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?”
It has greatly destroyed your liver, and I am afraid from what I can see here that you have a terminal cirrhosis of that organ. I warn you for the last time to keep off “afofo,” and to buy all the drugs that I will now prescribe.” Without blinking an eyelid, the old man coolly asked: “How much time do I have left, so that I can put my house in order?” Looking everywhere else except at the bleary eyed old man, doctor langa said: “Another five years if you heed to my advice, but not more than a year if you do not.” ‘To himself he was thinking: “I doubt if the next six months will see him alive, at the present state of his liver.’
From the verandah of his modest wooden home, Pa Njebodi could see the three graves out in the courtyard, those of his wife, Manyi, and of his parents, Pa Bia-bia and Ma Elisa. He suddenly felt some close affinity to those departed souls, imagining himself closer to them than to the living. In the near and far distance, he could make out acres upon acres of lush grass and trees waving gracefully in the softly blowing october winds. The vast farmlands were thickly covered with heavily laden fruit trees, vast plots of manioc, yams, plantains and cocoyams. But for all that the fertile mountainous soil produced, Pa Njebodi maintained a miserly profile, barely taking care of the needs of his twin sons, Mboma and Batoum who were brilliant upper sixth students at the Bilingual Grammar School Bolinge. ‘The old man was thinking: So I have only twelve months to go. What a short life it has been. But what do I do with all these lands that my parents have left to me and my brother Molindo? I have no intention of leaving anything to anyone. Now we are in the month of october. By the time it is october of next year, I should have sold off everything. Why should I die sickly and in pain, and leave my inheritance to anyone? Nature is not fair to me. Why should I die so young? Why should others enjoy what I wouldn’t be able to enjoy myself? No way, all of us are going to lose these lands. I Njebodi have spoken!’
During the following weeks Njebodi became more and more withdrawn and morose. Signs of a negative change came when he refused to give registration fees to his sons for the G.C.E. advanced levels examinations. When the twins complained to their uncle, the latter lambasted his elder brother: “What do you think you are doing, depriving these brilliant boys from writing their exams?” “You are my junior brother, never forget that. Who are you to insult me in my own home?” Retorted Njebodi. “I am their uncle, and they are also my children. In fact I have come to take them to live with me during the whole period of the upcoming exams.” “You can take them away for all I care.” “Boys get ready. Pack all your things and let’s go.”
For the next six months, the daily routine of Pa Njebodi never varied. He would get up by eight o’clock in the morning and move to mami Ntopsin’s “afofo” bar, where he would spend the whole day, and only return home dead drunk by eleven o’clock at night. He ate very little and grew shabby and gaunt as the months went by. Meanwhile he went on making secret plans to sell off the vast plantations. One wealthy northerner, by name Usman Bello finally bought all the farmlands of the Kriyo family. When Molindo go wind of this sacrilegious transaction, he stormed into Pa Njebodi’s crumbling house early the next day. The two brothers quarreled bitterly for over two hours. At the end Molindo shouted: “That you could even contemplate selling all the land of our forefathers is unimaginable. My soul weeps over your monumental betrayal.” “Have you finished howling? Have you really landed?” Asked an unperturbed Njebodi in his “afofo” cracked voice. “Do you know I can curse you now as head of this family?” “You are already cursed Njebodi. I will take care of the twins, rest assured.” So saying Molindo banged the door with a resounding crash and angrily walked away.
The twins worked so hard that they both obtained five advanced levels papers, all at “A” grades. Such a performance from the same household had never been seen in their country. Through its ambassador, the United States government awarded two scholarships to the heroic twins in the areas of architecture and agriculture. When the twins and their uncle came to visit Pa Njebodi on the eve of the former’s departure for the US, they met a filthy, belligerent looking man sitting at the verandah on a broken down reclining chair. He asked querulously: “What has brought you people here today? I do not have money to give to anyone.” “You should be ashamed of yourself Njebodi. You cannot even congratulate your children for their extraordinary performance at the GCE advanced level examinations. Any way that is not very important. I am here to inform you that your sons are traveling to the United States tomorrow morning. So…” Molindo had to stop talking in disbelief, for Pa Njebodi was already snoring in the strangled manner of the chronic drinker.
A month later, Pa Njebodi got up one morning only to realize that he could neither move the fingers nor the toes of the right side of his body. Alarmed and in great fear, he attempted shouting for help, but the nearest neighbour lived some two hundred meters away. By three o’clock in the afternoon, when Pa Njebodi had not shown up in the “afofo” club, a delegation of four tipsy consumers of the deadly brew found the half paralyzed man at home, in a copiously messed up bed. Two hours later, the group succeeded in getting Pa Njebodi to the general hospital.
When Molindo arrived at the hospital, his brother was in the intensive care unit. The latter only came round the next day, and surprisingly his first words were “Usman … Bello… Usman ….Bello.” The doctor interpreted that Pa Njebodi wanted to see a certain Usman Bello. When the wealthy man arrived, the old man made another secret deal to sell the family house in which he had been living, believing that the end was not far away for him. The two men concluded the transaction at twenty million francs, which Usman Bello was to deposit in Njebodi’s account at the bank, and bring the receipt to the bedridden man.
When Usman Bello arrived the United Bank building, the manager was unusually shifty-eyed and evasive. He seemed in the throes of some great agitation for no apparent reason. Explaining away the strange behaviour of the banker as the result of stress, Usman Bello concluded his transactions, satisfied that his millions were well taken care of. ‘When the businessman had left, the manager kept the twenty million francs in his own brief case, and sat thinking: Sooner or later this bank will fold up. I had better start planning for my exit from this country.”
To the amazement of the hospital staff and Pa Njebodi himself, the old man totally recovered from his partial stroke, and miracle of miracles his liver was totally healed of its earlier cirrhosis. After the miracles came disaster upon disaster. Njebodi suddenly realized he had no house in which to live, and when he went to the bank to collect his savings, the manager was on the run, while police officers had sealed off the building as they carried out investigations. Pa Njebodi was told that he did not have a single franc as savings with the United Bank. Usman Bello’s saving and assets were also frozen. When Pa Njebodi went to his brother’s house, he was told in no uncertain terms: “You are not welcomed here. You left us out in the cold, no house, no farmlands, no money. All I can say is that you should go to our village back there in Nyala. Maybe you will find lodging there.”
Ten year later, Pa Njebodi was still alive, but was by now a bent old man that hobbled around with a gnarled walking stick. His senses had grown dimmer over the years, but his passion for “afofo” had waxed stronger and stronger. Meanwhile, his brother Molindo prospered in his business as the twins now full professionals sent him huge sums of money. When they finally returned home, they immediately engaged in legal proceedings in order to reclaim their family’s heritage that had been illegally disposed of by their father. After twelve months of ceaseless court judgments, they finally won the case, and subsequently recovered their lands and family house. With their expertise and finances, the twins totally transformed their vast holdings into a modern ranch-like business venture that made huge turnovers.
All attempts to have Njebodi come live with them failed, as the old man never forgave himself for the greed that had exiled him from his family. When he died two years later, he was buried besides his wife and parents. As the pastor rounded up the funeral mass he was saying: “Pa Njebodi died at the ripe old age of eighty, a happy man surrounded by his family.” One of the twins was saying to the other” “I think Pa Njebodi died more out of shame than old age…”
“What did you just say?” Asked the pastor. “Oh nothing. We just hope Pa Njebodi’s soul rests in peace.”
Sir,
This is a short story. True. With a very catchy theme - if you hail from the land that spans the slopes of great Fako Mountain to the "Mwaanja" (ocean). It is a depiction of an intense reality that has political and social ramifications which may supersede comprehension.
Bakweris have a problem about their ancestral land. Sold privately or at a state level (i.e CDC).
At first glance, I thought this story to be another rant on the lazy "mowkpé" who sells his land to greedy "bwajili". Then, I realised it was about one man's greed and selfishness that led him to push the self destruct dial.
Finally, I settled on the hypothesis that "Lost Heritage" is deeper. The sale of Bakweri ancestral lands under the guise of privatisation of the CDC by a reckless government. A government that mis-managed, when it did not abandon a gift from God or nature.
A government whose irresponsibility, more smacks of Pa Njebodi: "But for all that the fertile mountainous soil produced, Pa Njebodi maintained a miserly profile, barely taking care of the needs of his twin sons, Mboma and Batoum who were brilliant upper sixth students at the Bilingual Grammar School Bolinge."
Aren't we all Mboma and Batoum. Products of a country with so much potential but left to ruin by heinous rulers?
A state that is ready to declare itself bankrupt- Heavily Indebted Poor Country (HIPC) - and swift to enter into shady negotiations with all manner of multinationals and businessmen to privatise (read sell)it's heritage. Just like Pa Njebodi who "went on making secret plans to sell off the vast plantations."
In real life Cameroon one wealthy person from the north of somewhere... Alhadji Baba Danpullo bought over the CDC Tea Estates from the state of Cameroon. Similarly, "one wealthy northerner, by name Usman Bello finally bought all the farmlands of the Kriyo family" in Ilongo's short tale.
The scandals that spewed from the CDC tea privitisation deal (e.g) the Niba Ngu vs CTE cases are depicted in the bank managers escape with the booty.
What a tragedy!
In Ilongo's story, the rightful owners of the land return and succesfully reclaim their land through the courts. Do I perceive a reference to the Bakweri land Claims committee, etc? Unfortunately, there is still a long way to go for the Bakweris in real life.
Art is a subtle an poignant means of delving into the hot-waters of reality without burns. But art is also craft. That is a bit lacking in this very realist piece. It may be an issue of style. Yet more clour and tone would have been useful to capture the reader's imagination.
Posted by: George Esunge Fominyen | May 12, 2008 at 11:36 AM
George,
This is a wonderful piece. Hope you published this in a widely read paper in Cameroon for those vampires in government to read.
Posted by: Etah Ewane | July 01, 2008 at 10:43 AM