Sunday, January 3, 2016

The story of Legends who Cried (An Excerpt of "Disciples of Fortune", a quintessential European/African Historical Saga)




The morning was perfect for lovers of nature, even though it was only an hour ago that the sun cleared away the early fog hovering over the hills of the Western High Plateau, allowing the self-luminous heavenly body to cast a shimmering reflection on the fresh flora gracing the landscape. The brightness of the morning might have impacted some of the children of the neighborhood too, who could be heard playing, singing, and laughing, their happy voices sweet to the ears as soothing sounds that stir joy in the bosom of the natural souls of this world.

However, for the two figures approaching the grave on the knoll overlooking the valley and stream below, nothing else mattered in the world except the memory of their father. They walked in a haggard manner, with their hands behind their backs. Even their faces carried expressions of extreme grief on them.

It was just a week ago that the brother and sister heard about the passing away of their father, and without wasting time on preambles, bought tickets for the next international flight home from New York City. They arrived in Douala three nights after they departed from the American city and then embarked on the arduous journey to the Bamilekéland. Arriving home in Banganté exhausted at almost four o’clock in the morning under the cloak of a moonless night, they succumbed to pressure from their mother and snatched some rest before venturing out that morning to the resting place of their father.

The sister extended her left hand to her brother who grabbed it as if it would provide the support he needed not to buckle under the weight of his grief. Then the two approached the grave with what could be perceived as the synchronized steps of soldiers involved in a precision march. They were about thirty yards away from the grave when they stopped and turned around, one after the other, to find that their mother was now about five yards behind, watching them with eyes unmixed with grief, love, and understanding. It was as if she finally realized that her children did not heed her call to stay put in America until the end of their semester studies because they wanted closure in their lives. However, Mami Njike decided to keep a distance because she thought it would be better for them to spend some time with their father without her hovering around.

The Njike son quietly freed his hand from his sister’s hold and then hurried forward with bold steps. He did not look back as he dropped to his knees and held his hands together, tears streaming out of his eyes. His manly outpour of grief began an outburst of wailing that could be heard in the valley below, as his sister and his mother joined him in weeping for the man whose love they could not replace, and whose legacy was too wide and too deep to comprehend.

Others joined them too — first, the relatives and other people of the Njike household in Banganté and then neighbors and their own neighbors too. The crowd that formed within half an hour exceeded one hundred souls, and they acted as if they were carrying out another phase in the mourning of Josef Nana Njike. They said prayers afterwards and the oldest Njike daughter stirred the crowd into singing “Count Your Blessings.” Elizabeth raised her voice at the last stanza and brought it to a crescendo when it came to, Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end…as if the last line was the part of the hymn she held dearest to her heart.

The youngest Njike son stood still for a moment and then extended his hand to his mother for the flowers. He took them with pursed lips, laid them on the marble grave and then made a sign of the cross. Paul Njomou Njike surprised himself when he started weeping loudly for the first time since he received the news of his father’s death.

The story of Josef Nana Njike’s life and death became a popular narration in Banganté and the surrounding lands. Different versions of the account have been told by those born before him, people who grew up with him, the mothers, and fathers whose lives he touched, and the children he inspired. Nana Njike’s life story quickly became a third-person narration, and from there, the legend was born. Still, all the narratives had one thing in common―the disadvantaged Josef Nana Njike knew he was an orphan at an early age but went about his life as a bright-eyed kid who inspired a king, warmed the heart of a German soldier, became the son of a white man, and prevailed in the knowledge of white men. When he grew up into a stud, he fell in love with a white woman, seeded a son he never forgot about, yet he was focused enough to return to his people to whom he dedicated the rest of his life, even making his family secondary in the process. All the while, he harbored enough love to satisfy all those who reached out for that soft spot in his soul, to the point where he could even forgive those who caused the death of his favorite son.


Disciples of Fortune

Disciples of Fortune

by Janvier Chouteu-Chando

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