Contents
About Eric Ngalle
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
If you got this far...
Afterword
With Thanks
Parthian Essays
Parthian New Fiction
Copyright
Eric Ngalle was born in Cameroon. He has travelled widely, including a period living in Russia where he learned Russian while attempting to seek sanctuary. He eventually reached Wales, where he was able to live and work. He studied modern history and popular culture at Cardiff Metropolitan University and obtained a Creative Wales Award from the Arts Council of Wales for his research in migration, memory and trauma. His work has been featured by the BBC and performed at the Hay Literature Festival. He lives in Cardiff and works as a writer and performer.
I, Eric Ngalle
One man’s journey crossing continents from Africa to Europe
Eric Ngalle
For my mother, my daughter and her sisters, this is how I came to be here in Wales.
Prologue
I was not of this earth as I stood – petrol can in one hand and box of matches in the other –and gazed with hatred upon my late father’s house through dead eyes; a darkness in my soul and intent in my heart. The night carried no sound, as though it were holding its breath, and even the moon could not bear to watch and hid behind angry clouds, the likes of which seldom trouble African skies.
I had been rejected and I felt humiliated; this was the day I prayed and wished for death, for the devil had placed his hands deep down my throat and into my stomach, I had been disembowelled, my entrails dropped to the ground and stampeded upon. I knew that people – my people, my kin – lay asleep under that roof but I prepared myself to douse the walls with petrol and strike a match to entice the flames to rear up into a dance of destruction.
I did not care about being seen – whether by any of the villagers or even the ghosts of my ancestors who live on the periphery of this world – for I was certain my soul had died and Satan had flown away with me; I had become the devil himself.
Who dares to make my mother cry? My sisters, my aunts, my uncles? They were all marked. I had placed a curse on them and their household; I had issued them with a fatwa. Now was the time to act.
But as I took a step forward, ready to set the wheels in motion that would carry me to damnation, the soothing voice of my mother reached out through the night, caressed my ears and entered my thoughts. I turned and walked towards home but there were no signs of a new dawn seeping through the darkness – my mother’s words may have halted my actions but my day of reckoning would surely come. I, Eric Ngalle Charles, would have my revenge in this life and not wait for the next.
Chapter 1
Arriving in Russia
I grew up in the village of Wovilla near Small Soppo in the shadow of Mount Cameroon. I had Africa in my blood but on passing my A-levels all I wanted to do was get the hell out of Cameroon—it was the only avenue open to me if I wanted to build myself a better life. With my father gone—along with any inheritance—and my mother being poor, the only way I could make this happen was through state sponsorship or a scholarship to a foreign university.
I had turned to the internet and contacted a Canadian immigration lawyer who said he had links to several universities and could advise on sponsorship and how I could study abroad. I eventually applied to two universities, one in Ontario, Canada, and the other in Bruges, Belgium. The first to offer me a place was the university in Belgium. I was very excited as it offered a way forward following the horror of being robbed of my inheritance and being on the point of committing murder—yet here I was on my way to the land of milk and honey. The university’s offer, which was genuine and offered me a chance to study economics, was the only thing that could have rescued me.
My mother gave me what little money she could spare and I made my way to the capital, Yaoundé and then to Bastos, where all the embassies are situated, to finalise my travel arrangements—and yet to this day I haven’t been to the Belgium Embassy.
Fortunately my sister lived in Yaoundé, so I had somewhere to stay, and the next day I made my way to Bastos and sat in a café where I was to meet an embassy official, or so I was led to believe. All around us people were talking about flying off to study in this university or that university in places around the world—I didn’t realise at the time but this was all part of a plan to lure me in.
The embassy official took my passport and the small amount of money that I had managed to scrape together and disappeared telling me someone would be in touch soon. The next contact I had was with a different ‘embassy official’—he was so horrible he even came to where I was staying and dated my sister. I had fallen into the hands of human traffickers and once your passport is in their hands, that’s it. They start requesting money for this and money for that—what should have cost only £50 ends up costing you around £1,000.
I eventually ended up with a visa, which they told me would allow me to travel to Malta, from where I would be issued with a transit visa to go to Bruges. My mother, my sisters, my nieces and nephews were all at the airport to wave me off. Everyone was so proud and so happy—I was embarking on my hopes and dreams. When we touched down in Malta I disembarked from the aeroplane and waited in line for a connecting flight to Belgium. But when it was my turn and I handed over my passport and visa the guy looked at it and laughed saying, ‘I’m sorry, but this is a one-way student visa to Russia.’
I had little choice but to swap lines and board the flight to Russia. There was no way I could ask the plane to take me back to Cameroon, I had to finish the journey. I thought that there must have been some error and that I could sort it out once I had arrived in Moscow. I was very naïve. I arrived at Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow on May 1, 1997, six months shy of my eighteenth birthday. When the immigration officer asked my name in perfect English, I could not speak, my lips were frozen. I had never felt such cold in my entire life. My hand shook as I held out my passport. She must have laughed inside as she stamped my passport with a wry smile and said, ‘Welcome to Russia,’ in her mother tongue. The gates were opened and I entered Russia for the first time. What went through my mind was I was here in Russia but my mother and my family did not know where I was—they thought I was on my way to Bruges. I wasn’t scared at that point, just shocked—I had swapped the frying pan for the fire. I never really got angry with the people who had done this to me for, at that time, I was still processing the venom I had inside for what my father’s family had done to me—if death had embraced me in Russia, I would have accepted it without grumbling.
The biggest shock I had was that I was surrounded by black people – I had expected Russia to be full of white folks. What I didn’t realise at the time was that we were all victims of human traffickers. In the arrivals hall I was met by a welcoming committee of thin-looking black men and women, with red eyes, like something out of a British Red Cross pamphlet, all waiting for their prey. It was easy. Most of the people at the airport were lost or stranded and presented easy pickings when it came to scamming money. The new arrivals had money and needed to be amongst people they knew. You would be approached, lied to and taken somewhere on the outs
kirts of Moscow. When your money was finished, you would be left to your own devices, abandoned. If the Russian skinheads didn’t finish you off, the severe Russian weather would.
Among the parasites you could see the well-dressed puppet masters, the human trafficking barons, surveying the unfolding tragedy of dashed hopes and ruined lives.
I just stood in the midst of it all and tried to take in my predicament. ‘Where do I begin? Where do I go? Where are the gods of my ancestors? Why has such a curse been placed upon my young shoulders?’
Looking at the problem today, governments are doing things to tackle the situation but it is worse now and in countries such as Cameroon people are still victims—people still want to leave their country and if someone knows that, then you are easy prey for human traffickers—more so if you are a woman. The only solution is to have an economic balance in the world, otherwise everybody is leaving and there are too many channels to be exploited. Like in Russia.
Sheremetyevo International Airport, located around eighteen miles north west of Moscow, was a long way from home and a scary place; not least to someone who had expected to find themselves entering Belgium. The various universities had arranged for their students to be picked up but I did not recognise anyone. Not a single soul. As I was getting lost in my thoughts, a well-dressed man approached me and introduced himself as Diamond.
‘How much money have you got?’ he asked.
‘Money?’ I thought to myself.
I reached into my pocket and brought out 3,000 CFA francs, the equivalent of three US dollars. He looked at me and said, ‘Why are you carrying francs? It’s of no use to you here, you need dollars.’ He took the money from my hand and walked off towards another group of students. I later realised that we were being screened into the haves and the have-nots. The only thing that saved me was that from the very first day they realised that I was broke. I was useless. If I had been a woman, I would have been put to many uses.
I reached into my bag; my mother had prepared some of my favourite food, corn cookies and egusi pudding, but they were frozen solid, inedible. I felt like crying. I looked around – the sky was unfamiliar, the cold was biting into my bones and I could not see the earth’s horizon. A shadow of despair began to descend but fortunately—or so I thought at that point—Diamond came back and said I could jump on the bus with them to central Moscow. However, he added quickly, from central Moscow, I would be on my own and should start making alternative travel arrangements.
Around half an hour later I found myself in the capital city of one of the last countries on this earth that I would wish to settle in. One of the first things I noticed was that all the pedestrians were walking so fast. Central Moscow was even colder than the airport, my small jacket and blue jeans, which were only suitable for the Cameroonian summer, had been eaten up by the cold. I felt like I was inside a freezer, it was torture. Even the little rays of sun that pierced through the skies felt cold. I thought of my mother and wondered what she would say if she knew where I was at that point in time—at the airport in Douala, she’d taken my hands into hers and, one by one, she gave each of my fingers a gentle bite. In doing so, she begged for both God and my ancestors to guide my path and return me home safely.
I was awoken from my reflections by the student liaison officer who was sent by Stavropol State University to meet Diamond. She was shouting at prospective students to hand their passports over to her so she could get their train tickets. As I wondered what I should do, Diamond approached and, despite previously warning me I would be one my own, offered to help me. I later realised it was all part of his elaborate scam. He told me the price of the ticket was twenty-five dollars and that he was going to get my ticket for me, however, as soon as I received my money from Cameroon, I was to reimburse the money back to his girlfriend, Agatha, who was also at the airport with us.
The old chestnut about ‘money coming from home’ was often one that I used, it got me out of a lot of problems but like many of my schemes, it eventually died an unnatural death. People’s patience ran thin, others wanted advanced payment, and, of course, the money never came. However, with a promissory note to Diamond, I was allocated a space on the train with the other students and found myself headed for Stavropol.
Chapter 2
The train journey to Stavropol took four days, during which I made friends with a fellow Cameroonian called Rico, who told me his younger brother was already in Stavropol and was expecting him. Each time we stopped, old ladies would climb onto the train to sell food, which brought memories of similar such practice back home when Cameroon traders would jump on and sell everything from road kills to alligator eggs. Fortunately Rico made sure I had something to eat; we became good friends and the last I heard he was in Germany whilst his brother is now in France.
As the train lumbered along, I looked through the window at the snow, which, while starting to disappear, hung on in huge quantities on rooftops; it was the first time I had seen snow. My mind drifted to my brother who was a star history student and used to organise private classes for my friends. I would hear him talk at length about the Eastern Front, during the Second World War, and how the hostility of the Russian weather had crippled the German advances during operation Barbarossa. In my mind’s eye I saw soldiers whose boots had been turned rotten by the snow; I saw starving faces and people eating dead horses; I saw women being raped; I saw soldiers whose legs had been eaten up by the snow.
‘What was I doing in Russia?’ I asked myself. ‘Where was I going?’
*
I grew up in a small compound in the village of Wovilla, in the township of Buea, just under the foot of Mount Fako (Mount Cameroon). The British Ambassador to Uzbekistan Craig Murray, in his book The Orangemen of the Congo, describes Cameroon as God’s Gift to mankind—and he is correct, it’s a beautiful country.
I am one of six children, well five children as one of my sisters died in the early part of 2000. Apart from my youngest sister, Queenta, whose father I met and knew, the rest of us were born either because of a one-night-stand or an illicit relationship my mother had with a married man. My mother tells me she loved my father.
My mother was the first of many children fathered by my grandfather, Mosre Mo Ngwa Kange (translated as the Dog of Dawn Kange) and was born out of wedlock. My grandfather proceeded to marry two other wives and fathered plenty of children. His compound was vast and he made his wealth working for the Colonial regime. He spent many years in Nigeria hence my mother is fluent in most Nigerian languages.
Until the last two months prior to my leaving Cameroon, my brother and I were not at all close. In fact, our relationship was so bad that he arranged for two of his friends to mug me. One evening, while walking home from town in darkness, I was grabbed by the legs and hands and my brother proceeded to beat me up mercilessly. The one thing that saved me was the fact that at the time I was large and carried a lot of weight, so difficult to contain, and my loud screams woke up many neighbours. In the confusion I managed to escape their clutches and ran off around the back of some houses, over a bridge and into my mother’s house. My brother never came home that night.
The incident was reported to Chief Ben Morake and as punishment my brother and his cronies were ordered to buy three crates of alcohol for the village chiefs and were made to apologise to the whole village for their misdemeanours. You may think they got off lightly but I dished out some punishment of my own. A couple of days after the chiefs had enjoyed themselves with the gifts of repentance from my brother and his gang, using a catapult, I almost took out my brother’s left eye. As if that was not enough, a couple of weeks later, I stabbed my brother’s left arm with a fork.
*
‘Wake up Eric!’ Rico’s voice brought me back from my reminiscences. The train had stopped in a small village and Agatha was giving the students a run down on Russian history. I could only understand one or two words, as her accent was very strong. Agatha looked like a man. She was of medium build with
cropped hair and appeared to have no breasts, unless they were compressed beneath her clothes. She looked permanently angry and her demeanour reminded me of a strict nun.
There was a divide amongst the students travelling to Stavropol; the majority were not Cameroonians but Ibo Nigerians who had obtained Cameroonian passports through the black market. They were the ones fuelling this trade in human trafficking. Many of these Nigerians had ended up in a part of Cameroon called Kumba having been brought there as children and made to toil for a master day and night. In learning their trades, some of these guys became serious scammers and indulged in all kinds of illicit activities. In fact, my sister’s husband fell prey to one such scammer. You see, he wanted a Suzuki motorcycle to be bought and transferred from Nigeria. Unfortunately he trusted and handed his hard-earned income to one of these Ibo boys. The guy took the money and was never seen again. The irony is that my brother-in-law was a seasoned customs officer in charge of stopping these cross-border activities between Cameroon and Nigeria. We later laughed about this incident but he was very sore when he realised he’d been scammed.
Yes, factions were showing amongst the travellers on the train. The English the Ibo guys spoke was so broken we could hardly understand them. The divide was amplified when the Ibo Nigerians decided to only speak in their Ibo language. I could understand a few things as my mother speaks fluent Ibo, along with Ibibio and Yoruba. As the train edged along at the pace of a snail, I was lost once more in my reverie.
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