Ilongo Fritz

State of Magic

Ilongo Fritz Ngale

Not yet day when the night is not over
Not night yet but the day is about to cover
The holy couple to consecration shrine moves.
The groom staggers in on animals noisy
Come the bride,rains of night fall on soil formless
The bridegroom mourning with containers empty
The chasm unbridgeable separating morning from night.
At dawn and twilight fusion the mediator appears
Criss-crossing currents of light fusing all in intermediate delight
Alms begging lost in palms replenishing.
The couple as one awake dreaming and dream waking
Sunrise and set freezing on horizontal arms
Forming wings for conscious flight.
In the intermediate state of power, east and west are welded in the glow
of love's blow-torch
Fight is now over
The reversed face of duality is exiled forever.

Scar Face Legacy

Ilongo Fritz Ngale

From the island of oppression
Many seek the route to exile
Drowning in the transition
As victims of waves merciless
Elemental guardians implacable
Holding the key to doom
And opening the way to freedom.
The multi-faced goddess despises the spineless
Burying some adventurers in watery grave
Searing soul and body of victors
With seal of survivors
Later becoming pilgrims on paths of saints or stained.
Betrayal is the hymn of pseudo-knights
Warriors of the night
Teaching the code of man eating man
Rendering extinct virtues of mankind
In the shattering anti-climax of woe
Dashing usurping kings to violent doom
Peace-less epitaph of scarface legacy.

JACKY THE GOLDEN FLOWER

Little one so frail,
With a spirit so fair,
Joy of some, envied by others
Come to make a mark on earth at times so cold
With sparks of genius that know not age,
For the golden flower blossoms early
As Jacky did.

THE MOUNTAIN WEEPS

The mourning seems to have no end
As the morning star of joy seems to have fled,
For the mountain bleeds
Its flanks red with blood
Which copiously flows through the pores of its kids,
Poor souls taken off into tragedy lane
Slain before their times

Book Review: The Four Pillars of Time by Ilongo Fritz Ngale

Reviewed by Athanasius Ako Ayuk, PhD - Lecturer, ENS, University of Yaounde 1

Mr. Ilongo's novel, The Four Pillars of Time, has come as a welcome addition to the burgeoning Anglophone Cameroonian writing landscape. Anglophone Cameroon writing has grown significantly over the past two decades. Over this time, it has developed in its vision of human experience in general and the state of Cameroon in particular. In its attempt to capture and render socio-political convulsions of the state, it has shown its capacity to develop in technique and grow in theme. It is precisely in this regard that Ilongo's novel is a significant addition to this growing literary tradition.

Fritz Ilongo's “The Four Pillars of Time” Launched in Buea

By Solomon Amabo (In EDEN, Wednesday 31-Monday 05,June 2006 pg.5)

The Four Pillars of Time, a novel by the Cameroonian born IIongo Fritz Ngale was on May 19, launched at the Sullivan Hall , OIC, Buea.

The literary critic, poet and playwright, Dr Bate Besong, BB, praised the author for “constructing an intellectual arsenal for the liberation of the country and the decolonization of the mind ”. He pointed out that IIongo Fritz Ngale’s “anti-hero King Lak is a pastmaster at the art of discovering the most ingenious methods of torture and brutality ,unleashing a reign of terror and suffering on the innocent people of Suna”.

Official Launching of "The Four Pillars of Time" in Pictures

Ilongo Fritz's The Four Pillars of Time was officially launched in Yaounde, at the in the amphitheatre of the Higher Teachers' Training College on 5 May 2006.

Sitted from left to right: Ilongo Fritz, Dr Athanasius Ako (book reviewer),Prof.Mbua Ngeve, Dr Njikong Stephen (Representative of the book's chief launcher,Mola Meoto Paul Njie), and Prof. Nkwi (book reviewer)

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THE NEW LIBERIA

The essence is freedom
But the torn pieces have cried out for so long in pain,
Victims of brutal warlords
Lording it over bodies and souls
Deaf to the word of love
Dealing out death blows
That nearly killed the glow of life
Making all to believe it was nearly over
The worst in the masses was invoked,
The dark face merciless
Became the bloodthirsty god
Amputating bodies and minds
Into hideous relics of the age of terror,
Page of the beast
Written in thick blood
Ink of the dark brood.
Conscience was nearly slain
In the school rooms grooming killers
Causing healers to flee
Leaving vacuum in which the blood bath raged,
Unleashing agents of doom
Casting aura of woe over country so fair
Overrun by lawless hordes
Sending underground the river of light
For above, all was blighted
In the game of ruthless ethos merciless.
At long last, even the gory impulse gets to anti climax
Jerking and twisting in its dying throes
Last kicks of the devil's dance
Creating pauses that give a chance to peace,
Permitting the exiled pieces to come together
To fast out the killing impetus
And resume the healing song,
Tilling the stone hard hearts
To unearth the golden dawn of love,
Only ray on which the new day can appear,
For Liberia to write a glittering page in world history,
Following stories of hairraising bestiality.

Millenium Anti-Christmas

Bright was the star over Bethlehem,
Spiritual sun of hope for all ages
Intending to burn off all dross of ignorance and apathy
And pave the way for the golden age
When all will be radiant stars
Irradiating the message of peace and abundant life,
Fruits of incandescent hearts pacified
Minds and wills renewed with invincible vitality
All singing the chorus
Heralding the advent of the kingdom eternal.
Very quickly the dark ones sought a subterfuge
To veil this greatest of mysteries
Usurping the day of salvation
With the twilight of speculations
Overturning the boat of faith
Into the raging seas of tossing fears and doubts.
The masters of cutting and pasting project interminable scenarios
To disorient the masses
Now no longer looking to the blazing orient
But dancing to the distracting verses of endless controversies
Of those versed with intrigue songs.
Soon the bright light
And the even brighter spirit cosmic
Were veiled by clouds of the eclipsing night
As all held hostage within the latter
Fought and fight for survival in the shadows,
The dawn for revival now a myth
The spiritual rebirth disdained
As each faces the materialistic jungle
Chewing one another
And chewed up by burning anxieties and paralysing stress,
The manger replaced by mangy hearts full of hatred and fear,
The lowly animals transformed into unbridled passions,
The pure Mary and Joseph defaced by dark passions and even darker thoughts,
The host of holy angels overshadowed by tight lipped,poker face, ruthless bankers,
The cosmic feast becoming a compulsive orgy of despair
Fit only for the beast
Once the best was lost to the eyes of souls
For long veiled by lies of ghouls.

SACRED SILENCE

To the centre I have come
Where going in and going out are one
Meeting at the point where they are inseparable
Mysterious vacuum without duality
Sacred altar of beginningless eternity
And irradiating infinity,
The one vibrating to power unassuming
Invincible void egoless.
Work is finally at rest
And rest is totally at work
In the constantly alternating frequencies
Now in perfect communion
Breaking the bounds of the linear discontinuity
In the river of complementing unity,
Taking the mind out of impasse grooves
To the groves of instant release
Letting go the twin horns
And their harassing thorns
To swim free in the middle flow
That glows with victory's might
As the double seasons fuse into the one hymn
Chiming the hour of the rhythms coupled
At peace now forever.

SLAYING THE DRAGON

Lower octave of being
Part of the total body
Container of the frightful back
Guardian to wholeness through face to face fusion
Threatening and tempting all towards the journey
Cursing and flaying the sleeping rebels.

The adventures of the self all this is
Venturing to bridge the gaps of illusory shelves
In breathtaking courtship reuniting halves.

All hold a fragment of the garment
Lamenting over the torment of loss
Weeping and bleeding in the mourning night
Awaiting the hero
To sacrifice the bite of Eros
And rise on the winged steed of transformed libido
Freezing at last the blighting terror
Alighting on the isle of might
Gateway to city of light
Prize above all worlds
Wonder beyond words.

Ilongo Fritz: The other Dimension

My other passion, apart from literature, is martial arts. I am the holder of a Black Belt, 4th, degree in Nanbudo, a Japanese martial art that aims at creating and maintaining psychophysical harmony in its adepts... I am one of the national trainers in this discipline and I have participated in two world championships, the first in Spain, Playa De Aro in 1991, and the second in Paris, Bagneux, in 1996, during which I won a gold medal in combat... Incidentally I was captain of the Cameroon national team...

I have won countless national tournaments in combat (Ju Randori) and in free forms (katas).

I will be posting pictures and updates about my martial arts activities in this section which I will call "Tatami". The Tatami is historically a woven straw mat used as flooring in traditional and modern Japanese-style homes. In martial arts, it refers to the contest mat usually measuring three by six feet and three inches thick, on which Katas and Kumites (sparring exercises) are executed. This will be my online Tatami.

Welcome my virtual Dojo (literally "place of the Way" or "place of enlightenment" - a training hall or gymnasium where Japanese martial arts are practiced).

Herald of 2005

From the throne of grace
Comes the bird of peace
Born of the fiery presence
Borne on waves of the healing essence
Herald of the new dawn
On earth worn out with strife.

The shadows of the new year
Un-fold in golden hues of hope
As dues long saved
Start manifesting in events miraculous
Releasing arrears of joy
In countless opportunities materialising.

CHRISTMAS MOURNING

In latitudes freezing and burning
The Holy One and His Army look in on two stages
Upon which are acted dramas divorced from the Mystery
of the Holy Birth.

In frenzied moods the crowds shiver
In anticipation of the meat and wine orgies
Gourging out the seed of peace
From the heart of December
In the heat of brewing passions screaming to a keening crescendo.

THE NEW WOMAN

A mutant she will be
Transcending the sweat and saliva stained slopes
Of tradition versus modernity dilemmas.
Her left hand gathers humanity
The virtue of humility watering group consciousness
With impulse of self sacrifice and service to all.
Her right hand absorbs and projects
Rays of peace and light in ascending spirals
Beyond the horizontal axis.
Her eyes are focused on the stars,
Illumined orbs of universal reason
And hope of mankind.
Low to the ground she is
Striding across the skies
Like the true cross
All axes in her perfectly balanced.
Her purpose to maintain peace among all is
Pouring out ceaseless creative currents
Slaying the serpents of limitation and relativity
With the sword of intuition and illumined action.
Her heart with humanity is
Her head to God is devoted
Her sacred motto reading:
“Transcendence in togetherness
Peace in creativity.”

HEROES OF THE NIGHT

In the throes of the raging storm
Come the knights of might
Clamouring for the right of Eros
The prancing steeds thrashing about
Planting seeds indiscriminately among the weeds.
In bands without leaders
The dealers scour the wide bride-less aisles
Heeding the call of the wild
Bleeding off vitality profusely.
Soon cometh the blighting winds of exhaustion
The bite of the comet revealing dispersion wound
Initiating the downhill stride
Rumbling rocks of excesses
Preceding the anti-climax spin.
Soon the valley bottom is attained
Detaining the ramblers in the noose of feedback tally.
By dawn all are torn and worn
For medals, all exhibiting the deep furrows of sorrows
Borrowing the scarred faces of pseudo-philosophers
Revealing the fatal pace of drained revellers.

Ilongo Fritz in Brief

I am ILONGO FRITZ NGALE, a Bakwerian from Meveo village in the Buea Sub-Division of the South West Province of Cameroon. I was born in Tiko, on the 9th of May 1963. I am holder of a Master’s degree in Educational Psychology, and currently double as Guidance Counsellor and Chief of service for General Administration and Personnel in the Faculty of Science in the University of Buea. My real passion though, is creative writing in all its forms, ie prose, poetry, drama, short stories and quotable quotes.

The Lost Heritage

By Ilongo Fritz Ngale

Doctor Langa sat scanning the latest results of the laboratory tests he had asked to be done by Pa Ngebodi, the sixty five year old man sitting expectantly infront of his small table, at the local health center of Bolinga. The old man looked unkempt, with an unshaven chin, pockmarked with a week’s old pepper and salt beard. Even as Pa Njebodi nervously chewed on his lips, the doctor was regularly hit by copious blasts of the days old raw gin stench that his client irradiated. After a thorough examination of the papers before him, the doctor looked up at long last, and in a professional voice said: “Pa, I thought I told you some six months ago to stop drinking “afofo” the local raw gin?”

Beauty and the Beast

by Ilongo Fritz Ngale

At 1am on a very wet july morning, Pa Gana was the last client to leave the boisterous “Tonton bar” in the red light district of “Quartier Malabar.” Staggering drunkenly, he miraculously zigzagged his way through the overflowing drainage conduits, splashing indifferently across mud puddles. At the beginning of Nkane Street, women of all ages, shapes and sizes huddled under shabby umbrellas, waylaying the late passerby: “Darling share my bed. It is very cold outside.” “I can make you really happy.” “I have a warm bath waiting.” “Don’t you remember me?” Under his stinking breath, Pa Gana was saying: “Get lost. I want only Adidja. Can’t you leave me alone?” The withering looks the ladies gave him in the dark could have frozen a river, but the old man was past caring.

Mind Control Saga

By Ilongo Fritz Ngale

During the last day of his campaign as Mayor of the Ebola Rural Council, Efite Ngolo scheduled a meeting with recalcitrant party militants of Camp II who had vowed to vote for the opposition, following their vehement accusations that he had done nothing for the municipality during his first term in office. Addressing himself to Tonga, head of his compaign team, Efite was saying: “If we do not win in Camp II my political career is finished.” “Take it easy lord Mayor. We are still on course. It takes very little to bring the rabble to its knees.” “Why don’t we send bags of rice and cheap red wine to them before the meeting day proper?” Suggested the anxious Ngolo Efite. “No, no my lord Mayor. This time around we have to go beyond simple stomach filling. We have to step up the pressure from a new angle.” “Tell me about that. You know I will do anything to run for this second term.” “We have to carry out mind control on those rebels.” “How is that?” “Through hypnotism.”

Asuagbor The Death Monger

By Fritz Ngale Ilongo

On friday evening Mrs Asuagbor was saying to her husband: “I was thinking that we should pay a visit to your brother’s wife who has just put to bed twins at the Catholic Mission Clinic.” “Forget about that. Since mother and children are doing fine, they neither need our financial assistance nor our presence. Going there will be a waste of time. You are forgetting that we have to attend four wake keep ceremonies today. Boy O boy, how happy I am to attend so many funerals.”

Picture

The Voice of The Universes (Precepts/Quotable Quotes)

By Ilongo Fritz Ngale

1.
The real challenge is doing what is right as against doing what is normal;
What is right is evident to the light of consciousness whilst the normal are stereotyped rituals sanctioned by tradition; But then the wise gain liberation through right action whilst the foolish obtain entanglement through normal actions.

2.
When a man detaches himself from God, the sand in his hourglass starts running out.

3.
Once a man holds onto the world he automatically drops the precious key to his spiritual freedom.

Les ailes de la sagesse(quotable quotes)

PAR ILONGO FRITZ NGALE

1.
La morale ne consiste pas en des préceptes, mais en une connaissance exacte des proportions nécessaires pour déclencher la lumière de la vie à travers toute situation.

2.
Le feu, l’épreuve suprême ne vient que pour tester où en est la conscience, soit au niveau de la forme du mouvement, et elle subira la perte de tout, soit au niveau du mouvement de la forme, et elle sera sauvée.

3.
Nul, rien n’est mauvais en soi, car il suffit de savoir tout reorienter pour que l’énergie emprisonnée retourne à son unite primordiale, libérant tout et tous.

Contact Info

My contact address is:

ILONGO FRITZ NGALE
P.O. BOX 92
BUEA
SOUTH WEST PROVINCE
CAMEROON

Shattered Continent

In union the first communion brought us to the land of no thirst.
Sprays of bliss were our watery blanket
Cooling all ardour of the salty betrayal.
The irridescent reflecting sun rays ignited our hearts' hearths to the heatless flames without passion
Highlighting the untold heights of ecstasy minus the debts of extenuation.
Suddenly though,the torrential undercurrents cut off the extremities of joy
Exposing the toy of our human attainment
Daring to glorify love in the arms of fragile detention
Lasting only for a hair's breadth on the bread of fast diminishing time and space.
Our only error being the terror of the separative circuit
Embracing none beyond ourselves.
We failed the test of universal love
The only crest without a heart wrenching trough.
In the inevitable backwash of the raging storms of condemnation
Our feeble hands part company
As on separate icebergs we float apart
even as we doubted the call to integrate all.

Fingers of Dawn - A Snapshot

Fingers of Dawn is a poetry collection that deals with pain, agony despair, and hope

"The Rebirth": Is the process of transformation of man from a creature thrashing in despair, into a spiritualised being caught up in the ethos of liberation. It is the second birth of mankind.

"Heroes Of The Night": An existence that burns off the candle of life from both ends, a frenetic fast lane agitation that ends up in burn-out, physical and psychological exhaustion.

DESPISED GENIUS

Despite their golden heritage
They  shuffle down desperate halls
Hemmed in by the dark effluvia of despair
The stem of their priceless lotus germinating all the same
Flowering above the mud of mediocrity.
The overcast skies of envy veil their radiance
Causing the budding sun to cower in misery
Demystifying the mystery of inspiration
Through rising tides of desperation.

THE REBIRTH

Whipped to the edge of desperation
Man goes to the edge of himself

Standing uncertain at the brink of sanity

Beseeching an unknown saviour in the dark stormy clouds

Veiling unseen sun

Behind ceaseless gusts of winds menacing.

L'Aube du Printemps: An Introduction

L'Aube du Printemps is a sample from my collection of poems in French. This collection deals with themes as diverse as despair, extremism, and virtue:

"Le Destin": Highlights the necessity to break away from the thrall and deluding cocoon of dead-end unfulfilling situations, and the courage to seek the materialisation of one’s true destiny.

"Le Fanatisme": Seeks to highlight the dangers of extremism in all its forms, especially its attitude of uncompromising self-justification.

LE TALENT RANÇONNE

La mine à fleur de peau
Coulant dans toutes les contrées
Vagues aux reflets infiniment ondoyants marquant le courant toujours présent.
Les points de jaillissement sont des jonctions d’affaissement
Coins d’accélération des rebelles.
Plus contré il est dans la contrée, plus les contes jaillissent de partout pour célébrer sa victoire sur les machoires de la mine des pleurs.
L’éruption de la mine génère une montagne d’espoir tantôt vite spoliée par les médiateurs rideau
Rendant fardeau le cadeau.
Devenant caduque le talent redevient latence au cœur du désespoir.
La fleur de joie en proie aux rois sans lois s’eloigne en laissant derrière elle le parfum de la tristesse                     Seul temoin de son passage évanescent.
Les pleurs et misères en chœurs obsédants s’installent
Allant vaillamment de coin en recoin
S’amusant au milieu du délabrement et de l’usure des usagers n’ayant pu apprivoiser la resource providentielle.
Ailleurs la même mine se replie et se déploie
S’accélérant au-dessus de tous les paysages et péages
Devenant un pourvoyeur d’aisance insolante.
De perspective en perspective le talent, de latence en aisance, de parfum en substance, de misère en lumière
Danse sa danse sacrée toujours présente mais parfois absente, parfois presente.
Pour beaucoup son passage génère le paysage ravagé par le cri du désespoir
Hymne rétentissant et maudissant les carnassiers de la chaire
chère des talentueux.
Avant que son souffle ne jaillisse
Tous se complaisent dans l’insouciance
Mais le talentueux s’éveillant sans conscience
Aussitôt sa veillée est célébrée tout autour de ses œuvres par les vautours du sevrage forcé.
En prêtres pieux sans sceptre de la paix
Les sages femmes attendent dépiécer la chaire du comateux  sans laisser le sceau du créateur
Pour que ne demeure que l’écho sans substance
Chute sans lac suspendue
Avortement de la bonté suprême.

LE DESESPOIR

Les bacs débarquent dans toutes les villes
Poussés par des vilains qui ne font que braquer par vagues.
Les bagues des pousseurs resplendissent avec de l’or
Baignant dans la sueur luisante de leur effort à orner les villes serviles.
On passe par les plaques publicitaires et les universitaires pour remplir les bacs avec les ordures des dunes sans lune.
Subitement le publique n’a de programme diurne que celui des grammes insupportables des problèmes attablés.
L’espoir réside paradoxalement dans le  ressassement des paradoxes prometteurs sans paradigmes émetteurs des signaux joyeux.
Ainsi l’absence de la poire devient un semblant d’espoir
L’âme devenant le dépotoir notoire des pots-pourris sagement polis.
Le jour, les gens s’affairent à fouiner dans les bacs
Hurlant incessamment pour affamer leur faim sans fin.
En l’absence de la porte libératrice les orgies se succèdent à travers des spasmes fiévreux virés temporairement par le plasme du repos prémonitoire d’une reprise encore plus éffrenée et davantage frénétique aux tics sans freins.
Après les hurlements vient le tassement
Annociateur de la fausse sagesse sans science aucune
Enfantant des cheveux gris et fronts creuvés, pris subitement pour emblème du diplôme de plomb.
En toute assurance des idéologies se déversent par devers des astuces verbales confondantes
Bâtisseuses infatigables des labyrinthes sans entrées ni issues Véritables mandalas sans dieux
Lieux vides par l’affaissement collectif devenu agitations sans gisement de vitalité.
Des coups d’épée sont donnés dans l’eau
Générant des vagues innondantes d’espoirs vagues
Fantômes sans atômes de substance
Arrosant l’existence du desert de la soif
Evaporant les eaux de la justice.
Enfin rassasié de rien
Ressassant tout sans frein
Les bacs sont débarqués, demeurant toujours vides malgré des tonnes d’immondices environnantes
Etonnant héritage largué à la masse à travers une messe sans sermon de salut.

Le Fanatisme

Système érigé en totem
Reclamant que ses circuits soient irrigués par le sang des hérétiques présumés.
Le totem est devenu l’emblème du problème universel que les initiés tenteront de résoudre en sondant toutes voies et voix menant vers l’irradiation de la vérité radieuse.
Le climat du noir règne en reine
Car il faut garder le mystère de l’hérésie véritable sous le voile doré du trompe-l’œil
Rompant l’œil de la voie dorée.
Les prêtres se replient constamment sous le poids de leurs dettes envers l’humanité allant de noir en noir
Leur saint des sanits étant le noir sans voir, sans savoir.
Leur focalisation forcée sur l’horreur du noir est un semblant de concentration.
Leur concentration sur les cordes du repli vers le soi est un semblant de méditation sur leur sort d’égarés saints.
Leur meditation sur la fausse route inavouée est leur contemplation
Suprême nirvana de l’ecstase para-plégique.
Les efforts engagés pour défaire les fers de la taule sont sans succès
Les voies vers la vérité étant bloquées par les locataires du temple malsain.
Soudain apparaît leur mission secrète
Celle d’étendre le royaume du dedain de la vérité à tous Soumettant tout élan d’envol à l’approbre du baptême sans circoncision.
L’appel de cette mission sacrée sans émission de la lumière secrète demande le sacrifice purificateur du sang versé
Encens du non sens
Attirant des vampires dans cet empire du pire.

Le Destin

Je suis dans une cage mais je me crois sage
Il faudrait que je prenne le large pour avoir de l’âge.
Ainsi  dois-je tourner la page pour me mettre en stage         
Car le cas échéant la comédie devient tragédie, et
Je m’enlise dans la roue sans midi avec pour trajet
le dé de la connerie.
La sonnerie est partie pour le debut du voyage
Mais il faut le courage pour ne pas rebuter l’appel menant à la prairie de la liberté.
Voici  enfin le train du tatoué qui se met en marche
Cherchant de mettre fin à
l’enchaînement de l’être en panne.
Le train traverse des paysages où  sculpteurs,  guerriers,  paysans,  astronautes et pécheurs se succèdent.
Le voyageur se defait progressivement
des nœuds de trahison de sa raison
Pour pouvoir regagner la maison sans saisons.
Enfin le jour sans joug se pointe à l’horizon
Absorbant tous les points morts et ceux des remords
Arrosant de rosé de vie le voyageur ôsant
Lui ôtant à jamais le voile de perdition pour que soit et s’enchaîne indéfiniment le jour sans commencement ni fin.