 2001. I was less than three months shy of 12 years old, or as I often reminded people- I was a pre-teen. I was also set to board an Air France plane that morning to Cameroon. After the latest fit of pre-teen rebellion, my mother had vowed to “send me back” to Cameroon. A lot like returning a pet you adopted from the shelter but found you couldn’t handle. I was becoming “too American” and need to be sent to the motherland for straightening up. In some ways she was right, in several other ways, she was wrong. My first couple of years were hell, then I adapted. Then after having my ordinary levels I rebelled. Then I grew up, made my own decisions on what I wanted for myself. Grew up. Things work out in the end. I’ve come to realize that both of us just played into God’s plan. Don’t worry, one day I’ll finally finish writing about the journey to and fro and growing to finally belong. Then you can buy the book. For now, I am celebrating my 15th anniversary of being “sent back”. In sending kids back to Cameroon, parents in the diaspora often paint it as a form of punishment, or tough love. From my experience and those of others I know, kids are sent back home in other to get them to ‘straighten up’ or because the parents in the diaspora have issues and can’t take care of them at that time. Either way it doesn’t paint a picture of Cameroon as a place our children should happily return to. More like a boot camp/foster home. Despite the feeling of being here out of punishment than choice, I came to love my home country. You can say Cameroon grew on me. Or I grew to be Cameroonian. My musings this month are all about my ‘returnee’ experience, all the things I’ve come to love about my country and all the ways this country I love makes me crazed. So I decided to make a direct list rather than rant and rave. Here are 15 reasons I love my country, one for every year of my return. 15 Reasons I Love My Country 1. Our history. I am probably biased, but in my opinion Cameroon has one of the best historical tales ever. From the Bantu migrations to the naming of the country after the shrimp Portuguese found in our waters to the scramble for our lands and through multiple colonizations. For a relatively small strip of land, we have a lot of stories to pass down to our kids. I wish someone with a love for history could team up with an artistic cinematographer to bring our story to life. 2. Our ethnic diversity. Cameroon is nicknamed the ‘melting-pot of Africa’ for its cultural and geographical diversity. With over 200 ethnic groups you best believe we put the E in eclectic. 3. Our languages. Cameroon (not necessarily its people) is multilingual. Our country is home to over a 1000 different tongues/dialects. As though that is not enough, our history of multiple colonizations left us with a plurality of foreign languages, names etc. though we have just two official languages (both from the colonizers). Language is a touchy topic to many of us as Cameroonians because one language is obviously valued more than all others in this country- French. Yet I love how we have come to blend the languages by creating slang words like ‘chomecam’ and more. Eventually creating something uniquely ours popularly referred to as Camfranglais. 4. Our religious tolerance (well, relatively). Considering the cultural diversity, the multiplicity of languages, and mixture of religious beliefs (Christianity, Islam, Animism) Cameroon is perfect ground for instability fueled by religious discord. But we’re far from that. I schooled in several Presbyterian mission schools and each of them had Muslim students. My Muslim classmates had concessions during their religious holidays and were not bullied based on their religions. Heck, our Senior Prefect was Muslim. 5. Our laissez-faire simplicity. You know the popular adage “let sleeping dogs lie”? Well you never have to tell a Cameroonian that. We will let everything go on as it is as long as the price beer is not increased, our land still produces its rich variety of food and our football team continues to play. This laissez-faire nature explains why we’ve barely full blown political insurrections till date despite having one of the longest serving African dictators. 6. Our communal nature. If you live in urban areas in Cameroon, you may think we aren’t as communal as before. Well we are still more communal than a lot of other areas. After living in the UK for a year, I didn’t know my neighbor’s name. That would be impossible in Cameroon. You would probably know your landlady’s family history as you move in. You would most likely wake/be awaken by your neighbor at night to help take someone to the hospital. Our interdependence is real, it’s beautiful, and it’s sometimes a burden. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. I imagine that if the USA had our communalism police violence wouldn’t be so common. Everyone is related (friendships included) to at least one police man, that cop would find that his victims family had visited the family patriarch in the village and soon enough there will be repercussions. 7. Our relative economic balance. Yes I said that. No, I don’t mean we have a good economy. What I mean is that unlike other countries I know, the gap between our rich and poor isn’t that large. Nearly everyone has one ‘wealthy’ family member as well as one family member who can barely feed themselves. It has been noted that we have one of the fastest growing middle class factionsin the region according to a World Bank report 8. Our range of possibilities. The saying “L’impossible n’est pas Camerounais” is often used derisively to mark
How Not to Love: Advice a Cameroonian Woman is Given in Point Form
Have you ever wondered why people find it so easy to tell women what to do and not do? Particularly as concerns their bodies, their emotions etc.? I wondered recently about the many rules we’re given which restrict event the way we choose to do the simplest, most natural thing: love. Here are a few rules passed on to me or ‘sisters’ I know. This list is far from exhaustive, so feel free to add more in the comments… *** 1- Do not like him first, and even if you do, never show it. Die with that secret sister. The man should love you first. If not you’re needy and God forbid he knows you’re needy. He will use and abuse you. No one wants a needy woman. 2- Do not be the first to say “I love you” he should say it first. Those words have power You need to make sure he loves you before ‘exposing yourself’. 3- Date the man who loves you more than you love him. Heck, you don’t even need to like him . Your affection may grow after he’s showered you with love for months (or years)… and this way, you don’t get as angry/hurt when he screws up (as it is claimed they all do). You’ll hardly be hurt on hearing the man you barely like is cheating (such logic *_* ) 4- Don’t be too honest, men can’t handle blunt truth. Don’t be openly sexual, but don’t be a prude. Sacrifice your opinions, let him feel he is ‘right’ even when he’s not- especially then. 5-Treat him as your ‘first child’. You’ll know he’s the one when he treats you like his ‘mom’. 6- Do not give a man money, it will emasculate him VS. Present to your man all your money, it will show you are submissive. 7- Do not treat a boyfriend as though he is more than just that- a boyfriend VS. Treat a boyfriend as a would-be husband and he will know you are “serious”… People, my people ☝☝☝ this right here is why we’re messed up. In a world full of hate we make love complicated. Then again the complication may be limited to one gender. Because while your calculating whether who loves who more the guy is likely breezing through. It is worthy to note here that these complications, like the advice above are often spearheaded by other women. We are undoubtedly gatekeepers of patriarchy. P.S If you wonder at my response to most the above advise; it’s simple. Love your way, life is too damn short to do otherwise.
MTN Nights: A Love Story
It all began with an MTN Cameroon deal, Free SMS Nights, which enticed customers to give up their sleep for seven hours of toll free messages. While the free messages might have provided the opportunity but it was an Indian film whose title she could no longer remember which provided the inspiration to tell Hans of the feelings she had for him with a guise of anonymity. So it happened that Elizabeth borrowed her roommate’s phone, whose contacts Hans did not have to chat with him by night. The first night, 4 days into the Free SMS night promotion, Elizabeth wrote: Hello Hans, I’m using someone else’s phone to send this message. I don’t want you to know who I am but I DO need to let you know how I feel. Even if it means nothing after all. I like you. A strong like. I like that you are welcoming, open and generous with friends. I like that your room in neater than those of most boys I know. And from past discussion I like the way you think and challenge me to think. Oh, and you’re cute too in a laid back casual way J Your secret admirer That message was typed at 10:15pm. Then after 15 more minutes of deliberating over every word. After changing things written in short hand to their proper form (free messages after all). After thinking twice and assuring anonymity by determining that Manka, her roommate whose phone was to be used, had no mutual friends with Hans who could be linked to Elizabeth, after praying for the third time, then and only then did the message get sent at 10:42pm. He took exactly 33 minutes to reply. By the time she heard the new message alert from Manka’s phone she had burrowed into her sheets convincing herself that she couldn’t feel regret if she was asleep. The hollowness of those convictions was however seen in how fast she turned, hands clashing with Manka’s to reach for the phone on the bedside table which stood between their student size beds. Hearing Manka utter a “hummmph” sound Elizabeth dropped her hands, smiled as though to wave it off and waited. After seeing the number wasn’t one of hers, Manka stretched out her hand offering the phone to Elizabeth “It’s for you”. She had to clench and unclench her hands from her sheets before taking the phone, suddenly understanding what the Harlequin novels meant by sweaty palms. She read the message: 11:15 pm Hey, I’ve never had a secret admirer b4. Am honoured. I can c why u can’t tell me who you are, but we can chat right? So I know a bit more about my secret admirer? She read it twice. After the second reading, she wondered how long it had taken him to write the brief text. Did he agonize over it as she had? Based on the careless short hand he used she doubted it. And would he say ‘Am honoured’? Hans was smart adding an ‘I’ in front of ‘am’ shouldn’t be that difficult. She sighed, reminded herself that he was a science student and was thus more likely to write in short had without the guilt of poor grammar. Mankaa had put off the lights to sleep and as Elizabeth now lay beneath the sheets, her head turned one way because of the braided pony-tail hair style she currently sported, her face glowed in the dark with the light of the phone’s screen as she nervously thought up a reply. She decided not to write so much any longer, it might distinguish her from other friends who readily wrote short hand. 11: 25 pm Hi, Are you still awake? Sure we can chat. Though of course the chat is limited to nights only. By day I won’t have access to this number. Deal? So what will you like to know about me? 11:30 pm Yes, I’m awake & sure it’s a deal. I’m guessing you’re a UB student because you seem to know me well. What do you study and what year are you in? 11:32 I can’t tell you that, you’d be able to trace who I am. Here’s the thing. We can chat and you ask about who I am as a person, not my identity. If you can guess which of your female friends I am from our chatting then it’s up to you to meet me and ask me- if at all you would like to reciprocate the feelings. She agonized over ‘reciprocate’. That word was sure to sell her out. It was a bookworm word. Would he wonder at it? And who among his friends would use it? She hoped he might think it was a friend with English or Literature major not her political science studying self. Or would he hone in one her because she was known as an avid reader never without a novel? He didn’t think about it much though 11:36 Okay I’m cool with that. How old are you? She told him she would soon be twenty though the birthday passed last week and he had been one of the recipients of the cupcakes she’d shared to friends in the hostel. They chatted till 2:30am. He asked about her family, how many siblings she had, what were her hobbies, favorite music, movies and more. They clicked like twin souls with music taste and she felt it was fate. Sh could always tell good people by their good taste in music. As he asked questions she answered and turned them on him, learning just as much about him as he about her. He forwarded some of the funny, long chain messages currently going around with the opportunity of free SMS. She laughed like she hadn’t read that one before. She sent him the trivia message currently making rounds: “If the beauty of a woman lies in her character, where does the beauty of a man lay?” She appreciated the
Learning to Love Mother
In Africa, my part at least, hating your mother is a taboo. “How can you trust someone who dislikes their own mother?” one of my cousins asked when I expressed my fanship of Eminem in the early 2000’s. His hit ‘Cleaning out my Closet’ didn’t do for her what it did for me in my fervor of teenage angst. On the contrary, every African artist worth their fan base has sung at least one song about their mother’s love. It is expected that we love our mothers, how could we not? They birthed us, bathed us, carried us, took care of us when sick… you see this is essentially about us? Which makes me wonder, what about those who didn’t have their mothers do these things for them? The absentee moms, the moms gone too soon, the moms who just weren’t cut out to be motherly and delegated to others? But above all this I wonder, what if your mom wasn’t a mom. Would you still love her? Her as in her person, because before she was your mother, before anything else she’s a woman. Would you love her work ethic, her decisions, her character, her style? Is the love we often profess for our mothers dogmatic, incomplete because we mostly love them in gratitude, because of their mothering rather than who they are in all? I for one, think truly loving your mother is often a learning process. You may love her (with a lowercase ‘l’) intrinsically from childhood for who she is to you, but as you grow you learn to know her more, develop opinions for yourself and this determines if you truly Love her (uppercase L). You will need her to be more; to be someone you respect, admire, enjoy spending time with, a role model, someone who understands you and what you are going through, who lets you be you and lots more. Often times our mothers fail in these plethora of roles and it is only when we’ve reached a certain stage in life ourselves that we can truly appreciate how difficult it had been for them to maintain those limited roles they did succeed at. A friend of mine recently shared an idiom (can’t trace the original source) which brings another perspective to this. It goes: As all man go talk sey e mami na the best, na who e own be the witch wey di fly for night? Loosely translated to English this would be: Given that everyone claims their mother is perfect, whose mother is the evil/flawed one? This brings to mind another ‘taboo’ of sort in our society, speaking anything but positive of certain people. This is includes people such as your mother, father, husband and everyone that has ever died. Should our president ever pass on you will get a first-hand lesson on this form of hypocrisy. But back to my point…If we cannot honestly criticize our mothers how can we claim to love them? Shouldn’t we preferably say we love what they do for us? In my experience, I grew to love my mother more from thinking of her as woman first. Recognizing the needs she has that would mostly go unsatisfied unless she takes things into her own hands, respecting her strength in the face of everyday inequalities, appreciating her self-reliance, drive, hard work and take-no-nonsense demeanor all of which would have been criticized at one point or the other in our patriarchal society. Above all, it was by seeing her flaws (the ones I’m not allowed to acknowledge much less talk about) and gaining permission from her being flawed to be somewhat flawed myself, it was in understanding how she came about those weaknesses and appreciating the power she wields despite- perhaps because of- them that I truly learned to love my mother. This month began with two close friends of mine entering the world of motherhood as they birthed their first children. They are beyond ready and eager to be the best they can be. So I just have one wish- that they remember they are women/human first and realize that they can allow their children to see them as more than just mommy, it may help them. To those currently working on their relationships with their mothers, consider looking at them as just human, to an extent product of circumstances, flawed as a prerequisite and just trying to make it through this thing called life too. We expect them to have all the answers but at some point the only answer they will have for everything is “I am here”. And that too might do. Leave a comment below and tell me, why do you love your mama?
Straight Outta My Bookshelf: Boundless by Kefen Budji
Those who know me, know I love reading. Most however, are unaware of what I consider to be my guilty pleasure; I read more pop-fiction than literary, more of both pop and literary fiction than academic and least of all specific Cameroonian literature. That’s not to say I’ve read few academic works or nearly no Cameroonian authors, I’m simply confessing to putting my own (both academics, and fellow Cameroonian writers) at the bottom of my preference list. It is a pecking order I’d like to rectify. If we’re honest we’d agree it’s easier to lay hands on American pop-fiction than a book by a Cameroonian author. Well, I can’t make more Cameroonian books available, but I can bring more attention to those which I gain access to. I intend to do just that by making book reviews (only Cameroonian books) a regular occurrence on Musings. Deciding which Cameroonian book to review first wasn’t as difficult a decision to make as it could have been. I was practically given a copy of Boundless by a friend of the author and asked to give an honest opinion. After reading I agreed it was definitely worth a critique. Let me know what you think in the comments below and be sure to get a copy of Boundless by Kefen Budji available at Amazon, African Books Collective or ‘a phone call to Bamenda away’ (express your interest in the comments and you’ll get the author’s number). *** Boundless by Kefen Budji – A Review While I may not have read as much of Cameroonian literature as I should have, I’ve read enough. In my experience, like a lot of post-colonial African literature, our stories are essentially satiric or didactic. From Ferdinand Oyono’s Old Man and the Medal to Bate Besong’s The Rape of Sawa– be it poetry, drama or prose our writers have a message to pass which often trumps the aspect of mere literary entertainment. But sometimes a reader just wants to be told a story, to escape to a different time and place, one that doesn’t reflect pressing pains, or read like a sermon. This is what Budji Kefen’s Boundless offered a diverting tale of love found against the odds in Colonial Cameroon (Kamerun). The book tells a story of the life and loves of Samarah, Princess of the Chefwa people, who by all descriptions would be situated in the grass-field region of our country. After a raid by the Germans claiming more land as they penetrated into the hinterland, The Chief of the Chefwa people is killed and Samarah and her mother soon become servants of a British plantation owner- Mr. Wakerman. Samarah having a good mastery of the English language and ways (missionary education) and haven been raised as royalty doesn’t make for a docile slave. But hope of escape and happiness springs when her betrothed, Bintum, joins them on the plantation. This hope is short lived as the First World War breaks out and changes the course of everyone’s path, particularly making it possible for Samara to reconnect with Mayne Patterson, the English man with the radical idea that black Cameroonians are people equally worthy of respect. We follow Samarah as she negotiates her attraction to Mayne vis a vis her hatred and distrust for all things white and colonial, and her loyalty to her childhood sweetheart Bintum. Boundless offers us a rare Cameroonian romantic drama, but more, it attempts to bring the reader to colonial Kamerun, painting an uncommon picture of who we were at the time when our sovereignty was taken from us. What did I love about it? For one, it was refreshing to have a vivid picture of unaffected Cameroonian traditional customs considering the recent trend of adopting Nigerian customs as or own. There was also an enjoyable uncertainty in not knowing who Samarah is destined to be with. Of course I loved the strong female heroine, her dignity and self-determinism, but above this I smiled at the unbelievably open-minded male lead characters. If only we had more Mayne’s, Bintum’s and Chief Kintashe’s. Most unlikely however (and my main issue with the story) is the implausible diction of the characters. Neither the Shakespearean “doths” nor the modern day American slang like “babe”, “player”, and “chick” fit in a colonial setting especially mixed together. The story felt most natural when the mother tongue of the Chefwa people was mixed into conversation, when various languages were showcased as a result of multiple colonial presence or when short fables were used by characters to establish a point. We have our own way of speaking and conversing, our own slang. It would have been lovely to read more of that. In all, Boundless stands out as a contemporary telling of a colonial love story that defied race and as a Cameroonian novel that had only one mission, to entertain the reader and have them believe in love again.
An Open Letter to My Sisters on Internalized Sexism and Sisterhood
Dear Sisters, How are you? How is Women’s Month treating you? Permit me tell you a story. One of my clearest memories from my undergraduate studies was of an assignment that required us to write on cultural practices which were abusive or violent towards women. We were encouraged to speak to older women, like our grandmothers, who would be more aware of our specific cultural traditions. As my grandma is no longer with us, my source would be the mothers of some family friends. One from a Southwest tribe and another from a Northwest tribe. I asked the former to tell me about the practice of Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), and with the latter I discussed the practice of breast ironing. It is worthy to note that both these women looked down on my studying Gender Studies. While they enjoyed empowerment particularly a woman’s right to work and earn her own money, they like many others, didn’t like the word feminist and disliked any studies which promoted it. But they were willing to answer my questions. And thus while in the course of discussions with them, I brought up what I already knew. The practice of FGM was undoubtedly painful and while it claimed to ensure a woman’s ‘purity’ what it really aimed at was ‘curbing promiscuity’ by making intercourse an ordeal for the woman and in sewing up the sexual orifices (making them tighter) ensuring more pleasure for the man. The grandmother I spoke to did not deny this. She said she felt the practice was archaic and very dangerous with the poor sanitary conditions and prevalence of HIV- yet she could not really agree with what I said. She asked me “Are you saying it is a man that got up and decided that women should be cut like that? Are you sure? Why is it that it is women doing the cutting if the only beneficiaries are men?” Similarly when discussing with Grandma Number 2, I recounted my knowledge thus far on breast ironing. The practice was one where young girls had their budding breasts crushed with pestles or grinding stones (sometimes heated) to discourage the growth spurt. The reason was simple, the longer their breasts remain small, the longer they remained protected from the lustful gaze of men. This abuse was supposedly an act of protection from male predators. Rather than attacking the men with pestles (pounding predators and child molesters with pestles between the legs would be good) the would-be victims were attacked. Here again this grandmother said to me “you’re right, but I have always wondered why don’t the mothers think what they are doing is wrong. Why are they pounding on their children rather than the would-be predators?” At that time I couldn’t answer, but several years later I can. The answer is simply internalized sexism. The worst, and as I have recently witnessed, the most common type of sexism in Cameroon is internalized sexism. Let me offer you a simple definition: Internalized sexism or misogyny is the involuntary belief and acting on beliefs of sexist stereotypes about women by other women. It is simply women being sexist to one another because they have been socialized to believe that certain things are wrong for certain genders or socialized to believe other women are a threat etc. You see the women who advocate for FGM are assured, they believe that the practice would ensure their daughters would remain ‘pure’. They believe that women (always the other woman though) are promiscuous and to ensure that you won’t be you need to be circumcised. They believe it so they readily act on it. Fast forward to recent times. Cameroon social media spaces have been abuzz with the Nathalie Koah and Eto’o Fils scandal. In all of that, the majority of both men and women of course dragged Ms. Koah through the mud. She has been called a slut a gold digger, a home wrecker etc. Women often dragged her more than men did. Another case of Internalize misogyny. You see we’ve been socialized to see a woman’s philandering as more offensive than a man’s. Forget the fact that they man was in a relationship (or even married) and the woman was not. How dare she be so cheap? What was she planning? Did she think he would leave the good woman he had for someone as cheap as she? Women said these things. Often considering NK the other woman, the Jezebel they had been warned about. The one we have been socialized by countless Nollywood films to pray against, No one it seems bothers to pray against the philandering man. “Men are weak”, they say, like dried fish soaked in water. They break down easily. And so it goes with internalized sexism, you buy into a stereotype that women are supposed to be a certain way and when they are not you criticize them three times as much as you would the opposite sex that failed you. Internalize sexism is common, it is the voice of your mother or aunt which resonates from your teens warning you not to “tell your girlfriends everything”. It is the result of the constant competition girls are put up to-“Don’t you wish you had Jennifer’s shape, Annick’s butt, or could dance like Sandra? See as Rachel married quickly, it’s because she can cook….” Internalized sexism is almost intrinsic to us, unless you’re really aware of yourself you won’t catch it. You would feel threatened by your maid and permit her cook a meal for everyone at home but for your husband- he must eat on your food. You would see another woman applying for a job in your office and sabotage her, they might end up liking her more than you. You would say I don’t like that woman because she smokes whereas the reason you don’t like her is because you’ve been raised to consider smoking unladylike and yet not be fazed by a man
What Day? What Are We Celebrating?
Hey Everyone!Halfway through the second month! How’s 2016 treating you so far? Well, in 2013 I founded a youth development association called Better Breed Cameroon, and in a bid to raise consciousness in young followers we did a Vox Pop on our Facebook page asking people the reason behind Cameroon’s Youth Day. Three year’s later as we now celebrate half a century of Youth Days, I decided to take this Vox Pop to the “field” where young people march past older notables seated in the shade of grand stands.Watch the videos of our respondents below and tell us what you think! We began with those we considered to be more knowledgeable- the members of the ruling party’s youth wing! These were the only YCPDM members we could find to answer questions in English though, the majority spoke French as a first language despite being based in Buea. Knowing we have French literate readers here we interviewed a few of them all the same. We also asked a few younger students and given the other responses, they gave us a bit of hope; And last but not the least… So readers, how well are we informed of a day we have been celebrating for 50 years now? Perhaps the president should mention the reason for the day in his annual speeches?What are we celebrating? And are the March-pasts enough?Tell us what you think! P.SAll young respondents featured gave verbal consent to the interview and use of the video. Their school officials as adults equally gave consent to this.