Nomads: The Memoir of a Southern Cameroonian

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155 11 he years have come and gone with Cameroonians in disbelief that Biya “joked” like this and clung to power. One is left with a feeling of emptiness akin to that experienced by the North West Province, in fact the whole of Anglophone Cameroon, in 1979, when their darling football team, PWD Bamenda climbed to a high point such that it was an authority in Cameroonian football. They were to play the finals of the Cameroon nation’s cup against Dynamo, Douala, and virtually everyone was sure Bamenda was going to win that cup that year. Alas, a traitor was to emerge from within Bamenda’s ranks and betray the squad by intentionally facilitating goals against his own team, or something to that effect. That was probably the first time the rage of Bamenda people was displayed in the open in recent years. Epese, as the traitor was called, was smart enough not to return to Bamenda with the team; it would have meant his life. His property was emptied from the house he was renting and burnt and his girlfriend had to run and hide for her life. Until date, the name Epese in Bamenda is synonymous to “traitor,” and the people use it in this manner all the time. From time to time, this use of the name gives them an opportunity to re-live their victory of a nation’s cup they never won, and then slowly you will see people moving away and shaking their heads in disbelief. This is still the reaction in Bamenda today whenever the presidential election results of 1992 are discussed. It was not a Bamenda thing but a national disaster. The entire nation was fed up and wanted change; T 156 they came this close to it but failed to pool their resources together as one people to claim their stolen victory. They left the responsibility mainly in the hands of four daring cities, with Bamenda spearheading the way. Had the entire nation, even without the Bikutsi base of the president run amok, the story would have been different today as the dilapidated government machinery would not have been able to handle the pressure. When a people stand together as one person and say “no,” there is nothing any government can do. After all the hoopla, with dead and limbless patriots in the wake of this political statement, through the grapevine, one hears that Fru Ndi and Biya are pals; that they even eat together. It is said Fru Ndi, once thought of as the Messiah for the struggling masses of Cameroon sucks on a pacifier plopped into his mouth by the man against whom we all once struggled, and made incredible sacrifices so there could be change some day. Today, Fru Ndi, it is said, cruises around in a luxurious SUV cut off from the suffering masses by tinted windows; the man for whom Bamenda, especially, was ready to cease existing. He has overgrown his house at Ntarinkon and so only drives through town basking in the quickly fading image of himself, when compared to the nineties, as Cameroon’s only trusted presidential candidate. Of his agenda, hardly much else is known other than that, as rumoured, he shuttles from his huge farm in Fundong to another in Yaounde. But rumours, rumours have a way of tainting one, especially a man like Chairman John Fru Ndi. Had I not been in Bamenda and different venues and seen Fru Ndi put his life on the line, I would have fallen for these stories, yet the stories are still making rounds leaving most of us wondering what is going on, if Pa himself has eaten suya? 157 In which case we were all pawns used for his socio-political aspirations, thinking he loved and cared for the suffering masses. Even as I fight against this new portrait some are painting of our hero, the truth is that I doubt if Mr. Fru Ndi has any plans for those brave young men who lost their limbs pushing his and our political agenda forward. I used to see them, today reduced to beggars because of their handicap. They are begging from bus to bus at different transport agencies such as Guarantee, Amour Mezam and so on, from passengers with whom they once dared to dream of a better Cameroon. We give them mites from time to time because we remember these...