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Earlier This Year, I Was Asked About Cameroon’s Politics. Here’s What I Said…

September 30, 2025 No Comments

In January of this year, I was invited by Line Sidonie Talla Mafotsing to share my reflections on Cameroon’s political culture, our history of leadership, and what lies ahead as the country prepares for elections. Unfortunately, it appears that she can no longer publish the piece for which I was interviewed. Nonetheless, I remembered the conversation and how I spoke candidly about what we have normalised as a nation, the muted sense of agency many of us feel, and much more. I’ve decided to publish some of the transcript here on my blog because the interview gave me space to think more deeply about history, memory, silence, and the guardrails we must build if we want change to mean more than just a new face at the top. And as we head into the month where we’ll be seeing yet another (sham) of an election. These words are all I have for now.

Musings on the Cost of Caring… and the need to unlearn busyness (Aug 2025)

August 31, 2025 No Comments

They say it costs nothing to be kind. But it does. It costs a lot. I can’t only be kind with words. I have to be kind with actions. I have to be kind with my time. I have to be kind with my energy. And all of those cost something. Attending a child’s birthday party means I need money for transport, I need money for a gift, and I need the well-being to show up and actually be present. Even just giving someone a smile requires that I myself am okay. How do I smile when I can’t afford healthcare? How do I stand up to injustice when I’m already exhausted, working three jobs just to survive? Kindness costs. Caring costs. Humanity costs. And those in power know it. They have always known it. They bank on it. They keep building on systems of inequality because nobody interrupts them. The people who might have disrupted it before us were busy trying to survive. Just like we are busy now, and because we’re busy now, they will keep accumulating, and it will get worse in the future. Today we decry the glaring inequalities with the wealthiest 1% owning almost more than half the world does, but Elon didn’t get rich today, he was given the tools generations ago. These billionaires had the systems already in place, and because nobody stopped them then, we can’t stop them now. Humanity costs. And you know what? Upon reflection, I believe the greatest evil, the most significant threat to humanity, isn’t even the billionaires or the politicians. It’s our busyness. That’s the real enemy. It’s the way capitalism has cultivated a culture of individualism, where we’re constantly occupied and constantly trying to survive. Because as much as I want to help, I can’t help when I myself need help. So people postpone caring until it’s convenient. We postpone showing up at protests because we have to clock in at work. We postpone resisting oppression because it’s hitting someone else first, not us. We stay busy until it comes knocking directly on our door. Our occupations are the biggest threat to our humanity. And they know this. They know we cannot afford to care in a capitalist system, so they keep us anxious, they keep us hustling, they keep us busy. I remember one time I was in a clando from Buea to Douala. The driver got stopped, as usual, by gendarmes looking for a bribe. They started nitpicking at his papers. He had already paid money at so many stops that day, and he got angry. He said, “How much do I even make on this route if every time I pass, I give you something?” He refused. He was furious. But the gendarmes just stood there, waiting. And one by one, passengers started getting out of the car. They didn’t want to be delayed. They didn’t want trouble. And I understood them. I was quiet at first. But then I saw the gendarmes watching, amused, knowing the driver would eventually cave in, because without passengers, he’d lose everything. And I thought to myself: this is exactly how oppression works. They bank on our time, our impatience, our busyness. That day I decided to stay. I stayed in the car. Just one other passenger and I did so. And I said to myself, I’ll try to cover the cost of one other passenger who left, I’d pay for that seat, so the driver wouldn’t lose everything. The money was a sacrifice, but the look on that man’s face… I’ve never forgotten it. I recall tweeting about it at the time. He needed our presence so that it wouldn’t look like his defiance was madness. That day taught me that resistance requires time. Resistance requires forfeiting comfort. It requires staying put when it would be easier to leave. And not everyone can afford that. It reminded me of another moment, in 2017, during the protests at the University of Buea. In a meeting, the administrators were giving the Vice Chancellor their account of what had happened. They were blaming the students, blaming ethnic groups, twisting the truth. I sat there listening, afraid. And then I opened my mouth. I said, “That is not what happened.” I corrected the story. My heart was pounding. I was so afraid that I secretly called a friend on WhatsApp and pressed record so there would be proof of what I said. Later, I told my godmother about it, and she said something I will never forget: “That was a privilege.” And she was right. I was young, single, no children, no dependents. If I lost my job, I could try finding another one. But for my colleagues with families to feed, parents depending on them, the cost of courage was too high. It wasn’t that they didn’t care. It was that they couldn’t afford to care. That is the reality of capitalism. That’s the reality of our world. Life doesn’t give us margin. You may care deeply about Palestine or Congo or Sudan, but that doesn’t mean you can sacrifice your child’s school fees for the cause. You may want to protest, but you can’t risk losing your job. You may want to speak truth to power, but you know it won’t only cost you; it’ll cost everyone who depends on you. And so, some people fight from within the system, while others choose to leave and love their country from afar. And I’ve learned not to judge either choice, because both come from the same truth: humanity costs, and not everyone can pay. But here’s the part that scares me the most. The powerful know this. They count on it. They count on our busyness, our fatigue, our survival. They count on us not having the privilege to resist. And as long as they can keep us in that state, they will continue to win. So when people say kindness costs nothing, I shake my head. No.

Musings on Love, Faith, and the Daily Call to Choose

July 9, 2025 No Comments

So here’s what I’ve been musing about lately… We often hear it said: Love is a choice. Increasingly, this message is gaining traction among my generation. We’re moving away from the idea that love is just a feeling. I think we now know better that it’s not the butterfly-infused infatuation we grew up watching on TV. Sure, feelings kick things off. You’re drawn to someone, you click with a friend, you enjoy being around them. But staying in love? Staying connected? That requires a daily, deliberate choice. You wake up and realise you haven’t spoken to someone you love in a while. You could carry on with your day and let the silence stretch further. Or you could make the effort. Reach out. Send that message. Because love means choosing to show up for your people, even when it’s inconvenient, even when your instinct is to retreat and choose yourself, or be selfish and think “why didn’t they write me first?”. Sometimes the choice is easy: you miss them, you’re craving intimacy, they’re giving you what you want. But other times? It’s messy. Sometimes love requires you to give something up, do something uncomfortable, or hold space for hard conversations. Whether it’s your partner, your children, your friends—love is wiping snotty noses, waking up early, showing up when you’d rather stay in bed. It’s joining parent WhatsApp groups and making small talk with other adults when you’d rather be doing literally anything else. Love is action. It’s an effort. It’s a decision. Now, what prompted all this reflection wasn’t just romantic or familial love; it was a conviction. A spiritual one. A reminder of the fact that I made a choice a few years ago and how it’s one I need to recommit to in this season. That reminder came through a whispered statement: ‘Love is a choice, and the same applies to faith.’ Like, yes, if loving people whom you can see is a choice, how much more is loving a God you can’t see a choice? To love God is to wake up each morning and choose to believe. To believe He’s good, even when the world doesn’t look like it. To choose to trust in a Bible that, let’s be honest, raises many questions. A Bible, we know, wasn’t lowered from heaven in one clean piece, but written and compiled by men, shaped by councils and omissions ( who knows that the books hidden in vaults, sidelined by institutions like the Vatican, said, books no one ever told us how or why they were excluded). And yet. This same Bible has spoken to my spirit in a way that nothing else has. Its words do something. Not always immediately. Not always conveniently. But deeply. They manifest differently. They hold power. They’ve comforted me, corrected me, and carried me through seasons where no one else’s words could. Even with all its human fingerprints, all the baggage it carries from being used to justify slavery, colonisation, patriarchy, racism and more, it also carries something sacred. Something that can’t quite be explained but can be felt. It tells the story of a God who has pursued humanity with relentless grace. A God who loved us enough to become one of us. A God who laid Himself down for us. You see, it’s not a once-and-done thing. Choosing God isn’t something you do once when you “give your life to Christ.” It’s not a one-time conversion. It’s daily. It’s every moment.One of my favourite C.S. Lewis quotes goes: Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done. Yes, the Holy Spirit is a helper. A counsellor. A transformer. He’s all those things. But let’s be honest, you still have to make a choice. You choose whether to heed His conviction. You choose whether to seek Him. You choose whether to be comforted by Him or by food, sex, shopping, work, etc. And choosing Him isn’t always convenient. It’s like choosing your spouse even when they annoy you, or when they’re no longer exciting. You made a vow. So when you stop choosing them, you’re breaking your vow. Same with God. If we framed it like that—like not choosing Him is breaking your vow—I think some of us would rethink the way we move. We’d check ourselves. We’d understand what this walk actually requires. Because listen, there are parts of this faith that are uncomfortable. Things that don’t make sense. Things you’ll never be able to explain or reconcile. That’s why it’s called faith. It’s not logic. If it were logical, we wouldn’t need faith. Some days, the only thing I can say for sure is that I’m choosing. Like how kids believe in Santa Claus. I’m just choosing. And today, as the Holy Spirit convicted me and reminded me of this, I’m saying it out loud: You made a choice, Monique. Are you going to keep choosing? You made that choice because you’ve experienced God. You’ve had encounters. You’ve seen His works. And though you’ve overthought this (because you always do), you landed here rationally—you’ve examined other religions, you’ve done the mental work, and this is the faith that makes the most sense to your spirit, that speaks love and grace the way no other one does. So yeah. That’s what I’m reminding myself today: It’s a choice. May the Holy Spirit help us to keep choosing Him. That’s all I’ve got for now.

For All the Stephen’s Brothers Out There… and the Paul’s too

June 27, 2025 No Comments

Hello. So, if you’re new here, this is Monique’s Musings. I blog. I’ve been blogging since… 2013? Or no, maybe 2012? Yeah, one of those. Anyway, I’ve been blogging for over 10 years now. And I basically share my thoughts on anything and everything that comes to mind. Usually, it’s thoughts about Cameroon, social issues, my own experiences as a Cameroonian woman, an African feminist, my Christian walk… reflections on my faith journey, or anything else I’m learning in the season of life I’m in. That’s what this blog is. And today? Whew. Today’s one of those days when the idea trickled down to me over time. It came in pieces, not all at once. But today… Today was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It said, “Okay, it’s time. Talk about this.” So, it started a few days or weeks ago, I can’t remember now, I came across a funny skit by this Nigerian Christian comedian I follow (SEE HERE). He’s really good, makes great content. He did this skit about Paul writing a letter to one of the churches, and in the skit, the elders or the people in the church were threatening Paul. They were like, “We will call Stephen’s brother.” Now, if you know, you know. Stephen was one of the people Paul (then Saul) had killed. So “We will call Stephen’s brother” is like a backhand slap threat. It’s the line that would really ‘check’ someone like Paul. The comments section was wild. People were like, “Yep, that’s the one. Call Stephen’s brother.” And it made me think, because I’ve actually thought about Stephen’s brother before. In the past, when I’ve read Acts, I’ve wondered: how did Stephen’s brother or family feel? Scripture tells us they didn’t immediately trust Paul, but I imagine some never did. I imagine some people stayed pissed—rightfully so. Because think about it… the person who persecuted you, who has literal blood on their hands, is now showing up to preach to you? Nah. And that is actually what I want to talk about today. Because life is funny. And this Christian journey? This Christian journey is messed up, let me not lie. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s not for the easily triggered. Because you will be triggered. Regularly. I get triggered on a regular basis. So, fast forward from that skit to about a week later. Here I am, having my own real-life Stephen Brother moment. Someone I know (I’m not saying he used to be Saul, but let’s say he wasn’t exactly the most upright, or the most obviously Christian person previously) is now telling me, who has been trying my best on this journey for years, that they got a certain blessing or breakthrough because they “started serving God.” As if it’s a magic formula. Like, “You know, I just started walking with God and boom, this happened.” And they’re telling me this like I’m not already walking with God? Like… wow. The audacity. And it’s not even that they’re necessarily wrong. I’m not saying they’re not telling the truth. I’m just saying… maybe don’t come at me like that? Maybe don’t assume I’m not already doing the things? Maybe don’t act like you’re automatically ahead of me because you got some blessings? Because here’s the thing, it’s not about how long you’ve known God. That’s not how it works. Whether I’ve been a Christian for 5 or 25 years, there are seasons to this thing. And I feel like that’s what some people don’t get. Some people think seasons are measured by prosperity. They think that if I’m married this season, have a job, and things are going well, then clearly I’m doing something right and God is pleased with me. But if I’m in a rough season, if I’m confused or struggling, then I must not be walking with God properly. We’ve taken capitalism, market analysis, and imported it into Christianity. So now, when someone’s life is flourishing, they assume it’s proof that they’re in the right with God. And when someone else is struggling, it’s assumed they’re not faithful or they’re doing something wrong. Like… huh? So here I am, sitting in front of this guy—not saying he’s Saul, but you get the point—and he’s basically telling me, “If you were following the Lord properly, all this would’ve come to you too.” Like… like it’s a formula. Just plug in prayer and service, and voilà, blessings. And I’m sitting there thinking… this must be how the early Christians felt. Like… Stephen’s brother. Because maybe Stephen’s brother didn’t get the gift Paul got. Maybe he was a believer, but didn’t get the same signs, the same fire, the same calling. And then he watches the guy who killed his brother now become the face of Christianity. Paul becomes the one doing miracles, planting churches, and writing scripture. Meanwhile, your brother-the first martyr—is barely mentioned after that. You’re grieving. You’re angry. You’re healing—trying to heal—and the guy who caused your pain is now being worshipped for raising someone else from the dead. But your brother stayed dead. And I’m just thinking about how many Christians are like Stephen’s brother—faithful, committed, but grieving. Struggling. Angry with God, even. Not because they don’t love Him, but because this walk is hard, and sometimes it feels unfair. And because it’s seasonal. There are seasons when you’re joyful, when you’re full of hope, when you’re winning souls left and right. And then there are seasons where you’re just… numb. Angry. Confused. But that doesn’t make you less saved. And the people who just joined, the ones who are new to the faith and still in their honeymoon phase—they look at you and judge. The audacity. So yes. Today’s post is me speaking for all the Stephens’ brothers out there. I see you. I get you. Heck, I am you. And I wish someone, such as a pastor or a teacher, would deliver a proper sermon on

Because I did a THING! Booklaunch Vlog! (March 2025)

May 31, 2025 No Comments

Dearest Reader, So… I did a thing. After last year, I had to face the fact that I wasn’t really writing anymore, not in the way I used to. I was letting fear get in the way: fear that I wasn’t good enough, that the next thing I wrote had to be serious, had to be big— like a novel or my PhD monograph. Meanwhile, I was sitting on years of poems. Real feelings. Real moments. Just… sitting there. Then I travelled to the U.S., and blogged HERE about how that trip brought back a lot. It reminded me of all the dreams I had as a kid, before the burnout, before the pressure to be brilliant all the time. I met people living their dreams—big or small, loud or quiet—but trying to live fully. That experience made me realise I was playing small. And for what? So this year, I decided: I’m doing something for me. I’m checking one thing off my childhood dream list. I took the poetry I’ve been writing since I was 26, enlisted some incredible friends to help with the shortlisting, hired an editor, and worked with a project manager… and I made a book. I self-published a poetry collection. It’s called “O Jewa Ke Eng?” which means “what’s eating you up inside?”. The title comes from a tweet that went viral while I was doing my PhD in South Africa, and it inspired one of the poems in the book. Because that question, when asked honestly, can unlock so much. It really is about holding space for what we usually keep inside. And because I’m me, a teacher through and through, I couldn’t help making it interactive. I wanted this to be something you feel with me. So, the book invites you to colour how each poem made you feel using the emotion wheel. Then there’s a colour-by-number piece at the end that becomes your emotional summary. And yes, there are blank pages for you to talk back. Write. Doodle. Cry if you need to. This book is ours now. If you made it to the launch back in March, thank you from the bottom of my heart. The love in that room? Overwhelming. But if you couldn’t make it, I’ve got you. Below is the full video of the launch, so you can experience a bit of what we shared that day. Watch it. Feel it. Tell me what moved you. Oh, and there’s a surprise within (I’m officially a songwriter lol!) Let’s talk in the comments. P.S. You can get a copy of the book on Amazon (UK, U.S., EU) or via JollyLife Bookstore in Cameroon.

In Praise of Being God’s Gen-Z Baby Girl (Jan 2025)

May 30, 2025 3 Comments

I used to call my good friend Ettamba “God’s first-born daughter.” You know how Jesus is described as God’s only Son, and we’re all adopted as brothers and sisters? Well, she was that friend who seemed to have the “ask and you shall receive” thing down to an art form. Whatever she prayed for, she got. It became our running joke—I’d tell her to “ask your Father for me, too.” But the Holy Spirit has a way of checking us when we need it most. I found myself convicted by an uncomfortable question: Are you insinuating that God is unfair? That He doesn’t do as well by you as He does by her? The conviction stung because it revealed something deeper—if I truly believed God played favourites, why would I serve a God I thought was unfair? Well, some years later, during a conversation with another sister-friend Phoebe (thank God for Christian friends who speak truth into our lives). She looked at me and said, “You know, you’re acting like a last-born now like this… In fact, you’re God’s last-born.” I burst out laughing. “What do you mean?” “You act so much like one of these Gen-Z cousins of mine, that last-born, ergo I did not sign up for this attitude”, she explained. “You rant at Him. You throw tantrums. You go straight to Him and report everything, with no filter. You’re like, ‘I can’t do this, I do not want to do this,’ and you just vent and say FIX THIS!’ When I tell you I CACKLED at this! Because I know exactly the genre of sibling she was referring to. As the first-born daughter of an African family, I carry the weight of responsibility that comes with that position. I’m tired of being the one who has it all together, who fixes everything, who carries everyone’s burdens. So, when Phoebe said I could be God’s last-born? I was here for it. Last Born Energy Think about it—last born children have a different relationship with their parents than the first born. They speak up. They rant. They throw tantrums when things don’t go their way. They don’t carry the same sense of overwhelming responsibility that weighs down the older siblings. They’re free to just… be children. Phoebe was right. I do give off last-born energy in my relationship with God. I literally told Him once, “I know I sound like a rebellious teenager in this season of my faith, but this is where I am right now.” And you know what? He can handle it. As I contemplate that last-born title and what owning it means, however, I see it as an ideal. Were we not called to be children? Who is more childish than the last-borns? It means rediscovering child-like faith and posture. For example, when we were children, we ran home bursting to tell our parents everything. “Look what I made in school today! I have a new friend! This happened, that happened!” Everything is worth sharing because everything feels significant to a child’s heart. But somewhere along the way, we grow up and stop sharing. We become formal with our parents, reserved, and distant. We stop running to show them the little things that excite us. I think the same thing happens with God. We grow up spiritually, and our prayers become formal, structured, and distant. We stop telling Him about the little things—the show we’re watching, the person we’re interested in, how we’re really feeling about that situation at work. We lose that intimate, conversational relationship that children naturally have. What if more of us embraced being God’s last-born instead of trying to be the responsible first-born who has everything figured out? What if we gave ourselves permission to: There’s something beautifully freeing about last-born energy. It’s the freedom to be fully known, fully seen, and fully loved- tantrums and all. Children don’t have complicated relationships with their parents (when things are healthy). They come home, they share, they listen, they trust. Maybe our prayer lives need less structure and more childlike intimacy. Less formal presentation and more authentic conversation. I’m tired of being the first-born daughter who tries to fix everything herself, who bundles up all her emotions and presents only the neat, manageable parts to God. I want to be His lastborn, the spoiled brat that drinks of grace in large gulps, the one who comes running at the least sign of wahala because big sis or daddy will fix it, who trusts someone- THE ONE- to handle the messy, complicated, beautiful reality of who I am. Maybe it’s time we all embraced a little last-born energy in our faith. Yes, in this life there will be trouble, but I’m not signing up for more than I need to. I’m owning the title of God’s Gen-Z baby girl with all my being. You’re welcome to join me.

Because it seems like a curse to care about your work right about now… (April 2025)

May 30, 2025 No Comments

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to people who care deeply about what they do. That’s been one of my identifiers for quality people: do you feel something for your work? Do you care enough to want it to matter? Because doing meaningful work requires you to care. Whether you’re launching a product to make life easier, teaching in a classroom, or writing research to inform policy, you have to believe that what you’re doing holds value—that it can lead to something better. And caring people value themselves and others… But lately, caring feels like a curse. Maybe it always has been, but it’s worse now. Feeling has become heavy. Only those good at compartmentalising (I truly envy you) can stay sane. Because the more conscious you are, the more you notice how little your work seems to matter. How do you keep showing up when everything feels like it’s falling apart? How do you teach justice when injustice is the norm? How do you keep researching when those in power have no intention of using that knowledge? And so my belief that work should be meaningful, which has fueled my career and life, is at this moment also what’s breaking my heart. And bringing me to the brink of a depressive episode. Why am I sharing this here? Well, LinkedIn used to be a space that showcases passion for ones [meaningful] work not just the wins as it seems now. Here we could see insights and growth. But scrolling now, I find that even the shiniest updates carry exhaustion. Beneath the achievements, there’s a quiet despair: our work is losing its meaning. As someone who works on education and social justice for development, I’m increasingly haunted by how disconnected knowledge is from action. We’ve theorized inequality to death. But even the little effort towards implementation we were making (remember all those equity and inclusion statements?) is being undone less than five years later. Because funding. Because politics. Because profit. So I ask: what’s the point of knowledge if those in power won’t use it? If it doesn’t make them money, or if they just don’t care?And this isn’t just academia. Every field, be it business, tech, health, the arts etc. is caught in a battle between purpose and performance, between meaning and metrics. I recently read a paper [my first “just because” academic read in a long while] that asked: Is scholar-activism an oxymoron? The fact that this is even up for debate made me shake my head. Shouldn’t scholarship always have been activism? Not necessarily in the marching sense, but in the pursuit of truth and justice? If not for impact, what’s the point of all this knowledge generation? Are all these citations, all these conferences for vibes?Maybe. Because clearly, we’ve drifted. We’re no longer doing meaningful work. We’re doing measured work. Ranked, rated, reduced. And that, to me, is the real crisis. There’s so much knowledge that could change lives. But who will use it? More importantly, who will be held accountable for not using it? So I’m writing this here because I’ve wondered about my own melancholy over work I chose and genuinely love. But it’s clearer now: as the work loses meaning, so does our vim. And that’s why I’m tired. Deeply, soulfully tired. It’s not normal to witness crisis after crisis and be expected to show up as usual. It’s not normal, and that’s why we’re exhausted. Constantly. I know saying this might not be the most “LinkedIn” thing to do; not here where we’re all high-achieving and always inspired LOL! But we owe ourselves honesty. I’m tired of talking about change and seeing nothing change. What keeps me going is the faint hope that maybe- just maybe- what we do now will matter later. That someone, someday, might stumble upon our work and use it to shift something. Like how that Lizzo song started to trend years after it came out, finally making her famous, maybe the paper we write today might not go anywhere till someone who cares comes to power and uses it for policy tomorrow. That hope… and, of course, the need for a paycheck, is why I keep showing up. If you’re feeling the same- disillusioned, angry, heartbroken… know you’re not alone. I believe there’s quiet a number of us of us out here. We’re trying our best to still care. Even when it doesn’t make sense. Especially then.

A Little Throwback Vlog (Feb 2025)

May 30, 2025 No Comments

Back in 2019, while attending a conference in the U.S., an old acquaintance who hosted a Facebook show asked to interview me. He was curious about my feminist views and why I chose to work in Cameroon. Years later, I find myself at a similar crossroads, once again facing the familiar question: “Must you work in Cameroon?” So, I asked the brilliant videographer Glen Amungwa to turn that long-forgotten interview into a vlog. Most of the original recording had never been made public until now.Here it is. Enjoy

Why a Black Pope Isn’t Necessarily Progress—and Why the idea Makes Me Uneasy (May 2025 Blog)

May 8, 2025 No Comments

** In the past week, I’ve seen so many posts and comments from contacts eagerly awaiting the results of the ongoing Papal Conclave, hoping for a Black pope. A few days ago, I shared my own unpopular opinion on the matter: I really would prefer the new pope not be Black. First off, it’s not because I agree with the white nationalist nonsense about not wanting “a DEI Pope.” Far from it—I absolutely detest that thinking. But I know that if one of the Black or Asian contenders were chosen, there would be backlash. Many would assume that diversity politics had somehow “won” over tradition, and that assumption alone would make life harder for the new pope. If you’ve ever been a diversity hire for anything, you know how much pressure such a pope would face to constantly “prove” themselves. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I should also note that I’m not Catholic, though, thanks to a few years of Catholic schooling, I’m somewhat familiar with Catholic doctrine. My issue here isn’t with Catholicism as a faith, but with the Catholic Church as an institution. Christianity, to me, is about your relationship with God, your faith, and your communion with Christ. But being the head of the Catholic Church isn’t just a spiritual role—it’s leading a system that, despite its spiritual mission, has a long history of aiding, abetting or actively partaking in the marginalising of historically oppressed groups. The recently deceased pope acknowledged some of these flaws and made attempts to address them, and I believe he managed to do so because he was white. A Black or Asian pope, on the other hand, would face far more scrutiny for taking similar steps. Either way, putting a Black person at the head of that system right now wouldn’t magically fix its issues. Instead, it would force that person to defend the system’s history of abuse of people who look like them. My perspective on this comes from seeing this happen elsewhere. It’s not just about the Catholic Church. We see this pattern every time women, Black people, or other marginalised groups are put in positions of power without any real systemic change to the institution they now represent. The problem with simply placing a minority or someone with a marginalised identity in a leadership role is that it often ends up being symbolic, representation without transformation. Worse still, if that person isn’t critically conscious of their position and the institution’s flaws, they can end up perpetuating the very harms they were supposed to challenge. Think about it: what real power would a Black pope have to address the Catholic Church’s problematic history? What repercussions would they face if they actually tried to dismantle the system’s oppressive structures? Isn’t it more likely that they’d end up serving as a convenient shield for the institution—a way for the Church to claim progress without addressing the root issues? We see this in other contexts. For instance, the current UK Foreign Minister is Black, but has that meant more critically conscious foreign policy decisions that address the UK’s role in marginalising the majority of the world’s Black and brown people? Has it made him more likely to discuss reparations? I don’t think so. Likewise, in Cameroon, appointing Anglophones to high government positions hasn’t solved the Anglophone problem. It’s not just about whether marginalised people hold office—it’s about whether the system itself becomes more inclusive and just. Putting an Anglophone in a position of power doesn’t automatically fix the systemic issues. Sometimes, that person even becomes the face of the very problem they’re supposed to be solving. My work with feminist advocacy taught me this the hard way. We push for women to enter certain leadership roles because representation matters. But I’d rather see a feminist man in a position of power than a woman who doesn’t care about women’s issues. That feminist man will know when to step back and make space. Meanwhile, a woman who does not acknowledge patriarchy and its dangers might uphold the same harmful norms, or do even worse because she feels pressured to prove herself. Diversity, equity, and inclusion can’t just be about changing faces at the top. We need to acknowledge that the real problem is systemic and what the odds are for that person to change that system, because racism, sexism, ageism, ableism, and other biases are embedded in these institutions; they are the knots and bolts of the tables we so want to have a seat at. So, while I understand the desire for a Black pope, I’m wary. True progress means tackling the system itself, not just changing the face of leadership. Without that, we’re just setting up marginalised leaders to fail—or worse, become the face of the very practices they were supposed to challenge. ** This was written shortly before the announcement of the new pope.

A Toolbox for the Faith Journey_Aug 2024 Musings

August 27, 2024 No Comments

If you’re new here. Welcome. If you’re not, welcome back. My blog is where I try to collate musings on everything that makes me think for an extended period. I emphasize extended periods because, as a chronic overthinker, I truly think like whizzing tops move when spun—here, there, everywhere. Those who have access to my Whatsapp Status get the brunt of the spillover of thoughts. So, out of the abundance of my thoughts over the past few weeks, am I writing this? But wait, are you a Christian? I’m hoping you are. If so, the blog/vlog this month would be more enjoyable for you. If not, I hope you still read through and catch the vlog below. My personal conversion story is linked there, and that might interest you. Now to the topic at hand. You may have heard the adage: Christianity is a relationship, not merely a religion. Though a common adage I wish there was more emphasis on the relationship and less on the religion. I was born into a community and family where most would claim to be ‘Christian’. I was educated at a Presbyterian mission school. I was even ‘confirmed’ as a Christian at age 14 (I signed up for 1st communion classes so I could have family visit me with food on the day, lol). All this is to say, ‘I got the works’ when it comes to the Christian walk. And yet I didn’t. I only gave my life to Christ for myself after a failed suicide attempt in March of 2007. We have the crazy misconception that we choose God; we say things like ‘I found the Lord’. Nah, the Lord found me. And in this season, He has been growing my desire for Him in ways I can’t help but share here. That’s what this post is about: how that relationship/walk is going and what is helping me as I trek. Someone said, ‘Adulthood is where you find God for yourself.’ I would partly agree, but it’s not so much a ‘finding’ as getting to know Him and growing intimacy. I no longer go to church because I have to; I now want to go commune with fellow believers; it’s something I crave. I no longer pray out of habit- I don’t even know if I ever had that habit sef. My prayers now are like me getting up in the middle of the night with a dry throat in need of a drink. Life will make you thirsty for Him. He will make you thirsty for Him. There’s a movement from doing things because you think they’re right to do what you know is right for you at that time because of the Holy Spirit’s ushering. It’s a relationship, and it evolves with us. It looks differently across different times, and ours with him doesn’t look exactly the same as His with someone else. I feel a good gauge of one’s Christian state is how open one is to interrogation, how comfortable one is with one’s answers, and how much of it comes from oneself rather than what one has been told. Yeah, you want to memorize scripture. Why? And the answer should just be because the bible says, ‘Let’s have it on our hearts’ First of all, that isn’t proper exegesis of that scripture. Next, memorization didn’t save the Scribes and Pharisees from Jesus’ scorn, so… why do you (insert name here) want to read the bible cover to cover? Why do you want to go to church every Sunday? What do you truly believe and why? That is how God has been growing me in this season. Prompting me to prioritize the relationship. To think of him as a long-time partner. The one that walked up to me on that night in March 2007 and said, ‘Hey, I like you. Can we be a thing?’. We’ve done the talking stage; He’s courted me- all those easily answered prayers and countless blessings; he’s given tough love, and we’ve had several fights. But still, it seemed like my relationship was in a compartment of my life, and my worship was orchestrated, not free-flowing. So, like any relationship on the rocks, The Lover has been pushing for more work on intimacy, therapy, hard convos, date nights, and family meetings to resolve this wahala. That’s what I see my toolbox as. Products of all the ways He’s inspiring me to make the relationship one that knows no boundaries and flows freely. Can’t pray, that’s okay- couples are taught to sit in comfortable silences after a fight rather than walk away from each other. So even if you say nothing just sit there and let Abide meditation or several other medication videos play and the word pour over you as one person speaks. Is it hard to concentrate or be present during sermons or worship events because of ADD? No, wahala. There are Christian colouring books; you can use those as a mindfulness technique. Missed service because you’re travelling? Look up sermons on YouTube. Don’t understand this verse or that? The Bible can be like a maze—especially that Old Testament, lol. But you love research (on most days, lol), so go down the YouTube rabbit hole or use Bible study tools. I personally LOVE The Bible Project’s illustrative scripture exegesis. But there are so many great scripture teachers who can bless people’s understanding of specific things. Do you feel like proper meditation takes time, and you often end up ‘lost in it’, or it takes ‘too long’ to hear back from the Holy Spirit? Match the praying time to walking time. You’ll trick the mind that you’re doing something ‘productive’ and The relationship seems like a fake one because you’re talking to yourself. Organize gatherings with other Christians, it’s not a bible study but just Christian sisters hanging out eating scotch eggs, talking about everything and playing games connected by the same Lover. The point is, if its a relationship, it should feel