A week ago the hashtag #33ans trended among Cameroonians on Twitter with Cameroonians speaking out on the 33rd anniversary of the ruling political party in Cameroon. The week before that the hashtag I followed was #FeesMustFall Then later #Mizzou Then as of the 13th of this month, #Parisattacks and #PrayforParis. I was a bit impressed by #33years because Cameroonians aren’t known in public spaces but for football and our First Lady’s hair. To have trended on Twitter with hashtags trending from all over the globe every minute was an achievement. But, like someone who works at the carnival I’m no longer amazed. I see the rides go up and down every day, I know the mechanisms behind them. The news doesn’t change. At any given time there is all sorts of pains that should be trending that need to be given attention that appeal to our humanity, a lot of which are not. I have become expectant of the hashtags. We now wonder: How long till the next shooting in the US? How long before we hear of another brutal rape case in India, Where is the next strike/march going to be? Or where will the next set of refugees wash up? Which African president will try to elongate his term next? I can’t speak for everyone, but I’m slowly becoming apathetic. For people who feel deeply, it’s like there’s a wound on the vein of our humanity that never properly heals before the next cut. I hadn’t realized the toll the constant bad news and hashtags where taking till the most recent one and I found myself struggling to feel for the fallen, struggling to differentiate the French citizens who were attacked from the French government who is usually the attacker. And I saw that it wasn’t just me. Though a lot of us expressed sadness at the terror attacks in Paris, true to increasing apathy, we didn’t wait for all the dead to be counted before we began analyzing the event, criticizing mourning and pointing fingers: ~So did the killings in Beirut not matter? Garissa? Maroua? Congo and Nigeria? How come they didn’t make headlines and receive attention from all the world leaders?Weren’t they “an attack on humanity”? ~Does France now see the result of its foreign policies? The result of its meddling in the politics of other countries, “like spittle spat above their heads is returning to foul their face”. ~Why do they get Security checks, Facebook homage apps etc? ~All those saying #PrayforParis did you pray for other countries or just the one you vacationed to? And pray to which God? The one who let this happen? ~What just happened in Paris is what has been happening in Syria and other countries for half f a decade because of France and her allies. Someone asked “Why are people like this. Why can’t we just express our sympathy and let people mourn as they will?” Another Facebook Friend asked “Is y/our God so small that you can’t pray for both, it must be either/or?” These are great questions, ones I would attempt to answer. We are like this because we are a generation quickly running out of sympathy to give. We are all hurting as a result of the choices and actions of the select few with wealth and absolute power. We have little care left to give, and we are going to be stingy with it. We are choosing who to hurt for, because to hurt for everyone is to walk about perpetually depressed. While those who worship God know he is big enough to collect all the prayers for everyone. It hasn’t escaped our attention that some people are receiving more prayers than others. Like the same God hadn’t made the others. We are increasingly aware that the majority of people hurting aren’t being prayed for while those receiving the bulk of prayers and attention are doing so because of their political and economic prowess makes us more conscious of their pain. These same people are those who came to our countries with the religion in the first place and now declare they are secular and neither need nor want our prayers. French Magazine Charlie Hebdo’s cartoon reactions to different tragedies is summed up here. The bottom right is the cartoon reaction to #PrayforParis post the Paris attacks Do you know of Big Brother Africa? Yes I know I digress, but it is to make a point. This reality show picks its winner not only by the number of votes the contestant had, but equally by the breadth of the voters for that contestant. As a contestant therefore, your ‘worth’ is determined by if enough people from many different countries care enough about you. Not just the people in your home country or a few of your people in other countries. The fact that you are loved as a housemate is reflected in the support you receive from even those with no connection to you, who care enough to vote for you over and over again. Do you see where I’m going with this? If the world was a Big Brother show, a handful of countries would be the winners before the third episode. No matter how we deny it an attack on France or the US or Great Britain would be garner scores more in condolences and sympathy than an issue in other parts of the world. Even nationals of the relatively ignored countries would cast their “votes” of sympathy for the other. Some people may not agree with me on this. Others may say well we need to start mourning our own with more respect, create our own media houses like the Middle East has done, our leaders need to show more better responses for the world to follow. Either way, it is obvious that with the constancy of these events we no longer just mourn we now question. Yet is this right? As much as we would get angry
Returning Home Part Two: The Struggle is Real, Everywhere
I’ve been home exactly a month now. Along with the joyous reunions come the far from joyous realities. I’ve spent as much time correcting my fellow Cameroonians misconceptions of life abroad as I have spent correcting my own expectations of home. Between the time I prepared to come home and my arrival I received three requests for me to buy IPhones, four requests for me to buy human hair and countless requests for particular designers shoes and clothes. Le impossible n’est pas Camerounaise. That statement is the only justification I can find for why people would think as a student on scholarship I could afford to buy any of those things as gifts. Now that I’m back home however I realize how easy it is for Cameroonians to feel like those things are casual easily gotten commodities in the west. Despite our country’s HIPC status the growing middle-class population increasingly sport smart phones, rock imported everything- from clothes to hair. All these bought either second hand in the many “container shops” or brand new but definitely not at the same price and VAT presented to those in more developed countries. So I find myself addressing misconceptions, attempting to make those with lofty expectation understand that the struggle is real everywhere. “Yes iPhones are popular but you just don’t enter a shop and buy one. Most people take contracts to pay for their phones monthly.” “Human hair? I would need to buy at least three packets for you to be able to actually do your hair. If I had that money to give you, why wouldn’t I just help pay your fees? Or rents for three months?” And finally “Honestly, if I gave you 50.000frs today and showed you the dress you asked for, would you buy it for that amount? Why then would you believe I would buy for you what you wouldn’t buy for yourself?” Another misconception that has to be corrected given the idea that the grass is always greener in the West and that one “returns only to visit”. For every new reunion I go through the same process. Acquaintance: How long are you here for? Me: I’ve returned home Acquaintance: Yes but when are you going back? Me: I’m not going “back”, not unless I have a conference or something. I’ve returned home for good. Acquaintance: Why? You get work? (Pidgin English for ‘Do you have a job?’) Me: (Completely ignoring the why) Nope. Not yet. Still looking for work Acquaintance: Hmm you should go back ooh. E dey like sey you like suffa (Loosely translated: You seem to have a penchant for pain) Me: Well I prefer to suffer here than there, suffa dey all side ya (Loosely translated: There’s suffering everywhere) At this point whoever I am talking with either laughs in my face or shakes their head in pity. Correcting the misconception that there is literally no suffering in the West is much more difficult than correcting misconceptions of the returnee being able to afford three rounds of drinks at every reunion.Yet the misconception needs to be corrected and the truth needs to be told; the struggle is real everywhere. You just have to choose what struggles you can cope with. Some people will happily take up the apathy of a foreign land. To them that is preferable to the corruption of Cameroonian police and other government officials, the unemployment or underemployment depending on who you know rather than what you know, the bad roads and careless drives that make up the transport system, the society that while allowing you to be free, never allows you to be all you can be. Others would prefer the feeling of belonging, the possibility (no matter how slim) of achieving certain career aspirations which are only possible in your home country, the Communalism evident with monthly ‘njangi’ meetings, the sure knowledge that no matter what you will never lack a place to sleep or food to eat… They choose this over better health care, more reliable institutions, more accountable and transparent systems. They choose home no matter if home is a thatched roof and elsewhere has marble tiles. We may trade one for the other, but we struggle no matter where we are. I guess the difference is some of us prefer to struggle in the bosom of Family and friends who we can always count on and of course, to struggle for the country that is actually ours. No matter what we choose, C’est la vie.
Returning Home I: Redefining Patriotism
I’m going home!!! Just in case you missed the excitement, let me repeat myself: I’M GOING HOME! *Insert wide smile here* Then here, insert a wobbly unsure smile. Why? Because as much as my whole being longs for home, my head is smart and hosts no delusions. I know the reasons I had to leave in the first place, and the reason a lot of others fight to leave on a daily basis. I know of the adjustments to be made upon return which are diplomatically labeled “Returnee Culture Shock”. I know I’ll miss the fast internet connection and the ease of ordering books and having them delivered to your front door. I am also fully aware that returning means starting anew at seeking employment, and probably frustrating attempts at beginning a new career. We all know the reality of life back home. Yes, I’m happy, but scared. Eager but anxious too. And it’s alright to feel all of that and more simultaneously. What I feel above all else though, is brave. Recently social media was buzzing- some in outrage and others in applause- over the word brave being used to describe Caitlyn Jenner, formerly known as Bruce Jenner. Those who were outraged by it put up photos of war veterans who had lost an arm or leg, soldiers on peace missions in war zones. They pointed out that those patriotic people were the brave ones, not Jenner. I’ll neither agree nor disagree with either group, but the debate led me to musing on just what it means to be brave and/or patriotic. Thinking about it led me to this saying: Similarly bravery and patriotism aren’t always found in the daring, fearsome things we may do (in my opinion it is rarely found in picking up a weapon on command). Rather, as this year away from home has shown me, most times bravery and patriotism is to be found in the ordinary, those regular choices we make that speak of self-determination and identity. Bravery is in choosing to venture into a country you do not know, have no one in, in search of a better life. And patriotism is in remembering home all the way. There is bravery in taking yourself so far out of your comfort zone, and there’s patriotism in every journey you make back despite the cost, despite the hassle because you know despite the condition of the soils back home, your root are anchored there. There is bravery in believing in the future of your nation and acting on that belief; as there is patriotism in every time you answer that ignorant westerner and school them on what being a Cameroonian/ African really is. As I go home, I want to acknowledge the bravery of the average diasporan, who plays the role of an ambassador daily representing a nation wherever they are. Who takes risks elsewhere, some good some bad, because their country couldn’t give them what they needed. I also want to recognize the patriotism of the returnees who are increasing daily. Who with the knowledge they’ve derived elsewhere return to invest back home, make their own little corner shine, contribute their own development effort. Those are my patriots. I want to appreciate the patriotism of Cameroonians I have come to know this year. While we may not write “Proudly Cameroonian” on everything and though a lot of us would disparage our underdevelopment rather than recognize and work towards the promise of better, there is need to appreciate those who have and who are. So I may be going home happy and scared at the same time; scared that I believe too much in the possibilities, hope too much. But still I’m going home with joy because my faith in fatherland outweighs the fears. If that’s not patriotism I don’t know what is.
Re-Blogging: What is Love
Love is something that often defines the nature of reason. So when I was approached by Girdblog alongside five other writers from all over Africa to define love? I saw it as an intriguing challenge.Find out six writers from the continent defined and undefined Love… WHAT IS LOVE?— 6 WRITERS (UN)DEFINE LOVE Let me know what you think of the definition below!
How not to be the Dreadful Bushfaller/Returnee
Given the comment someone inboxed me I may have written too much on bushfallers already. Bear with me. These are my musings and for the moment at least I’m around that group a lot. Don’t worry I’ll be home soon J That said, though I had already put up the blog post for this month, my recent engagements have left me musing on those who return home after “falling bush”. We tend to love our bushfallers, they send us Moneygram and Western Union numbers, and they come home with boxes of shoes and clothes for Christmas. Some of them actually call and keep updated with our lives. Yep, this nation’s bushfallers do more than the government does. But a lot of times, when they come home we do not like our bushfallers (yes, you can love someone and not like them/their presence at the same time). You see when they return home our Bushfallers are often very different, they have changed. Some change is good; the ideas they have for development, the zeal they have for making money (Oye Capitalism!), their dismantling of oppressive cultures and stereotypes, their open-mindedness and more tolerant personalities… there’s a lot of good change. But several bad changes as well. Here’s a tongue-in-cheek list of the do’s and don’ts to avoid being the THAT dreadful returnee/bushfaller we all know and would prefer to love from a distance. 1. Do not stay out of the country so long you forget what it feels like to carry water for long distances. Do not forget the normality of it nor the pride in it. Of course its pipe borne but the fact that the pipe doesn’t meet you in the comfort of your room should be okay. 2. On the same note. Do not forget the regularity of power outage. You should expect it. Don’t get me wrong, we need not accept it, we can grumble, advocate for better (strike at our own risk), petition the companies responsible. We need not accept it but it shouldn’t surprise us, because we should know in many parts of our own country some communities do not have electric lines at all. They don’t know what “lights off” is. 3. Do not stay out so long you forget the basic etiquette. The greeting your elders, the wishing of “good morning” even if the day is looking far from good… and of course the things not to ask your mother: 4. Do not remember that you drank the water in this country a year before. You did not die then, you will not die now. Considering that the water is pipe borne and you are fortunate enough that your family home has a filter, do not insist on “bottled water”. All our water is bottled by the way, we recycle like that. 5. Do remember what you used to do when you did not have an iPad, iPod, laptop or internet. Please do that when you go to the village or when the power cuts. Of course this does not apply to bushfallers alone. We could all do with that lesson. 6. Please remember when introducing yourself to give both your names. Do not get some innocent child in trouble because you gave them only your first name to call you by. You know their mama will slap their mother for calling “a whole bushfaller like you just John” 7. If you feel the need to use any profanities? Kindly use the ones your dialect offers. Somehow it is better to be cursed in your language than the “whitemans”. Besides a “Nyamfuka” said in an appropriately derogatory tone is just as effective as a “fuck you”. 8. Do not stay out so long that you begin to believe and repeat the western media lies and misrepresentation of your own people. Remember that you have been going to Alhadji’s house every “Fete de Ramadan” stop looking at his first son like pinup boy for terrorist daily. Also remember that you came from that country if it was disease ridden, insect infested, beggarly etc you would be too 9. Please endeavor to refrain from constant grumbling about “What is wrong with this country” and keep the “this is why I can’t live in Cameroon” to the bare minimum. Unless you are contributing in some way to changing things, your grumblings is a scratching sound messing up the music playing. Besides, we all know the real reason you can’t live in Cameroon… 10. If you forget all else, do not forget this: Do not forget why you left the country. Do not get so caught up in the rat race that you forget the dreams you had that could not be fulfilled at that time in your country, the desire for those dreams that made you leave in the first place. Keep checking, maybe those dreams are realizable back home now. But if you aren’t living those dreams in whatever country you ended up in, do not forget the way you felt so strongly about those dreams you gave up all you had for the chance to go get what you needed to fulfill them. If you have gotten what you needed, then come home. Do not forget where home is and why.
Self-Trafficking, Modern Slavery or the Wrong sort of Bushfalling
Two years ago around this same month, I had a conversation with a friend. We had only recently met. She had just returned to Cameroon after having been on a cultural exchange program coordinated by the US Embassy in Cameroon. Of six Cameroonians sent to the USA on that exchange program, my friend was the only one to return. Her family and friends in the US could not believe she was returning home. They told her she was being foolish. They, even those living in the US illegally asked her “what are you returning to do?” Others said “I hope you don’t think we’ll continue helping you as you go back again…” They spoke as though it was they who had paid her way rather than this fellowship she applied for and won. Nonetheless she returned home. Two years later she has quit the job she’d had upon arrival. Her knowledge threatened her male counterparts and given the industry she was in, she was the lone woman. She in turn felt threatened. Leaving that job was hard, but she felt she had to do it and was skilled enough to take the risk. She has been job hunting for a while now and wherever she goes to and shows her certificates from here and the training she received from the USA, she gets the question “Why did you come back? You should have stayed na?” My friend’s case is not unique. Even I, on a scholarship that has a pre-requisite clause boldly stating that you MUST return to you home country gets asked “Why you no wan stay for dey?” It is a fact, Bushfalling is the Cameroonian dream just as having capitalism work for you is the American dream. Do we need proof? Here’s some examples: You hear your friend is getting married and ask about her intended who is he, what does he do? The answer you get: He’s a Bushfaller. That is all. He is a Bushfaller. That title is an occupation, like Pastor’s wife or 1st Lady. It comes with prestige and dignity without one ever knowing what exactly the person with that title does. More proof? Well you just need to go see the long lines at Surete Nationale in Yaounde for people making passports, at embassies, and in front of cybercafes when it’s time to play the DV Lottery all in hopes of leaving the country. You can look at the long waiting list for foreign exams like TOEFL or IELTS. But most of all, the most obvious proof of our desperate Bushfalling Cameroonian dream? The fact that in metropoles like Douala, Yaounde, Buea and Bamenda town have “agencies” ever increasing (almost equal in number with bars) offering to sending you “abroad” to countries like Chile, the Philippines, North Korea, Saudi Arabia, Hungary, Vietnam, Thailand, Kuwait and Lebanon. You see our people have gotten tired of going to the American, British and Canadian embassies and losing money in form of visa fees and bank statements to prove they will go and study, not work blab la bla. Our brothers and sisters now want reassurance that they will actually get that visa board that flight and begin working immediately to come home in December as a Bushfaller and show that “God has blessed them” and “they too have arrived”. Some may say I sound a little high handed writing about this because I’m in the UK on a scholarship or had the benefit of traveling before even that. They would be wrong. I have been one of the people who wanted ot leave the country at all costs. I have been rejected for a visa, twice. But I like to think I realized my country wasn’t the worst and learned to take an honest look and appreciate it, thinking how I can fix it rather than run away from it. Again this might not be an option to someone who is desperate because they have dependents. But here’s the thing, is it that they have no options, or is it that they do not like the options they were given? I am writing about this after reading the news/ testimonies of girls enslaved in Kuwait and Lebanon. As I write to you have two friends in Lebanon in similar circumstances. I cannot tell you for sure if they are treated as poorly at the girls who testified are. But I can tell you for sure that they went to that country with their eyes wide open. They had options here, but preferred to “fall bush” because a foreign currency is always higher than ours even in a country that should be constantly in a state of emergency. Today as I read about the women I thought of the countless adverts these agencies put up in school zones right in the midst of the young and impressionable. I admire the agencies though, they aren’t evil. They tell you directly that you are going to be given service jobs. You are going to be a house-help in Saudi Arabia. They tell you they will take your passport upon arrival and you will work and repay the cost of the flight and visa before going on with your life there. You are told bluntly. Heck, it’s even advertised on the national television station- CRTV. But still people go because to them; anywhere is better than Cameroon, they need to go “try” their luck, it can’t be so bad, and finally because even though they know they don’t reason enough o put the knowledge to use. You see someone who puts knowledge to use would ask the agents in these agencies “If bush fine so wetin you di do for here?” Someone who reasons would put two and two together; if women in Saudi Arabia aren’t allowed to drive bared arms etc. how much more oppressed would an imported house-help be? A smart young person would think critically, if house-helps in Cameroon are maltreated regularly in this relatively
Our Identity and Our shame
The Transracial Trend… Please have a look at my picture in the about section of this page. Have a good look, read the bio. Imagine this: I have been reading about Jewish culture, taken a liken to it, truly appreciate the suffering they had to face during the Holocaust, then I decided I feel more Jewish than Cameroonian. So I take up the hairstyle and dressing of Jews. I buy a wig or scarfs for my head. I lie about my background and receive a scholarship from a historically Jewish University to study Jewish History. I graduate and become a spokesperson for the Jewish community. Imagine all this happening, then when caught I feel I did nothing wrong. I “identify as Jewish”. Sounds crazy right? Well, as some writers would be quick to tell you, reality is crazier than fiction. Everything I just described happened except it what an American Caucasian who decided to “identify” as a black American. Lie about her race to the point of having someone claim to be her father. She has received scholarship from a university that was created to give black Americans opportunity in a system that was never created for them. She did all this and when the public went for her, some people abused the term transracial to defend her actions. Transracial is a valid term used to define the unique perspectives of someone who is adopted by a family of a different race, however defenders of Rachel Dolezal now use it to refer to the decision to “identify” as a different race and dress up impersonating people of that race. However this post isn’t so much about Rachel Dolezal and being transracial such as it is about “identifying” as black and what is has meant for me. You see, Dolezal made me wonder about lot of things. For one she made me wonder if she’s crazy. It has been fairly proven that being black in America is not a smooth experience so why did this woman want to switch race so badly? I’m suspicious. We have reasons for everything we do. Stupid reason maybe, but still reasons. Secondly and most pertinent to this post, Dolezal made me wonder what she perceives black to be. You see I’m truly curious about this because I have not always been “black”. Yes, really! On Being black… So, I have not always been black. I have been African, Cameroonian, Bami-Anglo, but not black. Where I come from there are no race arguments because we’re all one color though of various shades. We have better things to classify ourselves by; social class, region of origin, tribe, language group, religion. But my blackness starts and ends when I board a flight and cross the equator. That’s one thing Rachel Dolezal and I have in common; we have not always been black. Given this mutual experience of on and off blackness I wonder when Rachel Dolezal began feeling black. What made her black? Was it watching enough episodes of Moesha and Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Was it the study of black history and being able to narrate/discuss black literature? Was it the moment she fell in love with box braids or the affection she developed for caramelized skin? From Rachel’s appearance and her impersonation, I cannot find more “experience of blackness” from her. And this irks me particularly when I recount the episodes that made me “feel black”. I felt black when a Caucasian lady seated next to me on a flight asked for another seat and was given. She stated her discomfort and asked that she be position elsewhere. The Kenyan seated to my right shook his head as her request was granted. I simply made a black power fist in the air then returned to my novel. I have changed hairstyles from permed hair to dreadlocks all the while in Cameroon. It never made me feel as black as I did when I was stopped in transit my passport and documents checked for over thirty minutes answering questions on where I was going and where I was from because my documents didn’t serve enough as proof. If you don’t get the drift, I have felt black mostly in circumstances of social classification while away from home. In my experience being black IS a social construct as Dolezal and her supporters insist. What I am wondering is when she has ever been boxed into that construct. This seem highly improbable when Ms Dolezal identified as white when police stopped her for a speeding ticket, when she herself identified as white when suing a historically black college. Her identity is her choice I agree. But with certain identities come stereotypes and bias and oppression and shaming. I would like Ms. Dolezal to tell me when she has felt that which is so much a part of the black identity. Has she ever felt jittery when entering a shop, like the security guard was looking particularly at her? Can she relate, truly relate to the #MikeBrowns #TrayvonMartins and that little girl at the McKinney pool party? Where does her blackness stop and where does it start? And the need for shame… As I ponder on this I realize all the times I felt black, I felt immigrant too. Welcome but not quite. And all these times I have felt the shame of being “guilty until proven innocent” and being someone who needed to be helped. Now some god soul might say here “you should not feel ashamed of who you are”. That good soul will be wrong. I do not feel ashamed of who I am, I feel ashamed of who I am perceived to be because I have not done more, my leaders have not done more. Shaming is itself a large part of African and black culture. I clearly remember
Men’s Empowerment
I am known for my feminist stance. It seems certain Facebook friends tag me whenever they want me to defend womankind over something (considered indefensible) or the other. Recently however, after having a conversation with a man who refers to his viewpoint as “traditional” I realized though a lot of what I say seems to defend women, it ought to be pretty clear that I speak for the liberation of men too. The man I speak of feels strongly about certain things. A man is the head and should lead, he should be taller than his wife, a man must make the first move but of course the woman should give him the “green light”, a woman should not make more than her man, and if she does, if she is more educated, or otherwise achieved, she should hide it. Men need to be in control you see. This man is a relative. He boasts of my achievements when in public but will be quick to tell me, not to make the mistake of doing something like buying a plot of land (as though I could afford it lol!), living expensively etc. because I may scare of potential suitors. He means well, really, he does. Thinking on all of this, I’ve begun to pity guys almost as much as I sympathize with my fellow women. I mean, such stereotypical beliefs of men is akin to being racially profiled. How does one simply believe all men’s self-esteem is so low they would all need coddling? I realize while this is inconvenient to us women; this restriction on what we can do so as to cater to male egos. It must be equally restrictive to men. They are expected to be the head, the smarter one etc. and they are never really free to be them. With this culture they are easily threatened. How else would you explain men being uncomfortable with a woman who speaks her mind (even if they agree) or a woman who is comfortable talking about and expressing her sexuality? In a logical world, a woman who is smarter, driven, capable of buying her own property would be the most eligible. She would be the one everyone wants because obviously she will be contributing to the relationship, you could better each other. In a logical world, a woman who can say exactly what she feels for you, what she wants in bed, and what she doesn’t would be the one you go for, after all we’ve hearing complaints of women being “complicated so long you would think the straightforward ones would be appreciated. But in patriarchy there is absence of logic. And still the illogical do not recognize their being suppressed by their own beliefs. Some people think feminism is for women? Since those people need it clearly written on the walls: Here I stand, a feminist asking for men to be given a chance to be shorter, less smart, not always the one picking up the bill. A chance to be themselves. Lets help men be comfortable loving women who are strong rather than bask in the default power you get from being in a relationship with a weaker person. Call it men’s empowerment.
Rough-drafts: from reading to writing
It was in July of 2003 that I fell in love with novels. Contrary to my mother’s present-day boasts, I was not always the happy member of “Readaholic Anonymous”, and it was watching T.V at breathing distance from the screen rather than “reading too much” that led to my shortsightedness. I remember that vacation well. It was the end of my second year back in Cameroon. I had sufficiently adjusted and was no longer the pampered newcomer in the house. I now got up automatically by 6am as though hearing the school gong in my dream, my American slang had properly married boarding school lingua and everyday pidgin such that I could carry on a conversation with the others without someone looking at me with a mixture of amusement and amazement. I had failed the final exams. Picking me up from school, Jude, my god-mother‘s nephew joked that a cow was slaughtered for all the red needed on my report card. When I got home I discovered Grandma, my god-mother‘s mother, liked red everywhere but on report cards. “You failed even Religion! How does one fail God’s subject? God is not with you! And if God is not with you, how can you pass anything?” My punishment was set; I would take the reading of every morning devotion to make up with God for failing his subject. There would be no visiting friends, nor watching T.V for more than two hours a day and a home-teacher would come three times a week and give me assignments to re-learn what I failed. Vacation suddenly sounded like “back to school”. Then Stella came back from Buea. She had just completed her first year at the university, was the coolest of my cousins by virtue of being the only one who could sing all R.Kelly’s songs, and my roommate for the holidays. With nothing to do but pretend to be studying in the room I looked through her stuff. Amongst the make-up, Spice Girl shoes and Westlife CDs were 100% Jeune magazines, an old Ebonymagazine and four novels. I quickly distracted myself with the magazines and after them, the Harlequin Presents novels seemed more appealing than returning to ANUCAM’s An Introduction to Secondary School Physics. Sadly I cannot remember that first author who welcomed me into the world of reading for fun, and not just for school, but God bless her whoever she was. It was my first romance novel and though I cannot recall the exact title, the story, or at least the gist of it will never leave my memory. A girl never forgets her first as they say- that applies to her first fictional hero too. The book cover was typical; a picture of a slim brunette in the arms of a tall blonde haired guy, his arms muscled and bared by rolled up sleeves of an office shirt. I don’t know when I got to chapter four but there I was huddled on the bed in the room smiling coyly, reading every line and seeing it like a movie on HBO. One I was not supposed to watch. I missed lunch and did not notice. It alarmed Grandma and she asked for me. I hid the book under my pillow thinking about it all the way to dining room where I told Grandma I was reading and would eat later. Her look reflected amazement at my not only refusing food but refusing food because I was reading. I heard her asserting the wonderfulness of God as returned to the room. I completed the twelfth and final chapter by eight o’clock lingering over the last pages not wanting it to end. But it finally did, and as though the last eight to ten hours had been metamorphosis I emerged a changed person, I knew things. I knew what a kiss felt like- tingly and velvety or wet and teasing, and could explain the pain of heart-break, the hollow feeling of loss and the sting of disappointment. I know about adult things like taxes and have experienced adult longings and wants. I have lived life as a 26 year old woman in a small town in Mississippi. That night when Stella returned, between complimenting her on her hairdo and the then fashionable dirty-green skirt, I pleaded for more novels. She didn’t buy the flattery. She still scolded me for going through her things, but she agreed; one at a time she said, and if only I took care of them. That was the beginning of a life affair with reading. I stumbled and fell into the warmth and giving nature of books. They were my friends, at a time when I understood nothing, no one, including myself. Novels taught me to see others, and pieces of me in them. My love for books would only grow more as school resumed. There they would provide me sweet escape from fake friends and bullies alike, distraction from boring school texts and midterm starvation. I could leave it all behind and go to New York, the Louisiana Bayou or 18th Century England, play the tourist on a taxi-boat in Venice or live the high life with the pampered mistress of some Arabian sheikh. I had gone with Stella to Old Treasury Street where all the booksellers were, with books stacked in old iron trunks overflowing organized by genre; romance to suspense, historical, regency, futuristic, and law thrillers. At that time I had a singular preference for all things romance. I saw only two novels with black characters and I knew I had to buy both to learn something more, the black way of loving even if they are African American and not Black African. I returned to school with my box half full of novels; Julia Quinn, Jane Feather, Julie Garwood, Johanna Lindsay, Amanda Quick; it felt like I carried my real friends in my trunk. *** Two years later I can be found in possession of a novel at any point
Feminist When I Want To Be- The Convenience of our African Feminism
March is International Women’s Month, I knew I would write something in relation to the women’s movement, a sort of state of the movement speech, but till a recent argument with a friend I didn’t know what exactly I would be writing on. The argument wasn’t important, but a statement made during it is. The particularly chauvinist statement being made by one who calls herself a feminist, who has studied gender and is often quick to declare herself equal to or more than any man (not that the fact is disputed) was a revelation of what she really thought within her about the status of women: To be seen no heard. As I pondered on the hypocrisy her statement, I realized it was normal. Yes, normal. You see my friend is one of many and we, I included, are all a bit like her. These are the kind of feminists we are, the kind we have cultivated. The African feminist, particularly the Cameroonian feminist is a fickle one. How so? We are feminist when it concerns us, when it suits our sensibilities, when it is socially “OK”, or when we feel like we are being observed. We are feminists when, where, and how we like. Let me illustrate this; the typical Cameroonian feminist has does not like, and has argued against the socialization which demeans a woman to no more than a cook or mother, but she is OK with the young men being socialized to pick up the bill, be undomesticated, strong and would criticize her son for not being man enough to catch and kill the chickens her daughter has to cook just as she would criticize her daughter if the girl left her brother to change the baby rather than do the “feminine” chore. The average Cameroonian feminist is against her sexuality being used to define her rights to life and the quality of it, but cannot relate and does not bother to if the sexuality of LGBTQ persons determine their right to life or freedom to be. The typical Cameroonian feminist is one who still won’t talk about sex unless in relation to rape, harassment or childbirth. I recently told someone the use of statements like “coming out of the closet” would be redundant in Cameroon because either straight or gay, you are in the closet. Our feminism does not extend to sexual freedom. Then there are the Cameroonian women who believe they should have equal rights, believe they should be allowed to do any job they want to for equal pay, believe they should wear whatever they like and have no fear of harassment etc. Sounds feminist right? But they don’t want to be called “feminist”. They don’t like that word, and don’t want to be part of the movement even if they are currently enjoying the fruits and protection of that movement. The Cameroonian feminist man is quick to assert his daughters equality to any boy in her class; he would tell her she can do whatever she aspires after, she is “his princess”. Yet somehow he cannot see his wife’s equality to himself. He cannot be expected to do equal house chores, if any. There cannot be two heads, only one head and a neck he would say, forgetting that it is the neck which holds up the head. And by the time he passes away he would have conveniently forgotten to clarify in his will that it is “his princess” and not the brothers or uncles who would control the property he left behind simply because she is more capable. The Cameroonian feminist is the single mother who after doing it all, raising her daughter with blood and sweat would look for the girl’s father or a distant uncle who never lifted a finger to collect the bride-price offered on the day of her traditional marriage. The typical Cameroonian feminist is our Minister of Culture who would convene an inter-ministerial meeting to discuss the policing of girls’ dressing as an attempt to address harassment. Our feminism is like a “get out of jail card” when playing monopoly. It is convenient. We remember we’re feminist when we want something then forget it when the inequality or bias favours us. We interpret our feminism the way we do our religion. Choosing what parts of the bible or Quran to respect or brandish. I recall learning of the section of Cameroonian law which denies a woman the right to take someone out of prison on bail as a surety when a mother I knew was unable to bail her teen son who was unjustly imprisoned and had to scout out a male relative to do it. I criticized the law to a female lawyer friend and was told “to stop being impractical” what if the women were given that right and the person they took on bail took flight? That would mean arresting the woman. She rationed that the law considered women delicate and so it was OK. She conveniently forgot that as a single mother she was raising two kids, and was not at all physically “delicate”. Why didn’t I know about this law before? I certainly know about the bias laws on adultery and marriage and grounds for divorce because those laws discriminate against women in favour of men. But this one, which is considered in favour of women is not mentioned. In the end it seems most of us either don’t know what feminism is: “the belief (or movement which believes) in the equality of ALL irrespective of sex/gender particular in terms of rights, opportunities and justice. Or we have conveniently warped the definition of equality to suit us so it is not something akin to Orwell’s Animal Farm: All are equal, but some more equal than others. In our kind of feminism a prostitute being raped is not equal to the pristine daughter of the community leader and should “our” movement be supporting her? Still it could be that at