I, Eric Ngalle

by Ngalle, Eric;

  While Morake and I rested on a mat on the veranda, Mola Isaac (a paternal uncle) walked past us brusquely without his normal charming smile, in fact I do not think he even noticed us. His behaviour was quite strange as I was his favourite boy. The sun was out and hot. I had helped prune Mola Isaac’s tomato plants; he had such a beautiful tomato garden. I loved to climb his mango and guava tree. His children were sisters to me, in fact when Mola Isaac’s wife abandoned him with all his children, we supported him.

  Mola Isaac went straight into the kitchen and spoke with Aunty Ewuwe. Whatever was said between Mola Isaac and Aunty Ewuwe saw me tumbling from the top of a hill, nonstop, dropping fast like a terrified tortoise dropped at extreme height by an eagle.

  Then my aunt called out, ‘Morake! Hurry up and come here!’ I didn’t think anything of it, I just thought Morake was in trouble, and whatever it was must have been quite serious. I waited for maybe ten or fifteen minutes but Morake never came out and there was no crying. I knew for a fact that no one had died for there would have been tears and wailings from far away. I went to go inside but the front and the back door of the house were locked. When I knocked Aunty Ewuwe opened the door slowly, her eyes were red—as if she had spent all afternoon blowing fire with her mouth and all the smoke had taken up residence inside – and she said these words, words in Bakweri, words that have haunted me ever since; I hear her voice most nights. It was a harbinger of danger, a bearer of terrible news.

  She said, ‘Ngalle you are no longer welcomed in this compound. You are not allowed to play with Morake. You are no longer a member of this family. If you ever set foot in this compound again, you will see what I will do to you.’

  I tried to force my way into the kitchen to see what Morake was doing, he had his head on his knees and seemed to be crying. Mola Isaac’s eyes were like a bloody cloth, he looked at me as a lion would a wounded prey, I saw danger in his eyes, I saw a semblance of death. He looked so angry, his anger seemed to have polished his face of every wrinkle, and his face was darker than a treacherous moon. I was shocked; what was it that I had done to deserve such bestial hostility? I didn’t know what to make of this; I could not fathom what had just taken place—my aunt and uncle were too old to be playing an April Fool’s joke.

  That was the last time Morake and I shared a smile, it was also the last time I saw him. I was suddenly a plague, I was an outcast, every time I walked past my father’s house, if there was someone at the front or simply resting on the Veranda, they would look at me with such disdain and go inside shutting the door behind them.

  I tried walking towards my mother’s house but my knees were unable to carry my bodyweight. As I walked over the small bridge it seemed to be experiencing a tremor, I was panicking so much. Moki Monyama would later tell me that I walked like someone who was in a trance or who had seen a ghost, normally I would stop and chat, but on this day, I just walked towards my mother’s kitchen.

  Mola Pa Takesh and Late Etongo were talking about the latest antics of the Obassinjomwhich wasan imported juju brought from the Bakossi land by the village elders to help protect the village against Mami and Papa Waters—those ungodly spirits that only came out at night to wreak havoc on the whole village. The Obassinjom was not doing a very good job, for whatever had come over my Aunty Ewuwe and Mola Isaac was more than witchcraft, it was madness.

  As I approached our kitchen, I saw my mother sitting with her back towards the door, this again was extremely strange as my mother always sits next to the fireside but today, she was sitting with her back against the entrance and my younger sister, Queenta, was in her chair. When I walked in, I went and sat by the Ewongo (an indoor kraal were the goats slept at night). My mother had a letter in her hand, she had her snuff stained handkerchief in her right hand and she was crying. My little sister, Queenta, also had tears on her cheeks.

  *

  Our silence was punctuated by a question now and then from Arban such as, ‘How long have you guys been doing this?’ He had a childlike joy on his face, he knew in his heart they had found a jackpot, two black men who they’d just met, introducing them to an easy money-making system. He loved me for making the introduction. I was the naïve translator who, for a small percentage, was going to make both parties wealthy. After around two hours The President finished building the package.

  We had asked Arban to buy some syringes, gloves—one of the tricks is to inform the client that the chemicals are highly corrosive—and an industrial type tape. The President then reached into his shoulder bag and retrieved a small bottle that had been sealed but soft enough in the middle for a syringe to burst through. He then delivered the first dosage and it was now left for Alphonse to put on his gloves and carry the package and place it into the freezer, which had already been emptied by Arban as we had asked.

  Alphonse carried the package with extreme care and placed it in the freezer. The guys standing outside were then called inside and we sat down and enjoyed the food and drank the vodka. Conversation flowed. Whilst we ate, the package was brought from the freezer to the table for two more doses. Between the second and third dosage, The President had switched their package with our own that we had prepared at the hostel. Then The President asked for everyone to be quiet as he wanted to say a toast, looking directly into my eyes, he said, ‘Grumbeaf dey inside box trap.’

  I stuttered at first, realising what The President meant. I turned around to Arban, Batu and their two friends and said, ‘Let us drink to our ancestors.’

  This was all I could come up with, however The President had just told me in street pidgin that he had switched the package and he had the money. Arban and his entourage lifted their vodka glasses and toasted, ‘To our ancestors.’

  We drank and ate knowing that we had their money and they had our iodine soaked fake dollar bills that were worth less than a rotten apple. We were given a lift back to the hostel while the other guys, including Batu, had stayed behind, guarding what they thought was their quick way of becoming millionaires. Arban promised to pick us up on Saturday evening so we could stay at their dacha and open the package together first thing Sunday morning. Arban was so excited, saying the next transaction should be for fifty thousand dollars, as he was going to bring some of his business friends in on the deal.

  When I got back to the house, in the early hours in the morning, Anna was half asleep and I snuggled into bed. That morning she was excited to see me and we made love repeatedly. The money was split equally. For a few hours of translation I had earned one thousand dollars. ‘Geez, can life be this easy?’ I asked myself. I gave my friend Saul one hundred dollars. He wanted to follow us to Moscow. I pleaded with him not to because of the images of Cameroonians being chased with dogs and swimming in the Rivers of Moscow flashed in my mind. That was the last time I spoke with Saul.

  It was time for me to get out. I had a perfect plan. I was going to go to Moscow, head to the Cameroonian Embassy and ask to be repatriated back home to Cameroon. I so much wanted to confront my father’s ghost, I wanted to stand upon my father’s grave and shout out loud, I wanted to wake him up from his deep slumber, I wanted to question sister Monjowa, I wanted to challenge Mola Isaac. Most especially, I wanted to talk with my aunty, my father’s sister, I wanted to ask her about such unbridled betrayal.

  *

  My aunty and I use to go up to the lower regions of Mount Fako, to dig for Cocoyams, then, whilst the rest of the children played, I would help her cook in the kitchen. We cooked all kinds of food. I grew up thinking of my aunty as my second mother. I loved visiting her in Wonya Morake, especially during school holidays. In Wonya Morake, I was the ‘boy boy’ or ‘slave’. It never bothered me as I knew my challenging work would be rewarded.

  I was told to fetch water—I always prayed for rainfall to spare me the weight of carrying a pot full of water, which weighed as much as a bag of cement, about ten times a day. I did the dishes and I washed all the clothes. I became an expert carpet cleaner. It was also here that
I first counted to eleven in French and it was among my father’s side of the family that I watched my first perfect film, The Sound of Music. Before I returned to my mother’s village, I would be given one thousand CFA francs, sometimes five thousand, the equivalent of seven pounds. When my aunty could not afford to give me money, she ensured I had one of my nephew’s T-shirts, and she made me her favourite dish, ekwang (this food is mysterious and takes the ingenuity of a goddess to perfect it). My father’s family loved me; of this I had no doubt.

  *

  There were no direct trains to Moscow from Stavropol so we booked the next best thing, a train from Stavropol to Krasnodar and then from Krasnodar to Moscow. I convinced the guys that because of the long route the tickets were fifty dollars each but they were only twenty-five dollars each; nothing had changed.

  We said our goodbyes and left the hostel just before 11 a.m. because we could not risk Arban and his friend turning up early. We left one at a time and met on the other side of the university instead of going towards the bus stop, our usual route. We figured if Arban and his entourage were waiting for us, they would have been waiting just outside the main entrance.

  The journey was smooth, until we were stopped by five police officers that insisted on searching us. When they discovered that we all had money belts, they got excited as they thought we were smuggling drugs and took us to their station to interview us. Again my Russian came into play as I told them we were attending a seminar on human rights organised by the university and that I was the student union president. I spoke their language flawlessly and they believed me, even telling me to pass on to my travelling companions the need to speak the language. They then drove us to the train station where we boarded our train to Moscow. As the train left the station, I remembered saying au revoir to my mother at the airport in Douala.

  *

  She did not look into my eyes and, when I looked at her, I realised she was crying; she did not want me to notice her tears. I had been separated from my mother a couple of times before but there was something strange about this separation—I was elated. I was leaving the cesspit of crime that had become my patriarchal inheritance, yet I was given hope, an olive branch, I was going to the land paved with gold, the land built on the backbone and sweat of my ancestors buried in shallow graves; I was going to the land where the spirits of my ancestors linger.

  I was happy I was leaving my paternal ancestral shrine behind but seeing one’s mother cry is never a good sight and for a moment I thought maybe staying at home, resigning myself to fate, was the best option. But I had all these demons inside of me struggling to come out and it would have been madness if I had stayed.

  My mother hugged me, still avoiding my gaze, then she took my hands into hers and slowly and steadily, she gave each of my fingers a gentle bite, paying tribute to a village adage, sealing the fact that the thoughts of my relatives and ancestors would be with me and that the spirit of our dearest departed would guide me—that God would answer the tears and laments of Abel.

  I almost burst into tears but I was embarking upon an important journey and a combination of joy and sorrow within me revealed itself through a faint smile. I can still see my sister’s husband Mr Ndanga, my small group of friends who looked utterly amazed that I was leaving Cameroon—they thought I was a man of strength and fortitude but did not know that whatever courage I showed was a front. Internally I was dying with apprehension, nostalgia and most of all the fear that I would never see my mother again. My internal well was filled with tears. Yes, I cried but the tears stayed inside.

  Chapter 8

  A True Confession

  Dear Mr Charles,

  I am writing you this letter with regards to the six-bedroom property your father left in his last will and testament. You have been summoned to attend my chambers as your father’s will is being challenged by his family and they refute that you are the son of the late Oscar Ngalle Charles. Please attend my chambers with all the necessary documents and witnesses in pursuit of this matter.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Chief Justice Paul

  I have not told anyone about this. Nothing that happened to me during my stay in Russia came close to the devastation I felt on this day inside the courthouse in Buea, in the south-west province of the Republic of Cameroon. On this day, my father died for a second time, and this was the day I died. In Russia I was just a ghost—I was only resurrected in Wales, and even then, it has taken the best part of seventeen years to put this memoir together.

  It has taking me seventeen years to sit down and write this chapter for I have written and destroyed it many times in my head; I have played the events that unfolded repeatedly. Even now, as I sit down in Cardiff Central Library to write, I am developing extra wrinkles. I look around and there are fairies inside the library, not a single human being, all fairies. Every time I visit this episode of my life, the one that I had locked up and thrown away the key, I dread the day I was conceived. What mysterious music were the spirits playing on that day? I can see butterflies with human heads beckoning me to come over to other side, calling my name out loud, asking me to come home. One of the butterflies has a bouquet of flowers around its head, which looks like my departed sister. I am suffering from a mental breakdown, I can see myself falling, drifting into the darkest bits of my temporary sojourn here on earth. A beautiful girl smiles at me from the other side of the computer, was it me she was smiling at or am I dreaming? She’s smiling, yet I can’t even bring myself to smile, and instead I grimace.

  *

  Home. I was in my mother’s kitchen once more and I was sat on the ewongo’o, whilst my mother sat with her back against the kitchen entrance, my younger sister Queenta had dried tears on her cheeks, the eerie silence was invasive. My mother handed me a letter addressed to Mr Eric Ngalle Charles, the letter was from Chief Justice Paul of the Courts of Justice and Peace, Buea, South West Province, Republic of Cameroon. It was as if all the lizards of the village knew of my impending demise, for they too had congregated and were holding their own conference on the beam that ran around the kitchen. It was as if the weaverbirds, which had built a colony on the jackfruit tree behind my mother’s kitchen, had dreamt of this day, for they too were silent.

  I spent the best part of my childhood with my late paternal grandmother, Mbamba Mary Mezruwe, in this house. I ate food from the fireside that formed our family shrine in this house. I slept in the room where my father died in this house. I must admit it was a terrifying experience sleeping in that room. I was so scared my mind would form images of different people who had passed on to join our ancestors, these images would then turn into skeletons. I saw shadows moving around the room—we had no lights just a small kerosene lamp that I had to switch off before sleeping. I would not sleep and feigned tears until my grandmother came to sing me a lullaby—she ended up sleeping in the room with me. I tended to my father’s grave just behind the kitchen. I loved his family and they loved me. Then the letter from Chief Justice Paul came.

  I had been summoned by Chief Justice Paul, the judge had been appointed to determine if I truly was the son of the late Oscar Ngalle Charles, the man I had grown to know and believe to be my father; the man who died eleven months after I was born; the man whose circumstances of death have not made any sense to this day; the man whom the villagers said I was the carbon copy of although I have never seen a picture of my father, nor have I ever encountered his ghost.

  My father’s death was associated with witchcraft as, apparently, a viper was seen coming out of the kitchen shrine (a specific area in the kitchen reserved for rituals) just underneath the Mbanda (where we smoked meat and keep wood for cooking). Little did my uncle know the snake was my father who was the main guardian of our ancestral shrine.

  The snake was killed and a couple of days later, my father started coughing up blood before passing away. My father must have died of a cancerous lung. My mother and I were at his bedside and apparently, just before he died, he whispered so
mething in my ear—I was resting my head on the left side of his chest when he died.

  My mother did not have enough money to fight the case properly but she had plenty of support at first from Akwo, who was my father’s colleague, who volunteered himself as a witness. Amongst my other witnesses were Mola Etonge, Chief Efange and one or two people who simply started calling me OC as my father’s name was Oscar—unfortunately Mola Etonge, who was the village blacksmith, died during the last days of the hearing and never testified.

  A lawyer from Elad’s Chambers in Buea Town came to represent my mother and we paid what we could afford. Eventually the lawyer started dating my sister and thus represented us as often as he could. I was happy for the services provided by the Elad’s chambers, given that their offices were located a stone’s throw from my paternal clansmen and women. I was lost in two worlds: that of my father’s family and that of my mother.