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
Faith Journey Lessons Inspired by Thoughts of Death
Last week I thought about dying. No, not as in suicide. But as in being killed. You see, I’m returning home soon and though I have looked forward to returning home from every trip/stay abroad, this time I am more apprehensive than excited. The crisis in the Anglophone regions which I call home has escalated to the point of guerrilla warfare. On one hand, we have the military shooting indiscriminately, burning villages, and government-ordered arbitrary arrests on the rise; on the other hand, we have the advocates for secessionism proving to be another extreme of evil with kidnappings, butchering and a general ruling by terror. I am returning home to this, both for professional and personal reasons, willingly returning because this is still home. Yet, I have questioned my sanity for desiring to walk into what many are trying to flee from. I have questioned my purpose, what I feel called to do, I have questioned God’s direction, and I have questioned myself in a hundred different ways. I am an over-thinker, I can create something to be anxious about out of thin air, and as this is a very real worry I have magnified it, worrying at an even larger scale. So I didn’t think only of the possibility of physical death (that would be relatively easy), I thought of all the ways I could die emotionally, spiritually, and mentally if hurt in a particular way. For days I thought of home and cried feeling like some foolish character in a horror movie who goes outside in the dark to check for what is making that eerie sound. You might think I’m exaggerating- and perhaps I am given that I’m thinking all this based on reports from home- but please put yourself in my place. Consider yourself someone already prone to worrying and imagine receiving news of shootings every day, a kidnapping for a ransom of 5 million, or teacher from a school 15 mins from your home having their fingers cut off. The truth is reported on the news often enough that I do not need to exaggerate. But this post isn’t about the crisis back home. It’s about what this time, living with this fear and constantly receiving news like this, has taught me about my faith, and my position on my Christian journey. This period, particularly the over-thinking I’ve done this past week has left me with two lessons I’ll be sharing here: On a particularly bad day last week the thoughts of dying hit peak while I was talking with a cherished friend who unknowingly said something hurtful, something that killed some hope I’d had in our relationship. That night I cried thinking of a different type of dying- dying hope. I learned an important lesson then, untimely death scares a lot of us not for what it is (we don’t feel the impact of our death ourselves) but for what it means. It often means the end of hopes enjoy fruits of our labor, feeling some success and some modicum of happiness at the end of the struggle. Christians are often thought to think of this world as a temporary place, we’re passing through. While the ideology is foundational of our faith, I think it’s simplistic to say ‘don’t think of the here and now’. I have learned from this time that we must be more honest, yes we have hope in a life after death, but I also have hope in God bringing about a future I hope for. We invest a lot in that hope of a future we hope for, we work hard in the here and now, to be good disciples while on earth, to have good relationships to live fulfilled lives. So let’s not sum up fear of death and bodily harm to an unwillingness to pass on physically. To me, it’s sometimes an unwillingness to believe God would let all the effort, the dreams sown in your heart be fruitless. Living unhappily, with no hope for the here and now is in itself another type of dying we rarely speak of. Suffice it to say, that as I overanalyzed everything last week I felt like the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes, wondering why we all try so hard and whether it was even worth it. As I was leaving one WhatsApp chat to another discussing my anxiety, plans, questions etc. a friend brought something to my attention which would be my 2nd lesson in this period. She had noted that when I have a decision to make, or some issue on my plate, I repeat the same pattern for dealing it. I say I’m praying over that thing- and I do- but then I carry whatever it is to whoever I can, flesh out the worry, analyze the issue several times with 20 different people, collecting all their opinions till I’ve talked more than I’ve prayed. Debated and questioned more than I could ever hope. At the end of this- the end comes when I’m just plain tired and or have run out of people I like enough to share the issue with- I resign to whatever would be. Such that my trust in God’s will is more out of resignation than actual faith. The friend who brought this pattern to my attention also encouraged me to re-read the book of James. Shortly after I started it, I found verses which summed my actions up exactly James 1:6-7). I meditated on that verse had a heart to heart with another Christian sister-friend and in the course of conversation came up with the term ‘prayer/worry hoarder’ describing my habit for needing other people to help me worry, asking them to pray for what I’ve prayed for and worry about what I’m worrying over- rather than trusting. The revelation into this habit hasn’t resolved anything, I’m still anxious. Yet now I’m conscious of this pattern of mine and taking steps to curb my doubt-based behavior. For instance, knowing
29 Lessons I’ve Learned at 29: A Collection of Personal Epigrams Thus Far…
Earlier this month, I celebrated my 29th birthday. I have dubbed this year: My year of testimonies signifying my commitment to share more (particularly of lessons learned and vulnerabilities) by way of personal healing, self-evaluation ahead of the big 3.0 and in hope of encouraging someone else as I have often sought to be encouraged this past year. I began this testimony-themed year by sharing my ‘salvation story’ or the account of how and why I committed to the Christian faith. You can read this HERE. My contemplation on how far I’ve come this year and all there is to share led me to review my journals. I found an entry which reminded me that in 2012 as I completed undergrad, I had made an ambitious seven-year plan for fulfillment by the age of thirty. As per this plan, my 29th year was to be “My Year of Preparation”; it was to be the year I became fully ‘adult’. Underneath 29 I had put bullet points listing the goals for the year or what being ‘fully adult’ meant for me at that time. According to that list, as a twenty-nine-year-old I: – Should have a healthier lifestyle- a healthy weight, diet, skin care routine etc. – Should be getting to solvency, with savings, property, and finally acting on that business idea… -Should be enrolled in a postgraduate program and establishing myself as a writer and educationalist. – Should be setting up a family and preparing myself to be all I needed myself as a child. – Should have complete training at church to be a liturgist occasionally and be an active member of a Christian fellowship -Should have plans for establishing a youth center like the YMCA in the works WELL! Let’s just say I had some ambition way back then eh? I will not be holding myself up to this list, rather I shall think of it with appreciation as it shows that even back then, I knew I had to PREPARE and work on myself to achieve the fulfillment I desired and still desire. I am proud of the younger Monique for having figured that out. There’s a lot more I’ve figured out in these 29 odd years and I’ve coined life quotes from lessons learned which I share in this piece. Consider these 29 original sayings as epigrams to remember me by. Notes on Living, Loving and Being … The worst thing about life isn’t the catastrophes, the losses, the pain or disappointments it brings to us all. The worst thing, in my opinion, is that life goes on. It does not stop for us to collect our bearings, regain our rhythm, restore our hope or reclaim our faith. One may lose their entire family, another may lose their only source of joy, yet another the hope which kept them sane; but still life goes on, others live as though the world had not ended had not ended for one. You can believe all you want. Unlike Hollywood PG 13 movies, wishes don’t come true by believing alone. Believe in good, believe that justice will come someday, and right will conquer wrong. But bear in mind that this may happen on the day after you are buried in your grave. And it doesn’t make it too late for there was never a set date. One of the ironies of life, I have found, is how we are encouraged to dream grandly as children only to be urged to settle soon as adults- and our souls expand and contract with each compromise and negotiation, weathering away. The thing about tomorrow? It never has enough hours or the capacity to fulfill all we wish it would, so we always need another one. I have found that many people don’t notice my hearing impairment in the course or a conversation. To them, my rapt attention is response enough. And I can talk to at length with one whose name I do not know, one whom I have only just met. Because sometimes we do not need words. Everyone smiles in the same language, everyone understands the tilt of a head, can comprehend eyes welling up with tears and a hand outstretched…or withheld.
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.
The Employment Problem Cameroonians Are Not Talking About
When we think of employment issues in Cameroon, we often think of the unemployment and how graduates can go for years looking for suitable work. We think of underemployment and how someone with a masters degree in rural development could end up driving a taxi We talk about the lottery-like national entrance exams into the civil service, the corruption, and tribalism that pervades the whole process. But what about after employment? What about those who do make it past that line and then set the standard of mediocrity which is killing us as a nation? That’s what I’m musing on this month. Check out the vlog below and leave me your thoughts in the comments!
For Christian Girls Who Have Sought Reasons to Live When Faith is Not Enough
I know what it means sister, Know what it means to seek hope like children seek fireflies on too-warm evenings I know what it means sister, Know what it means when you finally catch one… and the light flickers. Off I know what it means sister, Know what it means to question and scold yourself for ingratitude For surely you must be ungrateful. Surely you haven’t appreciated enough if you feel this way I know what it means sister, Know what it means to be told to pray the darkness away. Know that on some days it works, and others it doesn’t I know. I know what most don’t That praying over it means thinking about it And thinking leads to overthinking. Overfeeling And possibly drowning in what you’d rather escape. I know how hard it is to tell, sister How hard it is to explain what you, yourself, can barely understand. How to describe the feeling you fight when some days it’s easy to beat… And at other times it needs weeks… I know sister, I know So don’t feel you’re not holy enough, Never feel you’re not faith-full enough “Enough” faith is for the martyrs… but we’re all just learners here Be consoled in that someone knows sister That someone understands you setting up a vision board with reasons to live That someone understands that even the scripture, that double-edged sword. Finds it hard to cut through the cloak that is depression. Seek all the help you can, sister. And if you need me, I’m here. I do not know it all, But this much I do.
The Extravagance of Black Forgiveness
A friend of mine recently asked me why I haven’t written about the situation back home. He said he “wished I was still back home because I’d feel more acutely the pain of the situation and write some good pieces”. I tell him that I, like many others, am tired. Fed up with the stupidity and arrogance which drives this situation. Yet, if conversations could run for pages long, I would have simply shared the following piece which I wrote at the end of November 2017 but never shared- till now. *** A week after Zimbabwe offered the world what may be the most civil coup ever, you are still reading articles, think-pieces overanalyzed op-ed pieces on the ‘rise and fall of Uncle Bob’. You are still interested despite the repetition, despite the dread the writers generally project of what next. You are still interested because in reading those pieces you are encouraged that someday (hopefully soon) your own Mugabe shall fall, or be toppled… whichever way would do. But a week later you come across new information, details of the largess which characterizes Mugabe’s pension upon forced retirement. His presidential salary will continue as is, he receives a lump sum of 10 million USD, maintains all properties acquired as president, health coverage, and several other benefits. An obviously generous pension considering whatever his family had already looted. The generosity baffles you; this cannot possibly be the sanction for dictatorship, this cannot be the sanction for forcing millions of your people into exile and holding the growth of a whole nation hostage. This cannot possibly be what people marched for. You are not Zimbabwean, so you read the comments. Most say they’re fine with it, that it is better than having him in power. That Zimbabwe must move on. That they do not need to fight with the tyrant. One particular comment stands out: “Zimbabwean’s should forgive the bastard not for him but to free themselves”. The comment tugs at your memory, you have heard that before. You have heard it on several occasions. You heard it when Gambia’s Jammeh lost “Don’t mention prosecuting him, just let him go so you can move on…” You heard similar last year and dozens of times before when a Cameroonian immigrant woman you know was told to forgive her abusive husband for the sake of her kids “Don’t put those children through the court process in this country ooo. These people will ask them all sort of questions. We are not white people. Settle this in your family so you can move on with dignity.” You have heard this so many times, linked to scripture like whole countries are of one faith. Like forgiveness can be demanded. A commodity one can order. Yet this time, perhaps because you are reading the articles expectantly looking to Zimbabwe as a beacon of hope for the potential toppling of your own dictator, you are upset by the extravagance of black forgiveness. You recall the first comment you made upon learning of black petting zoos, and how black children were caged to be observed like animals. You said: We have forgiven too much. We have. And we have forgiven on behalf of too many, who never did and never may get closure. You also recall the Charlottesville shooting and the quickly offered, widely publicised forgiveness of Dylan Roof. You had wondered then as you wonder now, who gave them the authority to forgive. Yes, they were related to the victims, just like those who now forgive are Zimbabwean, but the evil was done to us all, has marked us all, has built anger in us all… who and what quenches the fire of injustices when one forgives for the whole. And why are we the ones always forgiving? We Blacks, we Africans, we Women. Why does the victim get told “to forgive is divine”, like victimisation made one saintly, propelled them into the realm of divinity. And if we must forgive, which is just fine by the way, do we not deserve to get an apology first? No repentance? No justice? Do we just bury the pain like a secret hidden in a chest for another generation to dig and discover? Does the dictator get a scholarship named after him like Rhodes so three generations pass and our children know him as a benefactor rather than an abuser? Above all, as you contemplate this exceedingly gracious treatment of a fallen dictator you wonder what it means for you and yours. As you look at Zimbabwe as an example, if no longer a beacon, you wonder why one should bother decrying the exploitation, mismanagement and abuse of Cameroonian government officials who would be so readily forgiven. If on one hand, African leaders who leave power ‘with good will” receive a boon by way of the Mo Ibrahim Prize effectively congratulating them for doing what the constitutions they swore to uphold said they ought to do…and those who don’t leave get generous retirement packages like Mugabe, promises to be left alone and not tried for crimes like Jammeh, or promises of lifelong Party leadership positions like dos Santos… if those are the options why denounce your Mugabe. If those are the options they have to choose from, they never really fall. And justice is never really served, definitely not implemented by us. For we forgive. Our forgiveness is expected, extravagantly gracious, shortsighted and shallow. Doing an even greater injustice to the memory of the injustice done to us. It is our forgiveness that has descendants of abusers, still enjoying historical privilege yet forming trade unions and denying that apartheid was an injustice. It is our forgiveness that has Kanye West saying slavery was a choice. It is our forgiveness that leaves our Cameroonian children unable to name the revolutionaries which fought for our independence. It is as a result of our profligate forgiveness that fifty years on, we have more statues and schools named after colonial figures than we do
April 2018’s Missing Post II: Doing away with Stereotypes One initiative at a Time
There’s a lot to rant about when it comes to Cameroon. Increasingly heavy militarization and other government mishandling of the problems in the Anglophone regions, the fight against Boko Haram in the North and developmental problems from bad roads to corrupt institutions plaguing all ends of the nation. Perhaps because there is so much to rant about, we as Cameroonians tend to see mostly the negatives and own them, while rarely appreciating the positive. How often do you hear someone muttering “C’est Cameroun” with disgusted resignation? Or if we do notice something positive we remark on it as though it were ‘nothing much’. Shortly after I set up Better Breed Cameroon, I decided that I will try to ‘light candles’ as often as I curse the darkness. I have often failed to achieve that parity, but fortunately, no one gave me the sole task of being a superhero. And even more, fortunately, there are many more like me, many other young people seeking to help make some positive change in their own way and for that I’m grateful Recently, one of those negatives we had owned as Cameroonians- the stereotype that “Cameroonian’s don’t read”- is being taken head on by several youth-led initiatives which prove Cameroonian do love/appreciate the beauty of words. Both the writing and reading of it. So without further ado, let me introduce you to just a handful of names/initiative titles to drop the next time someone presumes to tell you “Cameroonian’s don’t read. Bakwa Magazine’s 100 Days of Cameroonian Literature For 100 days, renowned literary magazine Bakwa Mag put a spotlight on Cameroonian literature, showcasing books by Cameroonian authors of all genres and both national languages. This social media campaign ran with the hashtag #100DaysofCameroonianLiterature between December 2017 and March 2018. The campaigned was widely followed particularly on Twitter with several statements of appreciation to Bakwa for their introducing people to books and authors they’d either forgotten or never heard of before. In the words of Bakwa editor Dzekashu Macviban “We did this both to showcase the diversity of Cameroonian writing as well as debunk the notion that there isn’t enough writing from Cameroon”. Well, Bakwa definitely proved people wrong. IYA Restaurants Griot Nights IYA Restaurant has established itself as a culinary and cultural delight located in Buea, Cameroon. Along with a magnificent menu, the restaurant offers events to bring the ‘Bougie’ of Buea out. One of those events it has highly encouraged is regular spoken word poetry events. Every last Saturday of the month, a crowd made mostly of University of Buea students with guests like Olga from Yaoundé and more come out to share their love for spoken word. One way IYA stands out is by actually training the poets a few days prior to the event to ascertain that their performances are of good quality and they show progress from practice. As a result of this, you might meet the same faces, but you’d likely be surprised by the stark difference in content and delivery. Attendance is usually ticketed using Eventbrite and the room is packed! Sometimes the evening’s have a theme and at other times it’s up to your whim. Either way, it is easy to see that IYA started something which rekindled the beauty of storytelling in poetry from among youth in the area. Mito Mito Mito Mito, a weekly Open Mic event equally originated in Buea likewise offers new encouragement to word lovers in Cameroon and offers to make poetry cool again. The events held regularly as of 7 pm on Mondays and mixed spoken word with Comedy, Karaoke, and Live Music. From Buea, Mito Mito has spread to Douala and the team behind it offering poetry performances on demand. For those of us who grew up at a time when poetry reciting in Cameroon consisted of rote memorization of some very tired lines teachers helped one with, this new wave of spoken word and the new generation vulnerable and bold enough to share art, what they read and write is utterly refreshing. And of course, stereotype defying. Black Swagger Poetry Events Let’s not focus solely on Buea though. Spoken word events like the BLACK SWAGGER POETRY SLAMs (BSPS) are hosted in Bamenda as well. Black Swagger poetry slams offer space for creatives based in the capital of the Northwest region and alternative evening entertainment encouraging wordsmiths and lovers of words alike to come out and share. The team ‘posits that Blackness is not an occasion for crying but a strong clarion call to stand up, stand out and be proud of who we are’ they try to discover unsung talents and help young people work on themselves by finding their own gift of words. Words that define them and define their stance on issues of change. Given the regularity of the events, one can confidently assert that there are enough word lovers; writers, thinkers, and listeners in Bamenda as well. A big shout out to the team behind the scenes making these events still possible despite the increasing militarization of the area. With events like this, they’re ensuring young people have a different outlet to vent. Better Breed Cameroon’s Reading Caravan More recently, I was privileged to be part of a team running an inaugural reading caravan project that aimed at inspiring reading culture in young Cameroonians- particular primary school pupils. The reading caravan began on the 23rd of February 2018 and closed on the 23rd of April 2018. This initiative lasted three-months and had over 20 volunteers read in eleven schools across towns in five regions of the country; Centre, Far North, Littoral, North-West and South-West regions. Over a hundred books were given out and the kids loved it! Eager to not only be read to but to read for themselves. Olivia Mukam Wandji volunteer reading at Tassah College, Yaounde I was particularly amazed at the support the caravan project received and is still receiving. The number of people who wrote offering to take time out to offer to read at
Dear Cameroonian Girl, Yes- you really, truly can #PressforProgress
Above is a brief message I was moved to make a few days back. It’s rough, but it captures the feeling I had that morning. The awe at how we- several young Cameroonian women I know and myself included- are literally living the Cameroonian dream. This is not a boast. It is definitely not about bragging about myself or any of my friends as I do appreciate the reality on the ground. We are a fortunate bunch to have the intellectual faculties, talents and sheer will to live to be able to seek out the opportunities we have been able to secure. Nevertheless, we also reflect a good number of the Cameroonian female population. Let me tell you about the women in my circle:One was born into a Muslim family in a rural town in the Northwest region, was the first to receive complete secondary education in her family, gave her life to Christ out of her own will, charted her own course, determined her own principles, sought her own role models and is now an internationally accredited public health researcher. Yet another was raised by her mother and aunts upon the death of her father who was a truck driver. She helped her mother who has done petty trading for most of her life, to put herself through school. Upon graduation, she did some petty trading herself before landing a job where she uses her gift of gab to tell stories of people with health conditions in rural, marginalized areas. This friend has single-handedly managed her finances enough to buy a plot of land and build her own house. She’s only 31. I have four other friends, a tad more fortunate for being born into middle-class families. Yet each has had to overcome either mental, physical, emotional and or sexual abuse from close relatives. Still, they have carved their own way and contribute actively to the development or Cameroon or Cameroonians irrespective of where they are now. Yet another young woman I know has literally gone from attempting to take her own life to making it her mission to help others find the purpose she lacked at the time that she wanted to lose hers. All this to say we are #PressingforProgress and there is hope. Even when our government seems to be playing musical chairs with the retirees who care little for our growth. In the words of Maya Angelou: still, we rise! So if you are a young girl out there, or if you know one. Please, dream with the audacity of a CPDM chairperson. Dream with the conviction of Biya prior to the release of election results. DREAM BIG!!! HUGE! It’s possible. You really truly can. It will definitely NOT be easy, but never doubt the possibility. I have the proof. I AM the proof. This is us, and we are many, daring to live our dreams.