I used to feel it was my mission to explain to people that ‘falling bush’ was not the answer to all problems. Given how much the ‘American Dream’ is set as the ideal in our Cameroonian society, I always felt it necessary to dispel the notion that the place is paradise on earth and to let those I value know that Cameroon needs them, and should they consider traveling, they should do so with plans of returning home. Fortunately, I’m no longer that person. Don’t get me wrong, my stomach still lurches when I have a conversation with a close friend and they tell me they are planning on leaving for good. I still feel frustrated at the people who say “I am marrying a ‘bushfaller’ as if to denote the fact that they are marrying their ticket out. And don’t get me started on the mentees I counsel who are so obvious that their passion is for residing in a particular country, rather than the academic and career plans they claim to want advice for. But I have become more understanding of my privilege over the past years (or so I think). And so I no longer take up that mission with the fervor I used to. If you want to go, go. I know better now that home isn’t meant for everyone. Not all of us have the calling for it, and not all of us can endure it. This came to me as I returned home last month from South Africa in hope of making it base again upon completion of my final degree. As I spoke with a friend who was also returning home from a different country, I realized we were making the same preparations, taking the same precautions as to how different our lives will be. How do you prepare to endure low quality internet back home? Download all the music/videos you streamed without care while away. Make sure you downloaded ALL the academic papers you cited in your work and have them backed up. How do you prepare for regular light failure? Buy the best power bank(s) you can. Like one witty Nigerian put it “charging your partner’s phone in anticipation of the regular power failures be considered a love language”. How do you take precautions to avoid having to deal with our struggling health care system? Use what insurance you have to do medical exams and check what you can before returning home. Buy drugs you know won’t be available because mental health/learning disabilities are not recognized in our part of the world. How do you prepare for possible kidnapping/arbitrary arrest? Get a stun-gun to add to the pepper-spray you carry because you’re already at risk as a woman. Write your last requests in case of sudden death. Let friends know what to do just in case. [Although this last tip likely applies for many across the globe]. As my friend and I discussed, I came to the realization that the bulging bags and extra luggage Africans and African diaspora are known to travel with is merely evidence of our general attempts to endure/adjust to life where we are. That may mean adjusting trying to make a foreign country feel a bit like home by exporting food from home, or it may mean buying what we know is unavailable for sale at home or extremely expensive. In the weeks following that conversation, and since I’ve been home I have also come to realize that we have lost many people for good. Even those who say/believe they are going to come back. They won’t be able to, not because they do not want to, but because they will not be able to endure after being away so long. To leave behind the lives they have known and investments they have made in other countries. If you’re away for too long you adapt to a different system, such that the reality of home hits your worse than it is when you return. Staying away for too long renders you out of touch with how to live in and love home despite its flaws. I was once asked how we cope with the lack of reliable emergency numbers to call in case of need. I responded that here we can simply call for help, the society is not as disconnected. Here it is odd to not know your neighbor’s name (and too many other details). I write this all to say, I am home now. And even though I am happy to be home, I am looking at it from a more realistic perspective. We need more people who love it enough to make it a better place, one which would nourish the dreams our children have; but I appreciate that it isn’t for everyone. I appreciate that the country makes it hard to love it because our government makes us seem so unworthy of basic decency. But then that government is made up of people like us. People we know, and excuse. So if you’re one of many considering leaving for good. Do what is best for you. I’ll just say proceed with caution. Drop me a comment, question or just a kind wish welcoming me home. It’s always a joy to read from readers.
Being Intentional in the Journey
Happy New Year folks! Towards the end of the year, I attended a vision board workshop at church with a good friend and Christian sister called Olivia Mukam Wandji. As a project management specialist, Olivia often uses project management language in her speech. As she led us through our vision board construction she compared our lives and the ambitions we have for it to the life cycle of a project. She said as we begin this new decade outlining our visions, we should consider that we are planning a project and note that there will be different phases; the planning phase, implementation phase, another for monitoring and evaluation, before the project end. Each phase requires ‘planning’ and guidance. This morning, I am thinking of her remark in another light. What about the cycle of our Christian lives? We rarely ever plan our Christian development the way we do our self-development, why don’t we care about the growth of our faith the way we do our professional growth? I understand that would be hard to do because faith isn’t something we should regard as mechanical, achievable in steps and such… after all, our Christian development is dependent on God’s grace, mercy and the transforming power of the Holy Spirit. Yet, I also think that our lack of planning in this part of our life is evidence of our lack of intentionality in our development as Christian. I recall reading some piece that admonished us to ‘respect God’s time’. The idea of respecting God’s time was odd to me, he is master/owner of time. It’s all his anyway. What time I commit to give him is my own out of the [surprisingly] inadequate hours I have to be productive. Yet the writer made a sound point that convicted me. Our lives run on scheduling and that speaks of intentionality. We have appointments entered in our calendar for months ahead, we have birthday notifications to remind us to wish those we love well, we respect meeting time and interview appointments and dates by being on time and ensuring we have nothing going on concurrently. We are very intentional with respecting time with fellow humans, our career and social commitments. But when it comes to God? Not so much. Going to church is an option, not something we’ll be fined for if we miss- as is the case with missing some classes. So what if we do prayer and meditation at 5am today, 11am tomorrow and 3pm the next? At least we did it, there is no prescribed time to worship. Thinking this way is not altogether wrong, of course, God cares more about your heart and motivations than if you have a perfunctory routine of bible study at 6am every day. Yet, thinking this way also shows that we regularly take God for granted. In the absence of intentionality, we often short-change God. Give him less, because we didn’t intentionally set out to give him more. When we aren’t intentional about what time we do that meditation and prayer, or that bible study, etc. We end up giving God what’s left of our energy, attention and time after we’ve done everything else. Or worse, we forget altogether as we postpone it saying “I’ll do it later”. Now imagine if we were more intentional not only ‘respecting God’s time’ but with our Christian journey as a whole. Imagine if we looked at our lives the way we look at our careers and said ‘I want to grow to this level of Faith’ the way we say ‘I want to reach this managerial level’. Imagine if we set out to develop habits that would develop us as Christians? This could be taking a course in scripture exegesis, training for youth ministry, or learning to be more forgiving? Imagine if we had Christian growth goals and targets as we do career goals and weight loss targets! I’ve imagined it and I can already see that if I did that I would be a lot stronger as a Christian. Vision boards, five-year plans and all forms of goal setting are renowned for helping the individual stay focused. Having a target written down, broken into achievable steps and such makes it easier to achieve a big seemingly overambitious goal. Whether that goal is ‘becoming CEO of a multinational company’ or ‘becoming a better disciple of Christ’. Please note that being intentional does not mean we set out to ‘earn our salvation’ nor does it insinuate that our Christian growth is solely up to us. The primary fact of our faith is that our salvation is freely given by Jesus Christ’s sacrifice on the cross for our transgression. Likewise, we literally cannot be better Christians without God himself enabling us to do so via the Holy Spirit. So why be intentional? The battle is not ours but the Lords, right? How does our being intentional or not matter in the grand scheme of things? The answer simply: being intentional is proof of our own commitment to God. You may not have to earn salvation, but if you have given your life to Christ and received salvation by his sacrifice, you are now a ‘slave’ to him. As a slave, you are to serve your master. Being intentional ensures you are an efficient servant. Similarly, though we cannot be better Christians without God himself enabling us to do so, we must first submit ourselves to God for the Holy Spirit to work in us. The act of submission is on us, and THAT part must be intentional. Submission doesn’t come easy, you choose it EVERY DAY. A quote by Rick Warren captures this perfectly. He says: “as humans, we are to be a living sacrifice to God. The problem with a sacrifice that is still alive is that it can crawl off the altar”. How often have you submitted yourself or even just a problem to God in prayer at night, only to wake up in the morning and
“How is Home?” You Ask
Since returning home early last month, nearly all my conversations begin with the same recurrent question; how is Cameroon/home? Roughly eight weeks later, I still haven’t found a suitable way to reply. I say: “It’s just there”. It’s just there as in; it is how I left it, except where it’s worse As in: home is surviving – barely living, As in: Cameroon has managed to retain just the bare minimum of what makes it home- the familiarity of those who are yet to leave, the humid weather which in turn envelopes you like a sweat-inducing fog and reassures your skin that it will not crack here. I say ‘it’s just there’ because to answer ‘how is home?’ would require several contradictory descriptions: Like the security of never doubting where your next meal will come from because there is an endless list of people waiting for me to stop by for a meal since I returned, but also like the hesitation and insecurity I feel at the thought of leaving home to do any visiting because leaving home means passing through a terrifying military checkpoint akin to what stands at the US/Mexico border. And if I were to describe home what would I share? The laughter of the children in our compound; the toddler next door who calls me ‘Nica’ and giggles like it’s the soundtrack for a Disney classic yet to be made, the preteens playing games like ‘dodging’ and assorted versions of hopscotch after their morning chores on ghost-town days… Or do I tell of this air of apprehension which hangs over us all and leaves me feeling like I’m paranoid in my inability to properly describe it? But I’m not paranoid, it is real. Our laughter, our noisy nature is now somewhat muted. We who used to advertise nearly everything with ‘Papa Promo’ a car with massive speakers attached on its roof, blasting Pidgin-English adverts into the eardrums of pedestrians. That car seems to have stopped going around. And Mutengene which was always busy and loud. A distracting hub to pass through, not stop in with its shops and bars blaring music from loudspeakers competing with each other for the attention of customers…. even here the music is not as loud any longer; only one shopkeeper with a speaker has yet to close down and move away, no more competition. And of course, one can’t play music so loud that they don’t hear if gunshots go off and they need to run. If I were to answer ‘how is home’? Which of the homes shall I speak of? Home feels different depending on the neighborhood. That apprehension that cannot be explained is experienced in varying degrees from one quarter to the next. In Mile 16 and Muea it is heavy in the air with closed shops, vacant businesses and the desolation that is breathed in and out by all who invested in the area, by the few who have stayed despite the very real threat to life. From Mile 17 upward to Molyko the apprehension is a crescendo of feeling; with very little felt between 8am and 5pm- just people on their guard for any sudden alarm. Then the crescendo peaking at dusk as we all rush to go home, grown or not, afraid of the dark. Finally, in Sandpit upwards; here there is life, the shops are all open, and people still sit at makeshift bars to eat and drink. But there is also an awareness that the girls selling akara and beans with that old mami by the roadside are not going to school, they have come to Buea to stay with their aunt because their village was burned by the military. That apprehension here is a shadow at the edges of life, like a silhouette. And in the telling of home do I count even the other regions East of the Mungo where in place of apprehension it is a resignation that hangs in the air along with the weight of dust? *** To properly respond to ‘how is Cameroon’ would demand I tell several stories of Cameroonians: The story of how my godmother’s father who suffered kidney failure would have died because his urologist couldn’t come to work on Monday because of Ghost-town and the general practitioner had more than his share of patients to deal with. Similar to the story of expectant mothers who now have an additional fear of going into labor on the wrong day of the week. To respond properly would entail I tell of the number of families split up, with parents having to send kids off to other regions for school possibly with one spouse going as well and how managing two households has made already the lives of people who were already struggling much more difficult. It would require I tell of the loans my neighbors are paying with bitterness every month because the house they took the loan for is complete but they can’t move into it- the area is now a no-go zone. The bushes not too far from there has a shrine where the Amba Boys are said to congregate so it is regularly attacked by the military. The last time the neighbor visited this house, he remarked with palpable frustration on how a house he had yet to sleep in had already seen bullet holes in the walls, need for repair. I would need to tell of the Faculty of Science lecturer who I used to admire for her fashion sense and how she jumped a foot when I greeted her from behind… I was later told that she had been kidnapped and her family had to pay 5.5 million in ransom… she is still traumatized… And she is not alone. Enjema, the younger sister of my neighbor-friend has nightmares periodically now- since witnessing a man being shot in front of her by gendarmes last September. She recounts that the man had been the driver
The Police Are Not Your Friend, Not Here, Not There, Not Anywhere.
How would you identify a good country? This question or something similar to it has come up in several conversations with friends recently. In the wake of yet another farce of an election in Cameroon coupled with a crisis which grows more violent and erratic by the day, friends and acquaintances I have spoken with have expressed their disdain at having been born Cameroonian. Some have mentioned wishing they could belong to another nation, or at least be resident there. While I understand that these feelings are a product of frustration, I have found myself responding to their declarations with the question: so what country do you think is better and why? Their responses always expose what they prioritize at the said time as well as what they feel Cameroon fails at the most. After the most recent of such a conversation, I turned the question on myself. What would be evidence of a good country for me? Free and fair elections? Leaders that are changed with regularity? Equitable participation/representation of genders, ages, faiths, and abilities? All of those came to mind, but none stood out as much as the state of law enforcement. *** For a brief period of my childhood, I lived with my immigrant single mother in the United States. It was the mid-1990s and after school, I would be cared for by neighbours who were immigrants themselves but relatively better ‘established’ having lived in the US for longer. It was in those spaces that I learned what I needed to fit in, from the first generation children who had come before me, I would learn of games like UNO, Dominoes and Cops and Robbers. During parties and meetings when the adults had their fun upstairs, we kids would be sent to a basement or backyard to play with each other. If it were a backyard, a game of Cops and Robbers would typically be on the program and it all began with picking those who would be the cops and who would be the robbers; this equalled who would be the good guy and who would be the bad guy. That’s what American culture first taught me of police. They were the good guys, who caught bad guys and saved the day. Even at school, when asked the oft-repeated “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question, several classmates had said they wanted to be policemen. And why not? Back then we watched COPS (if we managed to stay up past bedtimes), we sang the show’s jingle with glee “Bad boys, bad boys whatchu you gonna do, whatchu gonna do when they come for you?” and we believed as we repeated the tune that bad boys got caught by the police, the ‘good guys’ and that it was always best to call 911 so the police come rescue you. By the time I was 11, that idea of who the police are had become a bit tarnished. Only slightly, but still. An African-American classmate had recounted her fear of the cops discovering that she was at home alone most days and in charge of watching over her siblings because her mother worked multiple jobs and her dad was in jail. She warned me after I had received a particularly brutal whooping from my mom, not to let anyone know; because the police could take you away from your family altogether and foster-care was hell, she said. She had been there for some time herself. I took the lesson to heart and soon began noting the fear and apprehensiveness displayed by adults when police passed by. I began noting how my mom and other adults spoke to these men in uniform the way I would speak to adults when weary of stepping on the wrong toe. Nonetheless, at that age the police were still people to be respected, still people I believed one ought to call for help. I returned home at age 12, the first thing I would note about police in Cameroon would be their standing on the roadside. They didn’t always have cars nearby and back then most just held batons and a stick with nails which would be extended out on the road as a threat to drivers: stop or puncture your tires. I recall asking during one trip from Bamenda to Yaoundé what would happen if the driver drove on, what if the driver saw the police ahead and dodged the stick with nails? What could they do without a patrol car and gun? Obviously, Cameroon didn’t have a sophisticated license plate tracking system. The adults I asked just told me it was a bad idea, the policeman would remember you they claimed, or warn the group of police at the next checkpoint to watch out for your vehicle. It seemed lame to me. A lot of things seemed lame to me back then as I compared the country I now call home to the one I had spent some six childhood years in. But the police, in particular, were very lame; all those I came in contact with spoke French, which I couldn’t understand nor speak. They were forever scowling and didn’t even give the impression of being at your service. Rather they were to be served. People would give up their treasured front seats at the bus for the gender me, often at the beckoning of the driver who hoped this ‘esteemed’ passenger would be recognized through the windscreen when the bus was stopped at checkpoints and the driver given less hassle. Those who gave up seats did so for the greater good I suppose. Police in Cameroon as I would come to learn were not those to be called upon for help. At no time have I been taught the emergency number for the Cameroon police, and I bet a vox pop would prove very few know it. The average man won’t even want to know the number; what would they use it for? If
What is happening Cameroon? II
Dispatches from home read like material for a great historical fiction manuscript. You easily imagine the Whatsapp voice-notes with either news of military abuse of power, chilling threats from frenzied ‘Amba’ fanatics, or worse, news of yet another kidnapping or murder as something fictional characters in the 1970s would have listened to huddled over the lone radio in the house. Because this can’t be happening in now; in the day of intelligence readily manufactured as AI. It can’t be happening in the age of everything smart; smartphones, smartwatches, smart kitchen utensils, yet senseless humans? How can that be? But your inbox proves that it is, that anomaly is possible and real. Four weeks ago, you were informed that the military presence in your hometown has moved your old schoolmate (at the ripe old age of 30) to learn French, the language of the men in uniforms. So she now accompanies her 8-year-old daughter to the house of a teacher who now teaches kids on her veranda because schools are a no-go zone. Your cousin laughs as she tells you “Mo imagine o! If we had known, we would have paid attention to Monsieur Flobeh!” You reply to her statement with laughing Emoji but you think “If we had known, we should have made sure a lot more people paid attention to history lessons. A week later you receive a message from one of your friends-turned-sister as you arrive at your church for Sunday service. It reads: “Sis, I hope you’re well. Please pray for me oo! I received a call from a guy threatening me. He says I should support the movement or else they’ll harm my family” You stand at the doors of the church, immobile but for your fingers readily typing up questions; when, how, why you? She says the call was brief but followed by an SMS of how she should make a deposit to ‘support the struggle’ and she was probably targeted as any other civil servant who people believe have money on the regular. You warn her not to even thinking of making any deposit, lest she is caught and the police arrest her for ‘sponsoring terrorism’. Your mom’s friend is in prison in Yaoundé at the moment on those charges. He had paid ‘Amba boys’ a large sum of money upon receiving threats of kidnapping. Your friend agrees that paying would be dangerous, she can only run away with her kids. You sigh as you read that, and head to a seat for a sermon you will not remember because you were crying silently through the preaching. To think this is what we have come to. When you return home later you check on your friend. She tells you that she’d had the idea to reach out to an acquaintance you both know, a young slightly over-zealous Christian ‘brother’ who is known to have participated in some ‘Amba’ activities. She felt he could help verify if the threats were genuine or just a scam from thieves. And if genuine, she thought he could help her get off their targets lists or at the very least, he would see the error in the company he keeps. No expected outcome came to pass. She tells you that upon narrating her experience, our brother-in-Christ told her that he could introduce her to the guys collecting the ‘support funds’ and explain to them that she doesn’t have much so whatever she can give will be okay. “Just give small money for bullets, sis,” he said. You are shocked. But not for long. You will soon hear that no one can be trusted to be rational now. That irrationality is a norm. You are told that a colleague you didn’t particularly like at your alma mater was attacked recently by ‘Amba boys’, their crime was being from the wrong tribe- Bamileke. Your tribe based on patrilineal traditions which won’t consider other factors of your identity. Suddenly, you feel bad for having disliked this person who is now a victim. You hear that some other colleagues, the educated, the elders at church, the fathers of young children had shrugged at the attack, they saw it as well deserved. After all, Bamilekes are neither here nor there so surely spies. At that moment you determine that Cameroon and its Cameroonians do not warrant your shock. The nation is simply living up to being considered a ‘shit-hole country’. In the days that follow, your inboxes belch out more: Black young men are now an at-risk species in the Anglophone regions, just like in the United States. Are you black, of average to tall stature, possibly aged 17- 30? Then you could possibly be an ‘Amba boy’ and the police (with no questions asked- and even if asked, not in English) would profile you, arrest or possibly execute you at the least provocation. Your neighbor films her daughter, a toddler practicing her hiding technique. Like the fire drills in western schools. Except this is a four-year-old who now recognizes the sound of gunshots and how to hide under the leather sofa even as she has yet to enter a nursery school classroom. You’re told that one of your former neighbors is now fundraising. Asking all and sundry for help as her husband has been kidnapped. The boys asked for 10 million FCFA and the family negotiated the ransom down to half that price. You picture the bargaining over the phone and shake your head. How does one bargain on the life of one’s spouse? By last week, the frequency of the messages had increased, but not their content is different. “Mo I’m in Yaoundé now, I’m safe.” Or “Mo pray for us oo! I am hoping to leave to Douala tomorrow”. Their WhatsApp statuses show they’re okay, the proof is in their taking photos on the sides of the road with and there being no sign of military trucks. These ones had made it safely to the ‘other Cameroon’ despite the risk
The Extravagance of Black Forgiveness
A friend of mine recently asked me why I haven’t written about the situation back home. He said he “wished I was still back home because I’d feel more acutely the pain of the situation and write some good pieces”. I tell him that I, like many others, am tired. Fed up with the stupidity and arrogance which drives this situation. Yet, if conversations could run for pages long, I would have simply shared the following piece which I wrote at the end of November 2017 but never shared- till now. *** A week after Zimbabwe offered the world what may be the most civil coup ever, you are still reading articles, think-pieces overanalyzed op-ed pieces on the ‘rise and fall of Uncle Bob’. You are still interested despite the repetition, despite the dread the writers generally project of what next. You are still interested because in reading those pieces you are encouraged that someday (hopefully soon) your own Mugabe shall fall, or be toppled… whichever way would do. But a week later you come across new information, details of the largess which characterizes Mugabe’s pension upon forced retirement. His presidential salary will continue as is, he receives a lump sum of 10 million USD, maintains all properties acquired as president, health coverage, and several other benefits. An obviously generous pension considering whatever his family had already looted. The generosity baffles you; this cannot possibly be the sanction for dictatorship, this cannot be the sanction for forcing millions of your people into exile and holding the growth of a whole nation hostage. This cannot possibly be what people marched for. You are not Zimbabwean, so you read the comments. Most say they’re fine with it, that it is better than having him in power. That Zimbabwe must move on. That they do not need to fight with the tyrant. One particular comment stands out: “Zimbabwean’s should forgive the bastard not for him but to free themselves”. The comment tugs at your memory, you have heard that before. You have heard it on several occasions. You heard it when Gambia’s Jammeh lost “Don’t mention prosecuting him, just let him go so you can move on…” You heard similar last year and dozens of times before when a Cameroonian immigrant woman you know was told to forgive her abusive husband for the sake of her kids “Don’t put those children through the court process in this country ooo. These people will ask them all sort of questions. We are not white people. Settle this in your family so you can move on with dignity.” You have heard this so many times, linked to scripture like whole countries are of one faith. Like forgiveness can be demanded. A commodity one can order. Yet this time, perhaps because you are reading the articles expectantly looking to Zimbabwe as a beacon of hope for the potential toppling of your own dictator, you are upset by the extravagance of black forgiveness. You recall the first comment you made upon learning of black petting zoos, and how black children were caged to be observed like animals. You said: We have forgiven too much. We have. And we have forgiven on behalf of too many, who never did and never may get closure. You also recall the Charlottesville shooting and the quickly offered, widely publicised forgiveness of Dylan Roof. You had wondered then as you wonder now, who gave them the authority to forgive. Yes, they were related to the victims, just like those who now forgive are Zimbabwean, but the evil was done to us all, has marked us all, has built anger in us all… who and what quenches the fire of injustices when one forgives for the whole. And why are we the ones always forgiving? We Blacks, we Africans, we Women. Why does the victim get told “to forgive is divine”, like victimisation made one saintly, propelled them into the realm of divinity. And if we must forgive, which is just fine by the way, do we not deserve to get an apology first? No repentance? No justice? Do we just bury the pain like a secret hidden in a chest for another generation to dig and discover? Does the dictator get a scholarship named after him like Rhodes so three generations pass and our children know him as a benefactor rather than an abuser? Above all, as you contemplate this exceedingly gracious treatment of a fallen dictator you wonder what it means for you and yours. As you look at Zimbabwe as an example, if no longer a beacon, you wonder why one should bother decrying the exploitation, mismanagement and abuse of Cameroonian government officials who would be so readily forgiven. If on one hand, African leaders who leave power ‘with good will” receive a boon by way of the Mo Ibrahim Prize effectively congratulating them for doing what the constitutions they swore to uphold said they ought to do…and those who don’t leave get generous retirement packages like Mugabe, promises to be left alone and not tried for crimes like Jammeh, or promises of lifelong Party leadership positions like dos Santos… if those are the options why denounce your Mugabe. If those are the options they have to choose from, they never really fall. And justice is never really served, definitely not implemented by us. For we forgive. Our forgiveness is expected, extravagantly gracious, shortsighted and shallow. Doing an even greater injustice to the memory of the injustice done to us. It is our forgiveness that has descendants of abusers, still enjoying historical privilege yet forming trade unions and denying that apartheid was an injustice. It is our forgiveness that has Kanye West saying slavery was a choice. It is our forgiveness that leaves our Cameroonian children unable to name the revolutionaries which fought for our independence. It is as a result of our profligate forgiveness that fifty years on, we have more statues and schools named after colonial figures than we do
April 2018’s Missing Post II: Doing away with Stereotypes One initiative at a Time
There’s a lot to rant about when it comes to Cameroon. Increasingly heavy militarization and other government mishandling of the problems in the Anglophone regions, the fight against Boko Haram in the North and developmental problems from bad roads to corrupt institutions plaguing all ends of the nation. Perhaps because there is so much to rant about, we as Cameroonians tend to see mostly the negatives and own them, while rarely appreciating the positive. How often do you hear someone muttering “C’est Cameroun” with disgusted resignation? Or if we do notice something positive we remark on it as though it were ‘nothing much’. Shortly after I set up Better Breed Cameroon, I decided that I will try to ‘light candles’ as often as I curse the darkness. I have often failed to achieve that parity, but fortunately, no one gave me the sole task of being a superhero. And even more, fortunately, there are many more like me, many other young people seeking to help make some positive change in their own way and for that I’m grateful Recently, one of those negatives we had owned as Cameroonians- the stereotype that “Cameroonian’s don’t read”- is being taken head on by several youth-led initiatives which prove Cameroonian do love/appreciate the beauty of words. Both the writing and reading of it. So without further ado, let me introduce you to just a handful of names/initiative titles to drop the next time someone presumes to tell you “Cameroonian’s don’t read. Bakwa Magazine’s 100 Days of Cameroonian Literature For 100 days, renowned literary magazine Bakwa Mag put a spotlight on Cameroonian literature, showcasing books by Cameroonian authors of all genres and both national languages. This social media campaign ran with the hashtag #100DaysofCameroonianLiterature between December 2017 and March 2018. The campaigned was widely followed particularly on Twitter with several statements of appreciation to Bakwa for their introducing people to books and authors they’d either forgotten or never heard of before. In the words of Bakwa editor Dzekashu Macviban “We did this both to showcase the diversity of Cameroonian writing as well as debunk the notion that there isn’t enough writing from Cameroon”. Well, Bakwa definitely proved people wrong. IYA Restaurants Griot Nights IYA Restaurant has established itself as a culinary and cultural delight located in Buea, Cameroon. Along with a magnificent menu, the restaurant offers events to bring the ‘Bougie’ of Buea out. One of those events it has highly encouraged is regular spoken word poetry events. Every last Saturday of the month, a crowd made mostly of University of Buea students with guests like Olga from Yaoundé and more come out to share their love for spoken word. One way IYA stands out is by actually training the poets a few days prior to the event to ascertain that their performances are of good quality and they show progress from practice. As a result of this, you might meet the same faces, but you’d likely be surprised by the stark difference in content and delivery. Attendance is usually ticketed using Eventbrite and the room is packed! Sometimes the evening’s have a theme and at other times it’s up to your whim. Either way, it is easy to see that IYA started something which rekindled the beauty of storytelling in poetry from among youth in the area. Mito Mito Mito Mito, a weekly Open Mic event equally originated in Buea likewise offers new encouragement to word lovers in Cameroon and offers to make poetry cool again. The events held regularly as of 7 pm on Mondays and mixed spoken word with Comedy, Karaoke, and Live Music. From Buea, Mito Mito has spread to Douala and the team behind it offering poetry performances on demand. For those of us who grew up at a time when poetry reciting in Cameroon consisted of rote memorization of some very tired lines teachers helped one with, this new wave of spoken word and the new generation vulnerable and bold enough to share art, what they read and write is utterly refreshing. And of course, stereotype defying. Black Swagger Poetry Events Let’s not focus solely on Buea though. Spoken word events like the BLACK SWAGGER POETRY SLAMs (BSPS) are hosted in Bamenda as well. Black Swagger poetry slams offer space for creatives based in the capital of the Northwest region and alternative evening entertainment encouraging wordsmiths and lovers of words alike to come out and share. The team ‘posits that Blackness is not an occasion for crying but a strong clarion call to stand up, stand out and be proud of who we are’ they try to discover unsung talents and help young people work on themselves by finding their own gift of words. Words that define them and define their stance on issues of change. Given the regularity of the events, one can confidently assert that there are enough word lovers; writers, thinkers, and listeners in Bamenda as well. A big shout out to the team behind the scenes making these events still possible despite the increasing militarization of the area. With events like this, they’re ensuring young people have a different outlet to vent. Better Breed Cameroon’s Reading Caravan More recently, I was privileged to be part of a team running an inaugural reading caravan project that aimed at inspiring reading culture in young Cameroonians- particular primary school pupils. The reading caravan began on the 23rd of February 2018 and closed on the 23rd of April 2018. This initiative lasted three-months and had over 20 volunteers read in eleven schools across towns in five regions of the country; Centre, Far North, Littoral, North-West and South-West regions. Over a hundred books were given out and the kids loved it! Eager to not only be read to but to read for themselves. Olivia Mukam Wandji volunteer reading at Tassah College, Yaounde I was particularly amazed at the support the caravan project received and is still receiving. The number of people who wrote offering to take time out to offer to read at
Change of Reaction- Flash Fiction by Monique Kwachou
Happy Valentine’s Day to all followers of my Musings! And *coughs* wishing you a great start to the introspective Lenten period. This month, I’m doing a throwback to last year when a piece of flash fiction I wrote was published by Brittle Paper in an anthology titled Love Stories from Africa. This version of the story has been slightly edited, I hope you enjoy! _________________________________________________________________________________ Change of Reaction by Monique Kwachou You step back, admiring the dinner table now set for two with your best dish set. You move to the room to make sure everything you have bought for the romantic weekend is set. It was in Lower-sixth that you first contemplated what you would do if your husband cheated on you. On that sticky afternoon, your classmate, Bessem, had returned from Commercial Avenue with a Nigerian magazine. Even though she had claimed that she hadn’t seen any American magazine your group usually chipped in to buy and pore over, you and your other friends, Sandra, Laura, and Eposi had suspected that Bessem, being the Nollywood addict she was, had bought the magazine because her favourite Nigerian actresses, Stella Damasus, Genevieve Nnaji and Omotola Jalade were on the cover page, advertising a film, Games Men Play. The magazine wasn’t bad. It was just as glossy as the American ones and contained similar information. There were tips on how to lose weight, which you had all heard Bessem read, even as she paused regularly to take a bite from a loaf of bread dripping with chocolate paste. There were glamorous pictures from celebrity events, an advice column on what to do when your love is not of the same faith as you, a quiz to determine what kind of lover you are, based on your favourite colour, and the vox-pop section which asked women to imagine what they would do if they found out their husband was having an affair. You remember it exactly. After reading the responses featured in the magazine, you had each taken turns. Bessem had sighed, she was from a polygamous home and couldn’t be bothered, she claimed. As long as she was financially comfortable, the man could go and live with his mistress, just as her dad had moved to the house he had rented for his second wife. Eposi rebuked it in the exaggerated way of Pentecostal Christians. “That shall not be my portion oooo! Not all men cheat. I’ll give my man all that he needs, what will he go looking for outside?” You all had laughed, aware of the implausibility of satisfying a man completely even at that age. Laura mentioned ‘facing the homewrecker,’ and Sandra reminded her that it was the husband who had made vows and promises. When Laura had turned on her demanding her response, Sandra had said it would depend on how much she felt betrayed. “But I could actually hurt the man, like pour hot water on his genitals”. You had all burst into fits of laughter, clapping your hands as you imagined it. When it was your turn, you had said you would simply divorce the man. Cheating meant he wanted someone else. Why would you hold on to someone who wanted someone else? If you truly loved him, you would let him go. You were undoubtedly high on Harlequin-type love at that time. Here you are now, on a Friday night, on the eve of Valentine’s Day, waiting for your husband to return from his business trip. You have sent the kids to his mother for the weekend. You have cooked his favorite meals and planned a romantic weekend escapade. You bought him a watch similar to the one he had admired on your boss’ wrist at the office party you both attended just after New Year. You are determined to make it his best Valentine weekend ever. You have planned all this, knowing the trip he is returning from wasn’t quite a business trip. Knowing he is cheating, knowing exactly who he is cheating with- she has flaunted pictures of them both on social media. Those Instagram pictures of “boo” where boos features aren’t fully visible to all. But certainly recognizable to the woman who is married to boo. Who has in turns licked him from top to bottom and wiped him down on his sickbed. You look at yourself in the mirror, assessing the way the lingerie you plan to strip out of for him later looks on you. You avoid looking at your face. Lowering your eyes out of shame and fear that your 37 year-old self will see the reflection of what used to be a self-confident 17 year-old Lower-sixth girl mockingly asking: Is this your reaction? _______________________________________________________________ Enjoyed it? Not so much? Drop a comment and let me know what you think! P.S Make sure to read the other stories from this collection HERE. Two more Cameroonian writers have some flash fiction featured (Howard M-B Maximus and Agogho Franklin).
Musings on 17th January
The 17th of January will forever hold meaning for me. For one, it’s the birthday of a close friend and founding member of Better Breed Cameroon- the youth development organization I coordinate. Sama Randy, passed away three years ago this month and has since been remembered by the Youth Essay Contest we have since renamed in his honor (please click here to learn more about the Sama Randy Youth Write Contest). Last year, another memorable event took place on the 17th of January. On the evening of this day last year, our government decided to take stifling of opposing voices to another level. It was a Tuesday, around 6pm. We heard rumors- turned fact- of the arrest of leaders of the Consortium who were at the time heading protests against the government over Anglophone marginalization. These arrests were followed by an internet shut-down in the two Anglophone regions where protests were situated. Looking back, I can say that day marked the greatest mistake our government has made in years. With the decision made on that day, our government not only validated our protests but equally gave the opportunity to fanatics to spread and grow leading to the impasse we now experience. See, that day marked a turning point for people of my generation. We of the “android generation” (as they call our 90’ Babies forward) have known our government to be corrupt, our officials to be power-drunk thieves, selfish brownnosers to their core. Yet, we had until this past year only known of our governments’ brutality only through the lens of history, through exaggerated quartier tales we grew up hearing; like “did you know the first lady’s former lover was killed when our president took interest in her or did you know our former first lady died mysteriously?” All rumors we could not confirm but which ensured we looked at our officials with the right tinge of fear. Similar to the way our parents and those generally older and more aware bowed lower in the face of gendarmes and generally feared to talk about politics in certain places. Yes, up until last year we knew our government was bad, but we hadn’t known the fear of those who had witnessed it firsthand. As a Nigerian proverb goes; a child who crosses the river carried on the mother’s back would say the water was not deep. We had read of Ahidjo’s governments’ complicity with the French in crushing the Maquisards and assassinating Cameroon’s early patriots. We had listened as our parents discussed the infamous disappearance of the Bepanda 9 incident following the opposition to our current president’s changing of the constitution. But still, we had been sheltered and had yet to witness our government shutdown a part of the country, arbitrarily arrest hundreds on flimsy excuses and cart them off to Yaoundé as though they were Jews to Hitler’s concentration camps. We had not lived the fear of militarized towns, nor imagined government officials could lie so blatantly about the regions we inhabited. We had not experienced government imposed curfews and ‘states of emergency’ nor had we known that the police we scorned as thieves could also be heartlessly brutal batterers. January 17th 2017 set off a chain of events which brought an end to our relative naivety and unleashed possibilities- possibilities of the worst kind- into our minds. After experiencing months of internet shutdown, closure of free press, brutal repression of protesters (peaceful or otherwise), refusal to dialogue, arrests of those who so much as expressed opinions of the issue online or in public… and even when the internet access was restored, even when some of those arbitrarily arrested were released, even then we saw that our administrators lacked basic managerial skills as they continuously chose force over dialogue, and denial over addressing of the problem. A year later, as I ponder on how things have developed, Langston Hughes’ most popular poem comes to mind. In Harlem, Hughes’ ponders on what happens to a dream deferred. Harlem BY LANGSTON HUGHES What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode? Today I consider the state of my country, the effects of ignoring and then suppressing justifiable protests. I ponder on the consequences of whitewashing our history, denying the existence of two Cameroon’s and of having a government which- like the ill-famed ostrich- have buried their heads in the sand insisting there is no problem… and as I do this, I think of the above poem and I feel I can answer Hughes. A dream deferred shall fester and run. Like the dream of Ndeh Ntumazah’s One Kamerunn party now crusting over as ‘Ambazonia’. A dream deferred stinks rotten like the death of Bate Besong still an open sore in our history as with every other revolutionary who spoke up and was cut down. And by all indications, if the Anglophone dream continues to be deferred…it shall explode. Perhaps we should stop postponing and address the dreams this country was built on before they become nightmares.
So… What did 2017 teach you?
Earlier this year, I wrote on the development of the now year-long crisis which has plagued the Anglophone regions of Cameroon. I outlined the emergence of the struggle and build-up due to utter mishandling from the government and the frustration of a minority, all in hope of our collective learning as a nation. As the year comes to an end and the crisis still rages- with more violence than ever in some parts of these regions- I have wondered if we actually did learn anything. For me the end of year period is meant for reflection; a time for assessing the year about to pass by and preparing for the one about to begin. I have thus considered the lessons 2017 has taught me personally, lessons like: i. Some things/people will never be yours no matter how hard you work, how hard you pray and how much you may deserve it/them. We do not always get what we deserve. That is both a good and bad thing. ii. You matter. Someone impressionable is watching you, looking up to you, believing in you. So act like you matter. iii. Your work matters. Invest in it. Hone your craft. iv. Pain too can bloom things. It’s not the best fertilizer but it works. v. Not everyone you admire is right for you and you are not for everyone. And now I consider the lessons 2017 and the experiences of this year should have taught us all as Cameroonians. In case you’ve been dozing throughout the year, here are some takeaways in point form: 1- Before you start a protest have a plan. Advocacy is targeted, and meaningful. You can be an online activist, your voice is a powerful tool and your social media page is no doubt a useful platform BUT for you to be an advocate, you need to be targeting those in power able to change things or actively following procedure in changing them. Otherwise you’re not doing much. Anger at this government is justified, however misdirected anger and lack of strategy is deadly. We’ve been under this regime for 35+ years… anyone trying to save us from it should have used this time to come up with a good plan. It doesn’t have to be foolproof, but it should be logical. As a friend of mine put it a while back: Before you demand my allegiance to a new order, convince me that what you offer me is better than the last. 2- Hold your heroes to higher standards, this is not a game. A popular adage goes: An unchecked virtue is a vice; meaning what/who is good can easily go bad because of too much praise and too little criticism. I think this is the strongest lesson of the year. In our desire for change we, as Cameroonians have come to crown any loud voice as messiah. However this, the future of our nation and our collective well-being, is not a scenario where we can make do with “a one-eyed man in the land of the blind”. Perhaps because we’re not all that blind, most of us are just suffering from nearsightedness. So please check and double-check your heroes, does your hero/leader of choice make sexist remarks? Is he/or she knowledgeable of the laws/constitution they criticize? Is he or she transparent? Does he or she have lingering scandals? Is he or she a trusted source of verified information? Can he or she handle power without becoming power-drunk? We should have learned that he who cannot handle criticism now will be no better than Biya when it comes his turn to rule. He who would sacrifice others and ignore their real needs at this time, will not suddenly change with power. And not everyone who speaks up for us is meant to be our mouthpiece. Someone can appreciate the general problem, but due to their background and context, be out of touch with the other intersecting oppressions people in different classes, with different levels of education, and so forth experience. 3- Do your research, verify information. Fake news is real; spreading it is not a joke. We may all scoff at the government’s annoying message with veiled threats regarding the spread of fake news- particularly considering how much fake news they spread by lies of omission. Yet, it is an undeniable fact, that unverified information “forwarded as received” caused a lot of destruction of property and loss this year. Unverified information readily shared because it sounds sensational, appeals to our desired outcome or because we’re too damn lazy to cross check sources and possibility, caused a great deal of damage this year. Fake news damaged the credibility of a revolution and led to loss of property and life every time a rumor went around inciting young people to the streets where they were met with certain police brutality. Pray we have learned that not everything is worth sharing. In fact, let me make it clear in our most common language: *holds ear* make this thing sey forwarded as received end this 2017. If you don’t know the source and are not certain the info is true, keep it to yourself.4- In the words of MJ ‘They don’t really care about us”. It is hoped that we’ve learned that no one is coming to save us. That no one owes us more than we owe ourselves. That no one can do for us what we have yet to do for ourselves. This is for those who marched before embassies of France, the United Kingdom, Canada etc. but failed to hold their own ambassadors accountable. This is for those who readily spread rumors about UNESCO canceling a school year only to see some (middle class) children progress to higher institutions with the release of results while theirs were at home. If nothing else, may 2017 have taught us that we must organize to save ourselves. The international community has never been an impartial judge. If we don’t care about ourselves,