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Mohamadou Issa Musa, entitled Al-hajji, always prided himself on being punctual in whatever he got involved in. He remembered the day he first showed up late at work at a hotel in Chicago, Illinois where he washed dishes, and how after his manager chided him, he vowed never to be late for work again. In fact, even though he was back home in Cameroon and now boasted of being his own boss, he never stopped making it a point of setting the precedence by always showing up early at work before any of his employees made it to work, thereby discouraging tardiness in a society that was not time conscious at all.
Al-hajji Mohamadou Issa was also a conscientious employer not loved by the corrupt regime in power. As a matter of fact, his printing press was really booming in the early nineteen eighties. That was before Pablo-Nero’s mismanagement dragged the country into an economic crisis that almost crippled all his businesses. Even so, the losses he suffered from his investments in cotton production could have been mitigated had the government not overtaxed him to the point where it bankrupted many of his ventures in that sector. That was why he still recalled with trepidation the months that the government shut down his printing press because it printed a book that revealed some of the failures and shortcomings of the country’s only political party, the French-imposed system and of President Pablo-Nero himself.
As a man versed with the paradigm of cause and effect, Al-hajji Mohamadou Issa knew he was paying the price for opposing the system. He was a critic, had been one since the Ahidjo days; and he had never shown any inclination to dance to the tunes of any autocratic and corrupt regime in power. Still, he could not understand why the government closed down two of the non-profit making elementary schools he was funding, thereby killing his dream of expanding education in the highly illiterate and poverty-stricken Mayo Tsanaga and Mayo Tsava divisions in the Extreme North Province. Also, he was still having a hard time figuring out why the government aborted his promising joint venture with the Germans to co-finance and build rice and millet mills in the towns of Mokolo and Mora.
Al-hajji Mohamadou finally understood that he was up against people with the evil disposition when the minister of Higher Education thwarted his first son’s chances of winning a scholarship to study in Canada. Only then did he decide to go underground in his activities against the Pablo-Nero regime, convinced that a lone wolf howling in a quiet forest would be an easy target for predators, while several wolves howling from all corners of a forest would send the poachers into confusion and flight. That was why he waited until the appropriate moment to join forces with other disgruntled, cheated, visionary and patriotic Cameroonians in a bid to carry out a change of the system and found the New Cameroon.
Everything seems to be moving well, he thought that day.
Al-hajji Mohamadou was in high spirits that morning when he got out of his car in front of the building that was housing his printing press, shut and keyed the door and then started whistling good-humoredly as he opened the entrance door to the three-story edifice. He was about to get in when a smiling young man caught up with him from behind and greeted in Arabic.
“Walekum Salaam,” he replied.
The young man spoke entirely in Arabic, introducing himself as a Moroccan from Tangier, on a visit to Cameroon on business, and that he thought they could do some business together. Al-hajji Mohamadou had a welcoming look on his face as he walked the young man into his office.
But hardly had he settled behind his desk when the Tunisian pulled out a pistol with a silencer fitted onto its muzzle. The secret agent put five bullets into Al-hajji Mohamadou’s chest before he could even scream out. Then, the Berber ran out of the building into the waiting car outside. It drove off with him to the second rendezvous of the Maroua operation, where he found the two local agents in a car some twenty-five yards away from the fenced building that Idris Daouda called home.
However, seconds after he arrived, news reached Idris Daouda from Yaoundé by telephone, warning him to be on the alert because he was a target in an ongoing operation.
Al-hajji Mohamadou Issa’s wife also received a phone call bearing the same message. But that was barely twenty minutes after her husband left home.
**************
That same morning, hardly an hour after the assassination of Al-hajji Mohamadou Issa Musa, Lawyer Ngwesse received an anonymous call from a man using a cloth over his mouth as he spoke on the phone.
“Lawyer Ngwesse?” the mysterious caller asked.
“Yes! This is lawyer Ngwesse speaking.”
“I’m calling because I support your movement.”
The lawyer felt a chill run up his spine. “Thanks,” he stuttered, “And who are you by the way?”
“My name is unimportant for now. You need to know that I can help you save some lives.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about lives, my friend. There is something else that I want you to know. I’m an ethnic Beti-Pahuin. My home village is a short distance from the president’s.”
“So?”
“Bear in mind that I was born and raised in the Southwest Province.”
“What has that got to do with saving lives?”
“I’m coming to that.”
“Now, do be serious before I hang up.”
“Hang up? Do you think that would be a wise thing to do?”
Lawyer Ngwesse was becoming exasperated now. But then, something curious about the mysterious caller compelled him to continue engaging the man. "Why are you keeping your identity hidden from me?” he asked in a guarded manner.
Lawyer Ngwesse’s hands were already wet with perspiration even before the man began his story.
“You probably don’t know this, but your movement caused quite a stir in Yaoundé, especially after you filed in the documents.”
“Okay, okay…okay!”
“I am sure you and your friends anticipated a response to the move you made. After all, the people you are up against aren’t saints. In fact, they are a mafia, an evil cult if I need to make it simple.”
“I understand.”
“You need to know that an operation has been mounted against you and your friends. It is extensive and it starts today.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I told you before that I’m Beti. Yes, I’m Beti, but I’m a patriot, a union-nationalist. I cherish my Anglophone upbringing even more. I do not believe in placing emphasis on the ethnic, religious, cultural, or political ties of my compatriot, especially if they are not infringing on the integrity of our beautiful Cameroon that I hold so dearly in my heart.”
“I got that.”
“Our government is sick, discriminatory, corrupt, and inefficient. Its Beti leadership is falsifying the extent of Beti involvement in this mess. But you need to be open-minded enough to know that the ordinary Beti people are not responsible for this. They are innocent, just like the vast majority of all the ethnic groups in this country.”
“I know. All the different Cameroonian peoples are victims of this system.”
“I agree with you on that. The Beti people love this country too, just like other Cameroonians from our different ethnic groups. I know our people well. They are prepared to continue making their own contributions to the welfare of this country.”
“Charles Atangana, Martin Paul Samba, Ossende Afana, Thomas Nkono, Gregoire Mbida, Jean Manga-Onguéné, Theophile Abega, Anne-Marie Ndze, and others I cherish are testaments to positive Beti contributions to Cameroonian history,” Lawyer Ngwesse interjected.
“Listen to me! I am pleading with you, my dear compatriot. We shouldn’t collectivize individual actions on the Beti people. The leadership has failed the Beti people as much as it has failed other ethnic groups in Cameroon. Beti people are not evil, only individuals are evil. The leadership shouldn’t be allowed to make their evil actions a collective responsibility of the Beti people. Do you get the point I am trying to make?”
“I understand,” Lawyer Ngwesse said. He knew that the man was neurotic, but he was not insensitive to the fact that he was harboring some useful information. “You mentioned an operation a while ago.”
The anonymous caller was quivering now. “Yes, you are right. My wife has a friend whose husband is a minister. He is a member of the secret committee that controls the affairs of this country. The stupid tribal group decided to eliminate you all. They have the tacit support of the French intelligence. That’s what the minister’s wife told my wife. The minister was drunk when he told his wife everything about their last meeting.”
“How extensive is the operation?”
“It is nationwide, damn it! It goes operational today. I made this difficult decision to alert you because I want this leadership out. This establishment is incapable of moving Cameroon forward. They have abused the pride of the people and cornered Cameroonians to blame the Beti people for the mess they created. We must not allow that to continue.”
“I do not blame you or the Beti people.”
“I know. That’s why I called you.”
“Why should I believe you?” the lawyer asked.
The anonymous caller was quiet for a moment. “You must believe my words if you are dedicated to the cause to safeguard a promising future for this country. I must go now. My dear compatriot, please alert your people about this.”
“Who are you?” the lawyer asked with a note of desperation in his voice.
“You are going to know me one day, I promise. But not as the man who made the anonymous call. Good luck and goodbye. Pick up your assegai and shield now and then brace yourself for the colossal task of freeing this country.”
Lawyer Ngwesse took a deep breath and then said in a quiet voice. “You think so!”
“Yes, my brother, only concerned citizens like us can tackle this system and bring about the change that would give this country a sense of direction. We are capable of doing that, but only if we adopt the mindset of our historic civic nationalists. Our salvation shall be realized if we pick up the baton dropped by Martin Paul Samba, Rudolf Duala Manga-Bell, Ruben Um Nyobé, Félix Moumié, Osende Afana, Albert Kingue and Ernest Ouandie. Their enemies cut their lives short, but we must not let their sacrifices go in vain. We have to realize the patriotic goals espoused by John Ngu Foncha and Ndeh Ntumazah who find themselves sidelined today by those who usurped power in this country,” the caller said and hung up.
Lawyer Ngwesse held the phone in his hand and ruminated for a moment before he pulled himself together and placed the receiver back on its cradle. He looked thoughtful when he left his home and drove to Ivan Fru’s place. Whether it was due to the deliberate work of the government, or whether it was the result of the frequent malfunctioning of the telecommunication system, the two men succeeded in making warning calls to only three of the ten provinces.
Idris Daouda became convinced by this second call and went underground.
All the targets in Bamenda got alerted and went underground too.
**************
Jean-Marie Garga lived in the suburbs of Ngaoundéré. He was a Christian just like his parents and grandparents before him, even though they were from the majority Muslim-north of Cameroon. He was also exceptional for being a former player of the national soccer team, for speaking English and French fluently and for being the prototype of a bilingual Cameroonian. But above everything else, he was patriotic. His family could not understand why he declined a lucrative job offer from an American dairy firm after he completed his university studies in France and later in the USA.
Instead, he returned home to work for the development of Cameroon. However, Jean-Marie Garga was quick to admit that a decade of committing his resources to the development of his beloved country had yielded few positive results that could make him feel proud of his efforts.
Things started going wrong after he returned home to find that the government had confiscated half of his father’s land. However, he came to a blindingly clear conclusion that he was up against an establishment that did not have the country at heart. when the government hindered his efforts to start a ranch and dairy company, and after the authorities went further and prevented him from expanding his poultry business to a commercial scale, while shamelessly allowing individuals with the special connections to those in power to import frozen poultry, some of which were even expired. The system continued frustrating him to the point where he openly declared he was now a full-blown opposition convert while on a radio show. So, when the police arrested him a week after, he was not surprised about it. They locked him up for two months and charged him with aiding suspected rebels in the smuggling of arms into the country from Nigeria. There were no grounds for those charges and there were several other loopholes in the case for his brilliant lawyer-friend to exploit and get him acquitted.
Jean-Marie Garga came out of the detention and trial with a new strategy. He discarded his lone-wolf approach and went about the business of building a formidable fortress of supporters in Ngaoundéré, other parts of the Adamawa Province and the rest of the northern half of Cameroon. He encouraged the creation of cooperatives, fostered inter-village and inter-ethnic cooperation among the different peoples of the Adamawa Province, and he used his resources to finance social schemes and other acts of solidarity. Still, he never stopped being a patriot. He never stopped loving, supporting and defending Cameroon and its interests with devotion. He continued committing himself to the cause for a New Cameroon because he believed in man’s role as a tool of destiny. That was why he accepted the invitation to work with other patriotic Cameroonians in forming an organized opposition. He was convinced his faith in a future New Cameroon was strong enough to withstand the expected onslaught from the system.
A lot was on Jean-Marie Garga’s mind that afternoon as he drove his blue Toyota Corona from Quartier Norvégien, using the periphery road leading to his home. So, he was surprised to find a grey Toyota Corona in the middle of the road, a situation that forced him to slam hard on the brake pedal. He downplayed the foreboding feeling that suddenly gripped him at the sight of a blue car parked on the roadside about twenty yards away, stepped out of his car and approached the two Africans and a white man working on the Toyota Corona’s opened hood. He asked them in Fulfulde whether there was much of a problem and if they needed his assistance. One of the men replied that all would soon be fine. Then the three men moved quickly, grabbed him and then started dragging him away. He thought the white man was acting funny when he held his head. There was a sudden twist and Jean-Marie Garga felt his neck go limp and life ebbing out of his body.
The three men bundled him back into the car and rolled it off the road, over the steep ridge to the rocks below. It fell with a bang. No approaching car was in sight when two of the agents hurried back to the Peugeot 505 Sedan, got inside it and then sped away towards town, trailed by the grey Toyota Corona.
Jean-Marie Garga was unlucky. Had the telephone lines to Ngaoundéré been working that morning, he would have been warned of an attack.
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