Black Arrow always started his inspections in the first grade classes, making sure everyone was behaving as he saw fit. He walked down the aisles of every class, beating the kids who weren’t dressed or behaving appropriately. Whenever it came to me, I always knew I’d get a beating. I admit I was constantly in trouble, but Black Arrow’s beatings on me weren’t always because I did something wrong. I know that my father’s other wife told the Head Master to discipline me a little more strictly than the rest. When it came to the really badly behaved or dressed students, Black Arrow would call in the help of older, bigger students to hold the bad kid up in the air by his feet, so that Black Arrow could beat the bad out of him and not have to worry about holding the struggling child in place. This was the worst punishment anyone could get in primary school (Americans call it Elementary school)… except for the kids who actually enjoyed getting beaten. For those strange few, their alternative punishment was to stand outside and stare at the sun for ten minutes; if they looked away for longer than a second the teachers added more time to the clock.
These were cruel forms of punishment by most standards, but Cameroonian educators demanded respect and order, by force if necessary (which they felt was frequently the case). The trade-off for us students was that, when we weren’t being beaten, we were being very well educated. Our teachers were excellent educators; they taught well and were very knowledgeable. In Cameroon our studies focused on two main subjects: agriculture and math.
Agriculture was taught to us by a hands-on approach. Every student was required to bring a machete (we called it a cutlass) to school to use when we worked on the school’s farm. Working the farm was not an option: we were required to learn farm work. Sometimes we would go into the field and toil for hours in the hot weather, and Cameroon gets very hot. Aside from the heat, it was still not a particularly safe environment. As I mentioned before we had lots of snakes, and most snakes in that area are poisonous. There were a number of the slithering creatures who called our school farm their home. While working the fields it was common for one or another of us students to happen upon a nest of snake eggs. If the individual’s luck was bad enough a big snake would be there, too, and would pop out of the ground and… well, let’s just say it would suck to be that kid. I remember one time in particular when I was paired up with a girl and a snake popped out of the ground and lunged at her. Being only a child and terrified, I bolted away (snakes are scary, and what would I have been able to do, anyway?). I never saw that girl again. I’m certain she became very ill from the bite and died shortly after.
School in Africa was certainly not an easy road. But, if it were, I’m certain it wouldn’t have been as valuable of an education to me.
Aside from the dangers of our school, we kids did love to have our fun. There was actually quite a lot to do for entertainment, but, looking back, none of it was very safe. I remember me and my friends making bows and bottle cap-tipped arrows and playing hide and seek in the “forest.” We would hide behind trees and shoot each other with the arrows. The rules were like in real life: the person who ran out of arrows and got hit the most lost. None of the adults knew we played that game; it was very dangerous and we would often get wounds from the arrows. When an adult asked us about our injuries we’d never say where we really got them from, for fear we’d be forced to stop playing Bows and Arrows.
When we kids weren’t busy hurting ourselves with homemade aluminum-tipped arrows, we would be hurting ourselves playing soccer without shoes on. Soccer is a huge sport in my village and in all of Cameroon; it’s the main activity when there is nothing else to do. Ultimately, everyone who plays hopes to one day be good enough to play professionally like our hero— Samuel Eto. Unfortunately, I was a small kid: uncoordinated and slow. I was no match for the other kids. Like any sane person, I didn’t enjoy playing a sport I was no good at and in which I’d only get run down or kicked, so I stayed away from the soccer games. But, sometimes, I’d watch and cheer from the sidelines.
My twin-friends and I were always together whenever we had nothing to do, just like when we spent time walking outside during my family’s dinner time rush. We were a pretty damn close trio. Whenever we weren’t together, or whenever I couldn’t find them or spend time with them, I spent my time alone somewhere thinking to myself or doing one chore or another for my father.
My father owned a beverage store and every once in a while he would ask the whole family to come out and help him unload the delivery truck. Aside from those times at the store, I don’t remember seeing him or talking to him much; there were so many other people in the house all the time and he was always so busy that I didn’t get much one-on-one time with him. I clearly remember, though, him letting me help unload trucks at the store. Those were probably the best times I remember having with my dad. The only other occasions I remember being with him were when the whole family went out to the fields to harvest corn. Those were good times. I remember us riding the truck to the fields, carrying big bags of corn on our shoulders, and having a great time standing on top of a corn mountain on the ride back home.
As a young boy, in the early years of my life in Cameroon, my existence—from dinner to prayers to school to play—was demanding and tough, if not outright dangerous. But even with all that, my childhood in Cameroon was still nice enough for me to remember having some (really) great times.
Schoolhouse in Ndop, Cameroon.
Inside the Muenyi home (2013), unchanged since My departure in 2002.
CHAPTER 3:
The Honeymoon is Over.
“Success should never be something you will ‘try’ to achieve. Success is not an option.
Success is the only way of life. Otherwise, by definition, you will have failed.”
The years passed. By the time I turned eight the world seemed to suddenly make a turn for the worse. The happy times I had been enjoying came to a screeching halt; the emptiness left me feeling all was lost; the loneliness pushed me to the brink of ending my own life.
My mother’s cancer was worsening. She had to constantly leave me behind in order to seek treatment at the capital. Knowing what I know now, I can say with confidence that the hospital system in Cameroon had at that time some very old and obsolete pieces of medical machinery (I’m pretty sure they were using a Roll-a-dex instead of computer databases to store patients’ information). Those outdated facilities weren’t able to treat my mom adequately – they were actually burning her skin with every treatment! – and she had to figure something else out. My dad, who by that time was no longer Mayor, was still incredibly busy with various types of business that came his way. Prior to being mayor, my father ran a contracting business and a beverage business; as Mayor, he’d secured deals to build things the government wanted; after he left office, he continued to have orders coming in through his beverage company, contracts from the government to build schools around the country, and there were, of course, the other children of the household needing to be taken care of. I barely remember seeing my dad until nighttime, when I finally made it to bed and crawled in next to him to sleep. My full-blooded siblings—two older brothers, Valery (Val) and Francis, and my sister, Sylvie—were all in high school or college, which meant they left home every year to be educated. (Francis would actually end up going to America two years before Val, Sylvie, and I). Essentially, I lived in a home with twenty or more people who weren’t direct family members; they were either half-siblings or cousins, but all older than me. I didn’t connect with them, didn’t feel like family to them, and the feeling was mutual. The two times I remember spending with the kids in my family ended up in tragedy.
In one instance, Cousin Njohmuta and I were climbing a hill, looking for special fruits to eat. Not knowing I had really bad balance, he shoved me. I tumbled down the hill for quite a distance before a boulder met me in my face and stopped my decent. Needless to say, I lost a few teeth.
Another occasion left me with permanent mark. When I was five, I was hanging out w
ith my cousin, Brutus (who always enjoyed tormenting me), when he told me that burning my forehead with a hot iron would give me magical powers. Even when he said, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing,” I should have taken precautions: Brutus had burned his own house down by leaving the room with a lit candle next to his bed.
In short, my extended family weren’t the most fun people to hang around. And my immediate family was simply not physically available, even though I know now that it wasn’t their fault for leaving me behind: my mother needed her treatments, my siblings needed to seek out an education for themselves, and my father had to make money to feed all the mouths in his house.
In spite of my familial issues, I was lucky to have two very close friends—twin brothers—who always had my back. They were always available to hang out with me or play our (usually dangerous) games; they always watched out for me when girls poked fun at me or did something mean, like pouring water inside my new shoes. These guys were even there with me when we ditched school during our lunch break to go steal fruit to eat, escapades which typically ended in us being chased by bees and someone having to distract the bees while the rest of us (usually not me because I was so slow) got away. They were the guys I would consider “bros” today, and, quite frankly, they essentially were my brothers. And for a while things were great. Me and my brothers would play and hang out and get into trouble together, just like real brothers did.
Then one day it all changed.
I would usually find them after school or during lunch. We would sit, talk, laugh, and plan out any antics for the day. But one unforgettable day they weren’t around. I thought maybe their parents had gone out of town unexpectedly, taking my friends with them. I assumed they would be back within a week. I waited patiently, lonely, feeling abandoned but with the knowledge that I would be reunited with my brothers soon. That knowledge gave me comfort.
As the next week came and then went, they still hadn’t returned. I went to their house looking for them. Their family still wasn’t there. I said to myself they were on an extra-long trip. I waited some more. Two weeks. Three weeks. After a month had passed, I finally figured out where my brothers had gone… and why.
My two friends had both unexplainably and unexpectedly passed away; their father, who had become like a father-figure to me, had hidden himself away, grieving; he didn’t have the heart to tell me. The news broke me. My two best friends, two guys who had made my life worth living, were gone. They had died from a mysterious cause no one could figure out. ‘Why had God been so cruel to them?’ I thought. ‘So cruel to me?’
A million explanations flew through my mind. I thought maybe they had contracted AIDS or had perhaps contracted some unexplainable sickness like it and died from it. While I was thinking about what kind of sickness could have stolen them from me, everyone else was thinking their father had given them up to the Meyoungo (American’s call them the Illuminati; they are people who claim to possess special enlightenment or knowledge). “He’s in Meyoungo” was a widely-used statement to justify why something unexpected and sudden might happen to a person’s loved ones. In Cameroon and Nigeria, Meyoungo are very commonly accused to when there is suspicion of the Devil’s work being involved in a tragedy. People are known to worship the Devil through the Meyoungo practice, thereby gaining wealth and so-called “happiness”. In Cameroon, to be allowed to join this secret society most people have to give up something they care dearly for, typically requiring the sacrifice of one’s children or spouse.
Regardless of the cause or whether or not the Meyoungo were involved, the fact remained that my two brothers were not with me anymore, and it was killing me inside.
Days came and went. I became incredibly depressed. As time went by my mom was all I really had to cling to, but even those moments were fleeting and few, as she was often absent for medical reasons. Though she was a busy woman, when I needed her she would make the time to take care of me. Even though she had to work hard to pay her medical bills she made sure to be there in the morning to make me breakfast before I went to school. That was enough to help me get through the days. Months after my friends died, I felt life was stabilizing and things weren’t going to get worse. After all, how could they?
Mom woke me early one morning to tell me she had to go away to get her treatment. She told me she would be back in two weeks. I thought nothing of it, as she usually went away for days at a time, but little did I know she was leaving me for an indefinite length of time. The morning she woke me, I was in a sleepy fog. I had barely opened my eyes when I was saying goodbye to her, not knowing I wouldn’t see her again for over a year and that her foggy shape that morning would be the last time I would see her in Africa. Had I known, I might have put in more effort in the farewell. But, also had I known, she might not have been able to pull herself away from me, her crying and brokenhearted little boy.
Two weeks went by and still she had not returned home. But, I was my usual patient and hopeful self, oblivious to the reality of her departure. I thought maybe her treatment was just taking a little longer than expected. A month later my mother called my dad’s cell phone. She wanted to talk to me, to say ‘hi’. I remember that conversation like it was yesterday. I sat there listening to my mother’s voice on the phone; when she talked to me all I wanted to know was when she was coming home. She knew she was all I had in that place, and it was not my home without her or my brothers and sisters. I waited, hoping for an “I’m on my way back today.” But, I didn’t get anything like that.
She told me she was in America; that she was not coming back to live in Cameroon. She said she had had to go there to get better treatments for her cancer.
I broke. My mother was not in my life anymore. My two best friends were gone. My brothers and sisters were away getting an education they hated. Who did I have left? My dad was there but he was not enough. I barely knew him. My dad, to me, was too busy to notice me. He was rarely home in the afternoons when I returned from school and I don’t remember if he was there in the mornings to say goodbye to me. When the family did spend time with him it wasn’t for very long and didn’t involve much conversation. He and I never really connected and I cannot say that our relationship has improved at all as I’ve grown. My single, most vivid memory with him was when we went to the supermarket to buy something and I saw a toy I really wanted. I had never had a toy of my own—I’d always had to share with any one or more of my step-brothers or step-sisters—so I begged him to buy this one toy for me, promising to keep it forever. He said no, that I did not need it, and proceeded to buy something he probably didn’t need either. The ‘no’ to my small request cut me deep. It angered me. It angered me enough to leave my father’s side and walk home, alone. I went the entire way crying because it seemed like everyone else before me received countless toys, and I, the youngest of all, received nothing.
From that day forward I didn’t ask for things. I made my own toys. I spent hours sitting alone, making toys to play with using clay I took from a stream up the road from my house. I made helicopters, motorcycles, and cars; anything I wanted. These toys were pretty cool. I felt accomplished. I used the toys I’d made and the time spent at the stream as a way to fill the big void I had in my heart. When I was too sad to sit there and make toys, I went on solitary trips up a small mountain nearby.
That small mountain a few blocks away from my house was my typical destination when I needed a moment of silence and a solitary place to myself to think and ponder my life’s purpose. Ascending the hill was scary. Poisonous plants and unrecognizable animals lived there; I didn’t know if they would kill me or not; sometimes I wished they would. The path up the hill became special to me, like family. I knew of the path because the church used to climb to the top of that mountain every year to pray and praise the Lord for our salvation. Using the same path, I went up to that place of worship after school. I would sit there, looking down at the town, watching all the people there and taking in the spectacle I called my homeland. It
was a time of meditation.
As I sat alone my mind began to be overshadowed by very dark thoughts, thoughts that moved me from being depressed to being suicidal. (I’ve never told anyone else about these thoughts that I had up there on that mountain before this.) I’d look down at the town, the people and the countryside, and thought, ‘This is where I was born, this is where I will live, and this is where I will die.’ My life, though short, seemed to have been over in the same exact place where it had begun and, since it seemed to me that everyone who loved me was gone, I might as well not fool myself and spend my remaining few years waiting to die from the more likely causes: AIDS, Meyoungo, sickness, accident, or if I were lucky, old age.
I was about ready to put an end to my life. But something up there saved me, someone knew the when the perfect time would be to call me and give me hope again that everything would be alright.
The hill Wen ascended for church functions, to play, and to ponder life’s meaning.
A dirt road leading up the hill is visible on the lower edge of photo.
The town of Ndop, Cameroon, 2013.
CHAPTER 4:
It’s Okay Now… You’ll Be Fine!
“I will have the most fun possible for the short amount of time
I am here on this planet.”
It was a cold morning in the classroom. Attendance was being taken before we were given our pass or fail grades and sent back home. The teacher called on me. I was shocked to find out I’d failed Class 5. (Reading it in this book is probably the first time my mom will ever hear about it, but: yes, Mom! I failed!) Class 5 is not a very hard class; no one else in my family had ever failed it before.
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