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
Travelogue: S.A has me thinking we’re cursed… but not for the reason you think
It’s been a while since I’ve written a travelogue, a post about a travel experience. Well, as I’m presently studying in South Africa and will likely have my longest experience as a foreigner here, there’ll likely be more travelogues with impressions. As expected, a frequent question one receives when in a new place is “how is it over there?” to which “fine” is for once an impolite answer. You’re expected to elaborate. Describe how new the streets are, how often you see skyscrapers and the flamboyance or extreme poverty or both. You are expected to share info people could use in conversation even if they haven’t been there. Like we did in boarding school; tell the person of the ease of getting a car in S.A – if you’re South African of course- so they can share the worldly knowledge at their Njangi meeting “You know my daughter is in South African and she says South Africans are…” I am doing a poor job at relating these expected elaborations. When I am asked ‘how is it over there’? I can’t think of anything out of the norm. For me, the country ‘was as imagined’. It neither exceeded my expectations nor did it particularly underwhelm me. What it has done, however, is make me wonder if Cameroon may be cursed. I know what you’re thinking. That I have likely been asking myself “why can’t Cameroon have this [insert visible aspect of development here] or that’? Well you’re wrong. That is not what has me considering a national curse. My thoughts on a Cameroonian curse are quite literal, I do believe we may have been cursed, as in jinxed, having angered the dead. See, when people ask me to describe S.A this is what comes to mind: nearly every other street is named for Mandela, statues of the ‘national patriarch’ consistently feature in all urban locations such that you can play ‘connect the dots’ with ease. Every campus has some hall honoring some apartheid hero/heroine, students actively protest the statues and emblems of former oppressors, the history of the people and their champions are so well-recorded, the stories of those who sacrificed made easily accessible… I do not claim that all South Africans know their full history, but they recognize their heroes’ names. They remember those who went before, what they once had to endure, those who died for what is theirs today. And for this reason, I can only wonder if Cameroon carries a curse. Imagine yourself as Ernest and Martha Ouandie, Um Nyobe, Ndeh Ntumazah, Njoh Litumbe, A.N Jua and many more… matriarchs and patriarchs whose efforts for our nation has gone barely noticed. Their names selectively taught in history lessons across the country depending on the location of the school, or the teacher’s predictions for national exams. Their stories and sacrifices almost forgotten, left to the Twitter pages of @HisotireduCameroun or @Dibussi to remind us with “In this day in Cameroon history”. With each day I walk around my campus, I see the halls named for South African heroes and on days commemorating them, I see posters with messages by them. For the life of me, I cannot recall any quotations from Um Nyobe, no posters or memes highlight inspirational words from Foncha for me to share as the host of Cameroonian friends share memes with ‘quotables’ from Martin Luther King Jr. or Mandela on their respective days. Our history is lost to us, the efforts and mistakes of our own have been ignored, is it any wonder why we’re currently repeating history? When did we ever learn it enough to heed it? I’d like to think I’m fanciful, that I’m being superstitious with this… but what if it’s true? What if we’re cursed? That’s what comes to mind each time someone asks ‘tell me about S.A’. I’d like to respond with, “S.A remembers somewhat, here you can feel that the people know where they’ve been even if they don’t know where they’re going”. S.A forces me to realize that in Cameroon we know neither.