By Stephen Ojang in Wum.
Traveling to Wum, Menchum Divisional Head Quarters, has become a nightmare, especially through Bafut subdivision. To embark on this journey requires a strong mind. The untold stories of non-state armed groups give you a fever. For those who like me, have undertaken the journey, a denial of these stories is like fake news, spreading like wild fire in the heart of the dry season, and driving people into Indiana Jones' temple.
This is an account of a reporter who braved the odds, daring where others dare not.
I traveled to Wum via the dreaded Bafut subdivision. I can vividly remember it as if it happened just yesterday. The enthusiasm that gripped me to travel, see and now account for what I saw and experienced.
Whenever a dark cloud of silence engulfs information, It is often possible to discover deliberate efforts at concealment. This however does not fully account for the general low level of awareness that one can trek to Wum through Bafut. The reason for this inadequacy is simply ideological.
I boarded a cab and headed towards Bafut. At the police check point somewhere around mile 8, I was asked where I was going. My response was a sharp edged instrument that cut through the ears of the police officers, who baffled when I said I was going to Wum. One of them tried in vain to convince me to return and go through Fundong to Bafmeng and to Wum. When I insisted of using this road, another police officer said;
"Comme tu insistes là , si on va te ra -ta-ta labàs tu vas faire comment?"
I smiled and he wished me good luck instead of safe journey. Come to think of it; why will a security officer think that I will be shot? He was only concerned about my security since he knew what lied ahead of me, unknown to me.
I got back in the cab.
Abandoned houses. Few boys here and there. Idle boys keeping a mother busy as she sells assorted stuffs at Mambu Junction. My driver slows down so I can appreciate the effects of the war. We are now approaching P.C Agyati. Christians are in the church yard. Keeping it clean. I wonder when last they attended church here. A few meters away, the Green Red Yellow flag with a Golden Star on the red strip swings proudly in the sky, sign that, there is still some administrative representation here. It is the Brigarde Territoriale of Agyati. Their Hilux is on standby. The men are combat ready. But they can't go beyond P.S.S Bafut. That's where my journey in the cab also ends.
Tree trunks are basking themselves on the tarred road. So begins the long trek.
From P.S.S Bafut, to Njinteh Junction, passing through P.S.S.T, Ntabuwe, Nsem and the municipal stadium, tree trunks welcome you as you find your way to three corners.
Abandoned offices, burnt offices, shattered window panes, overgrown lawn at the Bafut Council and in some homes, burnt police station and the D.O's office, bushy homes and school campuses, this is the bleak, dark, gloomy, stale and uncolorful picture of Bafut Sub-division that I met. What a contrast to what use to prevail before now!
Frustration, fear, abandonment and above all anger. The ferocity of the anger could be seen on the broken pieces of the transparent ballot boxes and other election materials or the burnt truck of a brewery company at Njinteh Junction, worst still, on the burnt fuel tanker at mile 30 Obang. Broken bridges, shattered homes, no forces of law and order, only non-state armed groups patrolling here and there with den guns and other locally made weapons. Poorly trained, poorly armed, and yet so determined to lay down their lives for their motherland. Yes! This is a subdivision that is still under the full control of separatist forces.
I am drenched in my sweat. Exhausted and thirsty. A woman in her mid-fifty welcomes me with a broad smile. Her daughter gives me a seat and some fresh water. I gulp the water under the watchful eyes of a youngster, with a gun hung en bandoulière. And when I was done, he asked: grand you di go down? I said yes. Before adding that I had some arrangements with another rider to pick me up. The reason was obvious. What if we encountered the military along the way? Simple. We will be shot. A patrol van full of teenagers, drove pass. Where are they going? Only God knows. They are chanting war songs, songs of victory in the vernacular. I could vividly recall the story of Shaka of the Zulu nation, as well as the movies, beasts of no nation and tears of the sun.
As I was waiting for the bike rider, I was pondering on what the future holds for this country. The thunderous voice of the bike rider was a sharp, clear noise in the wilderness. And then from a distance, came another noise; the siren of a hearse. Escorted by separatist fighters. Elsewhere in another compound, a case was being judged. Hmmmm! Well organized I said to myself.
I boarded the bike together with another passenger. A lady. Two other bikes met us. We left together. Descending the much dreaded Bafut forest, our rider told us so many stories. At mile 20, we halted. We will cross on foot. The bridge is broken. Some few coins are dished out to carriers. We start again. The road has become too narrow. My ears are almost romanced by the bushes that are persistently encroaching onto the road. The road can be liken to a wife who patiently awaits the return of the husband for romance. One cant even remember the last time a vehicle used this road apart from these few bikes. The transport fare has been skyrocketed. The reason, fuel scarcity. A liter of fuel is sold here at CFA1,500 frs.
We arrived Tingoh. Mile 24. It is market day. Separatist forces are stabilizing prices of goods. Buyam-sellams are busy purchasing. The sand sand boys have been knocked out of business. Heaps of sand are abandoned by the river banks, crying for salvation. No trucks, no loaders nor buyers. Grass has found new homes on the sand.
At Ndung, mile 34, one could see some few people testing the grounds for others to return. They had earlier moved up to Otang village. Here, one could see perforated walls, signs that a battle was fought here. Few meters away from the New Apostolic church building, memories of an old woman caught in cross fire while returning from her farm, are still fresh in the minds.
I finally arrive mile 37 where I have to be transferred to another bike rider since the bridge over river Menchum has flown away. A dark tiny figure with a long riffle, battered pair of shorts, a dirty black inner wear and bathing slippers is on "duty". He gets ready to shoot. I greet him in the dialect. He asked who I was. How time flies! This little boy I taught in form one was staring at me deep into my eyes without any iota of fear, nor respect. I smiled and called him by his name. He then lowered his riffle and asked who I was. French teacher I said. I saw strings of smiles lingering on his face. My heart glowed with joy. He took me across the river and put me on a bike. I lancé him nkolo.
In Bangwe, a handful of people have left their hideouts and came back. Befang is a mere shadow of itself. Only the market is sparkling. The separatist fighters organized a community work to keep it clean and alive. The once booming three corners is now an eyesore. Houses have been destroyed. Business premises abandoned. Where will the people start if things return to normalcy? My cousin's bar and other bars around, have been ripped to shreds. The carcass of the Company Commander of the National Gendarmerie's Hilux, is still there reminding passers-by, of the confrontation that took place between the defense forces and non-state armed groups. At Otem and Ngoh, the destruction was fiercer. Almost all houses situated by the roadside have been destroyed. I mean, burnt. Here, three people are sharing the same grave. One of them was short as he picked up a locally made gun against AK47.
The breathtaking vegetation and the awe inspiring Clift of Ngoh forest hill, the refreshing breeze from Lake Illum are indications that we are approaching Wum Town. The broken sign post of Express Union, the bended sign post of ACADA and the faint sign post of CAMPOST, all carry the same message; WELCOME TO WUM. At last! Here am I in Wum. The faint inscription on these sign post, may perhaps be rendered as; I am afraid you wont find much of interest here. The faint nature of this inscription only serves as reflecting the natives flustered insistence that they do not count, since they have often been forgotten when it comes to appointments, as well as the modest horrors they went through for many months now.
The grey uniform worn by the buildings, the massive deserted homes, the empty streets, the absence of boys and men, the multiplication of churches or comfort stations, have given me an odd impression of ostentatious meanness, and it must be said of Wum inhabitants that they lack the peace of mind of the truly humble and hospitable people that they are.
I took off time to appreciate the situation. Many of my friends have been killed. Young boys and men have died. Scores of them. In the evening hours, I joined some youths in a quarter and we shared some liters of corn beer (sha, nkang and tukuh nkhra). This is what we call living together. Like John Nkemngong Nkengasong puts it, the concept of living together is not new. It dates back to Aristotles treatise in the poetics on living well and living together. Aristotle also wrote; what accounts as living together is sharing.
At the beginning of the Anglophone crisis, a lot was said about living together. We can all recall that this sing song had even been a recurrent credo in conferences, the media, administrative speeches and even academic discourses. It is worthy of note that this sudden epiphany is a welcome recognition that peoples and cultures are different from one another.
After gulping a few cups, we were joined by some separatist fighters, who shared their exploits. Who they have killed, who they have kidnapped, and what they got from them, who they want to kidnap and what they want from them. When they noticed I wasn't talking, they questioned to know who I was. When I handed my ID card, they discovered I was a journalist. I was honored with more information. I was even told how the peloton commander was subdued, and how some councillors were abducted and later released. I listened with passion yet full of fear. At 10 p.m. when we were parting ways, I was covered with the darkness of the Amba fighter and I trekked home unperturbed and unseen by security forces on patrol. How did this happen? I no fit even explain.
The destruction in terms of human loss was too much. This is further testified by the massive presence of children and only few adults. Many women yet fewer men. May be I have had too much practice in just few hours in being back home, hiding my inner doubts, trying so hard to control the despair that wouldn't be banished. I closed my eyes briefly as the panic wave of depression swept through me, leaving me weak and trembling as we pass through Ndzendzam (Mbindjam). An indescribable horror had taken place here. My bike rider narrates an unending story. I felt the chilling sensation of something that was moving from my eyes to my cheeks. I was in tears. I asked the rider to take me back. Here is the grave yard of men who have been buried without coffins. Others had no graves. I now understand the reason why the prolific South African writer, Mazisi Kunene, titled his poem No coffin No grave. Elsewhere, others are sharing a common grave. It is almost 7 pm. I hastened my footsteps as night fall quickens its own. I walk pass the S.D.O's office, the National Gendarmerie and stepped on the dusty road. Bright moon honed the chrome of bikes hooting and running helter-skelter for safety. The pavement felt cold beneath my feet. Since not so many people use it.
As I moved round Wum city this Sunday morning, I could see the legacies left behind by the military intervention. Wum has become a city of misery, sufferings, hardship and frustration. All of a sudden, I was standing alone along the commercial street in Wum. Two friends met me there. Despair, agony, psychological trauma filled their thoughts. Few meters away, a councillor of Wum Council waved at me. I rushed to greet him. He was in pains. Still recovering from his kidnap. I offered him a smile since it is the only curse that sets everything straight and wipes the wrinkles away. We chatted about his kidnap and I was so familiar with the ordeal since the author had narrated it to me while we drank “sha”. I have heard enough. Seen enough. I just wish to leave. People here are suffering. So too are others in Kwakwa, Batibo, Kumbo, Ndu, Mile 16 Buea etc. this has to stop for Christs sake. Human life should be protected by both camps. The epileptic water, electricity and MTN network supplies further worsen the livelihood of Cameroonians living here. A cube of soap is sold at 500 frs. A packet of maggi 1500 frs. Many are now feeding on diabetic regime. The dynamic around burials has also changed. Mourners now eat before lowering the corpse into the grave. Transportation is cahin-caha since a liter of fuel is sold at 1500 frs if seen. Weti man don do for really deserve all this sufferings so nor? Chaiii! I tired life. No me oh!
NB: This story was written in November 2018, when the author first travelled to Wum. The situation at that time is not what obtains now.
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