Monday, June 8, 2026

Lettre de Ruben Um Nyobè (chef du mouvement de libération populaire UPC — Union des populations du Cameroun) à André Marie Mbida (premier Premier ministre du Cameroun français, territoire sous tutelle de la France), maquis, 13 juillet 1957.

 


HISTOIRE: 1957 LETTRE DU MPODOL


 "J’ai hésité longtemps avant de t’adresser cette lettre. Non pas par crainte, mais parce que je pensais que les faits parleraient d’eux-mêmes. Or je constate que le mensonge, à force d’être répété, finit par prendre l’apparence de la vérité. Le tribalisme est l’un des champs les plus fertiles des oppositions africaines. Il constitue un champ de spéculation pour les intrigants et les arrivistes. Nous n’avons pas le droit de nous servir de l’existence des ethnies comme moyens de luttes politiques ou de conflits de personnes. [...].


En agitant le spectre d’un "péril bamiléké", tu fais objectivement le jeu de ceux qui ne veulent ni l’indépendance ni l’unité du Kamerun. 

Il faut que les Camerounais comprennent que l’unité nationale ne signifie pas la suppression des ethnies. Certains croient que l’unité nationale exige la disparition des ethnies, des langues, des coutumes. C’est l’assimilation. D’autres croient que chaque ethnie doit avoir son État. C’est la balkanisation. Les deux voies mènent à la mort de la nation. 


Il faut que les Camerounais comprennent que l’unité nationale ne signifie pas la suppression des ethnies, mais leur épanouissement dans le cadre d’une nation où tous les citoyens jouissent des mêmes droits et sont soumis aux mêmes devoirs. L’ethnie est une réalité culturelle. La nation est une réalité politique. Confondre les deux, c’est condamner le pays à la guerre civile. 

Qu’un Bassa, un Ewondo, un Foulbé ou un Bamiléké soient jugé de la même façon, aient accès aux mêmes écoles, aux mêmes emplois. Tant que certaines régions seront maintenues dans la misère pendant que d’autres profitent, on alimentera le sentiment d’injustice et le repli ethnique. Ce qui unit les hommes, ce n’est pas le sang, c’est le combat partagé. 


Notre projet, c’est l’indépendance et la réunification du Kamerun. C’est cela qui fera de nous une nation.  À l’UPC, nous ne demandons à personne de quelle ethnie il est. Nous lui demandons : es-tu pour l’indépendance immédiate ? Es-tu pour la réunification ? Es-tu contre le travail forcé et l’indigénat ? Si oui, tu es des nôtres. 

Voilà notre seul tribalisme : le tribalisme des patriotes.  Félix Moumié est Bamoun, Ernest Ouandié est Bamiléké, Castor Osendé Afana est Ewondo, je suis Bassa. Qui peut dire que l’UPC est le parti d’une tribu ?


Or c’est là que se trouve le nœud du problème : refuser la politique. On nous dit souvent, à nous autres de l’UPC : vous faites de la politique, c’est dangereux. Occupez-vous de l’école, de l’église, du commerce ; la politique, laissez-la aux Blancs. On a donc insisté auprès de nos compatriotes, surtout les intellectuels, pour dire qu’ils ne s’occupent pas de politique, parce qu’ils préparent on ne sait quelle situation matérielle. Nous avons donc insisté auprès d’eux pour leur montrer la tromperie que constituait une telle campagne. Tout est politique et tout s’encadre dans la politique. La religion est devenue politique. Le commerce est politique. Même le sport est politique. La politique touche à tout et tout touche à la politique. Dire que l’on ne fait pas de politique, c’est avouer que l’on n’a pas le désir de vivre. C’est pourquoi nous estimons qu’il faut, avant tout, se battre pour les libertés fondamentales, gage essentiel du succès matériel. 

Quand l’administration interdit une réunion de l’UPC, elle dit que c’est de la politique. Quand le missionnaire prêche du haut de la chaire qu’il faut obéir à l’autorité coloniale, il dit que c’est de la religion. Or dans les deux cas, il s’agit de maintenir le Kamerunais en oppression. 


Toi qui es chrétien, peux-tu fermer les yeux sur le travail forcé ? Sur l’indigénat ? Sur les villages brûlés ? Si tu te tais au nom de la neutralité, ton silence est une prise de position. Il sert l’oppresseur. Le Christ n’a pas été neutre devant les marchands du Temple. Un chrétien kamerunais ne peut pas être neutre devant la souffrance de son peuple.  


Voilà pourquoi, cher frère, je t’écris du fond du maquis. Car si nous, les intellectuels, nous ne faisons pas de politique, d’autres la feront à notre place, et contre nous. Si nous continuons à opposer les ethnies les unes aux autres, si nous faisons de l’origine le critère de la confiance politique, alors nous préparons notre pays à des larmes que rien ne pourra sécher. L’administration coloniale partira un jour. Mais les haines que nous aurons semées entre nous resteront. Et ce sont nos enfants qui les paieront. Chaque leader s’appuie sur son ethnie, l’administration arbitre, et le Kamerun devient un champ de bataille.

 

Nous mettons l’indépendance et la réunification au-dessus de tout. Nous règlerons nos désaccords après, en frères, dans un État qui est le nôtre. Il n’y a pas de troisième voie. La neutralité est une illusion. Le silence est une trahison. 

L’Histoire jugera. Elle dira qui a travaillé à unir et qui a travaillé à diviser. Pour ma part, j’ai choisi mon camp : celui de l’unité, de l’indépendance et de la dignité. 


Je reste, malgré tout, ton frère dans la lutte pour le Kamerun."


 Maquis, 13 juillet 1957, Lettre de Ruben Um Nyobè à André Marie Mbida






L’ÉCLAIR DU SOLEIL (Série Compradors) (French Edition)

Letter from Ruben Um Nyobè (Head of the popular Liberation Movement UPC---Union of the Populations of the Cameroons) to André Marie Mbida (First Prime Minister of French Cameroun, a Trust Territory of France), Maquis, July 13, 1957

 


HISTORY: 1957 LETTER FROM MPODOL


"I hesitated for a long time before writing this letter to you. Not out of fear, but because I thought the facts would speak for themselves. Yet I observe that a lie, when repeated often enough, ends up taking on the appearance of truth. Tribalism is one of the most fertile grounds for African political divisions. It serves as a playground for schemers and opportunists. We have no right to use the existence of ethnic groups as a means for political struggles or personal conflicts. [...]


By raising the specter of a 'Bamiléké peril,' you are objectively playing into the hands of those who want neither independence nor unity for Kamerun.

Cameroonians must understand that national unity does not mean the elimination of ethnic groups. Some believe that national unity requires the disappearance of ethnic groups, languages, and customs. That is assimilation. Others believe that every ethnic group must have its own state. That is balkanization. Both paths lead to the death of the nation.


Cameroonians must understand that national unity does not mean the elimination of ethnic groups, but rather their flourishing within a nation where all citizens enjoy the same rights and are subject to the same duties. An ethnic group is a cultural reality. A nation is a political reality. To confuse the two is to condemn the country to civil war.

Let a Bassa, an Ewondo, a Fulani, or a Bamiléké be judged in the same way, and have access to the same schools and the same jobs. As long as some regions are kept in destitution while others prosper, we will fuel a sense of injustice and a retreat into tribalism." ...ethnic. What unites men is not blood; it is a shared struggle.


Our goal is the independence and reunification of Kamerun. That is what will make us a nation. At the UPC, we do not ask anyone about their ethnicity. We ask: Are you in favor of immediate independence? Are you in favor of reunification? Are you opposed to forced labor and the *indigénat* system? If so, you are one of us.

That is our only form of tribalism: the tribalism of patriots. Félix Moumié is Bamoun, Ernest Ouandié is Bamiléké, Castor Osendé Afana is Ewondo, and I am Bassa. Who can claim that the UPC is the party of a single tribe?


Yet therein lies the crux of the problem: the refusal to engage in politics. We in the UPC are often told: "You are engaging in politics; that is dangerous. Focus on schools, the church, or commerce; leave politics to the white man." Our compatriots—especially the intellectuals—were urged to steer clear of politics so they could secure their own material well-being. We therefore strove to show them the deception inherent in such a campaign. Everything is political, and everything falls within the realm of politics. Religion has become political. Commerce is political. Even sport is political. Politics touches everything, and everything touches politics. To say one is not engaging in politics is to admit one has no desire to live. That is why we believe we must, above all, fight for fundamental freedoms—the essential guarantee of material success.

When the administration bans an UPC meeting, it claims it is politics. When the missionary preaches... ...from the pulpit that one must obey colonial authority—claiming it is a matter of religion. Yet in both cases, the aim is to keep the Cameroonian people under oppression.


You, as a Christian, can you turn a blind eye to forced labor? To the *indigénat* system? To villages being burned down? If you remain silent in the name of neutrality, that silence is a stance in itself. It serves the oppressor. Christ was not neutral when facing the money changers in the Temple. A Cameroonian Christian cannot remain neutral in the face of his people's suffering.


That is why, dear brother, I am writing to you from the heart of the resistance. For if we intellectuals do not engage in politics, others will do so in our stead—and against us. If we continue to pit ethnic groups against one another, if we make ethnic origin the criterion for political trust, then we are preparing our country for tears that nothing will be able to dry. The colonial administration will leave one day. But the hatred we have sown among ourselves will remain. And it is our children who will pay the price. Each leader relies on their ethnic group, the administration acts as arbiter, and Cameroon becomes a battlefield.


We place independence and reunification above all else. We will settle our disagreements later, as brothers, within a state that belongs to us all. There is no third way. Neutrality is an illusion. Silence is a betrayal.


History will be the judge. It will say who worked to unite and who worked to divide. For my part, I have chosen my side: that of unity, independence, and dignity.


I remain, despite everything, your brother in the struggle for Kamerun."


Maquis, July 13, 1957, Letter from Ruben Um Nyobè to André Marie Mbida


CAMEROON: The Haunted Heart of Africa


Wednesday, June 3, 2026

A geopolitical thriller and a historical saga about a lurking mafia (Window into "FLASH OF THE SUN")




 

Chapter One

 

 

 

 

New York, spring 1958

 

 

 

 

 

Renault’s “princess”—the 1956 Renault Dauphine—was more than a car to René Roccard. It was a pulse, a heartbeat, a reminder that France could rise from humiliation and breathe again. Every time he saw one glide past, something inside him tightened and lifted at once. Pride. Memory. A stubborn, aching loyalty. His coworkers had laughed when he bought one from the first American shipment, but they weren’t surprised. René was the kind of Frenchman who carried his country like a fever under his skin.

To René, the car was more than metal and machinery—it was France reborn, a symbol of resilience after humiliation, defeat, and four long years under German occupation.

But lately, the Dauphine didn’t soothe him. Not today. Not with the heat pressing down on New York like a punishment. Not with his mind spiraling around the mission he had carved into his own bones.

He barely noticed the skyscrapers hemming him in as he crawled through Broadway traffic. His thoughts were too loud, too jagged. Sweat pooled under his collar, trickling down his spine. His hands trembled on the wheel. He was so lost in the storm inside his skull that he didn’t see the blue Ford Fairlane stop until it was almost too late.

He slammed the brake.

The Dauphine lurched violently. His chest slammed forward. His forehead nearly cracked against the steering wheel.

“Merde… merde, les salopards!” The words tore out of him, raw and guttural. He pounded the steering wheel with both fists until the honking behind him snapped him back into the world.

He moved forward mechanically, breath shallow, palms slick. His heart hammered so hard it felt like it was trying to escape his ribs. The heat, the noise, the suffocating press of cars — it all fused into a single, throbbing pressure behind his eyes.

“Cette circulation est agaçante,” he hissed, though the words barely carried the weight of the fury twisting inside him.

He hadn’t expected traffic like this. He hadn’t expected the temperature to claw its way to ninety-seven degrees. He hadn’t expected his own body to feel like a cage.

Nothing must go wrong. Nothing must interfere. Not today.

When he finally parked in Turtle Bay, he stepped out of the car as if emerging from underwater. His shirt clung to his back. His breath came in uneven bursts. He opened the trunk and pulled out the guitar case — the one that felt heavier than its size should allow, heavier with purpose, heavier with memory.

“La Bastringue” by the chansonnier Mary Rose-Anne Bolduc drifted into his mind, uninvited. A mocking little tune. He hummed it anyway, because the alternative was letting the panic swallow him whole.

“You have a nice baby there,” a voice said behind him.

René froze. A cold spike shot up his spine. He turned slowly, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

“What did you just say?”

The American smiled, oblivious. “Beautiful piece of machinery. My wife’s buying one tonight.”

René stared at the man’s hand as it slid across the Dauphine’s hood — a caress, an intrusion. Something in him recoiled.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said, his accent thick, his voice flat. “Your wife will love it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He walked away, fast, the guitar case knocking against his leg. His shirt stuck to him. His breath hitched. His thoughts spiraled.

Ignore it. Ignore everything except the mission.

He covered the last stretch to the Tudor City apartment building in a hurry. His hands shook as he fumbled with the keys. His pulse roared in his ears. He muttered curses under his breath — at the heat, at the traffic, at the stranger, at himself.

Inside Giuseppe Matteotti’s apartment, the air felt stale, heavy, conspiratorial. René locked the door behind him and went straight to the window. His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched. His mind replayed the moment he’d copied the Italian painter’s key — a month ago, in a haze of wine and desperation.

He set the guitar case down. His breath trembled. His vision blurred at the edges.

He assembled the rifle with hands that shook from adrenaline, not hesitation. He waited for his heartbeat to slow. It didn’t. He waited anyway.

Forty-three minutes passed before the target appeared.

That was Ruben Um Nyobè. The man René considered a virus. A threat. A shadow cast across France’s future.

Even though the man was sporting a beard, René was certain it was him. The confidence in his stride. The fire in his gestures. The smile — that infuriating smile — as he spoke to the diplomats around him.

René’s stomach twisted. Bile rose in his throat. He swallowed it back, lips trembling as his brother’s face flashed in his mind. Marc. Dead because of rebels. Dead because France was losing control. Dead because men like Um Nyobè dared to challenge the motherland.

René’s finger tightened. His breath stopped.

Then — movement.

The target shifted. A diplomat stepped into the line of fire. The moment shattered.

René gasped — a sharp, involuntary sound. Rage detonated inside him. The diplomats closed around Um Nyobè like a shield. They walked him to the waiting car. The door shut. The sedan pulled away.

Gone.

Something inside René cracked.

He dropped to the floor and slammed his fist into his thighs, oblivious to his ragged breathing and animalistic bursts. Then he rolled onto his back and was still for a moment before he sat up, slammed his head lightly against the wall — again, again — as if trying to knock loose the failure lodged inside him.

His curses dissolved into a hoarse whisper. His whisper dissolved into silence. His silence dissolved into a single, terrible thought:

I will try again.

And if I fail again, I will go to French Cameroun myself. I will finish it there. I will not let Marc’s death be meaningless.

But then — the headline. The one that had carved itself into his memory.

France Sends Troops to Crush Red-Led Uprising in Cameroons…

He squeezed his eyes shut. His nails dug into his scalp. His breath hitched.

“Les idiots… les imbéciles…” His voice cracked. “The rebellion isn’t different from Algeria. That’s why Marc is dead…”

René's words dissolved into sobs — raw, broken, unrestrained. He wept until his throat burned. Until his chest ached. Until the tears ran dry.

Then, from somewhere deep inside him, a melody surfaced.

“La Complainte du Partisan.”

He hummed it through clenched teeth. He whispered the line that gutted him every time:

“…I took my gun and vanished.”

The next morning, he woke hollow. He moved through his routine like a ghost. The song clung to him, looping in his mind, soothing and tormenting him in turns.

By the time he sat behind his office desk, the sharp edge of his despair had softened into a stern, controlled solemnity. He was no longer broken—only quiet, withdrawn.

But even that fragile calm did not last.

However, when news arrived that morning reporting that General Charles De Gaulle was returning to power, something inside him flickered.

Hope. Purpose. A reason to keep going.

Something lit behind René’s eyes just before midday—something fierce, something alive. By the afternoon, as confirmations poured in, a real smile—his first in days—finally broke across his face.

 

 

                               **************

 

 

May 1958 would carve its place deep into French history—a month of upheaval marked by the second and most decisive Algiers Putsch, an audacious attempt launched from the heart of French Algeria to topple the government in Paris.

The revolt did not emerge in a vacuum. Years of political paralysis had exhausted the French public. Governments rose and fell in rapid succession, crippled by endless cabinet crises that eroded confidence both at home and across the empire. Nowhere was this disillusionment felt more sharply than among the army and European settlers in Algeria. Under the Fourth Republic’s fragile parliamentary system, France had cycled through twenty prime ministers in just eleven years—a dizzying instability that left the nation unsteady and uncertain.

For the army, patience had run out.

They had watched successive governments falter—first in Indochina, then in North Africa, and increasingly in French Cameroun. To them, each hesitation in Paris felt like surrender disguised as policy. The fear now was that even the current right-wing government under Pierre Pflimlin would follow the same path—retreating under pressure, abandoning territories, and, in their eyes, diminishing French honor as had been done in Indochina in 1954.

It was this simmering frustration that ignited the call for change.

From the balconies of Algiers to the streets of Yaoundé, and deep within the corridors of power in Paris itself, a single name began to rise above the disorder—Charles de Gaulle. The demand for his return built with a fervor that bordered on the spiritual, as though the nation were calling upon a redeemer rather than a politician.

And in many ways, that is how he was seen.

Charles de Gaulle had become the embodiment of French resilience. During the dark years of German occupation, he had stood as a symbol of defiance and dignity, preserving the nation’s honor when it seemed all but lost. Yet, in 1946, he had stepped away from power, rejecting the very system that now stood exposed in its weakness—the Fourth Republic he believed was fundamentally flawed.

Now, history seemed to be vindicating him.

Across France, among the restless and disillusioned, hope began to stir again. And among them was René Roccard.

Like countless others, René saw in Charles de Gaulle not merely a leader, but a solution—a man capable of restoring direction, discipline, and purpose to a drifting nation. To him, de Gaulle represented the possibility of a renewed France—one that could reclaim its stature on the world stage and reassert control over its troubled colonies.

More than that, René believed something larger was unfolding.

France, he felt, stood on the cusp of a new era—one that would demand action, sacrifice, and unwavering resolve. It was an era that would call men like him to step forward, to pursue their self-appointed missions in the name of the fatherland—and, perhaps, to be remembered as the patriots who saved France from slipping into irrelevance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 .