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
So This is How it Starts?
When you watch Hotel Rwanda, one of your first thoughts is: this story is incomplete. How did they get there, that early scene? How do a people get to a point where it is ok to order machetes for killing other human beings they had lived with, worked beside, bought from, and sold to? In years to come, you will read of other countries – or courtesy of Half of a Yellow Sun- of countries that were. You will listen to other people, through documentaries and interviews. Like the weathered father on that Al-Jazeera documentary narrating how he now searches for his son, fearing the young man has returned to Somalia to join the Al Shabaab. You wonder how that man could stand by and allow his child be radicalized. Your own parents would have slapped sense into you. With each story, you read or listen to, you questioned how whole groups of people reach that point. You know your people have never known true peace but you still wonder how it becomes normal for people to carry such a heavy load of hate such that they consider and commit murder, such that one can blow up themselves for questionable beliefs? How? Unfortunately, fate decides to help you answer these questions through experience, and gives you the recipe for war you didn’t ask for. *** Mix ¾ silent majority propagating stereotypes and fending only for self 2/3 biased media, journalists reporting for sensationalism, the next brown envelope, or to encourage their own faction ½ inadequate education, teach young people dependency but not proactivity, teach youth the parts of a grasshopper but neither the hard truths of their history nor the laws of their country. Leave them grossly uninformed and depending on which region their school is based, leave them to be further socialized with stereotypes. Add a full measure of fear and distrust of the armed forces, be they police, army or everything in between. Let that fear seep so deep into their hearts and do nothing to erase it. Add tribalism, corruption, religious dogma, and let these mature under an oppressive government with power-drunk, short-sighted stooges of neo-colonialists who would rather repress than dialogue Sprinkle a dash of social media power to inflate everything, and spread incomplete news faster… And there you have it, the perfect conditions for war. *** You were not wrong when you thought Hotel Rwanda was incomplete. No film could capture it all. Wars are like wine; they mature over time but pop out as spontaneously as harmattan rain. The screenwriters had to leave the rest to the imagination or to experience. You are discovering now that it begins slowly, with years of grumbling and anger accumulating, hoarded like an abscess left to fester till it bursts open with an accidental scratch. War began when your aunty was mocked for marrying “Les Bamenda la”. It began when going to French areas became synonymous with going to the metropolis and returning to Anglophone areas was synonymous with rural living. War grew in our hearts when we would go on long holidays to French areas and count how often the power went off, noting that it was less frequent than the times it went off back ‘home’. The seeds of war were sown unwittingly when you soaked in your grandparent’s disdain for all things French such that boycotting French lessons didn’t faze you. You were allowed to fail that subject. No one would question it. War spread as we grew, grew older, and grew tired, as our government didn’t even bother to pretend any longer. As our president would patronize with statements like “apprenti sorcier” referring to protesters, or “better late than never” as an excuse for and tardy celebration of independence and presumed unity. And this is how war began; like a belch after you’ve eaten too much. Taken too much nonsense. Nonsense like regional balance which somehow is always unbalanced. Nonsense like regular news broadcasts which omit the hard truths, twist the soft ones and butcher the language of the minority- news that is ironically old no matter the presenter. Nonsense like government appointments comparable to a game of musical chairs. We all have a chance to sit and eat, then shuffle dance to get another chance. Nonsense like tens of millions disappearing, stolen, they say, from ministers’ homes as though they were national bank vaults. Too much nonsense like fifty thousand people registering to write entrance exams where only two hundred and fifty are needed. A veritable lottery. The battleground was slowly built but the war has been quickly called. As swiftly as the arbitrary arrests of January 17th, 2017. When all of a sudden those who would answer bullets with sit-in protests were replaced with those who could actually wield machetes if given. Now you can tell that war is not a fire, but a bar of soap, able to hold still when dry, but ready to slip out of grasp when lathered. And governments like yours would lather, throw water saying “It is nothing. They will return to court when they are hungry”, “There is no Anglophone problem”…“Those people protesting are terrorists”… and so the foam will build and you will see war tumbling towards you like the unwieldy soapsuds. Yet not everyone will see it. It is funny like that. Soap lathers silently, so it is that war encroached silently, with people accepting the bubbles as the norm. War grows unto people. They begin to take cases of vengeful arson in stride, they make excuses for journalist calling for massacres, they defend all the wrong means using the desired end, even it the desire is hazy. War foams slowly with adaptation to over-militarisation, with alternatives found to ‘inconveniences” like opening up shops on Sundays and sending your kids to other towns for schools. Like securing visas to travel; let those who are poor and unable to leave remain to die. You see now that this is how it starts, the wars you read about, watched
Takeaways from ‘The Struggle’
I recently wrote a piece for This is Africa on the lessons my experience of living under the Internet ban left me with. You can read the piece here The internet ban was just a fraction of this protest, however. This ‘struggle’ which has gone on for over seven months experience has marked me in more ways than I can express. I am sure it has marked others just as much if not more. As I noted takeaways from the internet ban I considered other lessons this experience in its entirety should have taught us collectively as Cameroonians. This experience; the loss, the violence, the rifts, the ignorance, and crookedness it has exposed should be at the very least a learning experience. It should above all else challenge us to address things we let slide before, contributing factors to our current predicament we often overlooked. Consider our Police…. For one, I hope Cameroonians now see the need to focus on the way we recruit our police and jailers. I hope we now find ourselves discontented at the common notion that if you are slow at school, unable to make it to university it is best to bribe your way into the police force for that government matricule. We regular send our least accomplished, our most unstable, school bullies and least learned people to be trained to enforce the laws of our society; how does that make sense? How then can we complain about police brutality? What do we expect given the crop we send there? The majority of those signing up for a life of ‘law enforcement are barely in it for love of law, our police are there for the regular pay, the potential abuse of power, the government matricule… so how then do we expect that these people be relied on to serve us in time on emergency? As though that isn’t enough, have we considered how they are trained? Stories of shaved heads, gruesome physical and verbal abuse during police and gendarme training regularly trickle out; we hear them and shrug. We mutter “hmmm” clap our hands or say ‘ashia’ in case we’re chanced to hear those who experienced it tell the story firsthand. But have we considered how the inhumane training process is for gendarmes, BIR, police, and wardens affect their performance? I have witnessed ENAP- Prison wardens newly admitted welcomed like criminals of war at their training institute. Following such ‘training’ how do we then expect them to act humanely to actual prisoners? Hopefully, this experience has highlighted that we need to train better police to be able to believe in law enforcement. As of now, I doubt a Cameroonian child would opt to go to the police for security reasons. Civic ignorance is a breast lump… Civic ignorance is one of our greatest threats. For democracy to work you need informed people. A government for the people, by the people, is only as great as the people themselves are. After months of seeing fellow citizens “just discover” historical ‘secrets’ they should know for fact, I pray we have established that we as a nation need to do better in terms of civic education. It is unthinkable that so many of the younger generation know so little of our own history and what little some know is further tainted and distorted to fit certain stereotypes passed on by parents and regional groups. If Cameroon as a whole cannot teach its combined history to its entire population, how then do we expect to ever be on the same footing, building a future together? It should be unheard of that a Cameroonian knows the second in command of American and French political parties but is uncertain of who is next in line to succeed their own president. A great deal of misinformation during this crisis succeeded primarily because people of both educational systems are so lacking in knowledge of common historical events, lacking in knowledge of political processes, our laws, and rights. People have readily spread rumors of the United Nations doing what that international body has little authority to do, and with every Facebook and WhatsApp share it has become someone’s version of the truth. We literally have grown folks citing Facebook posts as sources like some ignorant undergrads cite Wikipedia. You may be thinking: of course, it is a conspiracy by the government to keep us ignorant blah blah blah. But nope, that doesn’t cut it. We need to take an adequate share of responsibility for our ignorance. This level of ignorance isn’t a result one party’s doing. It’s like a breast lump left unchecked. We all have a hand in this one. You sanctioned ignorance when you gave your child pocket money to go spend on the on 11th February last year without them knowing why they were marching in the first place. We all want to claim injustice this year and denounce these events, what were we doing last year? I was on the field last year to question people on the purpose behind 11th February celebrations, the responses were terrible! See videos here. We allowed this ignorance to build to this point where is has- like spittle spat above our heads- come down to foul our faces. Our collective ignorance has been highlighted in neon green during this protest and if we can as a nation take away one thing from this experience, I hope that is the need to address civic ignorance. We often brush away our lack of interest in knowledge of our country with statements like “why you wan know sef, the whole country is trash”. I can’t sigh enough at this. We need to know so we can properly criticize the ‘trash’. We need to know so we can address the trashy parts or don’t we want it fixed? If we fail to address our ignorance today as a people, we should be ready to have it used against us in the near future. Finally, the time is