Have you ever considered that the reason one may want to have kids is unhealthy? This month’s musings are on my own coming to terms with unhealthy motivations for motherhood and why I take my current position on it. As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. So drop a comment after watching the vlog!
Inspired! A Christian Love Challenge
I’m blessed to be a member of a Cameroonian women’s ministry called Praying Brides” with the motto “From child of God to Bride of Christ”. This past week I was asked to join the team responsible for developing quarterly challenges and planning Praying Brides’ retreats. As my first task, I was to develop a challenge on a theme given to me by my friend Olivia Mukam who founded the women’s ministry. She said “so can we have a challenge that inspires us to practice biblical love for self and others in the ‘month of love’ and I was like: Cool! After a really bad dry spell having nothing to write/no zeal to write. I am truly ecstatic at the divine inspiration that birthed this challenge so I decided to share it with a wider audience via my blog. Here goes: Praying Brides Challenges us all TO KNOW LOVE & BE KNOWN AS LOVING more than ever over the course of 14 days spanning from the 13th to the 26th of February 2023.Our challenge has two parts; we’re challenged to KNOW LOVE (to experience self-love as God called us to) and be KNOWN AS LOVING (to reflect the love of God to our fellow man). Part One: KNOW LOVEAs per Jesus’s words, we would be keeping ALL the commandments if we but: “Love the Lord your God with all our heart and with all our soul and with all our mind and with all our strength… and Love our neighbours as we love ourselves.”This suggests if we don’t love ourselves, we’ll not be able to love our neighbours, not be able to fulfil the commandments, nor live as God has called us to. So over the first 7 days of the challenge, we will *pray scripture* and practice acts of genuine and biblical self-love. Part Two: BE KNOWN AS LOVINGAnd John said, “If you do not love your [neighbour] whom you can see, how can you [claim to] love God whom you cannot see?”. In the second week, we challenge ourselves and others to exemplify Christ’s love so that we be known as His. For as scripture says: “… By this everyone will know that you are my disciples if you love one another.” (John 13:35).Are you in? Check out the details of the challenge below! I’ve made a nifty table to illustrate the underlying scripture of all we are challenging ourselves (and others) to do. The table also has a column which gives examples of how we can act on the challenge. These examples are just that- examples… You might have a different way to fulfil the challenges, don’t let the examples box you in. I’ll love to know if you like the challenge and if you decide to take it up, do drop a comment or tag PrayingBrides on IG if you do! THE CHALLENGE THE (UNDERLYING) SCRIPTURE(S) / SCRIPTURE(S) TO PRAY EXAMPLES OF ACTIONS TO DO (YOU CAN ADD YOURS) PART 1: KNOW LOVE Day 1- We challenge you to praise God for his Creation- You ” For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”Psalm 139:13-16 Write an abridged version of Psalm 139 that appreciates how God created you (if you don’t want to write it out, you can do a voice note or a video of yourself appreciating how God took his time to make you and all that which shows you are wonderfully made. Day 2- We challenge you to find God in you…assess and appreciate all the ways you reflect your maker and all the ways God is changing you/conforming you to be more like Christ… Colossians 3:10 and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge after the image of its creator. 29 For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. Draw a figure of yourself, do a before after of yourself and appreciate your progress and God’s ‘shaping’ work as the Potter He is. Day 3- We challenge you to show yourself the ‘highest form of love’- discipline Proverbs 25:28 – He that [hath] no rule over his own spirit [is like] a city [that is] broken down, [and] without walls. Proverbs 15:32 – He that refuseth instruction despiseth his own soul: but he that heareth reproof getteth understanding Commit at least one act of self-discipline today (telling yourself no to some indulgence you know would harm you, putting up boundaries for your eventual peace of mind… basically doing something that future you will thank you for And/Or Reach out to one person (or more) whom you can trust to give you critical feedback on how you can work on yourself- listen to them with an open heart and commit to working on what has been brought to your attention Day 4- We challenge you to get to know yourself Romans 7:15-24 “For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree with the law, that it is good. So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing.” 2 Corinthians 13:5 Examine yourselves, to see whether you are in the faith. Test yourselves. Or do you not realize this about yourselves, that Jesus Christ is in you?—unless indeed you fail to meet the
So why/how do you use LinkedIn?
I was having a mentoring session with a 22-year-old over a week ago and asked her if she has a LinkedIn profile.She said she had just registered on the platform but that there was barely anything on her profile and that “she doesn’t know how to use it”. Recognizing a flimsy excuse I quickly asked her how she learned to use other social media… she says, well with others you already have your “friends” on board to interact with. With LinkedIn, she got recommended connections based on her geopolitical location and the persons’ popularity, so she was recommended to follow our most popular Cameroonians in the corporate world (Rebecca Enonchong and co.) While the part about who/how LinkedIn recommends surprised me, her inability to see value in this platform did not. Through my youth work with Better Breed Cameroon I’ve discovered young Cameroonians don’t value this platform as much as you’d think people actively seeking work would. For them, (and many others) LinkedIn is for people who’ve already made it. They come on here and see as she said in her own words “people always posting an achievement at work or a new job”…This platform is undoubtedly daunting for someone like her; a recent graduate who has had very limited educational and career counselling. She’s someone with a broad-based B.A in Journalism and Mass communications but no idea if and how to use it (and considering changing her field completely to procurement) because the concern for her (as is the case with most graduates) is what can I do to get money immediately! Young people (like her) whom I have worked with feel (and this is a whole other topic to be discussed) that they should be able to monetize the qualification they just completed. So if signing up on Linkedin with their fresh degree won’t “get them a job”, why sign up, they ask? But using LinkedIn as an employment tool is playing a long game. People don’t share this enough. I recall my disbelief when a writer friend (who was also a doctoral scholar of law at the time) mentioned being scouted on here. I didn’t think it happened to people like us- Africans working on the continent. At the time I was on LinkedIn not in hope of getting recruited, but rather in hope of networking with people I could only aspire to be like. I stalked their profiles as I envisaged and planned mine. You could say LinkedIn served as my vision board at the beginning… Then, being a writer I thought to chronicle my career journey here with LinkedIn articles, to share my work and build a profile… second reason for use- is branding. Soon as a graduate student I’d see it as useful for finding funding opportunities, soliciting the necessary recommendations, following up on the development agencies I was interested in for research… And finally, LinkedIn was the social media platform I could share news of this conference or that fellowship with people who get it/would appreciate it just as much- unlike FB for instance where family and friends would just ooh and ahh not over what I was wearing in the photo (nothing bad about that of course). So a place for meeting like minds? I thought of all these reasons when the mentee I mentioned earlier asked me: “is LinkedIn useful for you? Is it helping you get work?” If I told her yes, I’d be insinuating that I’ve landed one of my previous or current jobs solely via LinkedIn and that is a lie. But I also couldn’t say ‘no’ because I’ve within the past year – over a decade on this platform- I’ve been solicited by recruiters for potential consulting work thrice. So obviously the potential is there… but the profile they’re looking for took 11 years to build. So what did I tell her? I said simply “that it has its uses”. I want her to see LinkedIn for all the uses I’ve outlined above and more, I want young people like her to see beyond the endless posts of people “humble bragging” about achievements… To see that people like her can use it as a vision board, use it to network and reach out to people whose contacts they’d never get otherwise… use it to find a fellow Cameroonian at a foreign university you’re moving to or a fellow black woman in a predominantly white space. Use it to amplify your work and the works of your friends (p.s check out this amazing paper by my MILEAD sis @RamaDieng). Use it as Twitter for the corporate world and call out institutions if you have to. Use it to dream out loud by posting your career aspirations and motivations (the right person just might come along to support you…). Use it to do background checks on potential employers (and employees). Use it to keep abreast of what is happening in your field etc. In all these different uses lie personal branding, credibility building, knowledge acquisition and more which leads to the employment one desire… that’s the long game! But you can enjoy the now too! E.g the featured image is me laughing out loud in delightful conversation with a friend I first made acquaintance with on LinkedIn 😊 I’m sending this to piece to the person who inspired the writing of it and other mentees as my very long response to that question upon reflection and thought to share it here too. This is not a paid promotion for LinkedIn lol! But enough about me, what about you? Why/how do you use LinkedIn P.P.S I’d love to be an assessor for perhaps an undergraduate- research project looking at how many Cameroonian employers look up their potential employees’ LinkedIn accounts (or other social media) prior to employment… someone should pick up this research idea!
Want to have a successful year? How are you defining success?
What if I told you, there’s a way to guarantee you have a successful 2022? Well, I can; because a successful year all depends on how you define success. Here’s a definition I recommend.
Dear Fellow Cameroonians, Do us a Favor and Educate Yourself this Women’s Month!
As someone who is very vocal about being a feminist and someone who teaches feminist studies, I would get tagged on Facebook posts meant to ‘trigger’ my reaction on a DAILY basis. Thankfully, I unfollowed the worst offenders and used the security options to limit who can tag me on posts. Still, I am acquainted with people who send me things directly either to make their argument “see what is wrong with that you people’s feminism?” Or to genuinely ask “what do you think about this?” The latter are few and far between. A while ago, I came across a post by writer Chika Unigwe which struck me. I cannot find the exact tweet, so to paraphrase her: “I do not owe anyone knowledge on social media. Unless you are a student in my classroom, it is not my responsibility to educate you”. The statement might seem outright arrogant and elitist. After all, those who don’t share knowledge are just being selfish right? Nope, that’s not right at all. The statement is not grounded in the refusal to share knowledge, but rather in the refusal of the obligation too often forced on those who are conscious, those who are marginalized and oppressed to do the FREE and emotionally-draining work of educating those who partake in oppressing them. Audre Lorde puts it best in her collection entitled Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches: Black and Third World people are expected to educate white people as to our humanity. Women are expected to educate men. Lesbians and gay men are expected to educate the heterosexual world. The oppressors maintain their position and evade their responsibility for their own actions. There is a constant drain of energy which might be better used in redefining ourselves and devising realistic scenarios for altering the present and constructing the future. Too often, those who request explanations from believers and advocates of a certain cause- whether that is believing in Christianity of advocating for feminism or protesting Anglophone marginalization- do so from the position of “I already know I’m right, but I want to have fun” or “my knowledge is superior, I dare you to prove me wrong”. As such, explaining anything becomes a sort of thesis defense. Imagine it: having to regularly defend that you are just as human and deserving of equal opportunities, equal rights, and just treatment. That is what feminists have to do online nearly every damn day. And this is because most people don’t know what feminism is. They don’t want to. We all have the ability and resources to educate ourselves, and if one’s curiosity is genuine they would put in the work, and look for reliable sources rather than jump the wagon and preach based on social media posts often taken out of contexts. And that is just it, a lot of the curiosity is not genuine so they don’t put in the work. They ‘just share’ what suits their own pre-conceptions. So why- unless you’re paid for it- would anyone want to engage in educating them? God knows I’m tired of it and after this blog post- where I’ll be sharing my perspective and details on an ongoing campaign that can serve as a resource for the genuinely curious- I’m resigning from it. Last year, I was interviewed by Toridey on a variety of issues, feminism among them. Please see the video below: This year, my organization Better Breed Cameroon is running a #WomensMonth2020 campaign on all our social media to shed light on women whose contribution to nation-building has been undervalued, women whose sacrifices and abuse has been given inadequate attention and the general status of gender issues in Cameroon that speaks to just why we need feminism. See below release for details: From now henceforth, this post will serve as my response to any requests for free explanations. I hope you enjoyed it and I hope those who need to educate themselves! As always, your comments are welcome!
An Open Letter to Myself and other Cameroonians Like ME Who May Need Some Hope
To you, the young start-up CEO with bold dreams and drive and talent struggling to survive in a country that is outright discouraging for business To you, father and mother fraught with worry over your child’s safety, over their future, over the possibility of them being all you would hope they would be, doing all you have hoped they would do in a country such as ours. To you; farmers and market wo(men), working 20 hour days. Undervalued for your work even as you sustain the country. Grappling with everything from market fluctuations to war to the arrogance of a middle and upper class who would bargain the value of your goods down to nothing- like a sport. To you, immigrant by force rather than choice. Working multiple jobs and long hours to support a family at home. To live up to the hopes those who saw you off at the airport had on their faces. To you, civil servant stuck in the system you would like to change but unable to. Fighting not to become ‘one of them’. And still fighting yourself because you need that work. To you, journalist afraid to do what you have been called to do. Forced to negotiate your right to self-expression every day. Slowly transforming from bard to silenced victim -or worse- a sycophant for survival. To you pensioner, tired, so tired. After years of saving up to survive if not enjoy your retirement in the country that doesn’t care… Yet you are now chased from the house you saved up to build, you are now an IDP, your life’s effort seemingly futile. To you, the doctor, to you the nurse. Underpaid and at risk every single day. Regularly confronting illness and death which could have been avoided, if only… if only we were better…. To you, activist, development worker, advocate striving for a better future. Investing your money, time, effort, health… sacrificing your relationships, safety, pleasures and loads more… with very little rewards, and little hope of future rewards. To you: student, teacher, entertainer, writer, engineer, unemployed graduate, private sector employee, hairdresser, researcher, seamstress, translator, builder, businessman, taxi-driver… To you all and to me. I’m sorry. Very sorry. But I must ask you still to hope. I know too well how we all try. I know too well how tired we are. Sleep no longer helps, food no longer satisfies. We have made do until we are about done. We want to give up. There is enough reason to. Why believe in something that is set up to self-destruct. Why fight for people who cannot appreciate the sacrifice? Why not just leave? I have asked all these of myself. I am even now asking this of myself. I would like to teach myself to give up, to learn not to hope any longer. I am struggling to dream a new dream a dream other than a Cameroonian dream. I truly wish I could. Actually that is a lie, I do not wish I could. It is not a wish, rather it is something I know I should, for sanity and a different life. My real wish, what I pray for is that I had some motivation- just a bit of relevant encouragement to keep trying. So I am writing this to me and to you too. To all of us that may need some reason to go on after that mockery of a presidential speech. After yet another trip past threatening soldiers wielding guns at what used to be your local hangout or after yet another lockdown imposed without care. This is for all of us at the brink. Sister, brother, mother, father… Sit down. Rest. Remember, try to remember who you once were. Try to remember what birthed the dream you now want to give up. Try to remember why you started. Take it out, that motivation. Regard it again, even if it is now an empty bottle. Drop your tears in it and shake to capture any residue of hope left. Drink that. Never throw away the bottle. You may need it again. And even if next time only the scent of what the bottle once held is left to flavor your tears. Repeat. Because hope is a fragile thing but hard to completely remove. Some dregs must remain like oil drops in a narrow-mouthed bottle. So please try again. I am sorry to ask. I know it’s too much. But if I don’t hope. If you don’t hope. There will be no hope. So let’s try. Perhaps just a little more. Let’s hope, just a little while longer. We do not do it for this government. Not even for the country. We do it for ourselves. And for others who like us will have a dream, much like ours, and will need to see an example of those who didn’t stop even if they slowed down.
“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
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.