Tensions are rising. And while I can’t call that a win, I can say it’s understandable, maybe even necessary. Before sharing this, I had to pray. Because this isn’t about me, it’s about sharing a lesson that’s been growing in my heart for the past year, one that the Holy Spirit has been teaching me through my anger, confusion, and faith. Last year, when Trump won, I was deeply angry, less about the outcome and more about what it revealed about humanity, and the way Christianity was being warped to legitimise a regression into hate. But God showed me the unexpected benefit in this: some things have to come into the light before they can be healed.What we’ve been witnessing, the rise of the far right, the open displays of racism, sexism, and intolerance, etc., these things didn’t appear out of nowhere. They were already there, festering in silence. Those who called themselves “liberal” or “progressive” thought they were winning, but were only louder, not more convincing. People’s minds weren’t changing; we had just learned how to drown out discomfort with better PR. And so, God helped me appreciate (not like nor enjoy) that injustice, hate, and hypocrisy are rising to the surface. It is not only proof that the world is falling apart, but also proof that the sickness is finally being exposed. Because sometimes, the only way to confront darkness is to let it come into the open. You can’t cleanse what you won’t name. I am sharing this lesson from the past year, because I find it particularly valuable to where we are now in Cameroon. Many are upset by the unrest and are “praying for peace”, but too often what we mean is silence, a return to comfort. Because peace without justice is just silence. It’s the quiet that comes from people being too afraid or too exhausted to speak. That’s why I’ve stopped praying for “peace” in the shallow sense. Too often, when we say Father, give us peace, what we really mean is make it quiet again. We want normal, even if “normal” was rotting underneath. But real peace is not quietness; it’s justice restored. The Bible says, Blessed are the peacemakers (Mathew 5:9). Peacemaking is not passive. It’s work. It requires strategy and courage. You can’t make peace unless you first admit there isn’t any. That means naming what’s broken, confronting what festers, and having the uncomfortable conversations that move us toward healing. So if you’re praying for peace, pray also to become a peacemaker, someone willing to have hard conversations, to think critically, to challenge what’s wrong even in your own home. Because peace won’t come from the top down; it starts with us.As I said yesterday, until we start calling out our friends, our uncles, our chiefs, and the elders in our own circles who benefit from upholding this system, nothing will change. This isn’t just about one man or a few men up there. The system survives because of what we have accepted, played into, and kept silent about. And I know many people are thinking they are powerless today, after the declaration of those results and with the spread of violence. But that’s a lie. A dangerous one. That’s one of the biggest lies we’ve been sold. My favourite Alice Walker quote says: “The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” You do have power.If you’re raising a child to be civic conscious and to shun ethnic bias and other divisions, you’re shaping a future mind, that’s power.If you can speak up, write, and influence others with your platform, that’s power.Even having difficult conversations is a power. You have power over what you allow to slide unchallenged in your circle. You only lose your power when you say, “What’s the point? Nothing will change.” Many of us are tired and resigned right now, but we still have some power. I’m inviting us to start from where we are. Talk to the people closest to you, especially the ones who think differently, who still believe the system works. You have the power to engage those you disagree with, who you know are complicit in keeping us all down, or who don’t know better. Let’s address our own, speak to that uncle who got you your job through his connections with the party.Address that elder in your church who excuses their participation in this system. Let’s have an honest conversation with the colleague who says, “That’s just how Cameroon is”? This is not about attacking anyone. It’s about peacemaking, the uncomfortable, confrontational and patient work of helping people see differently and finding common ground. Because if we are honest, the greatest evil this government has perfected is divide and rule.Francophones against Anglophones.North-West against South-West.Christians against Muslims.Each of us is taught to see the other as the problem. But the truth is, this system harms us all. Even those in power — they, too, are trapped in a machine that feeds them crumbs while robbing everyone of dignity. We need to acknowledge this division for what it is, a tool of control, and find our way back to common ground. So if you’re wondering, what can I do? Start there.Use the little power you have to spark conversations that matter. There’s a technique I use with my students when teaching feminism, and it works for complex topics too: ask questions that make people think. If you know someone who supports the current regime, talk to them. Pray first (genuinely) so you speak with calm and compassion, not anger. Then ask: 1. Do you recognise that Cameroon is not living up to its potential?That most Cameroonians deserve better, that people shouldn’t have to leave the country or bribe their way through life to survive? 2. Do you acknowledge that leadership is responsible for addressing these issues?That those in power are paid by citizens to serve, not to rule over them? 3. If you agree
On post-elections Cameroon, and the Dangerous Death of Hope
Years ago, I began using the hashtag #MakeCameroonHopefulAgain. People thought it was a mockery of “#MakeAmericaGreatAgain”. It wasn’t. It came to mind as I thought of what we needed most. We need hope. I write this having just concluded a conversation with a friend where we discussed our sadness at another sham of an election in Cameroon and the violence already spreading. Something she said reminded me of a video I saw recently, one that explained why Gaza matters so much. Now, I know many Africans hear that and go, “Abeg, we have enough problems of our own; Congo, Sudan, Cameroon…” And they’re right. Others counter that the world isn’t even talking about those places with the same energy, and they’re right, too. Both thoughts are valid. But that video said something that struck me and has made me appreciate Africans like Zukiswa Wanner taking Gaza seriously (read about her experience HERE). There’s something about Gaza that demands attention, not because it’s more tragic than others, but because it exposes one of humanity’s most dangerous delusions. That delusion is the belief in the perfect victim. We’ve been taught, through religion, through moral philosophy, through the selective histories on Martin Luther King Jr and Mandela, that if we are peaceful enough, patient enough, and innocent enough, the world will recognise our suffering. That if we document the injustice, appeal to conscience, show the evidence, people will do better once they know better. Gaza is a brutal contradiction of that belief. We have seen everything: the bombed hospitals, the dead children, the journalists silenced, the white allies targeted, and the churches and mosques alike destroyed. It has been filmed, documented, and verified. All the UN agencies have called it a genocide. And yet, the killing continues. If “doing everything right” still ends in annihilation, what happens to people’s faith in peace, in reason, in humanity? I think back to Nigeria in 2020, and the way I felt after the Lekki Toll Gate massacre. We watched that live, too. We saw the lights go out, and the soldiers open fire on young people singing the anthem. The #EndSARS protests may have been violent in many places, but in Lekki, where most are middle- to upper-class, there was a DJ playing music. That’s as peaceful as an African protest can get. It seems like a very resolute party with young people singing, and mostly on their phones. They still got shot by the army, the same army they fund through their taxes. And years later, one of the men responsible is now the president of Nigeria. What message does that send? It didn’t matter that we knew; it didn’t matter that journalists printed evidence of his other crimes. It says: evidence doesn’t matter. Some people can get away with it. Just as their guilt doesn’t hang them, so too, your innocence doesn’t save you. Do you see the issue? The danger? Now, let’s think of Cameroon. If we think critically, we have already seen this thing play out in Cameroon, with a horrific end. The ongoing Anglophone crisis didn’t start with what we now call “Amba”. Before that, there were teachers and lawyers, peaceful, moderate people asking to be heard and for legal systems to be respected and issues addressed. And they were mocked, arrested, and belittled. When you crush the moderates, when you show that peaceful protest and following due process means nothing, you create a power vacuum. And in that vacuum, beasts rise. That is how we now have the scourge of Amba and a people turned on themselves. People keep saying the Anglophone crisis became violent because guns got into the wrong people’s hands or drugs spread among the youth. But no, before the guns and the drugs, hope left their hearts. When people no longer believe that the peaceful path works, when they no longer trust that justice or accountability exist, what else do you expect them to become? You kill the last bit of hope people have in dialogue when you turn dialogue into a bureaucratic charade (see the 2019 “national dialogue”) and use peace marches for your selfish ends. And once hope dies, people devolve. They stop caring. And here we are, seeing the same thing happen again: people’s cries are being ignored in other regions, and the evidence the masses put together is being ignored. We have seen videos of electoral fraud with no accountability. If we keep letting that happen, if we keep mocking peaceful efforts, silencing reason, and ignoring evidence, then we are the ones feeding the beast. As someone who witnessed the crisis go haywire and spoke up against it from the start, this is a perilous spiral. You cannot control the beast; it turns on anyone and everyone. I’m writing this as a follow-up to a video I shared earlier to make a note, because I am noticing a pattern. People are losing faith in processes, in justice, in peace. And when hope goes, violence rises. In fact, violence has risen, and we must acknowledge that it is not because certain people are just violent, but rather it is evidence of increasing despair. Despair is the beginning of chaos. So please, let’s not joke with the widespread expressions of despair. Protect hope.It’s not sentimental, it’s imperative for survival. Before guns get into more hands, let’s make sure hope hasn’t left their hearts.
Earlier This Year, I Was Asked About Cameroon’s Politics. Here’s What I Said…
In January of this year, I was invited by Line Sidonie Talla Mafotsing to share my reflections on Cameroon’s political culture, our history of leadership, and what lies ahead as the country prepares for elections. Unfortunately, it appears that she can no longer publish the piece for which I was interviewed. Nonetheless, I remembered the conversation and how I spoke candidly about what we have normalised as a nation, the muted sense of agency many of us feel, and much more. I’ve decided to publish some of the transcript here on my blog because the interview gave me space to think more deeply about history, memory, silence, and the guardrails we must build if we want change to mean more than just a new face at the top. And as we head into the month where we’ll be seeing yet another (sham) of an election. These words are all I have for now.
Musings on the Cost of Caring… and the need to unlearn busyness (Aug 2025)
They say it costs nothing to be kind. But it does. It costs a lot. I can’t only be kind with words. I have to be kind with actions. I have to be kind with my time. I have to be kind with my energy. And all of those cost something. Attending a child’s birthday party means I need money for transport, I need money for a gift, and I need the well-being to show up and actually be present. Even just giving someone a smile requires that I myself am okay. How do I smile when I can’t afford healthcare? How do I stand up to injustice when I’m already exhausted, working three jobs just to survive? Kindness costs. Caring costs. Humanity costs. And those in power know it. They have always known it. They bank on it. They keep building on systems of inequality because nobody interrupts them. The people who might have disrupted it before us were busy trying to survive. Just like we are busy now, and because we’re busy now, they will keep accumulating, and it will get worse in the future. Today we decry the glaring inequalities with the wealthiest 1% owning almost more than half the world does, but Elon didn’t get rich today, he was given the tools generations ago. These billionaires had the systems already in place, and because nobody stopped them then, we can’t stop them now. Humanity costs. And you know what? Upon reflection, I believe the greatest evil, the most significant threat to humanity, isn’t even the billionaires or the politicians. It’s our busyness. That’s the real enemy. It’s the way capitalism has cultivated a culture of individualism, where we’re constantly occupied and constantly trying to survive. Because as much as I want to help, I can’t help when I myself need help. So people postpone caring until it’s convenient. We postpone showing up at protests because we have to clock in at work. We postpone resisting oppression because it’s hitting someone else first, not us. We stay busy until it comes knocking directly on our door. Our occupations are the biggest threat to our humanity. And they know this. They know we cannot afford to care in a capitalist system, so they keep us anxious, they keep us hustling, they keep us busy. I remember one time I was in a clando from Buea to Douala. The driver got stopped, as usual, by gendarmes looking for a bribe. They started nitpicking at his papers. He had already paid money at so many stops that day, and he got angry. He said, “How much do I even make on this route if every time I pass, I give you something?” He refused. He was furious. But the gendarmes just stood there, waiting. And one by one, passengers started getting out of the car. They didn’t want to be delayed. They didn’t want trouble. And I understood them. I was quiet at first. But then I saw the gendarmes watching, amused, knowing the driver would eventually cave in, because without passengers, he’d lose everything. And I thought to myself: this is exactly how oppression works. They bank on our time, our impatience, our busyness. That day I decided to stay. I stayed in the car. Just one other passenger and I did so. And I said to myself, I’ll try to cover the cost of one other passenger who left, I’d pay for that seat, so the driver wouldn’t lose everything. The money was a sacrifice, but the look on that man’s face… I’ve never forgotten it. I recall tweeting about it at the time. He needed our presence so that it wouldn’t look like his defiance was madness. That day taught me that resistance requires time. Resistance requires forfeiting comfort. It requires staying put when it would be easier to leave. And not everyone can afford that. It reminded me of another moment, in 2017, during the protests at the University of Buea. In a meeting, the administrators were giving the Vice Chancellor their account of what had happened. They were blaming the students, blaming ethnic groups, twisting the truth. I sat there listening, afraid. And then I opened my mouth. I said, “That is not what happened.” I corrected the story. My heart was pounding. I was so afraid that I secretly called a friend on WhatsApp and pressed record so there would be proof of what I said. Later, I told my godmother about it, and she said something I will never forget: “That was a privilege.” And she was right. I was young, single, no children, no dependents. If I lost my job, I could try finding another one. But for my colleagues with families to feed, parents depending on them, the cost of courage was too high. It wasn’t that they didn’t care. It was that they couldn’t afford to care. That is the reality of capitalism. That’s the reality of our world. Life doesn’t give us margin. You may care deeply about Palestine or Congo or Sudan, but that doesn’t mean you can sacrifice your child’s school fees for the cause. You may want to protest, but you can’t risk losing your job. You may want to speak truth to power, but you know it won’t only cost you; it’ll cost everyone who depends on you. And so, some people fight from within the system, while others choose to leave and love their country from afar. And I’ve learned not to judge either choice, because both come from the same truth: humanity costs, and not everyone can pay. But here’s the part that scares me the most. The powerful know this. They count on it. They count on our busyness, our fatigue, our survival. They count on us not having the privilege to resist. And as long as they can keep us in that state, they will continue to win. So when people say kindness costs nothing, I shake my head. No.
A Little Throwback Vlog (Feb 2025)
Back in 2019, while attending a conference in the U.S., an old acquaintance who hosted a Facebook show asked to interview me. He was curious about my feminist views and why I chose to work in Cameroon. Years later, I find myself at a similar crossroads, once again facing the familiar question: “Must you work in Cameroon?” So, I asked the brilliant videographer Glen Amungwa to turn that long-forgotten interview into a vlog. Most of the original recording had never been made public until now.Here it is. Enjoy
May 2024 Musings: Of travelling and choosing home
This past May, I had my first-ever real vacation.As in, the reason on my visa application was written out clearly as VACATION/TOURISM. There was no conference or work trip I was going for and I would then benefit from for some extra days of visiting… this was deliberately planned enjoyment! Such a win for the Year of No and doing less! I must say getting a visa with the reason being ‘vacation’ felt like a huge win; although there was a small “chakara” (pidgin for upheaval) during the interview and a minute where it seemed like family history would affect the decision, the final decision was positive and made me feel like “finally, these people know I don’t want to go and stay in their country sef!” Previous academic travel history and tendency to return home finally counted for something. Anyway, I got the visa, took all my annual leave days and planned to deliberately enjoy for a month in the U.S. As with any life event, there were lessons to be drawn from this U.S. Trip I thought to share. Unlearning is required for rest. We should all aspire to have American Audacity Choosing Home As I write these lessons from vacation, I think the last line of the above point is the real takeaway. Rest and travel are such a privilege that must be appreciated; you can only really “choose home” when you’ve had an option. You can only truly rest when you’re not actively being oppressed. In honour of those who can’t live fully, whose life was taken from them too soon, whose access has been denied, who are trapped. Please live. Don’t cut off your own wings, don’t limit yourself.
A Conversation with Nayah Ndefru
A few months back, I had a conversation with Nayah Ndefru on her Podcast “Breaking the Code” where she gathers her networking to discuss breaking the variety of toxic cycles plaguing us individually and socially for a better quality of life and fulfilment. Watch/listen to our conversation below.
In Which I Argue that the Cameroonian Government is the Greatest Missionary of All Time…
If you were asked who the greatest missionary in all of history is, who would you name? Who would you say has called most people to Christ? Who has done so much soul-saving that you think they deserve the star on the missionary walk of fame? A lot of people will name biblical characters. But don’t be lazy, I mean think of people we can trace in modern times. At this point, you are probably thinking of some old white people: John Wesley? Mother Teresa? Benny Hinn? Billy Graham? Or perhaps you’re thinking of some Nigerian televangelists? Who? Well, irrespective of who you thought of I’m here to argue that you’re wrong. I don’t need to know the preacher’s name; all I know for sure is that they can’t take the title of the greatest missionary of all time. If a missionary is one who wins souls for Christ, then the greatest of all time is none other than African government officials. Yes, you read that right. Let me make my case: A missionary is one who promotes their faith, a Christian missionary is one who promotes faith in Christ; causes people to believe in Christ. I’ve thought long and hard, and I can’t give anyone other than African government officials more credit or pushing African people to Christ. Western missionaries may have brought it here, but it’s our government that has enabled its preservation over a century later. In fact, the government has three great missionary achievements to its credit. 1. ‘Suffer them to Come Unto Me’ In Matthew 19:14, Jesus said “Suffer the little children to come unto me. Bible translators have explained that the meaning for “suffer” there was “allow” and not the ‘suffer’ we know as of today. But the African government officials did not hear that one. No, what they – and the rest of us too- have heard is that “pain is the touchstone of spiritual growth”, that suffering draws us to God. And so they believe they are doing the Lord’s work by suffering the civil servants who after scrambling to secure a government job must then wait years before they get paid. How won’t you believe in God as a medical doctor in this country? You must believe when you see how low people are surviving despite the low chances of survival. You must believe, for your own sanity, that you will live long enough despite daily risks as a frontline worker to see the day you cash out your arrears – after the bribe of course. And so the government sends you to the altar. Now, I’m not on the side of those who say God intentionally gives us pain to bring us to him. Personally, I don’t like nor agree with that framing. I understand it, I definitely think he permits the pain and uses it for good. But the intentional cruelness of breaking you, bring you to your knees seems sadistic and not at all God-like (see James 1:13). So of course I am not going to relegate the Government’s “ministry” to just that of suffering. Nope, they have other strategies for promoting the faith. So moving on, let’s look at their second missionary achievement … 2. “In God we trust” One of the most memorable lessons of the New Testament is that which teaches us not to presume tomorrow is assured… Jesus uses the Parable of the Rich Fool (Luke 12:16–21) to teach it and James (4:15) warns against betting on tomorrow and suggest that we rather say “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” Well, even if you’ve never read the bible, the Cameroonian government has taught you this lesson by virtue of their unreliability. We say “by God’s grace” automatically whether we’re active disciples of Christ or not; because if there is one thing we’re sure of, it is that nothing is sure. You may have money in the bank but you cannot be sure that the ATM would work, in fact, it is normal for them to have issues. You may have paid for a monthly data subscription but you are not sure to enjoy the data- and even if they skip days on end, you can do nothing but grumble. You are not sure of getting to work on time even if you left home early- some minister may be visiting and the roads will be blocked for hours with not consideration… Nothing is sure. No one teaches this better than governments like the Cameroonian and this makes them one of the greatest missionaries- whether they intend to be or not. In other countries where the system is reliable, you can plan for days ahead. In Cameroon courtesy of the government, doing meal prep for a week is an act of faith. You must be trusting in God because it cannot be in ENEO you trust… They have taught us dependency on Christ in a way Saker and Wellesley could never! 3. “In Everything Give Thanks” I in no way mean to suggest other countries are perfect… far from it. More developed countries have their own systematic failures. A Black-American probably has to pray that their justice system works as it should… Yet, the Cameroonian government has made thanksgiving a national practice in ways that can only be considered a missionary achievement. In the absence of a functioning system, even the littlest thing becomes a miracle. And so we hear resounding shouts of “thank God” when ENEO restores power. We clap in gratitude when the bus safely arrives Bamenda after a night journey – the way Africans elsewhere clap when the plane lands) because we know that our roads are hazardous and our driver may have acquired his license through corrupt means… We know it is a miracle that we’re not dying of Covid19 in crazy numbers, because there is literally no contact tracing done and the testing centers barely practice the measures they recommend. And while it is likely that
Home is [Not] for Everyone…
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.
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.