So, Valery and Sylvie were, like suspicious cattle, being pushed and prodded left and right about their coming back into the country. The Customs agents were not in the mood to let them in. Until, that is, we spoke the language they were looking for. A five-minute talk and a quick bribe later, my brother and sister were accepted into the country, safely past the scrutiny of the Customs agents. As a group, we let out a sigh of relief: we were cleared to go home.
Thanks to my sister’s in-law’s political connections, we were picked up at the airport by the town’s mayor to make sure we were safe and nothing [else] went gone wrong. The mayor took us to a house were we had dinner and were able to meet with the country’s most beloved citizen and political leader, Mr. Fru Ndi (or, as everyone in the country knows him, The Chairman) right before he took a quick business trip to Germany. Not only was The Chairman a powerful political figure, but he was also Sylvie’s father-in-law and something like one might imaging a 70-year-old President Barack Obama to be.
As we waited at the dining table, Mr. Fru Ndi came walking in very calmly, laughing as he talked on his phone to someone about how incompetent the country’s president was. He sat down, cracked a few jokes, and proceeded to tell us he would lend his car and driver to us to take us to our home in the village of Ndop. He added in a small warning: he told us to have money ready because everyone would see the car, recognize that it was his, and come to it asking for donations. He told us he was known for his generosity, and we, while riding in his car, needed to be ready to give out money so that the people could buy themselves some necessities. We felt it was the least we could do and prepared ourselves for the onslaught.
That said, we were on our way out the door to Bemenada and then we would drive back home. If you’ve ever driven in Miami, Florida, you know it’s like driving next to people who aren’t quite sure what the rules of the road are. Driving in Cameroon was much worse than that. There was no logic I could muster to explain what was happening on the roadways. Cars were on both the right and left sides, heading towards on-coming traffic; there were no lanes; there were no lights; there were seemingly no rules to the road at all save one: pray to survive. Pray really, really hard.
The six hour drive was one of the scariest rides I have ever been on in my life. The potholes were massive and every one we drove over had me worried that we had either crashed or lost a wheel. After an hour of diligently watching the driver, and appreciating just how good he was at his trade, I was able to settle down enough to pop in some ear buds and listen to music on my iPhone—songs like Wings by Macklemore or some Lupe to relax me—all the way until we arrived in Bamenda around 2:00 AM. Once there, we didn’t waste any time getting to bed.
The night was long, filled with tossing and turning and sounds and smells I was no longer accustomed to. The room was filled with bug and had no air conditioning, making the night uncomfortably hot and humid. But, even after everything, it was better than I expected and I was able to get enough rest to prepare me for the next day.
Home to Ndop.
I woke up at 6:00 AM to the sound of Sylvie talking on my phone. Since I was on roaming service the fees were steep: two dollars per minute and fifteen dollars per megabyte of data. I winced at the thought of the bill. My sister certainly wasn’t doing us any favors or saving us any money. Still, her calls were justified: we were struggling to find where our mom was because she hadn’t called us when we’d arrived and we didn’t have a direct number to reach her.
We sat around the room, waiting. Finally, at two in the afternoon, Mom called and told us to meet her at her best friend’s house in the shopping center nearby.
Going through Bamenda was like a rehash of the previous day: it felt like nothing had changed at all in ten years, simply because nothing truly had changed. (Cameroon is, and will always be—thanks to our dear leadership—stuck in the 1970s.) Our time spent there was quick, but not quick enough. The shopping center could be a scary place if one goes there dressed nicely and in a car full of things brought from America. Some people in Bemenda are well-known thieves who are ready to rob and willing to leave their victims hurt, if the thieving found it necessary.
Nonetheless, our mother met us in Bamenda we were on our way to my hometown of Ndop. I didn’t know how to feel about it. I had been gone for a decade and didn’t exactly remember much about the family I had who were still living there. I knew the trip was going to be a huge test of my long-term memory.
We pulled up to the house with rushes of emotion flowing through us: anxiety, fear, worry, joy, expectation. It was the home in which my father—our father—had raised us and dozens of other kids. While we were welcomed with tears, they weren’t exactly the good kind. Our family members were as conflicted as we were: very happy to see us but also very sad for the circumstances which forced our reunion.
The first person to greet us was my aunt, who was also the mother of one of my best friends. She was crying like nothing I had ever seen before in my life, and she kept saying “God de take Moh from us! (God has taken your dad from us) Oh!”(We speak Pidgin English in my town.)
We walked into the living room. Memories flooded my mind. It was like looking at old photographs, except I was there, and things were real. Nothing had changed. Literally. Almost a decade since I was gone and not even the chairs had moved an inch.
Every one of my family were in the house waiting for us. Even some non-relatives were there: kids (or, older teenagers who used to be kids) from around the neighborhood who said they had been my elementary school friends. As my siblings and I greeted everyone, I noticed a figure sitting on the main couch. It was my father’s first wife, our second mom; we called her ‘Big Mami Regular’. The first thing she said to me was “Wen, I am glad to see you back at home again and very happy to see that you decided to finally start eating food. We have missed you being around here dearly. Welcome home, son.” It was a special moment.
Most people would not be able to understand the concept of growing up in a house where your father had two wives at the same time, but this was normal to me. I really didn’t mind having two moms. Big Mami had always been there for me when my birth mother was busy working or getting the medical treatments she needed. Big Mami loved all of us as if we were her own. My sister was treated exactly like her other daughters; Big Mami even named her Sylvie. (Ironically, my birth mother didn’t name any of her own children, not even me. I was named by a Catholic priest; Wenceslaus is Polish from a king: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Good_King_Wenceslaus.)
After talking to all the family I needed a break. I pulled myself away from the group and went to the back of the house where my cousins and uncles were relaxing. They were quick to say ‘hi’ when they saw me; they made jokes that my head had not gotten any smaller despite the time that had passed since I’d gone to America. They’d made fun of me as a kid for having the biggest head of any child they knew, and for having an oddly shaped head at that. It seemed they remembered the jokes all too clearly. Their joking, though, broke the ice. I laughed along with them. Being home finally started actually feeling more like home.
After the laughter subsided, they all clapped me on the back, saying how happy they were to see me and how I had gotten so big in such a short period of time. I didn’t remind them that it had been a decade.
Mary Ben, one of my cousins, was there, too, but I didn’t remember her. She and I sat and talked. As she told me how much she had missed me, I stared at her, racking my brain, unable to recall anything about her: who she was or why she was important to me. According to her, we had had lots of fun together when we were children. She told me we used to be close and play around the town all the time. A thin blanket of guilt swept over me. I didn’t remember a thing. She asked me about America, if I was having fun there. Before I could even answer her anxiety got the best of her: she asked me what she needed to do to go to America.
“Wen,” she said, nearly begging. “Please take me with you when you leave. I don’t want to
be here anymore. Life in Cameroon is hell and I am tired of it all.”
My blanket of guilt grew heavier. The look in her eyes told me just how serious she was. She was tearful, and I asked her what made her hate Cameroon so much, though I already knew. I hadn’t forgotten the hopelessness I’d experienced as a young boy there in that little town. ”Everything,” she said. She went on to explain how she hated the fact that you had to bribe your way to get anywhere, how you had to rely on everyone to help you, how you’re most likely not going to get anywhere in life even if you are the smartest person in the room, in the town, in the entire country. She was burdened with the same desperation that I’d felt when I was still a boy; the same desperation that had, at times, made me suicidal. I asked her, half joking and trying to make light of the situation, “If going to America is so important to you then how much is your soul worth to you?” I paused to look at her. “Would you give up your soul for a chance to live in America, for a chance to leave Cameroon and everything that involves leaving here?” Obviously, my idea of fun was not hers. I almost cried at her answer. With a serious and sad face, and without hesitating a moment, she said, “Yes. I would do all of that if that means not having to live this life we are condemned to live anymore.”
I said nothing more. I knew she really wanted to come to America, but the reality was very simple: the U.S. Government was already limiting the number of people selected to come from abroad. The saddest thing to me was that the people who needed it the most—the people in Africa—seemed to get the least attention, and the people who were already living a high quality of life—the Europeans—got priority to immigrate to the United States. This meant it was very unlikely that Mary Ben would ever get her wish granted. It depressed me to think about her situation, so I excused myself and walked away from her to ponder it more deeply in private.
As I walked, the sight of my favorite tree—the old mango tree which had fed my father’s household when we didn’t have money to buy groceries—lightened my mood. I recalled conversations with Francis about the unsanitary location of the tree: right near the latrine. We’d often discussed the possibility that the mango tree had pulled in fecal nutrients to grow its fruit and how, in turn, we would eat it. Despite the less than beautiful origins of the tree’s fruit, it was great seeing that old friend again and recalling the memories of when I used to climb it in search of lunch. Now, as I approached it, there were four or five children hiding beneath and on its limbs, trying to get at some mangos. The kids weren’t part of the family, but looked very hungry so I told them that it was fine if they climbed the tree and got whatever fruit they wanted from it. Despite my encouragement they were afraid of being in trouble; the group quickly dismounted and ran away. I watched them go and smiled at the thought that, still and after all this time, this tree was feeding little kids like it had once fed me.
I walked around a bit more. I saw a group of about a dozen young people about my age who said they were all my childhood friends. Now, all this sounded a bit too strange to me. While I could barely remember anything about the first nine years of my life, I did know quite clearly that I wasn’t the kind of kid that had many friends. I’d spent much of my childhood around adults because I never really fit in with my schoolmates; the only friends I had were either family or adults. These people couldn’t possibly be my childhood friends. I decided to inquire in more detail the circumstances of our friendships. One of them responded by saying, “I used to beat you up very well in primary school.” I went wide-eyed, but at least it made sense. They all wanted something from me, now that I was an American, but as a child they were the ones who had made fun of me, bullied me, beat me up, chased me, and all other matter of ill-mannered behavior. That they suddenly decided I was a person worth befriending made me very angry. My initial urge was to get revenge and punch a few of them in the face, but, really, I’m not the vengeful type. Besides, I was there to bury my father and not start more conflicts (or reestablish old ones) with people who didn’t matter to my current existence. So, I played nice: I sat there and answered all their questions and adhered to their requests. They all wanted to know what America was like, what had I brought back for them, how could help I them out once I returned to Minnesota? After these less-than-delightful conversations were through I left them to their own devices. I was tired of all my fake friends and needed some sleep.
I returned to the house. After a little more talking with some family members, my mother, siblings and I were swept away to where we would be staying for the duration of our trip—the Catholic Church Hotel (it was really a convent, but they had rooms for out-of-towners to stay in, so many of the townsfolk called it a hotel). Considering the location, the rooms were nice. We each got our own single bed to sleep on and running (albeit, cold) water to bathe in. It didn’t take us long to wind down and get to bed. There was no doubt in any of our minds that we would need a lot of energy for the next day.
Old mango tree (center), behind the house in Ndop.
Even grown, I still enjoy a good tree climb.
Wearing my fraternity (Sigma Chi) headphones at the airport
Me and the cousin that pushed me down a mountain
This is my home!
Finally realizing my dad is no more.
Fresh Start to a Long Healing Process.
While the previous day had been fun (minus the interrogation by my so-called friends), everything was going as I had imagined it would: busily, anxiously, and somewhat awkwardly. We had fun with family, saw everyone, laughed a lot, and talked about everything and anything under the sun.
While we were still at the hotel getting ready to leave for the day, my mom’s best friend, Mary, showed up. She’d arrived the day before to be a support to Mom and to help in any way she could. As we stood around visiting for a few minutes, Mary told us what people had been gossiping about: according to her, the Muenyi kids returning from America was the hot topic. They—the people around town—were under the impression that we had returned with bags of money, that in America we washed our hands with beer (a major commodity in Africa), and wiped our hands dry with even more cash. Their assumptions came from the fact that we were able to pay for our dad to be kept in the mortuary for over two months; paying for something like that was almost unheard of. While the cost of keeping him in the mortuary was high (even for Americans!), we really had no choice in the matter. It was my dad’s last wish that, when he died, he was not to be buried until all his children returned home to see him. From the time of his passing to the time we could get to Africa, we had to finish the school year, get all our emergency travel documents in order and get the necessary medical shots and clearances. The people in Cameroon simply didn’t understand the process and were jabbering on preconceived notions! Despite how frustrating it was to hear how people were talking about the circumstances, the news also made us worry that some dishonorable individuals would try to break into our hotel rooms and take our things. Needless to say, we locked our belongings up tightly before we left the convent that morning.
As we stepped out into the open air, I mentally prepared myself: it was the day we would be driving to the city to pick up my father. We would be bringing him home to sleep in his house one last night before taking him to his final resting place.
It would be a long day.
Traditions are important in Cameroon. The funeral process is a big deal and my father’s was no exception. Everyone wanted to go and, as a result, a long line of cars awaited us as we exited the hotel.
Once we got in our car, we were off. No time to waste: the trip would take three hours on bumpy, dangerous roadways. It wasn’t enough that our guts were twisted from our emotions alone, but the giant potholes and single-lane, half-finished roads added to our misery.
We stopped only once to say hello to my grandmother (my mother’s mother) and more cousins. They were all at the back of the house, cooking food for us to eat on our return trip from the mortuary. I didn’t recognize any of them; not m
y grandmother or any of my cousins. I just said hi to everyone at the house and went about my business, trying to be polite but also trying to fight the knot in the pit of my stomach. After about ten minutes of visiting we got back in the car and continued on to the mortuary.
When we arrived it was time to get into serious mode, which has always been difficult for me. Everyone had worked themselves up into a torrent of emotion as we pulled up to the building; then, by the time we emerged, we were all very sad and most of us were crying, even some of the men. I shook hands with my dad’s best friend, Mr. Fred, who was standing outside the building, and asked him how he was doing with everything. He and my dad had been friends for many years, before my siblings and I had even been born, and, while I didn’t recognize many of the people I saw on that trip, I had always remembered Mr. Fred: he was the man who was always sitting in front of my house with his sunglasses on pretending to be awake.
After greeting Mr. Fred, we went inside. It was my family’s responsibility to go in to see my dad before anyone else. As we entered, the priest asked me to come in first, ahead of my family, and alone. He pulled me aside and asked if I remembered him. I did not. He said he was my dad’s good friend. He remembered me being around whenever my father had visited him, so he wanted to say hi and give me a picture he had taken of me when I was a child. He went on to tell a story of a particular day when he had come to visit my father.
It was when I was very little. The priest had arrived at our house just in time to see my dad coming back from the farm. My dad walked in, me right behind him, and took off his very smelly work boots. He sat down to talk to the priest. It wasn’t long before they both realized that I had taken my dad’s shoes and put them on. Seeing me tromping around in those oversized shoes made them laugh. He smiled as he told me how I’d admired my father so much, how I had wanted to do everything he did, all the way down to wearing his boots.
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