I consider myself an avid reader, but I must guiltily confess that I read as means of escape and entertainment than I do for the purpose of learning. For this reason it took me a while to get into literary fiction in general and African literary fiction in particular. Literary fiction is great with its ‘classics’ like Bronte’s Jane Eyre or Sembene’s God’s Bits of Wood, but not what I’d call ‘fun, curl-up-on-the-couch reading’. Though I have read and appreciate aspects of the likes of Oyono’s The Old Man and the Medal and Ngugi’s Wizard of the Crow the books I have re-read, the books whose covers are worn from being carried around everywhere are those whose plots were structured to entertain me rather than pass on some satirical message. Pop-fiction is popular for a reason and up till a few years back I couldn’t say there was an African equivalent to the western pop-fiction I binged on as a young reader. Today the story is different, I can list a wide array of contemporary African literature offering a variety of themes to appeal to all sorts of readers. A new wave of Cameroonian writers are contributing to this new era in African literature and I couldn’t be happier. Imbolo Mbue’s Behold the Dreamers is one of the new additions I’m particularly pleased about. When this book was announced in 2015 with a million dollar book deal my curiosity was piqued but I made a mental note not to expect much as several first-releases are often over-hyped (and in expectation is rooted all disappointment). Upon reading it last month however I was extremely pleased to find myself agreeing with the hype this book has received. Behold the Dreamers takes an honest look at the ‘American Dream’ from the point of view of a Cameroonian immigrant family vis a vis their upper crust employers. The reader navigates the ups and downs of the Jongas’ and Edwards’ lives. With easy-to-relate to characters readers witness how experiences, painful and foreign, mature and change people, how some things remain the same despite differences in class, race and place of birth, but above all how each character defines home and craves fulfillment in different ways. This is a story simply told, poignant yet without heavy didacticism, and obviously written with extreme caution. For the first time I read a book with Cameroonian characters my generation could relate to. I had to stop and appreciate how the author avoided as many generalisations as possible, often specifying an attribute to natives of Limbe rather than Cameroon at large. I felt as though she was aware this book would be picked apart and sought to cover all basis. She cautiously walked a tightrope avoiding poverty porn as much as ‘Afropolitanism’and tried her best to ensure that she wasn’t accused of “writing for a western audience” etc. With African literature something is sure to be over-analysed nonetheless. For me, Mbue makes a laudable attempt at depicting the immigrant struggle hidden in the small things like Jende looking for someone to rejoice with upon landing his job with Mr. Edwards “He needed to rejoice with someone who knew his name and his story” and Neni re-discovering faith and singing gospel choruses far from home where she had learned them but not practiced. What I loved most about the story (aside from how easy it is to curl up with because you’re getting an intriguing plot rather than a sermon/lesson) and what I feel has been overlooked in reviews and discussions is the transformation from aspiring after the American dream to configuring what I perceive to be the ‘Cameroonian Dream’. The former dream entails making it in the US with a middle-class income, ‘papers’, a house with a mortgage and as Neni’s friend Fatou states shopping at “fine white people store like Target”. The latter dream, the ambitions of a majority of Cameroonians which till this time had not been verbalized is, to ‘fall bush’, hustle by all means possible and return home financially able to defy the odds of unemployment, ‘buy’ a better social status and live comfortably where one knows for sure they cannot be treated as alien because they belong. The story reminds us that while it is easy to get trapped abroad either by becoming too used to the comforts or for lack of choice, the majority of us left because we had to rather than because we want to. The Jongas may not have achieved one dream, but they retained their dignity, and left us with a happy ending inspiring hope beyond “bush”. Behold the Dreamers has been compared to Adichie’s Americannah, I am of the opinion that it’s a poor comparison. While Adichie’s third novel is essentially a love story which boldly covers a variety of themes above all an African immigrants perception on race relations in the US, Mbue’s debut novel focuses particularly on exploring immigrant survival, aspirations, adjustments and the universality of human needs, pains and flaws. To compare them would be to compare an apple to a bowl of fruit salad with chopped apples in it. Suffice it to say I thoroughly enjoyed this book and would encourage all Cameroonians to read it. Before you go, I’m interested in you opinion on “the Cameroonian Dream” do we have one? What do we as individuals and a people envisage? I look forward to your comments!
An Ode to Those We’ve Lost
Last month I visited the United States briefly. After having spent almost seven years of my childhood there and returning home to Cameroon indefinitely, this trip was my first in fifteen years. Messages from friends spanned from “watch out for the police” to “buy me shoes” to ” we hope you’re coming back”. One particular writer friend wrote me asking how long I was traveling for. When I told her I was just going to be out for just over a week, she had this to say: “Ah okay. I’d been worried that we’ve lost another ???????????? Not that I would have told you if you were moving. I’d just have said congratulations and all the best and stuff like that. Then wished I had all African Presidents on speed dial so I could berate Biya for losing [another] top brain” It is this comment in particular and the experience of the trip which inspired this post. I traveled for a conference, my first academic conference. I was happy, proud of the achievement, but above all proud of the fact that I was going to the US on my own merit and for my own purpose after years of witnessing first-hand the lengths at which people go to leave Cameroon. As happy and proud as I was, I was also nervous. First about the conference, then about meeting family and friends I had not seen in fifteen years. I am not the Monique I had been before, life and various experiences which had come my way had changed me to the complex being I am now. And I am still changing, and metamorphosing to my fulfillment gradually. Would they respect that, I wondered. Or would they look at me with the prejudiced ideas a lot of those abroad have of those back home; that we are all just making do, that we all wish and pray for 1st world lives. I went in prepared to dispel myths, ready to make it clear some of us could ‘choose’ to be in Cameroon, ready to snub those bushfallers who would suggest I stay indefinitely, or laugh at my decision to return home. With this sort of thinking I unwittingly went in with my own prejudice. This prejudice however didn’t last long, it began cracking on my first day in Maryland (a.k.a Cameroon annex). It was a Sunday and we were celebrating my younger brother’s baptism at Silverspring Presbyterian Church. All through the church service I ran a commentary in my mind: Only three white people in this church? The pastor and two elderly… Are the rest Cameroonian then? Oh, there’s an African-American assistant pastor… probably ninety percent Cameroonian… At least ninety Lord this might as well be P.C Bastos, I mean look at the outfits, and look at the faces… the choir is singing in Bakweri or is that Douala…The pastor must be resigned, his church has been colonized. See these kids, most of them 1stgeneration Americans, singing “Everybody blow your trumpet” but without the accompanying gestures. How would they know what gestures to make? It’s close, but it can never be the same as Cameroon… <==={Cameroonian choir singing in at Silverspring Presbyterian Church, Maryland-USA With every thought I felt slight shame and a well of pity deepen within me. It is easy to get derailed by the younger bushfallers on social media who would have you think life is forever better on the other side, easy to feel annoyed when the embassy puts you through a tedious process because others have literally used up all the lies possible to get visas and leave the country for good, it is easy to forget that these people who now generalize about Cameroon as much as western media does, are victims. Yes, victims of the government that did not care for them. Victims aren’t always blameless, they don’t need to be. They are the injured party nonetheless. I was reminded of this as we closed service that morning and I was enveloped by the crowd of Cameroonians welcoming me to the country they were yet to consider their own. Most of them were elderly women, my mom’s friends and senior, each of them hugged me tight as though hugging the place I came from rather than me, they each had the same questions on their lips “How is Cameroon? How is home?” Cross-section of worshipers at Silverspring Presbyterian Church, Maryland If anything, it was obvious that irrespective of better standard of living (based on GDP), despite the guise most would put up about their American life, these were people walking around homesick. These were mothers who longed to retire but cannot do that with others depending on them and never ending bills, these were brothers who missed simple pleasures of a cheap cab ride to a bar where the barman might as well be a family friend. I had hoped the people I met would recognize and respect that I was not the same Monique, but not until that moment did I respect that those people had also changed. While there were still those who could care less, the majority were more up to date on Cameroonian news than those back home. They were not all the eager bushfallers they once had been, a lot of them had left Cameroon by choice but were now trapped out of it by circumstances. They now wondered if their kids would consider Cameroon home as they do, and try not to let it matter even though it does. About ten days ago, after the fatal Eseka train crash rocked the country, several comments bemoaned our having a president who obviously lacks a sense of duty to our country. The nation collectively mourned the lives we had lost to negligence. In a Whatsapp group I’m in, my friends took turns comparing what the worse consequence of our president’s rule has been. The corruption? The tribalism? Embezzlement? Laissez-faire culture? A failing healthcare system? The hazardous transportation system? Unemployment and underemployment?
My ‘Returnee Anniversary’: 15 Reasons I Love My Country
The day was 25thAugust 2001. I was less than three months shy of 12 years old, or as I often reminded people- I was a pre-teen. I was also set to board an Air France plane that morning to Cameroon. After the latest fit of pre-teen rebellion, my mother had vowed to “send me back” to Cameroon. A lot like returning a pet you adopted from the shelter but found you couldn’t handle. I was becoming “too American” and need to be sent to the motherland for straightening up. In some ways she was right, in several other ways, she was wrong. My first couple of years were hell, then I adapted. Then after having my ordinary levels I rebelled. Then I grew up, made my own decisions on what I wanted for myself. Grew up. Things work out in the end. I’ve come to realize that both of us just played into God’s plan. Don’t worry, one day I’ll finally finish writing about the journey to and fro and growing to finally belong. Then you can buy the book. For now, I am celebrating my 15th anniversary of being “sent back”. In sending kids back to Cameroon, parents in the diaspora often paint it as a form of punishment, or tough love. From my experience and those of others I know, kids are sent back home in other to get them to ‘straighten up’ or because the parents in the diaspora have issues and can’t take care of them at that time. Either way it doesn’t paint a picture of Cameroon as a place our children should happily return to. More like a boot camp/foster home. Despite the feeling of being here out of punishment than choice, I came to love my home country. You can say Cameroon grew on me. Or I grew to be Cameroonian. My musings this month are all about my ‘returnee’ experience, all the things I’ve come to love about my country and all the ways this country I love makes me crazed. So I decided to make a direct list rather than rant and rave. Here are 15 reasons I love my country, one for every year of my return. 15 Reasons I Love My Country 1. Our history. I am probably biased, but in my opinion Cameroon has one of the best historical tales ever. From the Bantu migrations to the naming of the country after the shrimp Portuguese found in our waters to the scramble for our lands and through multiple colonizations. For a relatively small strip of land, we have a lot of stories to pass down to our kids. I wish someone with a love for history could team up with an artistic cinematographer to bring our story to life. 2. Our ethnic diversity. Cameroon is nicknamed the ‘melting-pot of Africa’ for its cultural and geographical diversity. With over 200 ethnic groups you best believe we put the E in eclectic. 3. Our languages. Cameroon (not necessarily its people) is multilingual. Our country is home to over a 1000 different tongues/dialects. As though that is not enough, our history of multiple colonizations left us with a plurality of foreign languages, names etc. though we have just two official languages (both from the colonizers). Language is a touchy topic to many of us as Cameroonians because one language is obviously valued more than all others in this country- French. Yet I love how we have come to blend the languages by creating slang words like ‘chomecam’ and more. Eventually creating something uniquely ours popularly referred to as Camfranglais. 4. Our religious tolerance (well, relatively). Considering the cultural diversity, the multiplicity of languages, and mixture of religious beliefs (Christianity, Islam, Animism) Cameroon is perfect ground for instability fueled by religious discord. But we’re far from that. I schooled in several Presbyterian mission schools and each of them had Muslim students. My Muslim classmates had concessions during their religious holidays and were not bullied based on their religions. Heck, our Senior Prefect was Muslim. 5. Our laissez-faire simplicity. You know the popular adage “let sleeping dogs lie”? Well you never have to tell a Cameroonian that. We will let everything go on as it is as long as the price beer is not increased, our land still produces its rich variety of food and our football team continues to play. This laissez-faire nature explains why we’ve barely full blown political insurrections till date despite having one of the longest serving African dictators. 6. Our communal nature. If you live in urban areas in Cameroon, you may think we aren’t as communal as before. Well we are still more communal than a lot of other areas. After living in the UK for a year, I didn’t know my neighbor’s name. That would be impossible in Cameroon. You would probably know your landlady’s family history as you move in. You would most likely wake/be awaken by your neighbor at night to help take someone to the hospital. Our interdependence is real, it’s beautiful, and it’s sometimes a burden. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. I imagine that if the USA had our communalism police violence wouldn’t be so common. Everyone is related (friendships included) to at least one police man, that cop would find that his victims family had visited the family patriarch in the village and soon enough there will be repercussions. 7. Our relative economic balance. Yes I said that. No, I don’t mean we have a good economy. What I mean is that unlike other countries I know, the gap between our rich and poor isn’t that large. Nearly everyone has one ‘wealthy’ family member as well as one family member who can barely feed themselves. It has been noted that we have one of the fastest growing middle class factionsin the region according to a World Bank report 8. Our range of possibilities. The saying “L’impossible n’est pas Camerounais” is often used derisively to mark
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.
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