The Usurper: and Other Stories
My deepest, warmest, and everlasting thanks to my entire family: Special attributes to my extended nephews and nieces to whom I am Uncle Janvier and to my mothers: Theresa Njomo and Elizabeth Masidiso.
"True classical dropouts in society are those who avoid difficult challenges and cling to the first opportunity that comes their way. They never test their talents. These latent talents will only help to produce the next cycle of dropouts.”
FRANKLYN S. BAYEN
“A brilliant leader is someone who makes himself appealing to his people, even when it is against his conviction.”
IDRISS M. DOH
“An intelligent leader gets his way even over his people and their values, irrespective of the degree of his popularity or the opposition against him.”
EBENEZER D. AKWANGA
“A wise leader is realistic in his dealings with his people.”
SALOMON MUNA YAKANA (LIBERTE)
“Bad leaders are known to destroy one, more or even all of the foundations of their people’s way of life.”
SAMPSON E. BAIYE
“Legendary leaders often get ahead of their people from an impasse and futile general consensus by finding new grounds or bases that would enable the people to start a new, progressive or better chapter in their destinies.”
JANVIER CHOUTEU-CHANDO
“A canonical leader is someone whose exemplary rule may be construed to be for the alleviation of the pains and miseries of a particular group, but which in reality is for the advancement of humanity.”
CHRISTOPHER NKWAYEP-CHANDO
My exhaustion was mixed with relief when I pulled the Land Rover Jeep to a stop in front of my grandfather’s house, thereby ending my seven-hour drive that seemed like a journey to eternity not long ago. With a hand still on the steering wheel, I adjusted the sombrero on my head in a lackluster manner, took a deep breath and grunted. Then I scrambled out of the vehicle like a rat being smoked out of its hole. That was the moment it dawned on me that my impulses were running high. So, I shut the driver door without much of a bang and yawned with a hand over mouth. As I started stretching my body, my cranky joints told me in an instant that the effects of the bumpy roads would stay with me for a while.
However, one sweet look at the soothing scenery around me reanimated my spirit to the point where I moaned in a contented manner like someone with nothing to worry about. In fact, I was on the verge of singing a folksong when I noticed the menacing rain clouds hovering above, a sight that aborted the developing sound at the back of my throat in an instant. I sucked my mouth instead like a baby anticipating its mother’s breast milk. Even so, the threat from the heavens failed to dispel the satisfied expression on my face.
I can’t say for sure how long I would have stayed out there enjoying the freshness of the Bankole countryside had flashes of lightning and the rumbling sound of thunder not alerted me that the dull grey clouds were about to precipitate a downpour of rain that could be as heavy as the tears of our ancestors. So, without wasting time on preambles, I hurried back to the vehicle, took out my luggage and locked the doors like someone on the verge of missing his flight. Satisfied with myself, I approached my second home with halting steps.
The sweet look on my face disappeared the moment the wind started raging. The current of air became so fierce that it almost knocked a bag off my hand, forcing me to growl my annoyance, stop for a moment and adjust the weight of the luggage in my hands and on my shoulders before advancing again. It was in that state of discomfort that a strange yearning for roasted goat meat hit me.
I can’t tell how many times I grunted, licked my lips and salivated before I spotted my favorite female cousin Darya Njoumen emerging from the house. She recognized me in an instant from the dust-covered figure approaching her home and reacted by opening her mouth wide without uttering a sound, and then screaming afterwards as if one of her dreams just came true. Still, I was unprepared when she ran forward with girlish energy and glee, and then fell into my laden arms in an embrace that almost knocked the wind out of me.
Her genuine enrapture over my visit quickly turned into a moment of quiz time as we exchanged customary questions and answers over the welfare of members of our family, especially those in the village. In fact, we were still talking in high-pitched voices when she grabbed two bags and heartily trudged home with me.
Deeply chagrined that the compound had fallen into greater desolation since my last visit half a decade ago, I expressed my feelings about my observation as if she were accountable for everything around.
“Our other cousins are the ones who were born and raised here, so they should be held responsible for failing to take care of things in this compound,” she shot back with a frown.
“They are away.”
“Away doing what?”
“You tell me.”
“Oh! I see what you mean! Uh-huh! Hear me well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our cousins are fooling themselves with dreams of getting rich away from home as if nothing good can come out of Bankole,” she said with a frown.
Darya Njoumen was the only grandchild still living with our grandparents, a fact I truly respected. That was why I decided not to be judgmental anymore and pulled a prank instead.
“Why don’t you repopulate this compound? In fact, you can marry several husbands and count on our support in subsidizing the venture.”
“You are crazy.”
“Believe me, polyandry works in extreme situations like ours. You will get my blessings, of course.”
Darya’s response was a poke to my side and a howling protest that broadened the smile on my face. In fact, we were still talking excitedly when we put my luggage in my customary room, and then made our way into my grandmother’s kitchen.
And there she was, blinking from the smoke and chewing on her pipe. I opened my arms wide, called out happily and went for her receptive embrace. Even though we expressed our emotions with choked words, the laughter of joy, the smiles of happiness and the forceful tenderness of our repeated embraces conveyed the feelings deep in our hearts. We were very happy. Meeting again after almost half a decade was overwhelming.
Now, my cousins considered me her favorite grandson, a status I tried to maintain whenever I visited by ravishing her affection for me with supplies of tobacco and other items she fancied. My acts of benevolence towards my grandmother were also intended to spare me of her indiscriminate curses. Truth be told, she has a reputation for her bouts of foul mood that are becoming more frequent as she ages, much to the consternation of her loved ones.
“You are getting old, my father,” my grandmother said after showering me with ceaseless blessings.
I laughed heartily, knowing that she delighted in calling me father because I bore the name of her father, the legendary Nana Njike. As a matter of fact, her use of the title father flattered me until I reached my late teens. That was when it dawned on me that she usually regaled me with the distinctive appellation whenever she was about to blackmail me emotionally. That was why I did not need a seer to tell me that she had something up her sleeve.
“Come on Grandma!” I intoned in a voice mingled with laughter, “I am not yet thirty. I shall turn twenty-nine next month.”
She looked at me straight in the eye for a moment like someone in deep contemplation, and then nodded and said in a tepid voice: “I know, I know.”
“Thank you, Grandma. One of the many things I like so much about you is your very understanding nature.”
“I am glad you know what I expect of you.”
“Oh! It is starting to rain outside.”
“Uh-huh! Showers of blessings, the priest calls it. Now, this is what I was about to say: You have aged. Your father married at twenty, as recorded by the catechist.”
“Times have changed, Grandma!”
“Uh-huh!”
“I’m glad you recognized that.”
“Uh-huh!”
“Come on, Grandma! Why haven’t all the young girls been married off as was the case back in your day? Or why don’t you impose a wife on your other grandchildren as they used to do generations ago?”
“Yes, times have changed! Still, it does not change the fact that a real man remains a man. A true man of this world understands he has family and social obligations to fulfill,” she said haltingly, feigning disappointment.
“All right, all right, all right,” I said and made a gesture of surrender, “As a man, I shall embark on the careful task of acquiring a wife that fits the picture of your friend who called me her husband when I was still in primary school.”
“What?” she exclaimed, shaking her head.
“A mekat! I am sure that is the type of woman he wants to bring home,” Darya interjected, shaking her head in a disapproving manner, just like her grandmother.
“No, no, Darya. It wouldn’t be a white woman. Trust me on this one.”
“Why should I?” Darya shot back.
“Come on and admit it. Hmm! You don’t think anything good can come out of me when it comes to women, do you?”
“I don’t know where that is coming from.”
“Then, tell me you trust me.”
“I don’t have to prove anything. You are the one who should assure us that you still find our women attractive and that your future wife is going to be someone from here.”
“Darya! It is about time we sack you as grandma’s special aide.”
“Ha-ha, ha-ha…ha-ha!” my grandmother laughed.
“Taking her side!” I said, feigning hurt.
“My lips are sealed,” the old lady retorted.
“All I want is a wife who is just like my darling grandmother here. Isn’t that what you want, and grandma, too?” I asked.
The two women glared at me for a moment. Darya crossed her arms, while my grandmother removed her pipe from her mouth and muttered hardly distinguishable words in disbelief. Then she clasped her hands firmly together and shook her head in supposed incomprehension.
“You said you will look for a wife?”
“Yes, Grandma,” I affirmed and cleared my throat.
I was expecting the old lady to retort right away, but she surprised me by holding back. So, I watched her with dimmed my eyes as she nodded as if pondering my words over. When she rested her chin on her left hand and feigned a yawn, I knew she was up to something.
“I have been worried about you, Nana Njike, son of my wonderful son who married before he started spotting facial hair.”
“I understand. Come on, Grandma! You always knew that, didn’t you?” I said, scratching my head.
“I have been worried about you for over a year now, especially after the revelation became clear. You might think this is a joke, but the nature of the woman you are supposed to marry worries me,” she said, avoiding my eyes.
“Huh, huh, huh!” I muttered.
“Your grandfather is worried too,” my grandmother intoned and nodded again, “He frowns deeply each time he grapples for a solution to your problem. You probably think this is not serious, but I want you to know that you have a peculiar star with an unnatural implication.”
“I have a peculiar star?”
“Uh-huh!”
“What does that mean?”
“Nana Njike, your unnatural star escaped your grandfather’s detective eyes and ears for years until he pinned it down last month.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will make it simply. You will have a hard time finding the type of happy, successful and prosperous conjugal home that people at The Coast cherish unless you subject yourself to your grandfather’s divinations. And your marriage must be to a woman who is not a stranger to him.”
“So, who is this princess?” I asked with a chuckle.
“Huh? Princess?”
“Tell me, my lovely grandmother! Tell me the name of the special woman you want me to marry.”
My grandmother coughed lightly, put her pipe back in her mouth, and then filled it with tobacco.
“Do you know Jean-Bosco Tchami Njiah, the man with the big belly who lives atop the second hill by the stream?” she asked finally.
I nodded. “That’s your neighbor whose wife ran to The Coast with an albino lover the last time I was here.”
My father’s mother nodded in acknowledgement, and then asked again in a noncommittal voice, “Are you aware of the fact that Si―The Supreme blessed one of his daughters with the light complexion young men of today admire and are willing to pay for with their heads?”
I chuckled with suppressed laughter. “Are you talking about Averill Membou? I don’t think she is more than sixteen.”
My grandmother nodded again as she sucked on her pipe. “You are a man after all, though not fully one. I am yet to see my namesake,” she said in-between puffs of tobacco smoke.
“Uh-huh! Oh!” I mumbled.
“I am a woman after all,” she said and shrugged, “You should discuss this with your grandfather. Unusual affairs for men, he tells me all the time. Njoumen, isn’t that so?” she added and fixed her eyes on Darya.
“Uh-huh!” Darya affirmed.
“Oh, Grandpa! Where is he?” I stuttered, feeling guilty all of a sudden for allowing myself to be carried away by my grandmother’s possessive discourse to the point where I almost forgot about him.
My grandmother grimaced and puffed from her pipe.
Darya giggled and moved up to my side. “I told you just before we came in that he is in his special hut, didn’t I?”
“Yes, he is in his little hut sitting by the fireside. He warms himself up these days like a fowl that has been rid of its feathers,” my grandmother said in a grumpy voice.
“He is old. No! He is getting old,” I protested, heaving my shoulders in a comical manner.
“Old, old, old! Hmm! Did you say old? What about Pa Zachariah Mpafeu? He is the oldest man in this village, yet he gets up early from bed every morning despite the chilling cold, and then ventures to his distant farm walking like an athlete half his age. He maintains that routine even before the cocks start getting tired from crowing.”
“He is something else; he is an unusual old man,” I said with a smile as I reflected on Pa Zach’s story.
Pa Zach, the octogenarian, is an extraordinary old folk for many reasons, especially for being the first adult male in Bankole to baptize into the Christian faith. When he cemented his commitment to his new religion by divorcing his second and third wives, people thought he was crazy. Then three years after that, polio crippled the only wife he still had left with him, prompting some of the people to wonder whether his faith was not being tested again. With his children and grandchildren living in faraway lands in the south of the country in pursuit of a better life, the situation certainly looked trickier than met the eye. So, when his recently widowed ex-wife of outstanding beauty asked to move back in with him and he turned it down, the old folks of Bankole concluded that he was a man of extraordinary will who ought to be taken seriously all the time. He always spoke wisely about his children who rarely visited their homeland for fear of his harsh words over the new values they picked up at The Coast, which he claims contradicts the Christian and Bamileké values he cherishes.
Even so, most of those familiar with Pa Zach’s story applauded him for his steadfastness, especially for being a true fighter who still worked hard to make life comfortable for his beloved wife, much to the envy of the village women and the disapproval of the old men.
“He is truly an exceptional old man,” my grandmother said with a smile.
“My dear grandmother!”
“Yes, my dear father!”
“Why don’t you accept the fact that your husband’s little hut that Bankole cherishes as its sanctuary for divining the secrets of this world, is something he is proud about because it gives him a purpose in life?”
The old woman chuckled. “You always take his side.”
“Well!” I said, shrugged suggestively, and then started for the door. “Maybe I should see my friend now and get back to you and your granddaughter later.”
“Come back, Nana Njike!” my grandmother shouted, shaking her head in an incredulous manner. “You never seem to learn anything.”
“Learn what?”
“Eat something first before you see him. I am sure he would be done for the day by the time you finish your food. Besides, it would be difficult to learn anything from him now, even if he stops doing what he is doing. Or do you want to engage him with an empty stomach?”
“I guess I can.”
“Trust us, Nana Njike! Your grandfather would feed you up with his funny stories,” Dayra interjected in support of her grandmother.
Despite my resolution to see my grandfather right away, my grandmother, with the tacit support of Darya, made me consume a large bundle of corn-fufu and Bitter-Leaf soup. She could cook, this noble grandmother of mine. She smiled warmly when I belched in satisfaction, and then motioned me away, looking pleased with herself. Even Darya had a complaisant smile on her face when I left the kitchen.
I arrived at my grandfather’s special hut of divination to the sound of singing coming from inside. I stood for a moment by the door with a smile on my face and listened to my grandfather’s chanting, wondering what to make of it. The old man sings well, despite his unknown years. It is an attribute my grandmother refuses to acknowledge, but one he claims did the job of winning her heart and convincing her family that he was the best of the many suitors interested in marrying her. I believe him because my grandmother reacts to music with her body and soul. Anyone with an ear for good music is likely to pick out the thrilling and soothing resonance in the old man’s voice that I am sure only the vocal cords of professional balladeers can produce.
My knuckles were inches away from striking the door to announce my presence when I noticed smoke swelling forward through a cranny in the wooden barrier. I stopped momentarily, suppressed a chuckle, and then knocked. The singing stopped abruptly, followed by a rustling movement.
“Who is it?" my grandfather asked in a deep voice.
“Your son Jeremiah Nana Njike wants to say hello,” I shouted back.
The door opened and smoke surged towards my face. And there he was, looking piteous, aged and haggard. Like me, he too was speechless as he opened his arms wide for an embrace. The old man finally verbalized his joy at seeing me only after I bubbled incoherently for a while. He was overjoyed; I was excited. When he finally motioned me to a seat as if I were his special dignitary, I knew my next hour with him would be very interesting.
My grandfather and I get along well and in a special way that amazes most members of his family, much to his sanguine of delight. He is very good at recounting the stories of the heroic days of the warriors of Bankole and of the era of the wise nobility. He is also blessed with a mind that serves as a repertoire of fascinating stories about the love lives of members of the Bankole royal family and the nobility. And in me, he always found a receptive listener.
So, after spending more than half an hour inquiring about our welfares and those of other family members, I pulled my bamboo seat closer to his and asked in a conspiratorial tone, “Weren’t you about to tell me a fascinating story about the Bankole royal family the last time I was here?”
He smiled in a peculiar manner that made his left eye dim mischievously. Then he wiggled his hands, grunted, spat on his palms, and then rubbed them together. However, it was his lit-up face that made me lick my lips in anticipation of a fascinating story.
“Yes, yes…yes,” he mumbled excitedly, almost choking in his effort to clear his throat. “The story is about the usurper after the reign of king Njilah II. Ha, ha, ha…ha,” he added with a chortle.
“You told me before that he was a great king.”
“King Njilah? Of course, he was an unusual king. Now, I want you to open your ears and listen to this terrific story in its entirety, and then tell me if any other alien value would have discerned such a deception,” he said with a smile.
“My ears are ready for it,” I enthused and rubbed my palms together.
“Hmm, King Njilah loved a good story. He would have been amazed and not offended had he been around to witness something similar happening to another royal house,” my grandfather said, roared in a peal of laughter, and then began the story:
* * *
I was already a renowned seer before I married your grandmother because people in Bankole and from afar sought my services as if their lives depended on me sorting out their worries. As a matter of fact, it was never my ambition to become a seer, even though it was foretold that I would become an influential one. Why my ancestors wanted me to undertake this enterprise, I don’t know. The job of a seer is an unusual trade very few have been privileged to master. So, I had every reason to reject the ancestral assignment at first, that is until I almost paid a heavy price for my stubbornness.
* * *
“How?” I asked, dimming my eyes wonderingly.
“You might not understand this because you are not familiar with the wrath of the powers beyond, in Ngamchouni.”
“Ngamchouni?”
“Uh-huh! A coalition of ancestral spirits almost made me a misfit in society when I first refused to do their bidding. What I mean is that I almost lost my mind. Luck was on my side because my grandfather intervened just in time to retrieve my spirit from the domain of the mad spirits. He accomplished that by soothing the wrath of our ancestors.
“So, you almost went mad?”
My grandfather grunted. “I was already in the clutches of the mad spirits and a step away from their world,” he said, and then continued.
* * *
I remember telling you before that ordinary people find it easy to relate to those whose first reaction was to turn down the distinguished roles they were made to play in life, and who finally succumbed to their fates because they could not avoid it. These reluctant converts find it easy to win over the deep trust of seeking souls than their unquestioning counterparts. In short, they regard their distinguished roles as crosses instead of the dreams that others are aspiring for. That’s why my family’s concern over my failing mental health turned to joy as I recovered and prevailed in my assigned field.
* * *
“So, you were stubborn as a young man, ha?” I said in a light-hearted manner.
My grandfather nodded with a bemused expression on his face. “Ah, my boy! Like most young men of my generation, I too was obsessed with dreams of owning large farms, big houses, flourishing businesses at The Coast and numerous women.”
“Why dream of numerous women when you and I know that a single woman could be difficult to deal with?”
“We men secretly aspire for many women to reassure our masculine egos, I guess.”
“Well, you might not have realized most of your dreams, but you encouraged your descendants to strive for those wonderful things in life that make us better human beings.”
My grandfather regarded me for a moment, shook his head, smiled, and then continued.
* * *
It all started during the Great Alien War, which saw many of our young men die in lands unknown to us, fighting for a cause that had little or no bearing on our lives.
When one of the king’s wives ushered herself into my yard that unforgettable foggy day as if she were being chased by the devil, I had every reason to be perturbed. Montio, as she was called, was the most cherished young woman in Bankole at the time. The worried expression on her face as she stepped into my hut made me sit up and stare at her with wide eyes, like someone expecting bad news. Now, since she was convinced that I was the best seer in Bankole, she started revealing her anxieties to me in an anxious manner as if I were immortal.
Montio admitted that when the king married her hardly a season ago in a highly-celebrated ceremony, she never expected to amount to anything. So, when she became his favorite wife thereafter, and then went on to spend time with him in his royal bed the day before he fell seriously ill, she knew her life would never be the same again. But why she had this thing in her head that there was something sinister about her star, I don’t know. Anyway, she bared her mind to me in a grieving manner, shedding so much tears that I cringed without meaning to. Even so, I quickly realized that there was more to her drama than met the eye. I also observed an uneasiness about her that I interpreted as her reluctance to tell me another side of her story. So, in my bid to loosen her tongue, I flashed her an encouraging smile and made light-hearted gestures with my hands that convinced her to let her guard down and tell me her secrets without holding anything back. Her second worry turned out to be the most exciting part of her story.
Montio dreamed she was living on the lush bank of a quiet-flowing river with a familiar man whose identity she could not remember afterwards. She must have welcomed their stay together because she was happy the strange man impregnated her. She even pointed out that she was actually looking forward to life as a mother with a great deal of anticipation. So, you can imagine how hopeful she was on the day of delivery. However, on that day, she gave birth to a goat-like baby that transformed into a lamb minutes after. When the midwife seized the baby from her arms and offered it to a vulture perched on a stool in the room, she thought something was not right about it. But the most she could do was watch in a helpless manner as the bird of prey flew away with the baby to the opposite bank of the river, where it nurtured the lamb into a sheep that the midwife’s mysterious gaze transformed into a cow.
The cow gave birth to tens of beautiful and prized calves, one of which transformed itself into a human baby whose face looked just like hers. She was about to shout in felicitous disbelief when she heard the cry of a baby on her back that she didn’t even know was there. In the blink of an eye, this baby transformed into a vicious fox, and then started gnawing her hands as if it had not eaten since the day it was born. Her agonized scream for help served a purpose because a lamb appeared from nowhere and chased the fox away, thereby sparing her the fate of becoming a cripple.
* * *
“What did you explain to her?” I asked with wide eyes.
My grandfather chortled, looking amused all of a sudden. “I will come to that. I will come to that,” he said, and then continued.
* * *
So, Montio, the young woman, was distressed. I soothed her chagrin with assurances I will let you know about only later in the story.
You can imagine the depth of my amazement when a renowned woman who had found refuge in Bankole entered my hut of divination barely days after Montio’s visit. She walked in looking rosy with smiles. Her name was Ramatou Simo.
“The Great One who sees things that others cannot see; The Great One who deciphers happenings that are beyond the understanding of earthly souls; The Great Seer who is accepted in the midst of our ancestors and who alone understands their worries, discourses and demands; I want to ask you a favor,” she declared with quivering lips.
I don’t know how long I stood there, staring speechlessly at the stunningly beautiful young Ramatou whose growing reputation as a generous woman to lustful men had unfortunately earned her the scorn of the women of Bankole. And since it was my first year of marriage to your grandmother whose nagging tongue and tendency to impose embargoes on the slightest pretext I was just getting used to, I had every reason to be afraid that the charming Ramatou had chosen me as a victim for her devilish games.
“A favor?” I asked her, trying to sound dissuasive.
“Yes, a favor,” Ramatou affirmed.
I dismissed my doubts thereafter, composed myself like someone in control of every part of his body, and then focused on her case.
The favor Ramatou had in mind that day was the attention of my ears for her dream. She too dreamed the night before that she gave birth to a fox that started eating her womb right after it stuck its head out. The midwife managed to pull the creature away, but not until after it had eaten up part of her womb. Nonetheless, the fox continued groping and squeaking right after it saw the light of day as if its entrance into the world of life and death meant nothing at all.
Ramatou said she was lying in bed after the delivery, awaiting death from the severe bleeding, when she perceived a cry from somewhere behind her. Mustering what little energy she still had left in her, she turned around to find a divine-looking man clad in a white robe, carrying a beautiful baby in his arms. The revelation motioned her quiet the moment she opened her mouth to scream, quietly put the baby by her side, and then disappeared in a haze of smoke. She was still trying to understand what was going on when this baby transformed into a calf, and then into a bull that started spurting milk, which Ramatou suckled to health. But then, just as she was about to close her eyes in relief, the fox reappeared and started gnawing her feet. So, she screamed for help like someone on fire, help that was offered by cows that chased the fox away.
* * *
“So, so, so! What did Ramatou find out after you deliberated on her dream?” I interjected.
My grandfather guffawed again, hit his thigh several times with an open palm, and then tapped his forehead.
“Try to control your curiosity. Huh, Nana Njike! Be patient, my boy; be patient, noble child of my heart.”
“You got me there again.”
“I always leave you gaping and begging for more,” He said, paused, and then added, “Let’s start with Montio.”
“Okay!”
“I found out that her husband the king was about to disappear, that she would bear a son whose worthiness would be discovered only late in her life—a great son whose early years would blossom the life of a scorn in society.”
“Ha, ha…ha-ha!” I laughed, “Now what?” I asked in a mocking manner, even though I was anticipating the cream of the story.
“Huh?” The old man grunted and licked his lips.
“Now tell me, my noble grandfather. What did you actually tell Montio as the interpretation of her dream?”
My grandfather shrugged, a slightly amused smile corrupting his lips. “Montio, Montio, Montio,” he said and shook his head.
“Montio,” I affirmed with a slight note of impatience in my voice.
“Well, I assured her that she would deliver a great child to this land, a child people would appreciate very early in his life, a child people would envy because of his great achievements and respect highly because of his human touch. Even so, I made her understand that her extraordinary womb would burden her with a child she would raise using harsh words on. She was destined to become the mother of a usurper and a lord. Was I not being fair?”
“You were, Grandpa,” I mumbled and nodded encouragingly, even though I did not discern the purpose of his question.
“I knew you would understand. You are nimble-witted after all, just like your grandfather here, huh!" he said in an elated voice.
I flashed him a warm smile. “What about the other woman, the seducer?”
“I never mentioned a third woman.”
“I mean the woman you were afraid of spending a moment alone with.”
“Oh, you are talking about Ramatou!”
I nodded.
“Her story might be considered the more thrilling of the two. She did not attach much value to her life before, which she lived with her true instincts and impulses. But the dream must have forced her to start looking at things in a different manner altogether. Now, she was nourishing flourishing ideas of a favorable interpretation of her dream of this strange child that transformed into a bull and spurted milk.”
“You raised her hopes, didn’t you?”
“Of course, I did. Not in solicitation of her nature, my dear boy. I had your grandmother, remember? Now, this is what I told Ramatou. I let her know that her ancestors would pity her plight after giving her a burden, that they would do so by transforming her baby into an epitome of goodness, and that the special child would make his mother a respectable lady even in a strange land,” my grandfather said, and then fell silent all of a sudden.
“Don’t tell me we have come to the end of the story,” I teased, fixing him with a suspicious look.
The old man regarded me for a moment, and then chuckled, shaking his head as his did so as if trying to give more meaning to his action. I could not elucidate his motives. Not until I noticed the amusing glint in his eyes as he rubbed his hands together, did it dawn on me that he was keeping me in suspense and that he was actually enjoying it.
“What was your question about?”
“Question?”
“Uh-huh! Didn’t you ask me if that is all about the story?” he said with a mocking smile.
“I am anxious, Grandpa. But it is okay if you don’t want to tell me.”
“That’s not all, my boy. It certainly couldn’t be the whole story,” he said and whistled.
“You can take me to the moon with the full story,” I enthused, and then made a gesture of surrender.
“Nana Njike, child of my heart! I don’t have to tell you that I became very interested in the dreams of those two young women. In fact, I made their cases my lifetime observations.”
Then in an elated voice that had his eyes almost popping out of his head, my grandfather, continued.
* * *
King Njilah made his honorable exit to the abode of our ancestors barely five days after Montio sought my services. Now, his successor was his favorite son called Fabou Njike. He inherited his father’s harem knowing that Nana Nemafou, his younger brother, had a crush on Montio just before her father betrothed her to the departed king. Nana Nemafou became a romantic admirer afterwards and never got over the stifled development of his affection for the charming Montio. He remained a bachelor after her marriage to his father as if Montio was the only woman around.
Fabou Njike, the new king with a deep heart and wide intelligence, showed a great deal of sympathy towards the warm heart of his younger brother. Or perhaps he was even more gratuitous to the early misfortunes of Montio, who being a freshly married and widowed young woman, considered her happy days over even if the new king retained her as one of the inherited wives. Also, she could not become the wife of a layman because Bamileké traditions forbade that.
So, when the new king of Bankole sought the approval of the elders of Bankole and the Council of Notables called Kamveu over his offer of Montio to his younger brother Nana Nemafou, people were surprised. The elders and the council endorsed this transfer, unaware of the fact that Montio and Nana had a short-lived affair before Montio’s father betrothed her to Nana’s father. That was how the widowed queen became the wife of the charming prince of Bankole, assured that her children would still be attached to the royal palace.
Montio settled into her new home with a determination to be happy. She was still savoring the joy of sleeping in the arms of the man she truly loved when she discovered that she was pregnant. The discovery sent her into a state of exaltation because she was convinced she would be providing her new and beloved husband with a son.
A couple of hills away, at the other end of Bankole, lived Ramatou. She too became convinced that she was pregnant only three days after Montio’s discovery of the seed in her womb. That was five weeks after the deliberation of her dream. She went about her life in anticipation of the heyday when she would dwell in a beautiful house, dress up well, eat nourishing foods and savor the best drinks around. After all, her future had to be promising because her son-in-coming would ensure that. Ramatou also imagined a future where the men and women who had played with her emotions and brought her to the verge of suicide back in Foumban would bow down to her in honor of her divine-favored son. Why she thought her first child had to be a son who would be her pride in motherhood, I don’t know.
“Allah is great. Allah is great,” she muttered to the hearing of friends and neighbors on several occasions as if reminding the Almighty about the blessing he had in store for her.
The delivery process was something else altogether. In fact, it left Montio and Ramatou with mixed feelings. Ramatou solicited the services of the missionary hospital in Bankole, thereby ensuring the delivery of her baby there. Nana Nemafou assured Montio that she would be adequately provided with delivery services by the midwives commissioned by the new king of Bankole. That was supposed to be the case until she encountered problems during labor that necessitated her transfer to the missionary hospital.
Montio and Ramatou delivered almost simultaneously. It turned out to be a busy day for the midwives who worked feverishly from noon to sunrise, orchestrating by their nimble hands the safe delivery of sixteen babies into a world so full of uncertainties. In a classic case of misallocation of almost comic proportion, the babies Montio and Ramatou delivered were juxtaposed with other infants delivered at the time. However, to the relief of all, the happy mothers got back their babies, and then returned to their various homes where they celebrated in a felicitous manner the arrival of the new members in their families.
* * *
“What a story!” I exclaimed with suppressed excitement.
“And I was there from the start, Nana Njike. I was in my hut of divination and saw everything in my bowl of water.”
“That should be one category of a terrific story,” I offered, shaking my head in awe.
“It is only the beginning, my Nana Njike. Now, give me your ears and I will bring out the controversial hero in those two children. That would help you figure out who the real usurper was,” he promised and guffawed.
“Why don’t you tell me right away?”
My grandfather smiled wryly and shook his head. “Okay! Let’s start with the baby Ramatou brought home. I will leave you to discern the usurper from the tale,” he said, and then continued.
* * *
Ramatou brought her bright-eyed baby home and chose to call the infant Dieudonné. Now, Dieudonné in French means “God’s Gift”. Ramatou was determined to give the baby the opportunity to become an unusual person in life. She had every reason to feel gratified because the child grew up with a nimble-wittedness that enabled him to master the alphabets and some simple words even before he reached the age of seven. The unusual wit of the smiling kid quickly caught the eye of the missionaries in Bankole. These cleansers of the soul became the first to nourish Ramatou’s dreams by taking over the basic education and welfare of her boy. She thanked them deeply and even converted into the Christian faith, whence she became known to the church authorities as Magdalene.
The missionaries promised to raise Dieudonné to heights unattained by any kid in the land. Now, do not be tempted to think that the exemplary boy excelled only in his books. No, he was even more enlightening. He became a child of the church, served as an altar boy and mastered the Catholic doctrine to the point where he assisted the catechist in his duties every now and then. He also worked relentlessly in his lazy mother’s farm, sold in the markets and lectured his younger brother and sister on the demands of life, especially concerning things academic. He also became the unofficial letter writer in Bankole. In fact, he did not cringe from the burden thrown upon his young shoulders as the unintentional custodian of secrets he never wished to know.
Dieudonné became the major breadwinner in his family even before he turned fifteen, and was surprised when he found out that adults treated him with respect. That was because many parents in Bankole saw his outstanding qualities and held him in high esteem, sometimes to the consternation of his peers. So, when the results of the final year elementary examinations were released one rainy Wednesday and he passed with outstanding grades, those who knew him were not surprised at all.
The promising lad’s success happened at a time that his mother was suffering from a horrible skin disease. So, he put his family’s sorry state first and looked for employment at the plantation of Josef Nya Nana, a renowned businessman and landlord.
Nya Nana happened to be an averagely educated man with an open mind and enough wisdom to appreciate Dieudonné’s exceptional wits. He concluded that a brighter future awaited the hardworking, honest and respectful lad if he returned to the classrooms and moved up the academic ladder. As an orphan who was brought to prominence and affluence by strangers and people who were not even his kinsmen, he saw in the young lad the reincarnation of himself in his tender years. Nya Nana, the humanist, got Dieudonné into his office one bright afternoon and asked him if he would like to further his education.
Now, this benevolent fellow was aware of the great number of ambitious young men roving the towns and countryside for rapid access to wealth. Afraid that Dieudonné too would be blinded by the short-term rewards he was enjoying, Nya Nana had every reason to be overjoyed when the lad told him that he was prepared to let go of the seductive earnings of an accountant and overseer, in order to go back to school. Nya Nana pledged that same day to sponsor the enterprising Dieudonné’s higher education.
Dieudonné went to Secondary School and performed so well that he became the talk and local hero of Bankole and his school hardly a year in the new institution. He firmly established himself as the unofficial letter writer even from afar and made a smooth transition into High School as if he had special brain cells to absorb the extra knowledge that made geniuses out of intelligent people. His final year there also had moments when he contradicted his teachers on the intricate chapters in the sciences that they could not fully explain. He also read history and geography much beyond the scope of his fellow students and classmates. Even his mastery of literature and his deep knowledge of Greek, Roman, Norse, and Egyptian mythologies made some of his teachers uncomfortable, especially when he posed questions that they could not answer satisfactorily. Despite his curious nature, Dieudonné was not a showoff. In fact, his innocence prevented him from discerning the superficiality of some of his teachers.
Some of Dieudonné’s friends and teachers could have become envious of his unusual ingenuity had he not been easy going, friendly, genuine and humble nature. In fact, his sense of modesty and empathy was astounding. Most people who in as much as peeked at his soul, ended up loving his beautiful mind and heart. That was why almost all the people who knew him were happy when the education authorities awarded him a scholarship to study in France, much to the sanguine of success of Ramatou, Nya Nana, his younger brother Adonis, his sister Desireé, and even his teachers and friends.
Dieudonné put roots down right after he arrived in France by studying law and economics, which he obtained postgraduate degrees in within six years of his stay in the country. He also worked hard on the side and ensured that his mother got a regular supply of funds and gifts to raise and sustain her standard of living. Even though he initially intended to invite her to France right after he got there, he waited for eight years before he sent her a plane ticket to visit center of wine and haute couture. Now comfortable in her new status as a worthy woman, Ramatou settled in France with the airs of an accomplished mother. That was how Bankole’s most successful gift made a distinguished woman out of its repentant whore.
In fact, Dieudonné elevated Ramatou’s welfare so well that she returned to French Cameroun a year after proud of her new status as an enlightened woman and a dignified mother.
Back in French Cameroun, Dieudonné’s younger brother and sister sought to prevail in the glory of their ingenious brother in France. They became lazy in their endeavors and extravagant in their undertakings. They even developed an unbefitting blatant arrogance that aroused the resentment of the villagers in Bankole. Some of the people resented Ramatou and her family because her only tie to Bankole was through her maternal grandmother.
So, when Ramatou woke up one morning and found Adonis in severe pains, she did not take it lightly at all. She rushed her second son to the Bangoua hospital only to discover that he had been poisoned. The distressed mother prayed, wailed, pleaded and beat her breasts as she watched her second son die in agony. When a marabou told her a month after that Adonis’s close friend was a culprit, she became very distraught and fled Bankole to The Coast with her only daughter, whence, she enrolled Desireé into a female boarding school.
In France, Dieudonné grieved the death of his sole brother a lot. He learned of the cause of Adonis’ death, the plotters and the executioner with a heavy heart. When he found out that his mother and sister had evacuated Bankole altogether, he accepted it with a sigh. If only for the better, then all is fine, he reasoned.
Dieudonné married a French woman called Isadora and found a teaching job with the Sorbonne University in France. Three girls enriched their home during the first five years of the marriage. The fourth child and first son was born just before their eighth wedding anniversary. Dieudonné christened him Adonis in honor of his late brother. When his first daughter told him one morning that she would like to see her much-talked-about grandmother in Africa, he decided to discuss it with his wife. The couple agreed that their home was warm enough to accommodate Ramatou for a lengthy stay. So, that was why when Ramatou visited France again for quality time with her son, grandson, daughter-in-law and three granddaughters, she had every reason to feel welcomed.
The charming, carefree, outspoken and witty Ramatou, who had grown dignified beyond doubts, arrived at her son’s home to find that Dieudonné now wielded much respect from white men than she had ever imagined. This was in addition to the inroads he had made into the economic field that promised to make him a famous person in France. The fact that he owned landed property, worked as a renowned law professor and lived the affluent life of a low-keyed businessman with substantial investments, made him look and sound like a true lord in his own right. That was how Ramatou adjusted comfortably to her new life―eating varied and selective foods that appealed to her health and appetite, washing her taste buds with wine and champagne of France, and dressing up elegantly and respectfully. The atmosphere of love and pride of her son’s family was overwhelming at first, but she got used to it.
Ramatou surprised Dieudonné even further by developing a tenacious attachment to books and films. However, Dieudonné was particularly amazed by the way she rapidly adapted to the French culture and way of life. She cherished her new role as the materfamilias and deliberated in parties and other occasions in the house in a graceful manner. Even her demeanor became so splendid that she won over the hearts of Dieudonné’s friends and some aging cuckolds who professed admiration for her charming ways and ageless beauty. Dieudonné’s circle even took to calling her “The Grand Duchess of Foumban”.
Ramatou officially turned sixty-six knowing that her time was drawing close. She still craved for the familiar naturalness of her native land, even though she almost felt at home in France. She tried to reconcile her love for the land of her birth by persuading Dieudonné to start planning his return home to the newly independent and reunited Cameroon. To make her point, she returned home ahead of him and bought landed property in Yaoundé where she settled down. After talking to numerous administrative heads, and after soliciting the commitment of the government to secure a post for her son in the country’s new university, she asked Dieudonné and his family to join her in the infant nation and know their roots. However, she never told them of her impending journey to join her ancestors.
With matters thus arranged, Dieudonné found no reason not to return home and contribute to the country’s development. However, before doing that, he transferred some of his investments to Cameroon in what could be considered a non-profit making phase in the expansion of his business empire.
* * *
“Ha, ha, ha…ha,” my grandfather laughed and rubbed his brows. “I’m stopping here for now on Ramatou’s side of the saga.”
“That’s fine with me. I know who of the two the usurper is,” I replied with a shrug.
My grandfather guffawed and regarded me with puzzled eyes. They were slightly mocking. “My Nana Njike, my Nana Njike! Your guess could be right or it could be wrong. Either way, the context of its application would be unfounded.”
“It is obvious you are trying to make me more anxious for the other side of the story featuring Montio as its main character.”
“I know, I know. You have always been a curious and anxious child,” my grandfather said, rubbing his palms together in a suggestive manner.
I could feel my heart throbbing in my chest as he filled up his horn with palm wine, and then gulped the drink down thirstily, conscious all the while that he held me in high suspense.
“You know you are having the better side of my curiosity,” I said.
“You still don’t want to join me, eh?” he asked and raised the gallon of palm wine in the air as if baiting me.
“Not until after.”
My grandfather grunted, and then belched. With his thirst highly saturated, he coughed lightly and licked his lips. Then he regarded his audience approvingly, an audience that had grown to include his pet, the he-goat called Malabou. Satisfied with the attention his story was commanding, he nodded, and then continued.
* * *
Montio returned home looking dignified with the prize of her nine months of labor and a deflated belly. The reception she received from her new husband and the couple’s families was so warm that she made a side comment about their loved ones treating her like a queen. Also, as the daughter of a Bana princess, she also commanded some regal status of her own, which made her highly respected in Bankole. After all, Bana is a prominent Bamileké realm that is admired by the other realms in the Bamilekéland.
When her husband returned home one evening from a neighboring realm and found the place flooded with gifts from Bana in the benediction of her son’s entry into the world, something made him think that his new son would grow up to be a special person. Those developments, plus the surplus gifts the baby’s birth brought into their home from the members of the Bankole royal family and the loyal people of the land, made the couple’s home the friendliest place in Bankole for weeks.
Now, this amorous couple lovingly named their baby Njike, in honor of his uncle, the king. However, when the catholic authorities baptized the boy, they decided to christen him Jacob. Why for God’s sake they chose this name, our ancestors alone know. Jacob in Hebrew means deceiver or usurper.
The young Jacob quickly distinguished himself in many ways just like Dieudonné, to the point where he also became the talk of the people of Bankole, even though his extraordinary exploits were known mostly in the royal palace. He was still groping around with the realities of a seven-year-old when Montio’s husband decided to move the young family to The Coast, to Mbanga. It was in this small railway junction town that the ambitious father chose to build his business empire by trading in goods.
I was told Jacob became too exposed to foreign values while in Mbanga. As a matter of fact, his fascination if not reverence for the White man’s ways was already evident back in Bankole. Nonetheless, I cannot understand why his enchantment with foreign values increased multiple times in this bustling junction town breathing down the neck of western-looking Douala. So, it is surprising that he listened to his mother and developed a close relationship with the Catholic Church and their missionaries in the town.
Jacob grappled with the new knowledge brought to the land by the Germans in a dedicated and ferocious manner that set him apart in the eyes of the missionaries there. However, an obstacle stood in the aspiring Jacob’s way in the person of another boy called Johans Wangou. Johans had been around for long; he was of better valor, and he was held in higher esteem by the missionaries due to his hardworking and trustworthy nature.
The two boys were still warming to the missionaries when words reached them that the Germans were in dire need of a young African who could live among them and help with domestic chores. Now, this was following an accident with the African cook whose expertise in the kitchen could turn a vegetarian into a goat meat addict within a week. The missionaries wrangled with deep passion over the problem of a replacement before their eyes finally settled on Jacob and Johans. Jacob, who happened to be nearby at the time and overheard the discourse, became interested in the position even before the missionaries reached out to them or spelled out the benefits. Now, the nimble-witted Jacob decided to eliminate his rival by the quickest means possible before the missionaries arrived at a final selection.
So, when he planted a bottle of the church’s recently missing wine in Johans’s room, and then hinted at the possibility of Johans being the culprit, he thought he was being smart. His claim that he smelled something like wine in Johans’s breath that day should have aroused the suspicion of the missionaries, but they failed to nag their brains at all. Instead, they carried out a quick search that uncovered the half-empty bottle of wine in Johans’s trunk. The tearful Johans professed his innocence to no avail, and he became distraught even further when they blamed him for the mysterious reduction in the contents of past bottles of wine meant for the Eucharist. In fact, had the missionaries been wise enough to reflect on a question Jacob asked a while ago, they would have realized that he was an utraquist, and therefore the likely culprit. However, Jacob’s utraquism was based on the notion of consuming the body and wine of Christ, instead of the body and blood of the lord.
The wine incident diminished Johans’s prospects and surged Jacob’s reputation as a reliable person to have around. Now, with his rival eliminated, Jacob lived with the missionaries, confident his position was secure. It was in this relaxed manner that he focused on his education, passed his exams and became a Secondary School student. The missionaries took care of the boy’s basic needs and fees, and they acted in most capacities as his guardian until his fourth year with them when they left the colony for South West Africa.
Some say Jacob was not happy with their departure, even though they continued subsidizing his education. However, when news reached the missionaries reporting Jacob’s dismissal from school hardly a year after they left German Kamerun, they wondered if they knew the boy at all. Jacob’s crime was unpardonable. He severely beat up a teacher as he tried to escape after the man caught him during one of his frequent and furtive sorties to enjoy the nightlife in the city of Douala. As a student in the boarding school, he was not allowed to step out of the school premises except during the official outings.
So, in despair of his misfortune, Jacob moved up to his homeland where he won the heart of his patriarch, uncle and king, much to the chagrin of the young princes. He quickly consolidated his influence in the royal palace to the point where he strutted around boasting of his high education, civilized ways and the coveted respect King Njike had for his views by seeking his advice on major issues concerning the welfare of the land. He divided the Kamveu (Council of Notables) by challenging the loyalty of the notables to the king’s rule, claiming that the group still harbored ill feelings about King Njike as the chosen ruler of the Bankole people.
Jacob’s maneuvers did not end there. He became solicitous to his king’s insatiable sexual desire by acquiring new and fresh wives for his virile demands. For each catch, he won a title, a chunk of land and the aging king’s blessings. However, the wavering Jacob became disenchanted with his king, without anybody knowing about it, when king Njike married a beautiful virgin he had coveted. Disillusion by that development and disappointed with himself, Jacob left Bankole and moved south to Douala.
After satisfying his lecherous ways and exercising so much power while in Bankole, Jacob could not put a limit to his desires when he arrived in Douala and discovered the way of life of his sister-in-law, the new wife of his brother Lucien Nyinke. Caroline, as Lucien’s wife was called, had gorgeous sisters who possessed alluring charms that were difficult to resist. These sisters even made it a point of flaunting their physical attributes as if they were of no consequence. It took Jacob a short while to seduce all three of Caroline’s sisters as if soiling his loins in that manner did not contradict the culture or the tradition of the Bamileké people.
You can easily imagine the mind of a man who had no qualms casting aside the traditional rules of his people, especially one that forbids a subject from getting involved with a relation’s in-law, even if they are distant. All the same, Lucien forgave his brother and Caroline convinced herself that her sisters were at fault.
So, when Jacob offered to see his brother off at the train station for an unexpected trip to Yaoundé that afternoon, Lucien was very appreciative. The brothers talked heartily all the way to the train station and babbled in high spirits until Lucien got into the train.
It is difficult to imagine what must have gone through Jacob’s mind while he waved at his brother in the departing train as it hissed and jerked on its way to Yaoundé because he left the train station in a hurry and with a gloomy look on his face. He actually thought the best way to sort his thoughts out before returning home was by boozing up. He obeyed that impulse, propped up his spirits with an unfair amount of alcohol, and then approached his brother’s home when it was already nightfall.
Jacob was about a stone’s throw away from the house when he noticed a figure staggering towards the door in a drunken manner. Walking gingerly, he edged closer and was puzzled to find that it was Caroline. He stopped and watched her get into the house before he too went inside. Perhaps it was the eerie quietness of the house, or perhaps it was something else that made Jacob approach the door to the Master’s bedroom and peep inside. All the same, he observed his brother’s wife slipping under her bed covers, naked. He hardly had time to collect himself when a sudden power outage sent the whole place into darkness. Just then, a thought crossed his mind, and he acted on it without hesitating.
He opened the door quietly, tiptoed inside...
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The Union Moujik
by Janvier Chando,
The Girl on the Trail
by Janvier Chouteu-Chando
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