I used to feel it was my mission to explain to people that ‘falling bush’ was not the answer to all problems. Given how much the ‘American Dream’ is set as the ideal in our Cameroonian society, I always felt it necessary to dispel the notion that the place is paradise on earth and to let those I value know that Cameroon needs them, and should they consider traveling, they should do so with plans of returning home. Fortunately, I’m no longer that person. Don’t get me wrong, my stomach still lurches when I have a conversation with a close friend and they tell me they are planning on leaving for good. I still feel frustrated at the people who say “I am marrying a ‘bushfaller’ as if to denote the fact that they are marrying their ticket out. And don’t get me started on the mentees I counsel who are so obvious that their passion is for residing in a particular country, rather than the academic and career plans they claim to want advice for. But I have become more understanding of my privilege over the past years (or so I think). And so I no longer take up that mission with the fervor I used to. If you want to go, go. I know better now that home isn’t meant for everyone. Not all of us have the calling for it, and not all of us can endure it. This came to me as I returned home last month from South Africa in hope of making it base again upon completion of my final degree. As I spoke with a friend who was also returning home from a different country, I realized we were making the same preparations, taking the same precautions as to how different our lives will be. How do you prepare to endure low quality internet back home? Download all the music/videos you streamed without care while away. Make sure you downloaded ALL the academic papers you cited in your work and have them backed up. How do you prepare for regular light failure? Buy the best power bank(s) you can. Like one witty Nigerian put it “charging your partner’s phone in anticipation of the regular power failures be considered a love language”. How do you take precautions to avoid having to deal with our struggling health care system? Use what insurance you have to do medical exams and check what you can before returning home. Buy drugs you know won’t be available because mental health/learning disabilities are not recognized in our part of the world. How do you prepare for possible kidnapping/arbitrary arrest? Get a stun-gun to add to the pepper-spray you carry because you’re already at risk as a woman. Write your last requests in case of sudden death. Let friends know what to do just in case. [Although this last tip likely applies for many across the globe]. As my friend and I discussed, I came to the realization that the bulging bags and extra luggage Africans and African diaspora are known to travel with is merely evidence of our general attempts to endure/adjust to life where we are. That may mean adjusting trying to make a foreign country feel a bit like home by exporting food from home, or it may mean buying what we know is unavailable for sale at home or extremely expensive. In the weeks following that conversation, and since I’ve been home I have also come to realize that we have lost many people for good. Even those who say/believe they are going to come back. They won’t be able to, not because they do not want to, but because they will not be able to endure after being away so long. To leave behind the lives they have known and investments they have made in other countries. If you’re away for too long you adapt to a different system, such that the reality of home hits your worse than it is when you return. Staying away for too long renders you out of touch with how to live in and love home despite its flaws. I was once asked how we cope with the lack of reliable emergency numbers to call in case of need. I responded that here we can simply call for help, the society is not as disconnected. Here it is odd to not know your neighbor’s name (and too many other details). I write this all to say, I am home now. And even though I am happy to be home, I am looking at it from a more realistic perspective. We need more people who love it enough to make it a better place, one which would nourish the dreams our children have; but I appreciate that it isn’t for everyone. I appreciate that the country makes it hard to love it because our government makes us seem so unworthy of basic decency. But then that government is made up of people like us. People we know, and excuse. So if you’re one of many considering leaving for good. Do what is best for you. I’ll just say proceed with caution. Drop me a comment, question or just a kind wish welcoming me home. It’s always a joy to read from readers.
A Mother’s Day For Each Mother
But behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours begins.– Mitch Albom In Cameroon, it is taboo not to love your mother. I have no sources to cite to prove the fact of this. But consider this, if one were to do a survey of songs written by Cameroonian artists, they would no doubt find that there is a tie between songs written in praise octogenarian president and those written in praise of mothers. I was in form three when I realized just how much of a taboo it was to express any disdain for one’s own mother. The only music channel our cable in Bamenda provided was finally airing the video of Eminem’s ‘Cleanin’ out My Closet’ and I was eagerly rapping along to the lyrics in those little M.A.D booklets we bought for five hundred francs during school outings. Pa and Ma, my adopted grandparents were out so I was comfortably sprawled on the carpet, the parlor the doors shut to keep out the dust Bamenda is notorious for. My cousin Stella had her friends visiting and one of them brought up the conversation. She hated Eminem, she said, it was obvious he was a bad person. Only bad people would hate their own mother so openly. If an ‘adult’ had said same I would have ignored it. I already knew they supported what suited them. But my cousin and her friends were different. I looked up to them, university students with their stylish clothes, more educated than their parents they knew how to manipulate things, and I depended on Stella for novels to read and interesting conversations to listen to. So if they agreed- and all three of them did- that only an evil person would not love their mother, then they were likely right. And I who understood Eminem, I who could relate with him as I rapped along, was likely wrong. Or evil for doing so. My cousin’s friend had no clue what she had done. I would think about it over and over again in the weeks and months to come. To reconcile my understanding of Eminem and my admiration for Stella and her friends, I would conclude that it was just one of the differences between Cameroon and the US. In the US, having a bad relationship with one’s mother was generally expected. In fact, it can be seen as a staple of the teenage years, a stage all kids must go through. Is there any family T.V show where a teen has not slammed their bedroom door and shouted: “I hate you”? Definitely something not applicable in Cameroon. First, slamming a bedroom door requires that you have a bedroom of your own, and next, shouting ‘I hate you’ is an invitation for even more things that the child will hate. My conclusion made sense to me. Motherly love was just one of those things the two countries I had lived in saw differently. A loving mother-child relationship in America was what was illustrated by Clare Huxtable and kids on The Cosby Show, or what Tia and Tamera experienced with Lisa on Sister, Sister. It was the regular hugging, the girls nights with popcorn the little talks about everything from peer pressure to boys and yes the scolding but more the makeups after the scolding. In the American version of motherly love, mothers said they were sorry just as much as kids did. And kids are reassured that no matter what they did, their mama was never going to stop loving them. In Cameroon, that definition did not apply. Loving your mother was a different connotation altogether. It was allegiance to taking her side in fights she would have with her siblings, or between her and co-wives. It was promising to build her a house when you grow up and give her a reason to boast that my child is a doctor, engineer, lawyer or banker. It was a duty to be fulfilled and acknowledgment that she is always right irrespective of what may be…and if sorry ever left your mother’s mouth it would likely take the form of “come and take this meat and finish it”. For a while, this differentiation would help me console myself for understanding Eminem, for being like him and not feeling like I loved my mother at that time. For a while, I would think the differences meant one society knew love more than the other. But later on, by the time I was a university student myself, Cameroon would have taught me to measure love by the number of sacrifices made and hardship endured and I would find that no one can top an African mother on that evaluation. And so, I too would come to pledge allegiance to the mother who is always right, and aspire to be the child who will be bragged about at CWF meetings…to love out of mindful duty if not the fullness of heart. I would try to love like that and fail because I am one of those people who needs to know you to love you. One of those who need to be able to reason their love prior to expressing it. And that is why Mothers’ Day stumps me. **** I will know my mother when [god forbid] she dies. I have no recollection of my mother before the age of six. There is evidence of us being together, of course. But I don’t remember it. I recall being tucked to sleep by Aunty Susan. I recall being bathed and dressed by Franka, one of those distant cousins brought into town by relatively better-off family members to serve their households in exchange for their education. I recall there being a house with grey floors of concrete smoothed to a slightly glossy finish and low wooden chairs that formed a semi-circle around the T.V, positioning us as the audience to whatever was playing on TV. But I do not recall my
What Would you tell Your Younger Self?
We’re at the end of 2019 and I, like many others, will be doing the typical end of the year (or in this case, end of a decade) reflection. One of the most common questions people are asked for self-reflection is this: What advice would you give your younger self? Or a variation of what is basically the same question “What do you wish you knew at age 20?” Recently, I’ve considered this question and found it to reek of regret and our lust for perfectionism. Now, I’m not saying wanting to undo certain mistakes made is a bad thing, but it is something I feel we should consider more lest we fail to learn from what we wish to undo. We are constantly growing, changing based on exposure, experiences, hormones and social climes. So it is presumptuous to think what we currently feel we should have known at that time is what we actually needed to know. We are also presumptuous to believe our younger selves would listen to any advice we would give. I could back in time and tell my younger self: believe you can do this because you will make it. But my younger self would not be ready to hear it. Until I would have had certain experiences, I wouldn’t see how I could make it nor why I would need to try. I would need to grow to a point where I can appreciate that knowledge. And that growth would happen via making mistakes. The desire to go back in time to change what we consider mistakes is symptomatic with thinking we should not have failed at all, whereas failure is so very often a part of the process. Please note: I’m in no way trying to suggest that “all pain was worth it because it made us stronger”. I truly dislike that school of thought because it too often justifies abuses against a person. On the contrary, I am referring to what choices we make for ourselves, the various ways we think we could have done it differently/better. Perhaps we could have done it better, but would we have grown as much if we had the cheat sheet? Would we be the persons we are today? Knowing too much of what could happen often impedes our trying. We take fewer risks with knowledge and that is both a good and bad thing. Years of watching Hollywood products and reading pop-fiction based on the good witch spiel has ingrained in me the lesson that every action has a reaction, to change one thing is to change many others and that could be for the good or bad. The mistake we made, the ignorance of this or that, the wrong choice, etc. might have been the best way to learn the lesson we learned. Perhaps it is the ignorance of our younger selves that enabled us to accomplish so much despite the hurdles. We wouldn’t have tried so hard if we’re as knowledgeable (and jaded) as our older selves undoubtedly are. As I do reflection at the end of this year, I have come to appreciate some of the ‘mistakes’ I made and ignorance I had at certain points. I have come to appreciate the outcomes of the experiences I would have warned my younger self about. Some- not all. But enough to know that I would not tell my younger self nothing except- trust the process. I’m telling my present-self the same thing as well. Trust the process.
Making a ‘To-Undo List’ for the #ThrivingThirties
On the 11th of this month, I excitedly entered my third decade of life sharing loads of photos taken by a dear friend Melissa Lucas with the hashtag #ThrivingThirties. As is my tradition, prior to birthdays and New Years’ the days leading up to the birthday were filled with a lot of introspection. The annual exercise of questioning who and where I am now vis a vis who and where I want to be, editing my vision board, re-writing my life purpose statement, etc. usually results in me making an upgraded version of a to-do/to-be list for ‘a fulfilled life’. However, this year I paused mid that exercises and opted for something different. As I looked at the 7-year plan I made at the end of 2012, the goals I had outlined, the lists of ideals… my ideal physique/appearance, my ideal career, my ideal home, my ideal man, etc. I laughed. As per those outlined ambitions, I should have had my Ph.D. by now and published at least two academic papers. As per that list, I should have at least a million (FCFA) in savings which I can ‘forget about for emergencies only’…. and the lists literally go on. But as per that list, achieving those things would make me happy, more fulfilled, successful. I now know that is not true, those things are very valuable but why they matter let alone why I felt they should have been attained/ticked off by a certain age required some examination… Goal-tracking across the years… Ultimately, I decided I won’t be making any edits to the vision board or new to-do/be lists. I have yet to check off the things which I’d outlined at 23 so why bother? Don’t get me wrong, I love that I made those plans. That I wrote them down. Above all, I love that going through my old journal, I can see that I do know what I want and why I want it. I am at the very least, someone who has examined their lives in spirit with Socrates’ famous quote “An unexamined life is not worth living’. It is clear I am on the right path. The timelines I made may have been crazy, but the goals and dreams were things I genuinely contemplated on, things close to heart and things I am still working on. So if there’s nothing wrong with a to-do/be list, why did I shun it this time around? Well, the answer goes back to the Socrates’ quote again. Upon examining my life, I didn’t think more goals to achieve was what I ought to prioritize. This year I am learning that what keeps me from fulfillment is as much what I am yet to unlearn/free myself from as the things I would like to achieve. My to-do/be lists had things like: Learn another language, lose X amount of weight, save this much money, apply to that program, bag that dream job, build that relationship etc. things I’d like to achieve/gain… These are not bad things, but as I am finding out, not necessarily the main things leading to happiness and fulfilment. So I am now a firm believer in the need for To-Undo/Unlearn lists. Rather than make goals for the next decade based on notions of what success means and what I need to be happy and fulfilled, I am contemplating on the things I would like to erase from my mind, the ways of thinking, learned behavior that I have realized keep me from living wholly and completely every day. Author Victoria Dhal tweeted in 2018 “Women are raised from the cradle to be hyperconscious of what we say & wear, how we walk, talk & smile, how we give in or resist or flirt or ignore, who we talk to, where we are…”. The last two years have taught me that my greatest obstacles are things that I have been socialized with. In many ways, I am my own worst enemy because I have been cultured to be. So here is an exercise I am sharing with you: rather than focus on what you feel you ought to achieve to be the ‘ideal you’, consider what you must undo/unlearn to be a better you… Make a ‘To-Undo/Unlearn List for yourself. A bucket list would have experiences we would like to have before dying, a vision board would illustrate ambitions and goals we would like to achieve or our version of a successful life, but a ‘To-Undo List’? That would outline chains we have recognized that restrict us, chains we must break to live our best lives, to live freely and true to ourselves. Here is an excerpt from my own To-Undo list: 30 Things to Unlearn in My Third Decade Unlearn unhealthy coping mechanisms Unlearn fear of failure Unlearn resistance to vulnerability. Unlearn shame over all things sexual Unlearn fear of being unlikeable/not being accepted. Unlearn the habit of postponing living Undo/free yourself from the need to be impressive. Unlearn the idea that you must be ‘good enough’. You are enough, period. Unlearn pre-defined conceptions of everything from art to beauty to knowledge to wealth. Learn to question what you’ve been taught these things are, be open to new conceptualisations of them and define them for yourself. Unlearn the instinct to shrink yourself for fear of being perceived as ‘too much’… whether that means, apologizing prior to airing your concerns or wearing muted colors so you don’t stand out… The to-undo/unlearn list goes on, but based on the above excerpt you can see how unlearning is just as empowering (if not more so) than acquiring. We typically strive for certain things based on our learned desires for them. You may want to be a wife because you’ve been socialized to see it as a status you must attain for social acceptance. You may want to lose weight because of learned ideas of beauty being a particular size and shape. I am not saying these things are bad goals, not at
An Open Letter to Myself and other Cameroonians Like ME Who May Need Some Hope
To you, the young start-up CEO with bold dreams and drive and talent struggling to survive in a country that is outright discouraging for business To you, father and mother fraught with worry over your child’s safety, over their future, over the possibility of them being all you would hope they would be, doing all you have hoped they would do in a country such as ours. To you; farmers and market wo(men), working 20 hour days. Undervalued for your work even as you sustain the country. Grappling with everything from market fluctuations to war to the arrogance of a middle and upper class who would bargain the value of your goods down to nothing- like a sport. To you, immigrant by force rather than choice. Working multiple jobs and long hours to support a family at home. To live up to the hopes those who saw you off at the airport had on their faces. To you, civil servant stuck in the system you would like to change but unable to. Fighting not to become ‘one of them’. And still fighting yourself because you need that work. To you, journalist afraid to do what you have been called to do. Forced to negotiate your right to self-expression every day. Slowly transforming from bard to silenced victim -or worse- a sycophant for survival. To you pensioner, tired, so tired. After years of saving up to survive if not enjoy your retirement in the country that doesn’t care… Yet you are now chased from the house you saved up to build, you are now an IDP, your life’s effort seemingly futile. To you, the doctor, to you the nurse. Underpaid and at risk every single day. Regularly confronting illness and death which could have been avoided, if only… if only we were better…. To you, activist, development worker, advocate striving for a better future. Investing your money, time, effort, health… sacrificing your relationships, safety, pleasures and loads more… with very little rewards, and little hope of future rewards. To you: student, teacher, entertainer, writer, engineer, unemployed graduate, private sector employee, hairdresser, researcher, seamstress, translator, builder, businessman, taxi-driver… To you all and to me. I’m sorry. Very sorry. But I must ask you still to hope. I know too well how we all try. I know too well how tired we are. Sleep no longer helps, food no longer satisfies. We have made do until we are about done. We want to give up. There is enough reason to. Why believe in something that is set up to self-destruct. Why fight for people who cannot appreciate the sacrifice? Why not just leave? I have asked all these of myself. I am even now asking this of myself. I would like to teach myself to give up, to learn not to hope any longer. I am struggling to dream a new dream a dream other than a Cameroonian dream. I truly wish I could. Actually that is a lie, I do not wish I could. It is not a wish, rather it is something I know I should, for sanity and a different life. My real wish, what I pray for is that I had some motivation- just a bit of relevant encouragement to keep trying. So I am writing this to me and to you too. To all of us that may need some reason to go on after that mockery of a presidential speech. After yet another trip past threatening soldiers wielding guns at what used to be your local hangout or after yet another lockdown imposed without care. This is for all of us at the brink. Sister, brother, mother, father… Sit down. Rest. Remember, try to remember who you once were. Try to remember what birthed the dream you now want to give up. Try to remember why you started. Take it out, that motivation. Regard it again, even if it is now an empty bottle. Drop your tears in it and shake to capture any residue of hope left. Drink that. Never throw away the bottle. You may need it again. And even if next time only the scent of what the bottle once held is left to flavor your tears. Repeat. Because hope is a fragile thing but hard to completely remove. Some dregs must remain like oil drops in a narrow-mouthed bottle. So please try again. I am sorry to ask. I know it’s too much. But if I don’t hope. If you don’t hope. There will be no hope. So let’s try. Perhaps just a little more. Let’s hope, just a little while longer. We do not do it for this government. Not even for the country. We do it for ourselves. And for others who like us will have a dream, much like ours, and will need to see an example of those who didn’t stop even if they slowed down.
5 Love Poems From Me to You
As the people all over the world muse on love (genuine of commercialized fluff) on this Valentine’s Day, permit me share with you some of my favorite original poems relating to L.O.V.E. On Self-love Ode to We This is for my sisters, whose thighs touch. Whose arms hang like armpit drapes and whose stomachs bulge… It is okay not to be O.K Okay is never enough anyway, They always want more. So lift your arms and wave them ‘round Cross your feet and pout your lips Swing your hips to your own beat And repeat: I love me On Considering Love Kintsugi I thought of you when I learned of Kintsugi; read about that Japanese art of recovering broken things with preciousness, renewing the life of fallen pieces and restoring their worth two, four…a thousand fold. I thought of you, lover-to-be, as a Kintsugi artist. A master craftsman, able to see possibilities in fragmented parts, worn and not quite whole, still useful. See, I have shards of glass placed at the top of the walls surrounding this heart like those my grandfather cemented atop the fence around our family home-To keep thieves out, to slice careless hands who come to prey… But an artist takes care, a potter’s hand is patient. So I can see you pick up these shards nimbly, one after the next, appreciating the story of each fall, respecting the painful tale of each break.I can picture you pouring precious metal- emotions rare- unto sharpened edges piecing together what some would see as mistakes to create a testimony. I thought of you when I learned of Kintsugi, and I thought of I.I thought of us all, reflections of this philosophy; believers in broken things, people who would pour gold in cracks. Card carrying members of ‘Hopefuls Anonymous’Lovers; Kintsugi artists. On Discovering Love The Heartbreak 39 days ago at 7:47pm. Your words, uncomfortably shared, speared the familiar sinking feeling of heartbreak within me I find it hard to describe this feeling. Heartbreak resulting from unrequited love is unique you see. Not quite pain, more like an ebbing ache of inadequacy. Your heart twisting as if trying to find balance or return shamefully to the cage of your ribs it should have never left. Your windpipes forcing air out as though practiced in a Lamaze class. Keep going. Don’t cry. Just breathe. I wonder at the break. Why do I feel it? When did you matter? I am reminded: It was Tuesday, I was sick and you came. I looked horrible but it didn’t matter, your eyes smiled in a way that made me feel beautiful. You stayed, made me laugh and left me feeling better than the treatment I’d been taking for days It was 6th of June, I think, you shared a post that literally took my breath away, something I couldn’t believe you’d get. And yet you did. You got it and you defended it when the trolls came It was the evening I left our meeting late and worry remained in your eyes as I took a cab. You took the taxi drivers details. Chatting with me all through till I arrived to be sure I didn’t fall asleep therein and get carted away… It was that dinner we shared, you remember the night you took me out for my favorite meal? Two phone addicts somehow able to not think of our phones for hours. It’s been the never-ending conversation we have. Free flowing, humorous, unrestricted, digressing and yet still mutually understood. Able to go dormant yet reawakening within days with the same feel. The familiarity it bred It was me struggling to contort this large body to somehow lay my head on your shoulder in the taxi ride home. It was in my trusting you enough to drink in your presence. Comfortable enough to hold your hand and cross the road… I see now that it was a million little things. You may have come to me by chance but you did not come all at once. You are the dripping rooftop that slowly made the whole house damp. Weathering defenses, surprising us both. And this is how I got a heartbreak never knowing there was a love Lessons in Love Learning i. They teach you to forgive your enemies but rarely do they share how you’ll need to forgive your loves.We all forget, you see, that we lift our loves on a pedestal, we raise them up like the moon does the tide of our feelings. We make them gods because they make us feel more human, more magical, loved.We raise them up involuntary and without consent. We raise them up until they fall. Humans after all. ii.So today I will forgive you for not being all I dreamed you would be. I will forgive you for inspiring me to fly when you had no wings. No wings for you, no wings for me. I will forgive you for the rides of all-night talks and ecstatic daydreams you fueled, without telling me the petrol tank was uncertain, we were just kicking it. I will forgive you because you made no promise. I forgive you because you too are broken and should not have been put in a place to fix my own cracks. I will forgive you because I am learning the ways of love. iii.Now please forgive me for the selfish love I bore and thrust on you, a crown you did not ask for. The love that demanded more of you, than you were ready to give. Forgive me the luxury of rose-colored glasses that saw your promise but not your flaws. Not the vacuum you harbored still. Forgive me the good things I hoped and dreamed. Because I have learned even good things are burdensome. I have learned hope is heavy a thing around your neck weighing you down and adorning you brightly at the same time. Forgive me because I am still learning to love like God. On Recovering
29 Lessons I’ve Learned at 29: A Collection of Personal Epigrams Thus Far…
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.
Undoing a Culture of Shaming
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
What Chapter of Life are You On?
The practice of giving themes to a year is not a new one, it has been customary for many people across the world for ages. In Cameroon however, declaring themes for a year is fairly recent and has been made popular by Pentecostal Churches. Most often these themes are prosperity-centered: My Year of Double Portion, Year of Overflowing, My Year of Abrahamic Blessings… A few years back at New Years’ time, I wondered why they never think of themes like My Year of Hard-work, My Year of Discipline, My Year of Jacob-like Commitment, or even My Year of Sowing Seeds. Of course, it is easy to conclude on why the latter themes would be less popular. Growing older- particularly the part about growing older which involves awareness of death- it’s frequency, suddenness and callousness- will mature you and have you reflecting on all those plans you made and the aspirations you have. This is what made me to first take on the themed years. Growing older and the desire to make sense of every year, feeling like you’re living life to the utmost capacity. I had learned earlier on that plans failed and while I strongly advocate for a good Plan A and an acceptable plan B, I also understand that no matter how hard I try, some things are not in my power to determine. Still, having a ‘topic statement’ for the year appealed to me and I dubbed my 27th year ‘My Year of Growth’. The year lived up to its theme, it only occurred to me too late that growth would/must come through pain. Now a month into my 28th year I have once again found myself evaluating; am I where I’m supposed to be (I think so). Am I doing all I am supposed to do (unfortunately no, and even that which I do is usually done later than I planned for)? Above all, am I living my purpose (on a scale of 1 to 10, I think I deserve a 6)? As 27 lived up to its theme so well I’m being careful as I decide on a theme for 28. I am thoughtfully considering what theme fits this chapter… What short-term goals I have to meet, and perspective I’ll take on will stem from this theme.It’s necessary to ponder deeply on it. I have a few ideas already but thought I’d ask: If you had to follow my tradition and have a theme for each age, what would you title this chapter of your life?
Happy Birthday Musings!
On this very date, in the year 2012, Monique’s Musings was conceived in a hotel room in Nigeria. I was returning home via Calabar from the Farafina Trust Workshop and was convinced by a friend of a friend to blog my ‘think pieces’ (which I had self-published as a newsletter and sold for 100 francs each). This friend helped me use my Gmail account to setup on blogger, and I posted my first blog post on the 26th of August 2012. Today, 60 blog-posts and tens of thousands of page views later I’m still sharing thoughts on here, and proud of how the challenge of producing something every month has evolved my writing as well as helped me engage with broad-minded readers and thinkers. On the occasion of this anniversary, I want to say thank you to followers and readers for encouraging me to use this platform to express myself and present my point of view on all manner of things. In celebration of this anniversary, I looked up my blog stats on my most read blog posts.This month you’re invited to look back at the top 5 Monique’s Musings’ most-read blog posts of all time. What’s happening in Cameroon? Learning, I hope I was surprised to find that this was the most-read blog post of all time, the reason being that it’s not that old. Still, as that the matter it deals with- the ongoing Anglophone crisis in Cameroon- is still a trending issue, I can easily understand why. In this post, I attempted to outline the sequence of events which brought us to the crisis and argue neither government nor revolutionaries are blameless. An Open Letter to Cameroonians The second most popular blog post was expected. My 2014 Open Letter to Cameroonians is the rant in which I call us all out for our role in creating the sorry state of this country. It is also the post with the most comments. Obviously, Cameroonians responded to my letter. Why I am NOT Here for TB Joshua’s Ministry This one was equally unsurprising. This post gave me my first experience with trolls as received so many insults and attacks for this post, obviously, it was being well read. Or perhaps misinterpreted. In this post, I took on the proliferation of Prophets and argued from a Christian perspective the danger of following a ministry like TB Joshua’s. Murdering Poverty: A Review I have vowed to encourage Cameroonian writers by promoting their work through book reviews. Thus far I have reviewed three books by contemporary Cameroonian writers including Budji Kefen and Imbolo Mbue. This review of Arrey Elvis Ntui’s Murdering Poverty made it to the top 5 of most read blog posts. Check it out and do get your hands on a copy if you’re interested in development work and the theories shaping the practice. So What is Cameroon Famous For? In this fifth most read blog-post I made an attempt at giving my fellow Cameroonians something to mention when faced with the many foreigners who are unaware of anything other than Eto’o and our reputation for corruption. Which of my posts (if any) did you particularly like? Drop a comment below with your favorite- or your least favorite lol! Perhaps you’re new here and now interested in reading more of my posts? A few I hold close to heart include; my piece on my becoming a writer, my second travelogue upon arriving the UK where I speak to Cameroonians on the false assumptions of the ‘bushfaller life’, my letter to fellow women on recognizing (and shunning) their own sexism, the one where I outline feminism for Men’s Empowerment, yet another where I outline what I love most about my country (and why you should love it too), and last but not least, this rant I posted on the justifiable anger of black people triggered by the shooting of Mike Brown. Whether you’re new or not, do join me in wishing a ‘happy birthday’ to this brainchild of mine. As always you’re encouraged to leave comments with your thoughts on my posts past, present and those you hope for in future. I am always eager to read from the reader 🙂