24hrs: TRAVELLING FROM MY COUNTRY TO MY COUNTRY

It was 9pm when I left my home to go to the park intending to travel to Bamenda. I arrived Bamenda on Friday morning at 6:30am. Nice cold morning as it always is in Bamenda. The sun had just come out but I could still feel the cold deep in my spine. I wrapped up every inch of my body to conserve some heat. Of course I looked odd as everyone else just went along… loosely clad for some and for others, a little sweater or head gear which seemed more routine than functional.

I messaged a few friends to let them know that I was in town. Little chats over little nothings. One chat ended with my friend saying “Welcome to the town of friendship”. Town of friendship indeed.

I like to pride myself in saying that I am a ‘Bamenda boy’... Though living out of Bamenda for a bit has caused some to contest my right to claim the ‘Bamenda boy’ tag. But more than most places I've lived in, my experience is that Bamenda is truly a town of friendship. The people are warm and friendly, the community ties are strong and people are always ready to provide you all the assistance you need, whether or not you're local.

Yet, strangely, “town of friendship” felt odd this time. Heavy military presence… both infantry and mounted troops in full combat gear… bullet proof vests and helmets, automatic weapons and full Rambo style camouflage for some to complement.

So, YES… “town of friendship” felt strange.

I had travelled in from Yaoundé. A town where nothing ever happens but from which everything happens. Two things have been said and about Yaoundé and its population that I totally subscribe to.

The first: it was said of Yaoundé that when Yaoundé breathes, Cameroon lives. On the one hand, this statement captures a contradiction - the almost lazy passiveness involved in breathing, though the same breathing is the source of life and vigour for the rest of the body, or country in this case. On the other hand, the contradiction is a soft suggestion of the disconnection in the ways in which Yaoundé and the rest of the country relate to reality.

The second referred to the population of Yaoundé as zombified. A population without soul, without emotion, without feeling, without vision… with slow lifeless motions as if remote controlled to a bloodsucking mission.

Bloodsucking… It is from Yaoundé that the atrocities and bloodshed of the 1960s - 1970s on the Bassa land and on the Bamileke had been commandeered. It is from Yaoundé that the blood of the six was sucked in 1990. It is from Yaoundé that blood was sucked out of a process of dialogue through the arrest of hundreds of people in the North West and South West Regions in 2016 amongst whom were Barrister Agbor Balla and Dr. Neba Fontem. The events of the 18 months that have followed have proven that these two (Barrister Agbor Balla and Dr. Neba Fontem) were the moderates with whom dialogue should have been pursued.

Well, that's the Yaoundé I came from, travelling to Bamenda. Of course, I felt a certain guilt. I felt that though I define myself as a Bamenda boy, another reality that I'm not in control of is that I'm perceived as a “Yaoundé boy”. And in a way, I am a Yaoundé boy too -  and there are many like me… zombies, who live in Yaoundé completely oblivious to what is happening across the country and who by our actions or lack thereof are complicit to the bloodsucking ritual in other parts of the country.

I was going to Bamenda to attend a friend's wedding. Of the many related activities spread over four days, I had decided to attend those scheduled on Friday and Saturday. Thus, I planned my travel on Thursday… arriving Bamenda on Friday morning.

Travelling to Bamenda is always a major decision. It involves time and hard work both for a driver and persons driven. Though just 371km, the journey can take up six hours if you max your speed at 100km/h on the clear ways and if the roads are in the best shape I've ever known of them. However, in the past five or six years, the roads have deteriorated to levels that are not worthy of a country that was classified as medium income 40 years ago. Or perhaps this assessment should have been the other way around… a country whose economy was healthy and enviable almost half a century ago is worthy of better roads. Some would say ‘same difference’.

A few months ago, the journey took me 11 hours. The driver and vehicle were excellent. The driver went as fast as he could when it was possible and preserved the health of the car when he had to. Though the need to preserve the car happened more often than he could go fast. It reminded me of my days as a kid when it required two days to complete the travail. That was many years ago and though that period coincides with the time when the country's economy was described as healthy, “what happened in between?” is not a question I'm about to ask. But as I'm a ‘Bamenda boy’ for me and ‘Yaoundé boy’ for others, travelling between Yaoundé and Bamenda has always been part of who I am.

Also, the structure of the country's administration has always been such that breathing in Yaoundé causes life in the rest of the country, many know my experience. Many know the experience of leaving a regional or divisional delegation in their place of residence and going to Yaoundé just to deposit an administrative document or to prove that they are who they are and deserve their retirement benefits after working for 25 years.

Fifteen or twenty years ago, a tradition developed amongst people who had to do the Bamenda to Yaoundé trip… night travel. Public transport companies did the journey overnight and hundreds of passengers took to it. The model allowed them to sleep during the journey and to use the day profitably at their destination. The alternative was to travel by day and lose a full day on the road. So when I decided to attend my friend's wedding on Friday, I also made the decision to be useful to myself by day in Yaoundé, travel by night, and be useful on Friday.

Usually, the buses leave at about 10pm and pace themselves to arrive at the other end at about 6am. If they're going too fast, they'd stop at the little market town of Makenene, for a little rest. There, travellers get a chance to stretch a little and use the toilets. The bus departs again at such a time that allows arrival at the scheduled time.

A few years ago, a problem of highway robbery emerged. Buses were stopped by armed criminals, passengers were searched and looted before they moved on. In response the travel agencies decided to travel in convoy. The strategy was that all buses (there could be fifteen to twenty 70 seater buses) were always about five minutes of each other throughout the journey. This strategy meant that if there were any attacks, it will not be 15 minutes before assailants would have a crowd of almost 300 people to deal with. In case the convoy had stretched a little, Makenene served as a reset point where departures were synchronised anew to close ranks. The government is known to have accompanied this strategy for a while by placing armed security personnel in the buses to respond to any armed attacks. Not sure if this government move is still operational.

Thursday was just like any other day in Yaoundé - slow, uneventful and zombified… a normal day, I would say.

I took my seat in the bus at 9:45pm. By 10pm, the parade of buses started. A score of them. My bus delayed a little. I'm not too sure why. But our turn came. 11pm we also took the road. Though it rained heavily and relentlessly, the driver ran at frantic and sometimes dangerous speeds. The bodywork of the bus had suffered a little and I wasn't alone to notice the many leakages through the roof and poorly sealed windows. Many remarked but I observed that remarks never quite crossed the line into the zone of what could rank as complaints. I toed the line. The rain persisted for an hour or so. I was completely soaked and cold, and I'm sure I was not alone.

There had to be something that caused this collective discipline… collective stoicism some would say.

In normal circumstances, for those who know that road, Makenene is midway (in time, not distance) between Yaoundé and Bamenda. We arrived this midway point at 1:30am. This meant that all things being equal, in order to arrive Bamenda at 6am, we had to take off again at 3:30am.

Guess what… the driver didn't stop. He didn't even slow down a little. He sped past Makenene like he had gone past all the other roadside towns. What was more, no-one complained. At that pace, we would arrive Bamenda at 4am. I noticed that the rest of the convoy wasn't there. Everyone had gone.

I was intrigued but I had organised my day of Thursday in such a way that I would be sufficiently tired by the end of the day in order to sleep through the journey. As such I didn't spare much time to consider these oddities. Besides, I'm a keen observer of the socio-political health of the country and the ‘Bamenda exception’ had not escaped my attention. Many reports had made it known that in Bamenda, people are careful who they speak to and how they share their feelings and opinions on political issues. Earlier on, when the bus departed, my neighbour had called his family to notify them of departure. His French was crisp and his accent was telling. He wasn't like some of us who have learnt to play with both official languages well enough not only to play with accents but to recognise anyone playing the same game. So inasmuch as I was eager to ask what on earth was happening, I took my Bamenda boy posture and held my piece.

Two hours later (3:30am), the bus stopped. There was no obvious reason. But I woke up. We had just passed Babadjou (40km to Bamenda). I noticed that we had caught up with the convoy. I stepped out to stretch a little. I needed it. Many others did. The hard work had taken its toll. In fact, the state of the road had caused the vehicle to shake us so much so that my pedometer thought I had been doing sports. It recorded that I had reached over 200% of my daily target and had lost as many calories as I would walking 8km. Many came out to stretch. Yet, it wasn't ten minutes before the driver started rushing everyone back in. I wasn't sure why but I obliged. Everyone did… without question. Must I say that I would have hesitated at the start, but the driver appealed with insistence. I heard him say that we had to go quickly in order to take our place on the queue. This was new. We got in and off we went again.

Ten minutes later, the bus stopped. “Identity card check” someone said. We had travelled through the Centre and West Regions control free. We could have been anyone or anyone could have been on the bus or could have carried anything undetected and unperturbed until this point.

Everybody was asked to step out. Everybody: male, female, young, old… every single person.

An elderly man asked to be exempted from the exercise. He was agonising with a badly swollen foot and with crutches. His case was heard and dismissed. Out!

A young couple with child tried their luck too. They explained to the security men that it had rained so hard, that multiple leakages had made their baby wet and cold and that taking the child out into the cold night was irresponsible. Besides, the child, hardly three months old, would not have an identity card to show. Sorry… Out!

The queue of vehicles was long. Over a hundred vehicles in a queue that stretched well over 1km. Among them were private family cars, minivans, large public transport buses and transporters of merchandise of various dimensions.

The location was at the approach to Matazem. In the quiet of the night, you could hear a stream almost chuckling as it meandered through the rocks downhill. The smell of fresh vegetables soothed the atmosphere and almost made you forget the stress, the tension, the tiredness… the circumstance.

The chilly temperature as I stepped out of the bus, the fragrance… in short, an ‘up-country’ feel brought immense peace to my heart. I could see home. I could feel home. But I wasn't quite home yet. There was a little matter of 1km to walk… a queue of almost two thousand men, women and children walking to the control point where they had to prove that they were in their country. Or, to put it differently, that they coming from their country and going to their country.

Matazem… at Matazem used to be located a toll gate for access to the North West Region. A few years earlier, considering the poor conditions of roads, the population had decided that they would not have any toll gate there any longer if the roads were not fixed. They suspended the service and enforced their decision.

Matazem… the stream at Matazem is the physical boundary between the West and North West Regions; and going back into history, was also the boundary between Southern Cameroons and La Republique du Cameroun before 1961.

Matazem… I did a Google map check as the queue moved along and discovered something I hadn't known before. The geographical position of Matazem as I found on the map was, by my estimation, just about 5km from Lebialem in the South West Region. I realised that we were truly at the proverbial “place where three footpaths meet". And considering the recent events in Lebialem division, Matazem took a great significance. We were at a crossroads.

Matazem… Matazem was a point in the line which, for three months and three days, demarcated Cameroonians who knew how to use the Internet and social media responsibly from those who didn't.

Matazem… a place where customs officers check customs clearance for goods in a non-international frontier.

Yes, we were at Matazem. The queue progressed slowly to the control point... the control point between one country and the same country.

Everyone had their turn. I had mine too… after walking 1km in 40 minutes. The time was long enough and the pace was slow enough for me to appreciate my environment and circumstances. I looked around… I saw five or six armed security men. It didn't seem sufficient to control a crowd of two thousand people… two thousand ‘up-country’ people. It seemed even less sufficient with the thought that we were 5km from Lebialem in the middle of the night. I consoled myself with the thought that some more security men may have been positioned discretely or that, for the poor men's sake, if anything happened, the population would secure them and be as considerate to them as they had been to the old man with a painful foot and to the 3 months old baby. Wait… what am I saying? Anyway…

The vehicles also drove past the control point slowly. Everyone their turn. As they passed, passengers identified their vehicles and mounted. It was 4:30am. The drive to Bamenda was on again. This time slowly… very slowly. 10-20 km/h max. The long file of vehicles twisted up the hills to Santa, to Akum, then to Bamenda.

There were no oncoming vehicles as the file paced along. Of course, none. REASON: It wasn't 6am in Bamenda when the night time restrictions in movements are in force. Weeks earlier, the governor had decreed a restriction of movements from 9:00pm to 6:00am… a kind of blanket state of exception that was different from a CURFEW only in the fact it had not been officially called one.

6:30am we arrived Bamenda. I walked around the park hoping to grab a coffee. No luck. I decided that it was too early for me to check in at my hotel. I walked up to Commercial Avenue. Commercial Avenue is arguably the longest commerce-only street in Cameroon. I was sure to find a breakfast parlour. One of my two favorite restaurants, ‘Yummy’, wasn't open yet. I didn’t think the other, ‘RitzKay’, would be open either. I covered another 300m or 400m up to the entrance to the Bamenda Main Market. I'm not too sure that I was specifically looking out for a breakfast point as I walked. My attention had shifted quite early as I started my Avenue walk.

I came across a good friend. Hello… Long time no see… this and that and hugs… Oh! As we hugged, there was a scene over her shoulder. It caught my attention and all I clearly remember is that she said she would travel to Douala that day. Since this is a factual account and since she may read and recognise, I sincerely apologise. (I need to find you and finish that hug).

Back to the scene. I described the military presence earlier. It seemed that it was time for the change of the guard. Security vehicles went from post to post, armed men came out and fell into position. Over my friend's shoulder, I noticed one of the security men as he beckoned a sandwich man. I wouldn't have noticed had the beckoning not been persistent. The beckoning would not have been persistent if he (the sandwich man) had responded at the first call.

They were five meters apart from each other.

It was clear that security man wanted sandwich.

It was clear that sandwich man did not want to sell sandwich to security man.

It was clear that security man was not having it being ignored.

Security man approached sandwich man, seized a sandwich (which may have cost 300 or 400 francs) forced a thousand francs into sandwich man's pocket and walked away as if to make it clear that he didn't want the change.

Sandwich man turned around, shook his head, smiled and went away.

Nobody wanted a confrontation, nor was any necessary. The security men went about their business. Passersby went about their business… each coming across as ignoring the other… each paying close attention to every move by the other.

A few meters away was the point where, months earlier, it was reported that a security man had been seized and assassinated. It must have been a moment of inattention in the constant two-way booby trap.

Many things came together in my mind: this was the place where lawyers had been brutalised in late 2016 because they protested against the systematic dilution of their legal heritage; this was the place where a local journalist had staged a demonstration (aka coffin revolution) to protest against the poor state of roads. It is also the place where public sovereign demonstrations such as National Day and Youth Day parades take place. Commercial Avenue is therefore not just a long street… it is a place where statements are made. It is a place where things are done in order for them to be noted on the record that they happened. That is how the encounter between the sandwich man and the security man should be seen… both were making statements at each other at the place where statements are made.

The thought that the crisis will not be permanently resolved without the active participation of the population and/or its representatives became a certainty.

I walked around the avenue for a while longer, hoping to catch a conversation with anyone. Sorry, doesn't work that way these days. Nobody talks with people they don't know.

By 9am, the avenue was really starting to catch it's real pace… business pace… Douala pace. I went ‘up' to Station, the administrative neighborhood to see an old friend who I thought would chat more freely about the issues. We agreed to meet at a palm wine joint. That was going to be fun. I hadn't had palm wine in a long while… partly because I only drink palm wine in Bamenda.

While I waited, I put my ears on the ground, hoping to catch the gossip. There were seven or eight people already positioned. I heard that bad things were going on in Belo, 40-50 km from Bamenda. A heavy military presence was reported with sustained exchange of gunshots.

I sat in a little discreet corner, hoping to go unnoticed. ‘Unnoticed’ didn't last long. The conversation switched to football. The conversation seemed incoherent as if meant to fill in the gap that my presence provided. I waited patiently… observing. Out and in a few times. My friend had delayed a little. I wasn't going to call him. I could spend time learning something… anything. And I learnt many things in that short period. I learned how people talk, who they talk to, how they relate to each other and how the different generations relate to the issues. I also noticed that between Station and ‘downtown’, there was a feeling of Tanga Nord - Tanga Sud. However, the way the Bamenda man in general related to the rest of the country was more like a Tanga Ouest - Tanga Est relationship… a horizontal difference in outlook on issues and on the country, as opposed to the vertical master-servant relationship that had inspired Eza Boto when he described the colonial administrative neighborhood and the locals’ neighborhoods in Ville Cruelle.

Of the drinkers, two were elderly. Perhaps sixty and over. They had continued the conversation about the events in Belo. Not much came out of it though. Then came my friend. Hello… and hugs… and stuff. Then he said “THE VOLUME, THE VOLUME". I didn't get it. He turned to the others and said: “Do you remember the conversation we had a few days ago about an article titled ‘the Volume’?... This is the guy who wrote it”, he added. My friend must have been a real ‘area boy’. He knew everyone and everything that happened in the neighborhood. I was truly humbled. Everyone turned round and looked at me.

‘The Volume’ is a short story I had written a year earlier which simply captured the idea that in the management of the crisis, the government was making matters worse, then bringing them back to the starting point by removing their own escalation and hoping to take credit for solving the problem. I was pleased, as any writer would be, that my little story had attracted the interest of anyone.

The atmosphere became less tense and the football interlude ended. You know why. We chatted for another hour or so, then I left.

4pm, Downtown. Wedding stuff. Amazing couple. Excellent organisation. Good attendance. I had to say this. That’s what took me to Bamenda anyway.

5:12pm… We spoke earlier about Matazem… and Lebialem. A fortnight ago, the Senior Divisional Officer for Lebialem was shot by unknown assailants while on official duty and was still recovering. I stumbled on the 5pm radio news. It was announced that he had been sent on retirement and replaced. Yep… retired while recovering from a gunshot wound incurred during official duty. Some would simply say  that he had been vampired.

7:00pm... the city was buzzing. The noise, the parties etc. As evening drew closer, it became even louder. Traffic was heavy. The disjointed music of hooting cars, steaming vehicles and motorbikes became louder, more unbearable but increasingly fascinating. Junctions were packed and everyone was on the move. Some quick paced, others running. Cars, bikes and people criss-crossed each other dangerously but left the feeling that everyone of them would say… understandably. Taxi fares rose with every minute as the evening grew older.

8:40pm. I managed to find my way to my hotel room. Grabbed a coffee and sat at the balcony to enjoy the buzz and to take some of the notes I have shared with you here.

9:00pm… 24 hours after I left my home in yaounde to start my journey, EVERYTHING STOPPED. The silence was deafening. Not a single soul on the streets. Yaounde had heaved a sigh… it was bloodsucking time.