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When Hans stopped speaking, Ouandie
rose and started pacing about with a thoughtful expression on his face. Then he
stopped suddenly in front of Hans, his face grave and his voice leveled. “And
you believed him just as you believed Ahidjo and Jean Lamberton?” he asked.
Hans shook his head no. “He was almost
laughable. I couldn’t take his words seriously until Frederik’s confession.
Frederik puzzled me when he switched to Dutch just as I was leaving, informing
me to accept whatever you tell me. It must have been a desperate attempt to get
his message across without the knowledge of his captors. And I think he was
successful in his efforts. I couldn’t bring myself to judge him as a renegade
after that.”
Ouandie nodded and closed his eyes. “Nsiyep,
a renegade? No, no, no! Of course, he is not. He was one of us, one of our own,
one of those I could always count on. He had some radical views about guerilla
warfare that I didn’t always share. He wanted us to fight state terrorism with
terrorism of our own, against collaborators and the defenders of the regime,
the repository, the establishment, and its beneficiaries. I couldn’t bring
myself to accept some of his methods, especially because I never wanted to accept
terror as a rule in our cause. I always told him that not all the Cameroonian
soldiers in the army the French created for Ahidjo are against us, that the
vast majority of those working with the Ahidjo regime are against his policies.
Some of them are fighting us because they have guns pointed at their backs by
evil people urging them to fight on or be shot. We have to convince those
unwilling men to become our allies. I always told him that. There were times
when he didn’t listen.
Hans continued nodding.
“There are soldiers out there who are
haunted by repeated nightmares because they participated in killing innocent
people and were involved in burning down our people’s homes for Ahidjo and his
masters. They are living with tormented souls because they executed the orders
of their commanders against their noble consciences.”
“How come Fredrik speaks Dutch?”
“His father worked for the Dutch
businessman Jan Kruger. He was his cook when Fredrik was born. Jan Kruger named
him. Your father even did business with that Dutchman at one time, you know.
Fredrik was an intelligent boy and Jan Kruger thought he could make a success
out of him. He took Frederik with him to Europe and paid for the boy's
education in The Netherlands. Fredrik is a doctor in medicine. He was in Cuba
and China.”
“How come Ndam Saidou got him?”
Ouandie shook his head. “They captured
him last month while he was leading a punitive raid in Douala. That was after
French and Ahidjo soldiers virtually razed his village. His purpose for
carrying out that raid was to hit back. He was also out to prove that we are
still a powerful force capable of hitting back at our enemies anywhere,
whenever we deem it necessary.”
“I should see some of the flocks out
there. So why don’t you two carry on in my absence?” the bishop said, excused
himself and left.
Hans nodded. “I heard about it. They
were almost successful. They almost escaped.”
“Our enemies caught him while he was
trying to save one of his wounded men.”
“I understand.”
Ouandie shrugged. “The raid was his
idea. There was nothing I could do to stop him except by putting a bullet
through his head. The bastards killed his grandmother and two cousins when
their army attacked his village. They cut his mother’s left ear and forced her
to eat it. He almost went mad with rage when he learned about the killings that
day and the fate suffered by his family.”
“That was in Bamena!”
Ouandie nodded. “It was pathetic.”
Hans sighed and then rose to his feet
all of a sudden. “The government papers reported it as an attack from your men
because the villagers showed their hideouts to government troops.”
Ouandie laughed feebly and crossed his
arms. “And many of you believed them. They tell our people that the UPC does
everything bad against the Cameroonian people. Ahidjo’s men and French soldiers
kill our people and point accusing fingers at us. They behead our men, rape our
women, raze our villages, burn down the crops and confiscate our people’s
wealth, and who gets the blame? Of course, we are the ones they always accuse.
The UPC fighters fighting for the total liberation of Cameroon are blamed for everything.
Even some of the people who strongly supported us yesterday believe them now.
Even you too, Hans Wette Njike, my brother, accepted a lot of the terrible
things they accused us of doing. And judging from the way things are
developing, they are winning. They are gaining the day against the interest of
Cameroon.”
“Please, don’t get me wrong,” Hans
said, looking piteous all of a sudden.
“I won’t bother. The French now have
Ahidjo and his men calling our fight against their uncompromising system war
between a bunch of Bamileké homicidal lunatics and the patriotic and national
government of Cameroon. Can you believe that? They now portray themselves as
the patriots and we, who showed the
Cameroonian people the path to the future, are made to look like the spoilers,
the bandits, the savages, the cannibals.”
“I too feel the pain from the lie.”
“I understand, my brother. The puppet
and the puppeteer can sell their lies to the world because they have the
propaganda machinery, the support of the Western Powers and a world that is
ignorant of our plight. Yes, foreign journalists have been barred from this
area, living off information being fed to them by the propaganda machinery the
French set up. Yes! Ahidjo has the arms, the backing of the French military,
the Western media, their allies in the West and everything else against us. But
what have we got? Nothing! We are left with nothing but a dream that may never
be realized in our lifetime.”
Hans tried to say something, but his
lips twitched from the agony of the revelation so much that he held his tongue
back and kept his eyes on Ouandie, watching him pace about with forceful
strides, his face a blend of rage, frustration,
and dignified pride.
“We had no arms when we began the
struggle. We had no intention to become a resistance movement until the French
drove us into the bush with the ban. We even thought we could peacefully
achieve our objectives by moving most of our operations to British Cameroons.
What happened? The conspiring imperialists agreed to expel us from there as
well. We had one mission only―work for the program of reunification before
independence in a bid to make Cameroon the pacesetter of its destiny. You see,
France used Ahidjo to usurp our program. Yes,
Hans, they used that herd-boy who knew nothing about the Cameroonian dream or
its components. Britain has abandoned John Ngu Foncha after he worked so hard
in British Southern Cameroons for the reunification agenda. Tell me, Hans!
Where are we today?”
“We are trapped,” Hans stuttered.
“We are still under the complete
control of the French, with a golden rein around our necks.”
“I understand,” Hans wailed and closed
his eyes. “Jacques Foccart made Ahidjo a pimp for the French mafia that runs
France’s political relations with its former African colonies and territories.”
“You finally understood. He is a pimp
in the classic sense of the word. He accepted the French plan of independence
before reunification talks, knowing that the French would make him the first
president of our land. Yes! French Cameroun got its independence without a
referendum or plebiscite on reunification. We were lucky we had a plebiscite in
British Cameroons. What if the British had put someone like Ahidjo in power in
British Cameroons and then granted it independence?”
“I understand,” Hans quivered.
“Tell me also. What options were our
people in British Cameroons given in the plebiscite? Vote to join Nigeria or
the French-speaking Republic of Cameroon. I call it a classic imperialist deal.
British Northern Cameroons went to Nigeria as planned under grossly manipulated
polling while Southern Cameroons practically fell under the sphere of influence
of the French. The majority of our British Cameroonian brothers voted for
reunification. So, figure it out. Why did they have to make the plebiscite
separate for British Northern Cameroons and British Southern Cameroons?”
“For the obvious reasons you just
stated.”
“The plebiscite was fair in the South,
wasn’t it?”
Hans laughed bitterly. “It was.”
“That’s the point I am trying to make,
my brother. Nigerians, who were indistinguishable as Fulani people spanning the Nigerian and Cameroonian borders,
voted in the North for a union with Nigeria and we lost a chunk of our
territory because of that. So, you can see why we were strongly for
reunification before independence. To prevent scams like those from being
pulled on our people by the British and the French. The process was supposed to
be regulated, entirely, by the United Nations Organization as spelt out in the
Trusteeship Agreement.”
“Ahidjo was used by the French to get
British Southern Cameroons, not for partnership but to placate the
union-nationalists and subjugate Anglophone Cameroonians in the process of
assimilation that promises nothing good for the people,” Hans said.
“Finally,
you are talking. I am glad you see things clearly now. Tell me what is going on
today. Ahidjo is also betraying our union-nationalist brothers from the other
side of the Mungo River, who though English speaking, see themselves first as
Cameroonians above everything else.”
“My son thinks so too. He went to
school in Buea, remember?”
“Rudolf-Karl! How is he doing?”
“Good!” Hans quivered.
“Brother, I want you to know that
Cameroon’s salvation shall come from the western parts of this country. I
dreamed of a Northwest wind that unyoked the French rein of control over this
land. Our country shall be freed by a generation that has not yet been born,”
Ouandie said as if prophesying.
“Has our party experienced decamping recently?”
Hans asked.
“Those were people Ahidjo and his
French masters bought. They are the unimportant few who are of no consequence.
Some of us may find it hard to come to terms with reality, but the truth is
that they are the politicians. Those renegades never lived up to the challenge
of becoming revolutionaries in the struggle. Count them among those who thought
the cause would be a smooth political road to glory, power, and money. My God, you believed the propaganda. The mafia
set up by De Gaulle and Jacques Foccart here in Cameroon never won over the
cream of the party who are either dead or in exile.”
“I understand,” Hans rasped, feeling
the constriction in his throat.
“My brother, it is not only an
unimportant few Bamilekés who are opposing Ahidjo and the system the French
imposed on us. The vast majority of the Cameroonian people want him out because
they never voted him to power. Never forget that our people have been so
cruelly raped and traumatized by the French that they have lost the will to
continue fighting. They are afraid.”
“How come words are being whispered
around of a split?”
“A split, you said!” Ouandie muttered,
shaking his head in disbelief. “The so-called moderates are the renegades who
have been bought over. They think they can become prosperous by shedding their
true aspirations for Cameroon. But Frederik was one of us. They probably
promised him his head if he came forward as a moderate in front of you. He has
many relatives in Douala. That makes him vulnerable to Ndam Saidou’s whims.
Some of them have already been picked up for collaborating with him.”
“You are right. He is innocent,” Hans
said sadly.
“He is innocent. That is why he
referred you to me. It is good you came. Ahidjo’s men destroyed your hospital.
Ahidjo’s men are after your flesh. The French and their puppet fear you are
still supporting us. They fear you stand to expose their atrocities and the
worst that are still to come. So, be careful, my brother. If you want my
advice, then this is it,” Ouandie said and took a deep breath.
“What?” Hans asked.
“Leave Cameroon with your family, and
don’t return until this madness has been brought to an end. Do what others have
already done. Leave!”
Hans shook with emotion as he fought
with his thoughts. “Ndam Saidou promised hell for me. He is a ruthless man
without a conscience. He seeks blood like a hound.”
“It is obvious you don’t want to leave
Cameroon despite Ndam Saidou,” Ouandie said, his eyes quizzical on Hans.
Hans nodded, not altogether sure of
himself, but determined to follow his heart. “I shall still be here long after
he and his types are gone.”
Ouandie looked away and held his hands
over his head. “Unbelievable! Everything is turning out this way! Um Nyobé murdered and buried like a dog in the
forest. Félix Moumié poisoned and buried in faraway Guinea. Abel Kingué is
away, forced into exile and I am here like cricket in its hole. Can you believe
it? That our dream party is withering away and is at its early stage of
despondence, its true arms forced into hiding?” he said, shrugged and then added.
“You will need something to defend yourself with
if you must stay on in Cameroon.”
Hans was gratified. “Thank you for
everything, my brother,” he said and embraced Ouandie.
He was disengaging himself from the
hug when Ouandie increased his grip on his shoulder all of a sudden and pulled
him closer. “We can’t win this war anymore. The suffering is too much for our
people. They cannot sustain the heavy carnage from our enemies any further. I
want peace more than you can imagine. I want the UPC given its rightful place
in history. We stand for all Cameroonians; do you understand? We aren’t
psychopaths like them,” Ouandie quivered into his ears and then released him
and pulled back. There were tears in his eyes.
Hans felt his eyes growing wistful and
his lips quivering in a strange manifestation of rue that he had never felt
before. “Cameroonians are an understanding people. They will understand.”
Ouandie smiled and then laughed
sarcastically. “It is already too late now, but it wouldn’t be too late for the
next generation. It is our job to ensure that they learn the truth if they must
avoid our fate. Our history of salvation began with Martin Paul Samba, was
edited by our Anglophone brothers, and it was printed with the blood of the UPC
martyrs. It is only when Cameroonians have that in mind shall our country be
able to set itself free. That’s our only bargain with our freedom. Remember the
Northwest wind, my brother. Cameroonians need to take it to the place of Martin
Paul Samba’s burial.”
“It is not too late. We can still do
something,” Hans mumbled.
Ouandie shook his head with rue.
“Ahidjo has trapped Cameroonians with his lies and intimidation. Even our
people here are reluctant to throw in what is left of their weight into a
struggle that has been deserted by other Cameroonians. Your Bamileké brothers
are weary of a fight that they have paid a heavy price for and earned nothing
in return. The only thing they got back is the incomprehension of their other
Cameroonian brothers. It is sad because that is how some of our Bassa brothers
are thinking today. They believe that other Cameroonians deserted them while
Secretary-General Um Nyobé got killed and the Bassaland was laid to waste. Our
people are yet to understand the French strategy of divide and conquer. Their
game plan is to make sure that the majority coalition of diverse ethnic groups
that challenged their authority never finds unity again and never embarks on
another struggle to loosen the stranglehold France has on Cameroon.”
“No…no, no!” Hans snapped, resting his
hands on his head. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I want to make a comeback. We
stood for the entire Cameroonian people, and I was short-sighted not to see the
writings on the wall. I am sorry I failed in our obligations to the cause,” he
cried.
“It is too late,” Ouandie muttered
dejectedly, looking drained of his will.
“No,
it is not,” Hans said forcefully.
Ouandie shrugged all of a sudden and
fixed Hans with a probing look. He was surprised when the UPC leader shook his
head, turned around with his back to him and then said in a somber voice. “You
can be of help only if you get us to the negotiating table.”
“What?”
“We can’t win anymore even though we
are capable of resisting for another decade or two. But what do we stand to
gain by pursuing that route? Any resolve to continue the resistance would only
give our enemies the excuse to continue carrying out more carnage and
suppression. Perhaps my sentiments come across as signs of weakness for a
fighter, but I can afford them because of my love for this land. Can you
remember what I told you before about Spartacus?”
Hans nodded. “He had a saying.”
Ouandie spun around and faced Hans
again and then nodded too. “I might not be close enough in paraphrasing him,
but he once said that a revolutionary who is out to defeat his enemies could
use their weapons, but not their rules. The poor gladiator from Thrace was too
soft in the heart and failed in his slave revolt because of that. The Romans
kept their slaves docile by casting Spartacus as the cause of their miseries
and the reason for the delay in the drive to grant equality to all. Now, what
were the free Romans told about him?”
“I don’t know,” Hans mumbled.
“They were told that hell awaited them
if Spartacus triumphed in his revolt. It doesn’t take a historian or a saint to
see that the poor gladiator and slave leader was too good in the heart. He
didn’t want to hit at the Roman citizens. His target was the cruel Roman
oligarchy that was behind all the injustices in the empire. We too were too
good when we started the struggle against French colonialism and exploitation
and then continued with it against Ahidjo. That’s why we are in this mess
today, the same mess Spartacus found himself in two thousand years ago and
damned the consequences by giving himself up in his final charge towards his
death. We took up arms after the French administration refused to negotiate
with us about lifting the ban. We took up arms after they failed to take the
future interest of Cameroon into consideration. But it is late now, perhaps too
late.”
“We have hope, Ouandie! It is never
too late. Our people will understand,” Hans quivered.
Ouandie muttered a feeble-anguished
laugh. “Hope is soothing, but it can become deceptive if we cling to it as the
last resort against reality.”
“All is not lost. We still have the
people to count on,” Hans cried.
Ouandie shook his head no, looking
tortuously rueful, but retaining the steel in his eyes and voice. “The only
powerful weapons we have left are our ideas. We have lost the people’s will,
but not their hearts. That’s where the ideas must be nourished until they
blossom again in the next generation.”
“We need to understand our people. We
should make an effort to understand them and not draw from their fears all the
time,” Hans said with a note of desperation in his voice.
Ouandie shook his head in a pathetic
manner and then rested a hand on Hans’s shoulder. “The people are like an
audience watching a drama. They have characters whose sides they chose even
before the start of the show. But they know little or nothing about the people
behind the stage―the manipulators. The French, Ahidjo and their allies have the
backstage and so control the show.”
“The show? This is a life and death
matter!”
“It is a show all the same. Yes, my
brother; our struggle against this French-imposed system is a show for all you
might want to call it. The political leadership in France is determined to make an example out of us, so that our
defeat would discourage other people’s movements from challenging the puppets
that they put in power in Africa. They are also controlling the audience, which
is composed of international opinion and our people. My brother, the next
generation of Cameroonians stands to succeed only if they enlighten the
audience before they confront this system. We failed in achieving that.”
Funnily enough, Hans did not retort.
Instead, he stared in a dazed manner at Ouandie, too lost in the sudden
flashback, which brought to the surface his late father’s words that had been
forever imprinted on his mind.
“It is better for a realist to bend
his will and ethics to accommodate a true friend,
than it is for him to stick to his principles that may turn the friend into an
adversary,” Josef Nana Njike had told him.
Hans shook himself out of his reverie
and regarded the piteously looking Ouandie with rueful eyes. He had almost made
him an adversary. Now, looking at Ernest Ouandie, he was glad the UPC leader
was a realistic liberator and prophetic hero with the astuteness to judge him
from his intentions. Hans heaved out heavily and pressed the hand of his leader
on his shoulder.
“What is it, Hans?” Ouandie asked in a
tired voice.
“The good shall prevail in the end,
the truth shall be the rule and the Cameroonian soul shall be free,” Hans said
in an emotion-choked voice, “However, we should never lose our heads; we should
always be prepared to forgive all the repentant souls.”
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