Motivational messages often say we shouldn’t look back on the journey. That we should forget the past and look forward in hope. They generally assume that thinking of past pains is a negative exercise. They’re not altogether wrong, but I have found that the message is not carved in stone and applicable to all situations. There is amazing strength to be found in looking back on the journey. When we face tough situations, we tend to become engrossed in them. This new problem takes over our thinking, this dilemma is unique, hard, not something we can address. We find that we are breaking, tired, done for– but that has been the case many other times in the past. We just can’t remember. We don’t look back often enough. I have a gratitude journal to practice recording thanks for things that happen through the day, it is a practice I took up to try and find joy in the midst of depression. As I packed out of my place recently, I looked back at the journals for 2016 and 2017. There was a day in 2016 where all I wrote is: Thankful for still breathing. I know it was a rough day if that’s all I could write. But I cannot remember what made it rough. That’s the irony of problems – when we’re in the middle of them, it’s all we can think of. Then when we get through it, we can barely recall it. But we should. We should mark the ways the heartbreak happened, the ways the rejection broke us, the ways we were betrayed, record the depth of the pain – and above, all, record how we grew in faith, how God got us through it. We should be able to look back on past troubles to say God got me through that one, He’ll get me through this too. I’m at crossroads in my life at the moment. For the first time in a long time, I do not know have a fixed plan- just a prayer. I’m struggling to believe that is enough. As I left home this trip unsure of how soon I am returning, it was looking back that helped renew my conviction. As I packed my stuff up, as I visited family, looked through old photos and generally took trips down memory lane, I cried and realized why the present hurt so much. But I also had renewed conviction- I literally found myself saying: “Damn, I’ve been through a lot. This isn’t so bad as that time when….” So here’s a recommendation, in addition to a gratitude journal, perhaps we should have a problem/obstacle journal. You need not write through it every day. But regularly list the things you are struggling within it as evidence of overcoming/ God’s CV of coming through in your life. That would definitely come in handy when you come to the roadblocks on your Christian journey. So here’s your call to look back: Remember the time you got an opportunity by ‘chance’ when you thought there was no way out. Remember the night you went to bed hungry, remember the rejection that you became grateful for 5 years later, remember the disagreement that kept you restless and in pain… remember that day you should have died- be amazed at how many near misses have been just that- misses. Remember the bad times, and perhaps you’ll find (as I did) that this present problem pales in comparison. So this too shall pass, this too is part of His plan. Look back and be hopeful. Because if God has gotten you through half as much as he has gotten me through then He has plans we cannot fathom. All we have to do is muster enough trust in him to not fret as he unfolds his plans. Look back and have hope.
What Lesson Are You Learning Now?
Dear Christian Bro/Sis, Consider this: the Christian’s life is part prep school, part boot camp. We’re being groomed, pruned, molded and made ready for life in God’s kingdom. A popular song in Cameroon goes: Holy, Heaven is Holy (2x) Only the righteous shall enter there, Heaven is Holy I used to think the song meant we need to ‘get’ holy to enter the gates, but I now understand that it is not for us to ‘get’. Heaven is indeed Holy, so throughout our lives, God sets up exercises like a trainer to make us holy to enter there. With our everyday experiences, encounters, and study of the scripture, God transforms us to be adequate enough to pass through the entrance. In sum, we’re forever students in the school of Christlikeness when we commit to this journey. You are signed up for a class right now. Do you know the course title? Can you recognize what God is teaching you? Personally, I came to realize I have been taking a college level course in Surrendering. When I returned home in December of 2018, I was praying for motivation, for a sign, for the strength to hold on to something very dear to me. Something God had given me (so obviously it’s a good thing) and something I firmly believe is crucial to God’s purpose to me. As days became weeks and months, I saw no answer to my response. Or rather, not the direct answers I expected. I became angry. Is it a yes or a no? I’d demand in prayer. I’d like a ‘yes’ of course, but if it’s a ‘no’ be more direct please, give me something else so I can let go of this thing… And that was it, the problem, I wanted to see what I was trading this treasure of mine for before I let it go. I had this image (see here) in my mind which suggests that ‘God has a bigger teddy bear for you so you can let go of yours’ but I wanted to see that teddy bear first. Like, is it a teddy bear, or a toy truck? Is it one in my favorite color? Can I have some guarantee? But as this course has taught me thus far, I was missing the point. We shouldn’t be giving up our treasure only if we can get better. Our surrender must not be conditional. It is demanded. Whether or not there is a new/bigger Teddy Bear behind his back at all, if asked we are to let go of what we’re holding on to. And this is how I learned that I was praying all wrong, I had set out my petition as a multiple choice question with certain answers I expected- call them ‘signs’. If yes, this will happen, if no then you’ll offer me this so I know for sure… As I journeyed home praying I was expecting an answer to that limited scope prayer and the ability to hold on to what I was to be surrendering in faith. In this most recent advanced course, I’ve been taught that the dilemma and lesson it holds is in itself an answer- even if its an answer to the prayer we didn’t pray!???????????? This recent lesson inspired the poem below, I hope you appreciate it and let me know what lesson you are currently learning in your own journey. Who knows, your current ‘course’ may be my next one ???? ********************************************************************************* The Surrendering I thought the journey was for affirming. And came believing I’d have a firmer clasp on emotions too effervescent, on a dream shattered and now unrecognizable. I thought by now I’d know for sure Where home is. Could be. Hoped by now I’d look at you and no longer see mixed signals I’ve found that I’d hoped wrong. The aim of this journey is never what I thought it was You did not take me on this journey to hold me, But to break me more. To do it gently in a familiar place, to do it slowly so I am not jarred When I asked you to take my hands and lead me at the start of this journey You did take my hand, but to unclasp my fist, so I let go of the little I’d managed to hold on to To bare my palm, for both of us to see the bruises on that soft flesh from years of struggling to hold what was and is only temporary. This journey has always been about my surrendering Now I know, it should be easier. Understanding ought to make things easier Yet that adage does not apply in this case. Knowing only makes me apprehensive of what is yet to come. Now that I am surrendering, I know there’s more breaking to be done.
5 Love Poems From Me to You
As the people all over the world muse on love (genuine of commercialized fluff) on this Valentine’s Day, permit me share with you some of my favorite original poems relating to L.O.V.E. On Self-love Ode to We This is for my sisters, whose thighs touch. Whose arms hang like armpit drapes and whose stomachs bulge… It is okay not to be O.K Okay is never enough anyway, They always want more. So lift your arms and wave them ‘round Cross your feet and pout your lips Swing your hips to your own beat And repeat: I love me On Considering Love Kintsugi I thought of you when I learned of Kintsugi; read about that Japanese art of recovering broken things with preciousness, renewing the life of fallen pieces and restoring their worth two, four…a thousand fold. I thought of you, lover-to-be, as a Kintsugi artist. A master craftsman, able to see possibilities in fragmented parts, worn and not quite whole, still useful. See, I have shards of glass placed at the top of the walls surrounding this heart like those my grandfather cemented atop the fence around our family home-To keep thieves out, to slice careless hands who come to prey… But an artist takes care, a potter’s hand is patient. So I can see you pick up these shards nimbly, one after the next, appreciating the story of each fall, respecting the painful tale of each break.I can picture you pouring precious metal- emotions rare- unto sharpened edges piecing together what some would see as mistakes to create a testimony. I thought of you when I learned of Kintsugi, and I thought of I.I thought of us all, reflections of this philosophy; believers in broken things, people who would pour gold in cracks. Card carrying members of ‘Hopefuls Anonymous’Lovers; Kintsugi artists. On Discovering Love The Heartbreak 39 days ago at 7:47pm. Your words, uncomfortably shared, speared the familiar sinking feeling of heartbreak within me I find it hard to describe this feeling. Heartbreak resulting from unrequited love is unique you see. Not quite pain, more like an ebbing ache of inadequacy. Your heart twisting as if trying to find balance or return shamefully to the cage of your ribs it should have never left. Your windpipes forcing air out as though practiced in a Lamaze class. Keep going. Don’t cry. Just breathe. I wonder at the break. Why do I feel it? When did you matter? I am reminded: It was Tuesday, I was sick and you came. I looked horrible but it didn’t matter, your eyes smiled in a way that made me feel beautiful. You stayed, made me laugh and left me feeling better than the treatment I’d been taking for days It was 6th of June, I think, you shared a post that literally took my breath away, something I couldn’t believe you’d get. And yet you did. You got it and you defended it when the trolls came It was the evening I left our meeting late and worry remained in your eyes as I took a cab. You took the taxi drivers details. Chatting with me all through till I arrived to be sure I didn’t fall asleep therein and get carted away… It was that dinner we shared, you remember the night you took me out for my favorite meal? Two phone addicts somehow able to not think of our phones for hours. It’s been the never-ending conversation we have. Free flowing, humorous, unrestricted, digressing and yet still mutually understood. Able to go dormant yet reawakening within days with the same feel. The familiarity it bred It was me struggling to contort this large body to somehow lay my head on your shoulder in the taxi ride home. It was in my trusting you enough to drink in your presence. Comfortable enough to hold your hand and cross the road… I see now that it was a million little things. You may have come to me by chance but you did not come all at once. You are the dripping rooftop that slowly made the whole house damp. Weathering defenses, surprising us both. And this is how I got a heartbreak never knowing there was a love Lessons in Love Learning i. They teach you to forgive your enemies but rarely do they share how you’ll need to forgive your loves.We all forget, you see, that we lift our loves on a pedestal, we raise them up like the moon does the tide of our feelings. We make them gods because they make us feel more human, more magical, loved.We raise them up involuntary and without consent. We raise them up until they fall. Humans after all. ii.So today I will forgive you for not being all I dreamed you would be. I will forgive you for inspiring me to fly when you had no wings. No wings for you, no wings for me. I will forgive you for the rides of all-night talks and ecstatic daydreams you fueled, without telling me the petrol tank was uncertain, we were just kicking it. I will forgive you because you made no promise. I forgive you because you too are broken and should not have been put in a place to fix my own cracks. I will forgive you because I am learning the ways of love. iii.Now please forgive me for the selfish love I bore and thrust on you, a crown you did not ask for. The love that demanded more of you, than you were ready to give. Forgive me the luxury of rose-colored glasses that saw your promise but not your flaws. Not the vacuum you harbored still. Forgive me the good things I hoped and dreamed. Because I have learned even good things are burdensome. I have learned hope is heavy a thing around your neck weighing you down and adorning you brightly at the same time. Forgive me because I am still learning to love like God. On Recovering
…And that is the story of how I became a Christian.
Hello, I’m Monique and today, 11th October 2018, makes me twenty-nine years old. I added an About My Faith page to this blog at the start of this year as I felt I could do more to share my faith. Recently, after being touched by the testimonies of undergrads shared at the church I’m presently attending and I decided to make an attempt at sharing my salvation story via video. I soon concluded that writing would enable me to be more concise. So with this piece, I share how it all began, or a testimony of how I came to commit to the Christian Journey. I hope my experience with God’s love inspires you on your journey and relationship with God too. *** To begin, I must acknowledge that by some measures, or common (mis)conceptions of what being a Christian is in our society- speaking from a Cameroonian perspective here- one could claim I have always been a Christian. Being born into a family which identifies as Christian, being baptized before I could talk, and being confirmed/taking my first communion by the age of 15 even though I can’t say what that really meant despite the required doctrinal lessons. In fact, I clearly recall that I begged to have my confirmation in school so I could belong, could join the line for communion when others went up and could have my ‘first communion party’ in school which would be a sort of visiting Sunday – cherished by boarding students. So, by the average demographic measure, I was a Christian from age 2, and a fully practicing one by age 15 with my baptismal and communion cards to prove it. Of course, the average view is often wrong. My not being a Christian was obvious in the fact that going to church was an event, not an act of worship nor fellowship. It was something to dress up for once a week. Morning devotions were routines, the songs were the only entertainment we young people were permitted to dance to and the prayers before meals were customary. Something done mindlessly, or out of fear of food-poisoning as seen on Nollywood films. Knowing this, I can say my Christian journey actually began in April of 2007. With neither, a baptism nor a ‘confirmation’. Rather, like most things in Christianity, it began with my pain and death, or my attempted death. *** At the time, I was 17 years old and alone in my cousin’s apartment in Yaoundé after dropping out of school. I had been effectively disowned by most of the family because I decided leave boarding school and was ready to return to the US where my mom and brother were, my cousin who had the apartment likewise left me without a word when he had an opportunity to leave the country. There’s a lot of background to this, but suffice it to say, you should picture a 17-year-old with loads of anger, self-esteem, and belonging issues. One who can’t quite put a finger on the intensity of the emotional pains she feels, knows little about the world, less about her family and no French at all but is now stranded in a francophone city. I was literally at my end. With no adult supervision, after I found out through a friend of my cousins that he had left the country, I began selling stuff to passersby outside the apartment so I could buy food to eat. I did that with some success considering my horrible French LOL! I soon got tired though, soon got fed up and the vacuum I had always filled with food just kept growing. So when I came across a bottle of Advil with expired Ibuprofen tablets already molding to dust form, I thought I’d found the perfect escape route. I was obviously unwanted, unloved and not understood- even by myself. I couldn’t see any reason to keep going, it all seemed like vanity. Wake, eat, perhaps study to impress some people you don’t even like, sleep and repeat. That was life as I knew it. I took a handful of those pills, dressed up and climbed into bed fully intending to die like ‘sleeping beauty’ I still had my vanity. And I recall thinking as I fell asleep crying in bed that I was going to have some very harsh words for God when I met him upon death. But I didn’t die. I slept deep, perhaps from the pills, perhaps from the tears. But I know it was longer than usual for me. Still, I woke up, by myself, feeling nauseous and running to the bathroom to throw up. I spewed out everything I’d consumed and could taste the bitter ibuprofen in my bile. As I was washing up and struggling to get my mouth to taste normal again, I thought of how unfair it was that I couldn’t even die in peace. I was interrupted by a knock on the door and when I went to answer it, the young girl who served my Anglophone neighbors as a house-help was there. She seemed a bit shy but had worked up the courage to come to ask me to teach her how to make pancakes. I had given her some pancakes before, out of guilt. She often cleaned my end of the corridor when she did her chores so I gave her pancakes once as compensation. This girl, who was at least 13 and at most 15 in age had never had that simple pleasure before and had seemingly waited till her bosses had left so she could ask me for how to do it. It was the small thing really but after feeling so useless that you would try to take your own life, being asked to teach someone how to make pancakes has some significance. As I taught her that day, I learned more about her. How she could only complete Primary school in the village and then her mother asked that she follow
Undoing a Culture of Shaming
How do you write about being ashamed of what you are to be proud of? I will try. *** A few weeks ago, a friend and I discussed her options as a mother. She has to travel out of the country and was asking for my input regarding leaving her children with her family back in Cameroon. As we discussed the issue, she mentioned that one of her greatest fears regarding leaving her kids with family to raise is their shaming of children, which they practice even in her presence, talk less of in her absence. Her thoughts triggered several recollections of my own childhood. The number of times I was compared with others: “Why can’t you be like C”, “D who did X or Y, does she have two heads”? “Why can’t you ever do things like X?” I recalled reactions to wetting the bed at 5; being told to stand outside on an anthill while your peers and older relatives alike ululate “shame”. And later on, my name being called on the list of the ‘bottom’ ten to be publicly embarrassed before the entire school as not ‘smart enough’. If you’re Cameroonian you’re familiar with such, and most of us got over it. We laugh about these recollections if at all we remember them. And, unfortunately, a lot of us repeat it. We pass on the buck to our own children because, after all, it worked. Shaming is not an exclusively ‘African’ or ‘Cameroonian’ thing. It’s global. Yet, I think our culture is one of the few which has yet to address the negative effects of this practice, probably because we’re so busy trying to survive physically that we haven’t considered mental and emotional health as much as we should. So we still celebrate shaming. It is seen as an effective instrument to get your kid in order. Competition is healthy after all, so shame one person so they will strive to be like the other. The fact remains: it works. But it works in more ways than one: it works to create unhealthy stereotypes, like in determining what intelligence is; it works to further internalized misogyny and destructive competition between women, who live to avoid shaming or grow to believe they must be better than the next woman and thus bring the other down. Shaming works well, above all, as a destroyer of self-esteem; something we find out too late that we need for literally every part of adulting. Shaming is the bacteria we are infected with as children, one that was to act as a vaccine against complacency and build resistance for a competitive world. Yet this ‘vaccine’ eventually does more harm than good. If not curbed, the ‘bacteria’ grows and spreads. It takes root in our minds, destroys our self-image, tarnishes our ability to empathize with others, and dehumanizes us. We see it regularly, particularly among women. There’s this urge to say “at least I’m better than so and so”, because we feel we can only be enough in comparison. Not by ourselves, not as we are. Comparing women to each other to make one feel lesser than the other is a sadly common and accepted practice. Nearly all entertainment news offers a segment with “who wore it better” comparisons and lifestyle mags intentionally ‘other’ women with articles that compare them and create one set-in-stone ideal. Is it any wonder then that we feel “you are not like other women” is a compliment? As is the case with things which are common, I had taken our shaming culture and competing with other women in stride and for granted. That is to say, though I acknowledged them, they were not things I considered with depth. I’ve been on a journey to self-love for most of my adult life – and I’m still on it –, so I was too busy trying not to think of myself as lesser to bother thinking of someone else as lesser. Yet, recently I was given a rude awakening to this practice and its effects on me – aside from the earlier mentioned conversation with my friend. *** A week ago I posted the following tongue-in-cheek post on Facebook: Tips to know if you should comment on someone’s weight: 1- Did they ask you? 2- Are you their doctor, sponsor/guardian of their health? 3- Are you an intimate friend/partner who is permitted to share any and all opinions? (note that I didn’t ask if you were related, that doesn’t count) If you answered no to all these, here’s the tip: Shut up. As I expected, most of my friends who commented on the post assumed someone had fat-shamed. So they either shared their own experiences with fat-shaming, proffered similarly barbed ‘tips’ to fat-shamers, or tried to assuage me with idioms along the lines of ‘you are not fat, you have fat’. I said nothing. They had assumed wrongly that I had been fat-shamed, yet their reactions proved why I felt bad about being praised for having lost weight recently. Actually, my post was inspired by comments from a few people, who gave me a rude awakening when they approached me to praise me for my recent weight-loss and, in so doing, compared me with either another woman or worse, with myself. The back-handed compliments included: “Ooo Monique I’m so proud of you! See how better you look now! If you had started this sometime back you would be married by now I bet!” “Wow, Monique! You have done it oo! Please tell [X] to follow your example. With your new looks and everything else you will pass those slay queens” “I can see you’re working on your weight; that is good. I’m proud of this new you, she is definitely better” And, with these comments, I felt shame. Shame because, suddenly, my weight-loss journey, something I should be proud of given that it is a testament to my growth in other areas of my life (mental, spiritual, and emotional) was suddenly made shallow. It
How a Reading Challenge Led to a Lifestyle Change…
Somethings we know, but don’t know. You know? Like we all know we could do more if we spend the first hour of our day effectively. But we STILL roll-over and check our phone for notifications first thing in the morning. Knowledge doesn’t always render one better action. And as I’m known to say, knowing your problem is the first step, but still, it’s only one of many, many more. Yeah, not such a motivational statement so perhaps you shouldn’t quote me. Well, one of those lessons we all know is the point of this piece… We all know consistency and perseverance yields fruits. There’s not a single motivational speaker, preacher, teacher and parent who hasn’t hammered “just keep going” into their speech, book, sermon- you name it. And still, this knowledge floats like a lily-pod on the rivers of our thoughts. Just there, acknowledged but not really seen, nor wholeheartedly believed for the fact that it is. After all, is it is to ‘just keep going’ and find out if that works? Not so recently I took up a challenge that made me really LEARN this lesson and it led to several impressive lifestyle changes which have so far impacted my health, Christian journey and general outlook on life. In 2015 I was fortunate to be one of 25 young African women to be awarded a MILEAD fellowship. This marked my entry into an international sisterhood I appreciate more and more each year. Your network is indeed your net worth people. Well, late in 2017, an opportunity was shared for members of this network. It was a 25 week reading challenge called the KK Reading Prize. Those interested in joining were called upon to register; we would need to read a suitable book a week for 25 weeks, write short book reports stating the gist, how it impacted us personally and professionally, what we liked and disliked and a quote which stood out. For our efforts, we stood a chance to win 1000USD. I swear I read that email twice and responded with interest faster than I’ve replied to messages from a crush. If you know me, you know I like reading. Love books! Advocate for reading and consider gifts of books as equal to gifts of money. So, an opportunity to get paid for reading obviously sounded like God saying, here you go, have a gift. Well, not quite. The contest was to officially begin with our submitting our first book reports on Monday the 3rd of October 2017. Unfortunately, I found myself facing the unexpected problem of internet shutdown as the Anglophone crisis peaked on the 1st of October 2017 with declarations of ‘independence’. I sent SMS to other MILEAD fellows and explained my situation. I eventually sent in that first submission as soon as I could travel to Douala in the neighboring region (Internet Cameroon). That internet ban was shorter, we received access within a week. I should have been on track after that, submitting my reports regularly. Life soon proved that it wasn’t that simple. I found that even with something you love doing, you need to program it in. I found that few good things happen by chance and I learned a lot about myself over the 25 weeks of the reading challenge. First off, as per the contest rules, we were to read ’empowering books for professional and personal development’. This forced me out of my ‘comfort zone’ of pop and literary fiction. I struggled slightly but eventually found adequate books. Still, reading them and writing on them took a lot more effort than I had envisaged. I came to the realization that though I could read pop-fiction on the road, or anywhere for that matter, this wasn’t the case for heavier literature. Reading for me has always been about escape. I needed books and used them to get away from reality. With the literature prescribed by the contest, however, this was not possible. I had to confront myself through the literature. Confront myself and see that I was my own stumbling block, my own greatest problem. While reading the likes of I am Malala and The Diary of Anne Frank was inspiring it also made me feel like a failure and shamed me for what were current complaints. So during the challenge I always found myself reading two books, I would have my favorite Nora Roberts’ or Lauri Kubuitsile book on my bedside cupboard and the ‘required’ suitable book for the challenge would sit on my work-table. Because that was ‘work’. I struggled to finish the self-help and suitable books most weeks- even though I’d read Harry Potter (book seven) in less than 10 hours. The experience showed me how dire my escapist tendency was. This wasn’t about just a contest any longer, was I escaping, what else was it affecting aside from a challenge? Upon reflection? A great deal. I noticed how I escape reading certain books in the Bible altogether, How meditating for long is difficult for me. It forces me to think on issues I’d rather avoid so a brief prayer and song should do. I noticed how in escaping the pain my diary entries were sporadic, I would have to write later, struggling to find words to express feelings which we now stale for being shut away till I forced myself to open the box I’d locked them in. That is the greatest difficulties I face in writing. Over those weeks I faced another challenge, time management. Like most people, I’m a horrible procrastinator. Still, I’ve been praised for my discipline and goal-mindedness so often I believed the voices of others rather than taking an honest look at myself. I mean, yes as compared to several friends, I have more discipline. But then compared with others I know, I’m undisciplined and do bare-minimum at last-minute. Like Cameroon choosing to belong to CEMAC rather than ECOWAS, I had been placing myself in the group where I looked better off. When those easily impressed people said remarked on my ‘great discipline’ I should have
Happy Birthday Musings!
On this very date, in the year 2012, Monique’s Musings was conceived in a hotel room in Nigeria. I was returning home via Calabar from the Farafina Trust Workshop and was convinced by a friend of a friend to blog my ‘think pieces’ (which I had self-published as a newsletter and sold for 100 francs each). This friend helped me use my Gmail account to setup on blogger, and I posted my first blog post on the 26th of August 2012. Today, 60 blog-posts and tens of thousands of page views later I’m still sharing thoughts on here, and proud of how the challenge of producing something every month has evolved my writing as well as helped me engage with broad-minded readers and thinkers. On the occasion of this anniversary, I want to say thank you to followers and readers for encouraging me to use this platform to express myself and present my point of view on all manner of things. In celebration of this anniversary, I looked up my blog stats on my most read blog posts.This month you’re invited to look back at the top 5 Monique’s Musings’ most-read blog posts of all time. What’s happening in Cameroon? Learning, I hope I was surprised to find that this was the most-read blog post of all time, the reason being that it’s not that old. Still, as that the matter it deals with- the ongoing Anglophone crisis in Cameroon- is still a trending issue, I can easily understand why. In this post, I attempted to outline the sequence of events which brought us to the crisis and argue neither government nor revolutionaries are blameless. An Open Letter to Cameroonians The second most popular blog post was expected. My 2014 Open Letter to Cameroonians is the rant in which I call us all out for our role in creating the sorry state of this country. It is also the post with the most comments. Obviously, Cameroonians responded to my letter. Why I am NOT Here for TB Joshua’s Ministry This one was equally unsurprising. This post gave me my first experience with trolls as received so many insults and attacks for this post, obviously, it was being well read. Or perhaps misinterpreted. In this post, I took on the proliferation of Prophets and argued from a Christian perspective the danger of following a ministry like TB Joshua’s. Murdering Poverty: A Review I have vowed to encourage Cameroonian writers by promoting their work through book reviews. Thus far I have reviewed three books by contemporary Cameroonian writers including Budji Kefen and Imbolo Mbue. This review of Arrey Elvis Ntui’s Murdering Poverty made it to the top 5 of most read blog posts. Check it out and do get your hands on a copy if you’re interested in development work and the theories shaping the practice. So What is Cameroon Famous For? In this fifth most read blog-post I made an attempt at giving my fellow Cameroonians something to mention when faced with the many foreigners who are unaware of anything other than Eto’o and our reputation for corruption. Which of my posts (if any) did you particularly like? Drop a comment below with your favorite- or your least favorite lol! Perhaps you’re new here and now interested in reading more of my posts? A few I hold close to heart include; my piece on my becoming a writer, my second travelogue upon arriving the UK where I speak to Cameroonians on the false assumptions of the ‘bushfaller life’, my letter to fellow women on recognizing (and shunning) their own sexism, the one where I outline feminism for Men’s Empowerment, yet another where I outline what I love most about my country (and why you should love it too), and last but not least, this rant I posted on the justifiable anger of black people triggered by the shooting of Mike Brown. Whether you’re new or not, do join me in wishing a ‘happy birthday’ to this brainchild of mine. As always you’re encouraged to leave comments with your thoughts on my posts past, present and those you hope for in future. I am always eager to read from the reader 🙂
My ‘Returnee Anniversary’: 15 Reasons I Love My Country
The day was 25thAugust 2001. I was less than three months shy of 12 years old, or as I often reminded people- I was a pre-teen. I was also set to board an Air France plane that morning to Cameroon. After the latest fit of pre-teen rebellion, my mother had vowed to “send me back” to Cameroon. A lot like returning a pet you adopted from the shelter but found you couldn’t handle. I was becoming “too American” and need to be sent to the motherland for straightening up. In some ways she was right, in several other ways, she was wrong. My first couple of years were hell, then I adapted. Then after having my ordinary levels I rebelled. Then I grew up, made my own decisions on what I wanted for myself. Grew up. Things work out in the end. I’ve come to realize that both of us just played into God’s plan. Don’t worry, one day I’ll finally finish writing about the journey to and fro and growing to finally belong. Then you can buy the book. For now, I am celebrating my 15th anniversary of being “sent back”. In sending kids back to Cameroon, parents in the diaspora often paint it as a form of punishment, or tough love. From my experience and those of others I know, kids are sent back home in other to get them to ‘straighten up’ or because the parents in the diaspora have issues and can’t take care of them at that time. Either way it doesn’t paint a picture of Cameroon as a place our children should happily return to. More like a boot camp/foster home. Despite the feeling of being here out of punishment than choice, I came to love my home country. You can say Cameroon grew on me. Or I grew to be Cameroonian. My musings this month are all about my ‘returnee’ experience, all the things I’ve come to love about my country and all the ways this country I love makes me crazed. So I decided to make a direct list rather than rant and rave. Here are 15 reasons I love my country, one for every year of my return. 15 Reasons I Love My Country 1. Our history. I am probably biased, but in my opinion Cameroon has one of the best historical tales ever. From the Bantu migrations to the naming of the country after the shrimp Portuguese found in our waters to the scramble for our lands and through multiple colonizations. For a relatively small strip of land, we have a lot of stories to pass down to our kids. I wish someone with a love for history could team up with an artistic cinematographer to bring our story to life. 2. Our ethnic diversity. Cameroon is nicknamed the ‘melting-pot of Africa’ for its cultural and geographical diversity. With over 200 ethnic groups you best believe we put the E in eclectic. 3. Our languages. Cameroon (not necessarily its people) is multilingual. Our country is home to over a 1000 different tongues/dialects. As though that is not enough, our history of multiple colonizations left us with a plurality of foreign languages, names etc. though we have just two official languages (both from the colonizers). Language is a touchy topic to many of us as Cameroonians because one language is obviously valued more than all others in this country- French. Yet I love how we have come to blend the languages by creating slang words like ‘chomecam’ and more. Eventually creating something uniquely ours popularly referred to as Camfranglais. 4. Our religious tolerance (well, relatively). Considering the cultural diversity, the multiplicity of languages, and mixture of religious beliefs (Christianity, Islam, Animism) Cameroon is perfect ground for instability fueled by religious discord. But we’re far from that. I schooled in several Presbyterian mission schools and each of them had Muslim students. My Muslim classmates had concessions during their religious holidays and were not bullied based on their religions. Heck, our Senior Prefect was Muslim. 5. Our laissez-faire simplicity. You know the popular adage “let sleeping dogs lie”? Well you never have to tell a Cameroonian that. We will let everything go on as it is as long as the price beer is not increased, our land still produces its rich variety of food and our football team continues to play. This laissez-faire nature explains why we’ve barely full blown political insurrections till date despite having one of the longest serving African dictators. 6. Our communal nature. If you live in urban areas in Cameroon, you may think we aren’t as communal as before. Well we are still more communal than a lot of other areas. After living in the UK for a year, I didn’t know my neighbor’s name. That would be impossible in Cameroon. You would probably know your landlady’s family history as you move in. You would most likely wake/be awaken by your neighbor at night to help take someone to the hospital. Our interdependence is real, it’s beautiful, and it’s sometimes a burden. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. I imagine that if the USA had our communalism police violence wouldn’t be so common. Everyone is related (friendships included) to at least one police man, that cop would find that his victims family had visited the family patriarch in the village and soon enough there will be repercussions. 7. Our relative economic balance. Yes I said that. No, I don’t mean we have a good economy. What I mean is that unlike other countries I know, the gap between our rich and poor isn’t that large. Nearly everyone has one ‘wealthy’ family member as well as one family member who can barely feed themselves. It has been noted that we have one of the fastest growing middle class factionsin the region according to a World Bank report 8. Our range of possibilities. The saying “L’impossible n’est pas Camerounais” is often used derisively to mark
MTN Nights: A Love Story
It all began with an MTN Cameroon deal, Free SMS Nights, which enticed customers to give up their sleep for seven hours of toll free messages. While the free messages might have provided the opportunity but it was an Indian film whose title she could no longer remember which provided the inspiration to tell Hans of the feelings she had for him with a guise of anonymity. So it happened that Elizabeth borrowed her roommate’s phone, whose contacts Hans did not have to chat with him by night. The first night, 4 days into the Free SMS night promotion, Elizabeth wrote: Hello Hans, I’m using someone else’s phone to send this message. I don’t want you to know who I am but I DO need to let you know how I feel. Even if it means nothing after all. I like you. A strong like. I like that you are welcoming, open and generous with friends. I like that your room in neater than those of most boys I know. And from past discussion I like the way you think and challenge me to think. Oh, and you’re cute too in a laid back casual way J Your secret admirer That message was typed at 10:15pm. Then after 15 more minutes of deliberating over every word. After changing things written in short hand to their proper form (free messages after all). After thinking twice and assuring anonymity by determining that Manka, her roommate whose phone was to be used, had no mutual friends with Hans who could be linked to Elizabeth, after praying for the third time, then and only then did the message get sent at 10:42pm. He took exactly 33 minutes to reply. By the time she heard the new message alert from Manka’s phone she had burrowed into her sheets convincing herself that she couldn’t feel regret if she was asleep. The hollowness of those convictions was however seen in how fast she turned, hands clashing with Manka’s to reach for the phone on the bedside table which stood between their student size beds. Hearing Manka utter a “hummmph” sound Elizabeth dropped her hands, smiled as though to wave it off and waited. After seeing the number wasn’t one of hers, Manka stretched out her hand offering the phone to Elizabeth “It’s for you”. She had to clench and unclench her hands from her sheets before taking the phone, suddenly understanding what the Harlequin novels meant by sweaty palms. She read the message: 11:15 pm Hey, I’ve never had a secret admirer b4. Am honoured. I can c why u can’t tell me who you are, but we can chat right? So I know a bit more about my secret admirer? She read it twice. After the second reading, she wondered how long it had taken him to write the brief text. Did he agonize over it as she had? Based on the careless short hand he used she doubted it. And would he say ‘Am honoured’? Hans was smart adding an ‘I’ in front of ‘am’ shouldn’t be that difficult. She sighed, reminded herself that he was a science student and was thus more likely to write in short had without the guilt of poor grammar. Mankaa had put off the lights to sleep and as Elizabeth now lay beneath the sheets, her head turned one way because of the braided pony-tail hair style she currently sported, her face glowed in the dark with the light of the phone’s screen as she nervously thought up a reply. She decided not to write so much any longer, it might distinguish her from other friends who readily wrote short hand. 11: 25 pm Hi, Are you still awake? Sure we can chat. Though of course the chat is limited to nights only. By day I won’t have access to this number. Deal? So what will you like to know about me? 11:30 pm Yes, I’m awake & sure it’s a deal. I’m guessing you’re a UB student because you seem to know me well. What do you study and what year are you in? 11:32 I can’t tell you that, you’d be able to trace who I am. Here’s the thing. We can chat and you ask about who I am as a person, not my identity. If you can guess which of your female friends I am from our chatting then it’s up to you to meet me and ask me- if at all you would like to reciprocate the feelings. She agonized over ‘reciprocate’. That word was sure to sell her out. It was a bookworm word. Would he wonder at it? And who among his friends would use it? She hoped he might think it was a friend with English or Literature major not her political science studying self. Or would he hone in one her because she was known as an avid reader never without a novel? He didn’t think about it much though 11:36 Okay I’m cool with that. How old are you? She told him she would soon be twenty though the birthday passed last week and he had been one of the recipients of the cupcakes she’d shared to friends in the hostel. They chatted till 2:30am. He asked about her family, how many siblings she had, what were her hobbies, favorite music, movies and more. They clicked like twin souls with music taste and she felt it was fate. Sh could always tell good people by their good taste in music. As he asked questions she answered and turned them on him, learning just as much about him as he about her. He forwarded some of the funny, long chain messages currently going around with the opportunity of free SMS. She laughed like she hadn’t read that one before. She sent him the trivia message currently making rounds: “If the beauty of a woman lies in her character, where does the beauty of a man lay?” She appreciated the
Rough-drafts: from reading to writing
It was in July of 2003 that I fell in love with novels. Contrary to my mother’s present-day boasts, I was not always the happy member of “Readaholic Anonymous”, and it was watching T.V at breathing distance from the screen rather than “reading too much” that led to my shortsightedness. I remember that vacation well. It was the end of my second year back in Cameroon. I had sufficiently adjusted and was no longer the pampered newcomer in the house. I now got up automatically by 6am as though hearing the school gong in my dream, my American slang had properly married boarding school lingua and everyday pidgin such that I could carry on a conversation with the others without someone looking at me with a mixture of amusement and amazement. I had failed the final exams. Picking me up from school, Jude, my god-mother‘s nephew joked that a cow was slaughtered for all the red needed on my report card. When I got home I discovered Grandma, my god-mother‘s mother, liked red everywhere but on report cards. “You failed even Religion! How does one fail God’s subject? God is not with you! And if God is not with you, how can you pass anything?” My punishment was set; I would take the reading of every morning devotion to make up with God for failing his subject. There would be no visiting friends, nor watching T.V for more than two hours a day and a home-teacher would come three times a week and give me assignments to re-learn what I failed. Vacation suddenly sounded like “back to school”. Then Stella came back from Buea. She had just completed her first year at the university, was the coolest of my cousins by virtue of being the only one who could sing all R.Kelly’s songs, and my roommate for the holidays. With nothing to do but pretend to be studying in the room I looked through her stuff. Amongst the make-up, Spice Girl shoes and Westlife CDs were 100% Jeune magazines, an old Ebonymagazine and four novels. I quickly distracted myself with the magazines and after them, the Harlequin Presents novels seemed more appealing than returning to ANUCAM’s An Introduction to Secondary School Physics. Sadly I cannot remember that first author who welcomed me into the world of reading for fun, and not just for school, but God bless her whoever she was. It was my first romance novel and though I cannot recall the exact title, the story, or at least the gist of it will never leave my memory. A girl never forgets her first as they say- that applies to her first fictional hero too. The book cover was typical; a picture of a slim brunette in the arms of a tall blonde haired guy, his arms muscled and bared by rolled up sleeves of an office shirt. I don’t know when I got to chapter four but there I was huddled on the bed in the room smiling coyly, reading every line and seeing it like a movie on HBO. One I was not supposed to watch. I missed lunch and did not notice. It alarmed Grandma and she asked for me. I hid the book under my pillow thinking about it all the way to dining room where I told Grandma I was reading and would eat later. Her look reflected amazement at my not only refusing food but refusing food because I was reading. I heard her asserting the wonderfulness of God as returned to the room. I completed the twelfth and final chapter by eight o’clock lingering over the last pages not wanting it to end. But it finally did, and as though the last eight to ten hours had been metamorphosis I emerged a changed person, I knew things. I knew what a kiss felt like- tingly and velvety or wet and teasing, and could explain the pain of heart-break, the hollow feeling of loss and the sting of disappointment. I know about adult things like taxes and have experienced adult longings and wants. I have lived life as a 26 year old woman in a small town in Mississippi. That night when Stella returned, between complimenting her on her hairdo and the then fashionable dirty-green skirt, I pleaded for more novels. She didn’t buy the flattery. She still scolded me for going through her things, but she agreed; one at a time she said, and if only I took care of them. That was the beginning of a life affair with reading. I stumbled and fell into the warmth and giving nature of books. They were my friends, at a time when I understood nothing, no one, including myself. Novels taught me to see others, and pieces of me in them. My love for books would only grow more as school resumed. There they would provide me sweet escape from fake friends and bullies alike, distraction from boring school texts and midterm starvation. I could leave it all behind and go to New York, the Louisiana Bayou or 18th Century England, play the tourist on a taxi-boat in Venice or live the high life with the pampered mistress of some Arabian sheikh. I had gone with Stella to Old Treasury Street where all the booksellers were, with books stacked in old iron trunks overflowing organized by genre; romance to suspense, historical, regency, futuristic, and law thrillers. At that time I had a singular preference for all things romance. I saw only two novels with black characters and I knew I had to buy both to learn something more, the black way of loving even if they are African American and not Black African. I returned to school with my box half full of novels; Julia Quinn, Jane Feather, Julie Garwood, Johanna Lindsay, Amanda Quick; it felt like I carried my real friends in my trunk. *** Two years later I can be found in possession of a novel at any point