Last month I visited the United States briefly. After having spent almost seven years of my childhood there and returning home to Cameroon indefinitely, this trip was my first in fifteen years. Messages from friends spanned from “watch out for the police” to “buy me shoes” to ” we hope you’re coming back”. One particular writer friend wrote me asking how long I was traveling for. When I told her I was just going to be out for just over a week, she had this to say: “Ah okay. I’d been worried that we’ve lost another ???????????? Not that I would have told you if you were moving. I’d just have said congratulations and all the best and stuff like that. Then wished I had all African Presidents on speed dial so I could berate Biya for losing [another] top brain” It is this comment in particular and the experience of the trip which inspired this post. I traveled for a conference, my first academic conference. I was happy, proud of the achievement, but above all proud of the fact that I was going to the US on my own merit and for my own purpose after years of witnessing first-hand the lengths at which people go to leave Cameroon. As happy and proud as I was, I was also nervous. First about the conference, then about meeting family and friends I had not seen in fifteen years. I am not the Monique I had been before, life and various experiences which had come my way had changed me to the complex being I am now. And I am still changing, and metamorphosing to my fulfillment gradually. Would they respect that, I wondered. Or would they look at me with the prejudiced ideas a lot of those abroad have of those back home; that we are all just making do, that we all wish and pray for 1st world lives. I went in prepared to dispel myths, ready to make it clear some of us could ‘choose’ to be in Cameroon, ready to snub those bushfallers who would suggest I stay indefinitely, or laugh at my decision to return home. With this sort of thinking I unwittingly went in with my own prejudice. This prejudice however didn’t last long, it began cracking on my first day in Maryland (a.k.a Cameroon annex). It was a Sunday and we were celebrating my younger brother’s baptism at Silverspring Presbyterian Church. All through the church service I ran a commentary in my mind: Only three white people in this church? The pastor and two elderly… Are the rest Cameroonian then? Oh, there’s an African-American assistant pastor… probably ninety percent Cameroonian… At least ninety Lord this might as well be P.C Bastos, I mean look at the outfits, and look at the faces… the choir is singing in Bakweri or is that Douala…The pastor must be resigned, his church has been colonized. See these kids, most of them 1stgeneration Americans, singing “Everybody blow your trumpet” but without the accompanying gestures. How would they know what gestures to make? It’s close, but it can never be the same as Cameroon… <==={Cameroonian choir singing in at Silverspring Presbyterian Church, Maryland-USA With every thought I felt slight shame and a well of pity deepen within me. It is easy to get derailed by the younger bushfallers on social media who would have you think life is forever better on the other side, easy to feel annoyed when the embassy puts you through a tedious process because others have literally used up all the lies possible to get visas and leave the country for good, it is easy to forget that these people who now generalize about Cameroon as much as western media does, are victims. Yes, victims of the government that did not care for them. Victims aren’t always blameless, they don’t need to be. They are the injured party nonetheless. I was reminded of this as we closed service that morning and I was enveloped by the crowd of Cameroonians welcoming me to the country they were yet to consider their own. Most of them were elderly women, my mom’s friends and senior, each of them hugged me tight as though hugging the place I came from rather than me, they each had the same questions on their lips “How is Cameroon? How is home?” Cross-section of worshipers at Silverspring Presbyterian Church, Maryland If anything, it was obvious that irrespective of better standard of living (based on GDP), despite the guise most would put up about their American life, these were people walking around homesick. These were mothers who longed to retire but cannot do that with others depending on them and never ending bills, these were brothers who missed simple pleasures of a cheap cab ride to a bar where the barman might as well be a family friend. I had hoped the people I met would recognize and respect that I was not the same Monique, but not until that moment did I respect that those people had also changed. While there were still those who could care less, the majority were more up to date on Cameroonian news than those back home. They were not all the eager bushfallers they once had been, a lot of them had left Cameroon by choice but were now trapped out of it by circumstances. They now wondered if their kids would consider Cameroon home as they do, and try not to let it matter even though it does. About ten days ago, after the fatal Eseka train crash rocked the country, several comments bemoaned our having a president who obviously lacks a sense of duty to our country. The nation collectively mourned the lives we had lost to negligence. In a Whatsapp group I’m in, my friends took turns comparing what the worse consequence of our president’s rule has been. The corruption? The tribalism? Embezzlement? Laissez-faire culture? A failing healthcare system? The hazardous transportation system? Unemployment and underemployment?
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.
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
Travelogue Part 2: Of Wanna-be-Bushfallers and Bushfalling
This might sound like a rant, but if you are a follower of this blog you should be used to it by now. Some months ago the G.C.E results were released and successful candidates from all around the country traveled to Buea (though not immediately necessary) to apply for admission into the University of Buea. The application procedure is now done online after paying the application fee to the schools bank account from any region in the country. It was not necessary that they come, yet they did. Thousands of young applicants came excited, anxious and completely clueless. They didn’t know how to access the application forms online. They didn’t have email addresses, and those who had email addresses had forgotten how to access that because they’d had help creating it just so they could have Facebook accounts. So they paid some fast boys who had set up along the road to apply for them, 1000frs cfa each. They will NOT pay to learn on their own. Heck, if you offer them free classes to learn they would not show up. That is not all. These aspiring scholars could barely fill out bank deposit forms because they have been told “do this, put that there” all their lives so find it difficult to reason independently that though their surnames come first on their documents, it is not their first names. Oh let’s not forget, most of these kids passed through “Computer Science” classes for at least five out of the seven years of the secondary and high-school, some even took Information and Computer Technology (ICT) as a paper at the GCE A levels and passed with B’s… Yet this is not a rant about the lack of pragmatism in our educational system (though I am sorely tempted to start that). This is about the fact that most of these applicants as well as most of those already enrolled at our universities are wanna-be-bushfallers. They are literally itching to leave the country. Apart from those playing the Green Card lottery with the regularity of their birthdays there are those hoping to snag a bushfaller during December when they come home like birds to the nest. I’m referring to the many that watch Nollywood movies and believe that if one prays enough a rich guy would come along and take you out of the country or … well you get my point. We all know at least one of them and we love them even as we shake our heads at their naivety, at how easily impressed they are, how much they believe leaving the country will solve all their problems and some and more at how little effort they put in despite their dreams of luxury. Why am I bringing this up in travelogue? A few months into my trip here I can’t stop myself from imagining one of the wanna-be-bushfallers in my place with every new situation. Every time I encounter some new digital process or anything less manual I keep thinking. What would (insert name here) do if she finally got the visa she always wanted, she cannot even remember her password to one email account. Imagine handling the pin codes for seven different cards, passwords for at least three email addresses (personal, school, and office). I was considered addicted to my laptop and crazy about the internet back home, yet it is obvious WiFi is a one of the pillars of life this side of the Atlantic. Let me give a rundown of the thoughts going through my head as I try to imagine those wanna-be-bushfallers in my place throughout the day. Isabella should just forget about falling bush! Chai! She wants to study Policy here when she could not finish the small handouts we were given to read as undergraduates? What would she do when she sees more than one prescribed reading of 161 pages per class for just one out of three courses? Martha should just stay where she is. She is dreaming of falling bush to meet Mr. Right. Tsuiiip*. Who has time to even notice Mr. Wrong when you leave home early and come back late at least five days out of seven? Honore should just remain where he is. His father’s money can make him look like a “posh” guy back in Cameroon but here he would be struggling to afford a monthly travel card unless he’s on scholarship. In fact he would be begging people to pay with money here when everything is bough online or with some card. What will Aunty Anye do if they actually give her that visa eh? She barely manages to use the phone that was sent to her. Just thinking about her struggling to make sense of Google map makes me laugh my lungs out. Imagine Steven who calculates Black Man Time religiously. I’ll like to see how he will cope if he actually leaves Cameroon. Clocking in and out, leaving the house at least one hour early just to make it on time? Sigh, he’ll likely flunk for missing two more than two classes per semester. Imagine Esombi who skips class because of heavy rain. What would he do when faced with this winter? And then I think of the majority of graduates who blindly used Wikidepedia as a reference on their final year projects, are ignorant of plagiarism, who do not understand what ibid. means who do not understand that the tiny numbers alongside sentences on the Wiki pages correspond with the source of that information. I think of the number of graduates who complain that the Process of filling out applications for grants, scholarship or even jobs is “too difficult” and then give up. I think of the graduates who never really did a thing during their internship placements but place that on their CV’s boldly. How will they defend their being called a graduate? But then I discussed this with a girlfriend of mine, and we came to
Coming Home
There is a long standing joke that about Cameroonians who leave the country dusting literally dusting their hands off it and till when they die, and of course as per demands they all want their corpses brought “home”. And the punch line of course goes: Is Cameroon a cemetery? This joke holds some truth, most Cameroonians ignore investing back home or give up too easily when they try and face obstacles and most of us are very willing to forget all about “home” till we die. But then there’s December… December is this jokes fallacy. Every time this year our bushfallers migrate like seasonal birds back home away from the cold winters of the west or where ever else that is included in the term Bush. The early birds have already come and by the 25thwherever you go you will hear the American accents formerly confined to your cable on tv. A lot can be and has been said on the periodic in coming of bushfallers; how they act, treat the people they left back in pays like they are somehow less-than, and of course how the men come in have flings and make promises they never intend to keep etc. Yet little mention is given to the way those in the country react to them. So here it is: I don’t think the bushfallers are the problem but rather the people who they return home to; people who treat them with more respect, accord them more favors and expect more from them just because they have crossed the borders. What does it say of ourselves, that the things we would never accept from our own like curse words in speech, the demands for meals “just so”, the abnormally late nights, the inconveniences on our schedule are suddenly “cool” and okay for the two to three weeks when they are done by bushfallers? Then there are the young women who give their all in hope that they way win a bushfallers heart and of course his foreign citizenship… Because of their foreign accents I’ve seen children get away with being rude, abusive and watched the “children of home” who would wake up at 5 am everyday be discriminated upon eating in the kitchen while the bushfallers sat at the dining table. Some would argue that these bushfallers sustain most back at home with the monthly cash sent through money transfer agencies, yet where does the gratitude end and the brown-nosing begin?