Tuesday, June 14, 2016

A Historic Encounter for the "New Cameroon" (Ernest Ouandie)---culled from "Disciples of Fortune"

 Excerpt from  Disciples of Fortune

...
       Hans told him. He began with the threats that he received a week before the arson, which came as a letter ordering him to show proof that he was no longer aiding the UPC, or he risked being considered an enemy of the people. Then he talked about the inconsiderate destruction of the hospital, and finally, his encounters with Ndam Saidou that brought him to Fredrik Kruger Nsiyep.

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.”

 

  ...  
 
Disciples of Fortune

Disciples of Fortune

by Janvier Chouteu-Chando

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