Janvier Chouteu-Chando
TISI BOOKS
NEW YORK, RALEIGH, LONDON, AMSTERDAM
PUBLISHED BY TISI BOOKS
This story is dedicated to everyone who got jilted but went on to find love.
My deepest, warmest and everlasting thanks to my entire family. Special thanks to all the women in my life.
My Sundays in Bankole have never been lousy. So, I expected this one to be great, especially since my cousin Darya and my bickering grandmother were away in the Saint Joseph Catholic Church for the lone Sunday mass that began at 7:45 hours that morning. I expected them to be back when the sun would be down and the chilling Northeast wind would be in control of the Bankole atmosphere.
The thought of my grandmother rarely fails to evoke sweet memories, which usually bring out a smile to my face, especially while reflecting on her spats with her granddaughter Darya. My grandmother is an exceptional soul with a knack for pushing things to the limit until she gets her way. In fact, my initial concerns that she would push my lovely and domestic cousin into becoming a nun were finally put to rest during my first week in Bankole after I discovered that Darya was no pushover. How Darya managed to become an independent-minded young woman with dreams of her own, despite her meek front to my grandmother, I don’t know. All the same, I was happy she turned out well.
Bankole was abuzz that Sunday with the all-too-familiar news of my grandmother and her group of dedicated Christian women that were hosting the priest and his crew after the late morning sermon. Judging alone from the preparations done at our home, I knew they would have more than enough to eat and drink after the oration by the priest and his retinue of altar boys and a catechist. In fact, I expected the reception to drag on until dusk, which meant I would be left alone with my grandfather until our women returned home. Naturally, I was supposed to feel elated about the whole idea of staying at home. After all, there was adequate supply of Ntepseu Banana―a porridge made from bananas cooked with raw groundnut paste and other ingredients, as well as bitter-leaf soup that is usually eaten with corn-fufu, which Darya and her grandmother noisily prepared during their 3:00 AM to 7:13 AM. vigil by the fireside that morning. We also had enough stock of whisky and wine that I brought with me to Bankole. Supplementing that was palm wine, Kola Nut, and the Bitter Kola my grandmother’s childhood friend Njami gifted me the night before. I still think of her with fondness, even though she never stops reminding me of my promise to marry her when I was a child with mucus running down my nose.
As a matter of fact, I felt strangely bored that day and could not understand why I was having a hard time shaking off the crippling feeling of loneliness and the sense of foreboding it brought. Besides, I was still convinced my grandfather wanted to be left alone to get over the grief of his sad involvement in Ngankeu’s fate. Even my grandmother thought so too because just before she left for church services that morning, she advised me to leave the old man alone to get over his miseries.
The morning slipped into the afternoon and I realized my ability to formulate thoughts wasn’t getting any better. As a matter of fact, my loneliness wasn’t a complicated one. But I could not ignore my growling stomach. So, like any faithful child of Bankole still suffering from years of not eating the nourishing meals of his homeland, I raided the kitchen and re-emerged moments after with two bowls full of food―one a leftover of the dish made from huckleberry leaves called Njama-njama that was prepared two days ago, and the other the Ntepseu banana cooked that morning. Alongside this delicacy was a side dish of the Koki-corn from yesterday. I was virtually drooling when I made myself comfortable at the table and heartily devoured the food. I ate so fast that I had to catch myself a couple of times from slurping. I even looked around me a couple of times to make sure that nobody was watching. Relieved that I was alone, I washed down the salivary taste in my mouth with a mug of water, and then leaned back in the chair and belched in satisfaction.
A wave of relief swept over me as I stepped onto the verandah. But that did not stop me from stretching my body and yawning in a listless manner. I settled in an easy chair after that, and then made myself comfortable in it like a contented bore. It dawned shortly after sitting down that the compressed lungs in my chest were making my breathing labored. So, I shifted a little in my seat and looked down at my somewhat bulging stomach. That was the moment I thought of the story of my great-great-grandfather who married eight wives and made it a point of eating separate dishes from each and every one of them every day, just to show his impartiality. The feat left him with a corrupt stomach the size of an obese woman expecting triplets. An English traveler even went as far as comparing it to that of the legendary Lobengula, the Ndebele king of Southern Zimbabwe, whose protruding stomach was rumored to have shielded a dwarf from a heavy downpour of rain.
So, not feeling altogether uncomfortable with the way I looked, I closed my eyes, slipped into slumberland and started emitting a hoarse sound that was capable of scaring evil spirits away. My rumbling snores must have lasted for about half an hour before I woke up with a start, yawned lazily, and then stretched my body diligently. It was in that uplifted spirit that I got up from my seat and walked with unstable steps to my grandfather’s hut.
“Tama! Are you still there?” I called out in an elevated voice.
“Huh!” my grandfather grunted from inside.
“Are you all right?”
“Huh!” he grunted again.
“Oh, I guess I should take a walk around all by myself. We shall talk later in the evening?” I said and held my breath.
“Huh!” he grunted the third time.
“All right!” I said with a sigh, “See you later,” I added and started walking away.
After a couple of steps, I turned around and regarded the hut for a moment, and then clutched my head with both hands for no apparent reason. Upon realizing the awkwardness of my action, I dropped my hands, shrugged, and then continued walking away. The thought of my grandfather’s friend Wakam crossed my mind at the verandah, prompting me to stop in an instant.
Now, Wakam is an amazing character for several reasons, one of which is for taming the mood swings of his youth. Bring up anything interesting to talk about and laugh at, and he would see no reason to be doleful. Stir his adrenaline flow, and he would not hesitate to fold the sleeves of his shirt and clench a fist. He is a free-spirited soul, enlivened by the joy of life like a natural product of this world. The old fellah is somebody I respect a lot for the naturalness of his soul.
So, it took me just seconds to realize that Wakam was the best person around to spend the afternoon in good company with. That was why I smiled in an instant, turned my face towards the wind and moved my slightly wobbling legs in the direction of his home.
I arrived at his yard to find his dog, a brown mongrel per se, barking half-heartedly at a vicious looking she-goat and her kid. I stopped and watched them in their phony war, only to discover that the cowardly dog’s real interest was on a bone next to the goat. So, I shook my head in an amused manner, and then trudged on.
As expected, Mami Wakam, as Wakam’s wife is popularly called, was not at home. The reason was simple. My grandmother managed to convince her not to work on her farm that Sunday, and then nudged her to go to church instead—much to her uneasiness and Wakam’s displeasure. She did so by scaring her with talks of eternal damnation.
Wakam’s grandson and two great-grandchildren welcomed me with relish. They appeared to be in need of medical attention because of the weakness of their eyes, the mucus running down their noses and the frailness of their bodies. However, they told me in a spirited manner that the old seer was at home, a revelation that brought a broad smile to my face. That was why I made myself comfortable on a bench outside while the grandson informed Wakam of my presence.
“Nana Njike, Nana Njike…Nana Njike! The pride of my friend and brother, a grandson I often wished descended from my loins!” Wakam called, startling me in my short moment of reverie on the bench.
I turned around to find him approaching me with a burly figure whose frivolousness, uncertain demeanor and clumsy gait struck me right away. I rose to my feet and greeted the two old men, answered the many questions they posed on the welfare of those I knew, and then sat down again with a satisfied expression on my face.
“Uh, Nana Njike! This is my younger brother from the same mother. Ketcha! Uh, Ketcha! This is Nana Njike. He is Kamjou’s grandson. I know it is difficult to believe it, but he had a harem of lovers just like you in your heyday. The only difference is that he had his in the white man’s land. And guess what made his days spicy while he was out there? The majority in the harem were white women.”
“Huh! White women?” the wide-eyed Ketcha asked, looking all of a sudden like someone who just received an extra dose of life.
“Not exactly, Tapang,” I said, looking bashful.
“But you were in the white man’s land, weren’t you? Wakam interceded.
“Yes, Tapang, but I never built such a reputation for myself.”
“Be proud of yourself, Nana Njike! There is a way of being proud of yourself without forcing it on others, my noble son,” Wakam admonished and licked his lips.
“I have nothing to be proud of because I never gained such a reputation.”
“I know, I know. Virility shouldn’t be considered a curse when it is under the control of someone as prudent as you are. Yes, it is not a curse at all. Only, it should be purposeful in its application, and the result should be humane offspring that are the embodiment of progress and continuity, the certainty of change to the next generation. You have a brain to buttress your virility, Nana Njike, my noble child. You are not like an oaf who exerts himself without a purpose. You are not an oaf like my brother here who is without a wife and children of his own to lean on.”
“Don’t repeat it again, especially when we are in front of a child,” Ketcha cautioned.
“Repeat what, you bloody fool! Our ancestors should have struck you dumb before you came out of our mother’s womb. Tell me, my dear brother. What excuse can you give to console me that at your age, you still cannot accommodate a woman?”
“I have had women before.”
“But you couldn’t keep them. You couldn’t accommodate even Mengang, the nice one-armed woman we found for you. And she was prepared to cleanse you of the curse. Nana Njike, my brother just behaved like a naughty child. Yes, my noble child! My brother here drove away a promising wife we all accepted and took to his home last year.”
“Must you bring that up all the time?” Ketcha said, scratching his chin.
“Huh, Ketcha! Your first major worry about getting a wife was the cost of the bride price, yet you are giving me the impression that the increased cost of acquiring a new wife today doesn’t bother you at all, given your age, reputation and limits,” Wakam roared.
“Is it a child you are talking about in front of our toothless child here?” Ketcha whispered hoarsely into his older brother’s ears.
“A child, a toothless child you said. He is a child all right. But he is more than that. He is better. His wisdom is obvious for anyone to discern. Yes, Ketcha! He is wiser than his years, wiser than a fool like you. Ketcha, Ketcha, my dear brother! Your exploits are amazing, but they are the exploits of a fool, blessed by luck and backed by those who love you. Now, you must wake up to the realities of today and accept your blessings; you need to wake up and protect yourself from the destructive forces that are trying to keep you in perpetual bondage.”
“What are you talking about?” Ketcha chortled and raised his hands expressively.
“I am not blind, my beloved brother. Do you think I didn’t observe your face and the way your eyes lit up with life the moment I mentioned Nana Njike’s exploits with white women? Women, women, women are the only focus of your mind and interest. They are your unavoidable obsession, yet you lack what it takes to keep or sustain them.”
“I don’t think you are completely right on this one.”
“Yes, my brother, you cannot even retain them even though you would waste your time and energy to get them. What’s wrong with you, my brother?” Wakam asked, sighed, and then added, “Well, I must have asked you that question a thousand times and over.”
Ketcha sighed too and rose to his feet. “I am sorry, but I must leave now. Bear in mind that I have never been indifferent to your advice,” he mumbled.
“It is in your interest,” Wakam said and shrugged.
Ketcha greeted us goodbye looking somber, and then walked away with slumped shoulders. I watched Wakam for a moment as he regarded his younger brother’s departing figure with brooding eyes until he disappeared behind the shadow of plantain trees.
“Your brother, your brother respects you,” I said haltingly, stirring Wakam out of his rueful thoughts.
The old seer regarded me for a moment, and then chuckled. “He respects me all right. Just like a naughty dog respects its master who never stops forgiving its mischief and who never relents in providing its food.”
“Well…”I said uneasily, shrugged, and then scratched my head.
“Well, well…well! My child paid me a visit. Hmm! We are going to spend a joyful time together,” Wakam said and held my shoulder, much to my relief.
“Well!” I remarked again and breathed out in unrestrained anticipation.
“This visit without your nosy grandfather around is one good occasion for us to wet our throats with palm wine. By the way, thanks for the two bottles of whisky Kamjou gave me yesterday as a present from you. I guess there were three or more bottles, but he decided to be the one to bring them to me in order to cheat me out of my rightful share. He never stopped trying to cheat me out since we were boys,” Wakam said and grimaced.
“No, Tapang! I gave him exactly two bottles, meant for you,” I told him with amused eyes.
“You know that I know him better, don’t you? Naturally, I should be surprised by the good defense you came up with for him. No. I shouldn’t be surprised at all. When has a Bankole man ever failed to defend his family? So, go ahead and defend him even further; so go ahead and protect him better,” Wakam said, and then chortled.
“I am not defending him against his actions,” I protested feebly.
“I am sure he told you not to drink with me. He probably told you that I am a drunkard; or, did he?”
“He did not,” I guffawed.
“Let’s do it then, just like in the old days,” Wakam offered and rubbed his palms together in an excited manner that brought a smile to my face.
“I am waiting to do justice to the palm wine,” I said and sat up.
“All is fine, all is fine,” Wakam wheezed. “I am glad Ketcha is gone. This palm wine is barely enough to make two men blink their eyes without blushing in sobriety. Ketcha, the honorable palm wine neutralizer, would have left us with little more than the keg.”
That was how Wakam started enlivening my day that Sunday, making fun of everything—from the purposeless nature of his dog to the greatly satisfying bountifulness of his farm. He even talked about the tastefulness of the flesh of his goats, fowls, and ducks, and then went on to recount such ear-catching stories as the love lives of those as noble as the king.
At length, he sighed and regarded his empty cup. The sun was directly overhead now, milder in nature than yesterday, but strong enough to cast a picturesque shadow on the earth from the trees that shaded us.
I was already in a state of exuberance when Wakam rested his hand on my shoulder and regarded me with trusting eyes.
“Life, life, life. Some say its essence is the cooling water; others hold that it is the burning nature of the sun that drives us along and illuminate our days. Live your life like the cooling water and you will be regarded as the source of life’s exhilaration, even though you may end up as a slave to the lords of this world. Be a mover of the world, the lord with an insatiable taste like the sun that can prevail, cast its will around on everybody and everything, and what price do you think you will end up paying?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
“Hmm! The price would be an end as dry as this dust and a legacy portraying you as a nuisance to humanity. That was Ketcha. I can’t say for sure how much water or flame he had in his system. His purpose in life would always be a point of debate whenever we talk about him,” Wakam said and shook his head.
“Ketcha,” I chirped.
Wakam nodded. “Ketcha, Ketcha, Ketcha. He is a sad product of nature that is easy to love, easy to pity, so amusing to have around, but impossible to sustain. Without knowing it, his types are the intoxicants of this world, the harmlessly harmful joys in our lives. Yes, they push us to ponder over our mistakes and gauge the influence of our positive and negative emotions on our judgment of major values. Yes, they even help us accept our shortcomings. Grandson of my noble friend, you learn from Ketcha what you don't have to do to yourself while having his attributes”
“Ketcha!” I offered.
Wakam sighed and then started laughing. He chortled so much that beads of tears trickled out of his eyes. I noticed that his face had a light-hearted look on it when he stopped laughing, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and then stretched his neck diligently. Then he sighed again and held my shoulder in a forceful manner.
“Never let go of anybody or anything that goes well with you even if you got it by default, and especially if your commitment is the only thing that is required to keep it,” he growled, and then belched.
I sniffed in mild displeasure, and then nodded in a languid manner.
“A man must always know what he wants and how to get the things he wants. He must also know who he is and how to retain those things he gets. Always remember that my son,” Wakam said in a brooding voice before releasing his grip on my shoulder.”
“I will remember that,” I promised.
“Never forget that piece of advice because it helps people who hold it as a determining mantra in life,” Wakam bellowed, slapped his thigh, and then took a massive gulp of palm wine.
“Well, it is never so easy to figure out everything in life.”
“Ah, Ketcha, Ketcha! Ketcha, my beloved brother we all looked up to! He once had a woman who loved him in an exceptional way. And he too, was so much in love with her, even though he dreaded the idea of going through the process of loving, which is the maturation of our true emotions and affections for the loved ones in our hearts and in our lives. Love, in the mutually committed sense of the word, requires that we take steps to become husbands and fathers, or wives and mothers. Hmm! That woman could have saved Ketcha. She alone could have given him promising children. Yes, Son! She could have been the joy of his days. That woman would have made Ketcha a man in the practical sense of the word because she alone could make him cringe and accept responsibilities.
“What happened to her?” I mumbled.
“Hmm! She had so many attributes. Still, Ketcha could muster the courage to betray her. He betrayed her at a time that she stood up for him in defiance of those who were committed to her happiness, those who in their genuine and selfless ways actually loved her. The story is fascinating, my dear son. It is one of those rare and sensational stories that the old folks of Bankole enjoy recounting,” Wakam rumbled.
“Then tell me. Tell me the thrilling aspects of that love and betrayal,” I urged Wakam with wide eyes.
“Huh, huh, huh…Huh!” Wakam laughed. “I will, I will, I will. But then, I must get to the drama of it all, to that part of the story that saw Ketcha lose the woman of his heart, even though he had her in his hands.”
“So, so…so!” I said encouragingly.
“So, my dear brother was a spice of Bankole even before he knew his worth as a young man,” Wakam said.
“A spice?”
“Uh-huh! He was not an ordinary spice, my son. Yes, Nana Njike; he was one of those rare spices that women always live to remember,” Wakam nodded, shook his head, and then began the story about his brother.
* * *
Ketcha had to be the spice of the land because he was born barely hours before the German colonial army made its impact felt in Bankole for the first time. They trudged into our realm that day expecting a walk over, but were surprised when our warriors challenged them. So, the unexpected spurting of their guns left about a dozen of our warriors dead, more than a hundred wounded and our king and the remnant of his warriors quivering in fright with the rest of the Bankole people.
Now, with the skirmish over, the white leader triumphant but in need of water, with our home only meters away; the logical direction for the victorious soldiers of the German colonial army was the front hut where we were cringing in horror with our mother. The white leader and three of his men forced themselves in and asked for water. Since nobody moved to comply with their demand, the leader surged forward to engage my mother who was curled in a corner with Ketcha in her arms.
My mother later recounted that Ketcha smiled at the strange apparition. I wonder if it is true. But there are other recounts that the German commander shook his head in indecision after he found her with the baby in her arms, that he shuddered afterwards, and that he went on to order his men out of our yard as if he had something to say to my mother and Ketcha in private. He got the water anyway, and in a peaceful manner, I was told. Helmut Grau, as he was called, returned to our home the next day with the king. I remember his smile as he took Ketcha from my mother’s arm. He went on to christen his new baby friend Herman, a German name that is supposed to mean a warrior, a soldier, a fighter or whatever word you can come up with for someone who would not let anyone subjugate him. That was how my brother got his first name and first friend because Ketcha’s namesake always made it a point of calling around our home whenever he happened to be in Bankole or in the other neighboring Bamileké realms.
Helmut Grau was a romantic in the classical sense. He became so fond of Ketcha that he taught him to read and write. He also helped my brother master the guitar and showed him how to flex his muscles as a swimmer. Swimming is a daring art that Ketcha mastered and often proved his skills at by venturing across the feared River Noun with his friend and his men. But the most worrying aspect of it all was Ketcha’s unusual taste for the white man’s clothing and the fact that he found their abhorrent air of superiority fanciful. Ketcha’s light complexion, like that of a Chinese, must have convinced him that he had a close genetic relationship to white men. Believe me, I have a hard time thinking of any other reason why he grew up loving life so much.
Now, three sisters stood between Ketcha and me, adoring sisters who saw no reason why they could not satisfy their special brother’s overbearing demands. On his side, too, was an overtly compassionate and loving mother, who never hesitated to brag about her unusual son’s wittiness and handsome nature. Added to those conspiratorial women were younger sisters who were always happy and ready to comply with Ketcha’s demands. His younger sisters were unusually meek and worshiping, and hardly ever challenged him. That was how Ketcha found himself surrounded by the joy of life and took advantage of it all the time. He failed to become a better person from the love of the women in our family. Instead, he grew up actually believing that he possessed a superior masculinity that absolved him of those responsibilities that other men consider a batch of honor. I, too, was perhaps too wrongfully forgiving to my younger brother, even though I was against his self-centeredness.
Ketcha grew up as an idol around―a singer, drummer and guitarist who enlivened souls in moments of joy and grief. His creative attributes made it easy for him to win the appreciation of almost all the people who came in touch with that soft side of his soul. The fellow even became a regular feature in weddings, funerals, and other festive activities in Bankole after the society accepted him around as a potential warrior. Ketcha also matured into a classic raconteur who could grease the ears of young women without much of an effort, amuse mothers into benevolent acts with their pots, stir chortles from protective fathers and endear himself to the young. That was why people often tolerated him even after he failed to treat them right. He was an artist after all.
Now, with his adoring sisters constantly reassuring him that he had a special way with women, Ketcha matured into a young man with a relentless knack to warm the hearts of young lassies. His initial engagements with women were during his frequent sorties with the local administrators of the area and with the foreigners who frequently passed through Bankole in their tours of the Bamileké grassland. However, he became brazen as his voice matured and as he started spotting facial hair.
When the French and the British defeated the Germans in Kamerun during the Great European War, Ketcha woke up to the new reality of French control in our portion of the partitioned territory. But he did not like it at all. The departure of the Germans from their colonies meant that my brother lost a lot of the influence he commanded through his friends who were working in the German colonial administration in Kamerun. That was why my brother had a tough time reconciling himself to the fact that things would never be the same again in the area of German Kamerun that became French Cameroun. In fact, Ketcha grieved the departure of the German colonialists and the arrival of the French even more than the local administrator who suddenly found himself deprived of the regular supply of palm wine for his taste buds and the free weekly ration of a mature goat for his barbecue.
It took a while for my dear brother to accept the fact that he was less needed under the new rule of the French in the Bamilekéland. The times had changed, but Ketcha failed to adjust to the transition going on in the land. I was married at the time and working hard while practicing my calling as a seer. My younger sisters were also recently married and shared their achievements with husbands who were too domineering and demanding more and more babies every year for their insatiable egos. Even the two sisters born after Ketcha found themselves hurriedly betrothed and separated from him, leaving my dear brother with no one to acclaim him for his seductive feats. That was how Ketcha started feeling the gripping loneliness that comes with the absence of close females to applaud his immature exploits. Still, he failed to benefit from it. He avoided marriage all the more.
I often wonder whether our mother’s death had that much of an influence on Ketcha’s jaded lifestyle. He was her favorite child, after all, an envious position he held in her heart that often made me jealous of him. Still, even the most hardened heart would have difficulties sustaining ill feelings against Ketcha, especially after hanging around him long enough. Ketcha never harbored intentions to hurt or wreck the lives of those he crossed paths with. All the same, if you ask me, I think the only person my brother instinctively, rationally and naturally loved in the classic sense of the word was our mother.
However, my mother kept reminding Ketcha to get married in a relentless manner that made him feel uneasy about his life as an aging bachelor. In hindsight, I think we failed to take into account the fact that Ketcha had his own outlook on life, or that he had his own standards that were not common place. My brother knew he had to make enough money for the bride price in order to get the exceptional woman of his heart that he could settle down with and find happiness. I mean the type of woman with all if not most of the qualities to make his life luminous. He also knew that it was much harder to make good money in Bankole. To get around the money issue, he ventured to The Coast where there were more opportunities for a hardworking man to make his fortunes. But before he left, he promised our mother a future daughter-in-law within a year and the best time of her life. My mother actually believed him. I too believed for the first time in my life that Ketcha meant his words and that he would finally settle down and make our mother truly happy.
But then, misfortune stroke hardly a year after Ketcha left for The Coast. My brother was still away in Douala, planning to return home the next month when news reached him reporting the death of our mother. So, he hurried back Bankole to bury her like any true son would do. Ketcha touched my heart in a special way by weeping for our mother even more than my sisters. Even though I tried, I could not stop him from selflessly spending all the money he had earned at The Coast, in his gesture to make his mother’s departure to our ancestors a celebrated one. We were proud of his contributions to our mother’s funeral, and we even thought he would be inspired by it. Now, I think we missed a point there.
Our mother’s death certainly wasn’t hard on Ketcha alone. It took its toll on each and every one of us, her children. And we fought to overcome the sad loss with varying degrees of success. But that was not the case with Ketcha. I observed not long after her funeral that something was really bothering my brother. He was actually burying himself in self-guilt, blaming himself for failing to be by the side of his dying mother. He took to the keg and thought he could find solace from alcohol. However, it quickly became obvious that my brother was deluding himself. I tried on several occasions to talk sense into his head, but he would not listen to me. It even got to the point where I had to sober him up one afternoon with a dirty slap. Ketcha’s reaction to that was a knowing, forgiving, but enigmatic smile, which I have not discerned right up to this moment. Then he was gone for six months. When he returned to Bankole again, he looked all the more jaded with life.
Njankou Ngemjou, who was Ketcha’s childhood chum, was already blessed with five children and two wives when my dear brother set his eyes on the blossoming nineteen-year-old Djana. This young woman was born in the neighboring realm of Bambala but happened to be residing in Bankole at the time.
Djana had just been married to a hardworking man called Nkwayep, a character the people in Bankole respected very highly for his words and actions. Now, Nkwayep won Djana’s hand in marriage by paying a bride price of 1,600 francs, nine goats, jugs of palm oil and palm wine, salt from across the River Noun, beads and other items I can no longer recall. I say so because there was really much he offered to Djana’s father and family as side gifts to make his point.
The gifts aside, Nkwayep did far more than was required of him, in a bid to prove his commitment to his new wife. However, his determination to make a difference and distinguish himself from the other young men around is what made this story to unfold in a peculiar manner. Now, how did he go about being an exceptional husband?
The enthusiastic Nkwayep braved the uncertainties of life away from the environment he was familiar with by seeking his fortunes at The Coast. It took this outstanding young man a short while to secure markets over there for the artisan works of the Western Highlands and the other rare and valuable products that our region produces. But the one thing the variously gifted Nkwayep did not reckon with was the fact that he had just whisked his wife off the docility of life as a virgin, to the full awareness of her womanliness. She was badly in need of him at a time that he was less available, and more so in Bankole where she considered herself a stranger.
One thing I can say with certainty is that Djana had a special way in the kitchen, which is unusual for young women her age. She was a good cook and she also happened to be hospitable by instinct. One could see her generosity in her broad smiles, infectious laughter and in her sympathetic nature. However, she was the type who saw no reason why she had to disobey the impulses of her heart, which had been aroused but deprived shortly after. So, when the seductive Ketcha cornered her and offered to take care of her loneliness, she put up very little resistance to his charms.
Unlike Djana’s husband Nkwayep, Ketcha showed his gratitude for the meals she prepared, praised her hard-working nature, warmed to her touches and reacted appreciatively to her lengthy moans. Ketcha portrayed himself in every way as her dream-type lover, the mythical man who could only be real in her life as a beloved husband. If the traditions had to be defied, if the old customs proved to be restrictive, then the adulterous French could find a way out for her as the real masters of French Cameroun, Djana reasoned.
Djana’s euphoria reached a point where she thought there was no reason for her to continue carrying on with the affair in a clandestine manner. So, she stretched her limits further by becoming bolder and indiscreet in her determination to be free. Just months after the affair kicked off, and at a time that Nkwayep had embarked on a lengthy trip to The Coast, Djana mustered the courage to make her move.
Nkwayep returned to find that his wife and the cornerstone of his ambitions had filed for divorce from him. Ketcha was not fully aware of the seriousness of the whole drama that was unfolding until much later when it finally dawned on him that he would have to be present in court on the Day of Judgment. Unlike the more blissful Djana, he was anxious and uncertain while staying determined to be as cautious as a fox.
Back in the day of full indigenous control, Bankole had a peculiar way of dealing with its conjugal problems, often to the satisfaction of all, including the offended parties. That is why Djana’s demand that French justice be applied in a matter that had so much traditional bearing irked many souls in Bankole. It also unveiled the undesirable repercussions of a major clash of cultures. The French have a different approach when it comes to the right of a woman in matters such as separation or divorce. We have ours, which usually takes into account the opinions of the families of the spouses. When a person marries, he or she also marries into the wife’s or into the husband’s family. In fact, the two families become one in marriage, making divorce something that is not the exclusive prerogative of the husband and the wife.
There was everything unprecedented about this challenge posed to Bamileké culture and traditions by Djana’s decision. However, it was the nature of the love affair that climaxed Bankole on that Day of Judgment, which turned out to be a public hearing before the court of first instance. The case was presided over by the onerous Jean Bardeaux, the chief of the Sub Division who acted as the judge, the civil administrator and as an observer. I also considered him an observer because he laughed during the proceeding like everyone else. He was an outstanding clown of a man, that Frenchman. I almost forgot to mention that he had three assistants and an interpreter with him that day.
For the occasion, the haughty Frenchman dressed himself up in a suit that was out of place with the environment. He must have been uncomfortable in it because he began the deliberation in a hasty manner shortly after he sat down. He did so by summoning the first person to make an appearance before the court. Djana happened to be that first person.
As explained earlier, Djana by all counts was a whirlwind of a woman who did not want to be subdued, did not want to be ignored, and who wanted a man of her choice. Despite her appearances, I could see that all she wanted from Ketcha was a panther in bed and a song to her ears. That was why when asked why she wanted a divorce from her husband, she gave reasons that were too blunt to the consternation of all―reasons that aroused jeers, applause and angry reproaches from the people gathered there to follow the case.
“I am the daughter of a prince who could have become the king of our great Bambala had he not been thwarted in his inheritance by the local administrator following the disappearance of my grandfather the king. So, I rightfully consider myself a princess. By identifying myself as a princess, I see no reason why I should be bound by the rules applied to ordinary wives. That is why I am demanding my rights to divorce Nkwayep, my husband. Believe me, I do not love him, I never loved him and I will never love him. He does not appreciate my worth and cares little about my happiness. He is rarely around, and even when he happens to be in Bankole, he does not give me the full attention that I deserve. Besides, my father offered me to Nkwayep as his wife against my mother’s wish, against my wish and against the true intentions of my grandfather―”
Djana was interrupted in her declarations by loud jeers, which prompted Jean Bardeaux to shout at the top of his voice, ordering the people to be quiet or face the consequences. He cursed several times afterwards and even promised to imprison every single soul in the court room, except those directly involved in the case. His threat brought about an immediate tranquility to the courtroom, making it possible for him to retake control of the trial.
“Does Nkwayep have anything to say?” Jean Bardeaux asked at length.
So, agitated in spirit, fuming in rage and saddened by betrayal, Nkwayep stepped forward and stated his position in a voice that reflected his boisterous nature.
“Nobody here can believe a word of the things Djana has just said. We shouldn’t even start by lading ourselves with the succession story of Bambala. I will make it simple. My wife loved me with all the devotion, trust and promises of a deflowered virgin after I married her. She had no intention of betraying me in her conjugal obligations...
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