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