I, Eric Ngalle

by Ngalle, Eric;

  Alphonse told me about one Cameroonian girl he dated but unfortunately for him, the girl’s boyfriend was a professional rugby player and had a black belt in Taekwondo. It was one of those forbidden love stories that turned out to be unrequited love. It cost Alphonse a floor space at the hostel as the boyfriend issued a fatwa on Alphonse. As we took the train to Verdinha, all I could see were the faces of those I had just met at the embassy that were pale and gaunt; Russia had taken its toll. I missed my village.

  *

  I remembered how Moki Monyama and I use to go hunting for rat moles. We never caught any despite all the planning that went into it—the rat moles always out-smarted us until Monyama learned how to make box traps. I remembered my friends Big Devil and Victor (we nicknamed him Mephistopheles), and Moses aka Likume—now a priest according to the Catholic order. I remembered Aloga my nephew (I have a strong belief he will follow my footsteps). I remembered my little sister Queenta. I missed them all.

  I remembered Aunty Enanga, Mephisto’s mother, how she would chastise me for stealing apples from her tree. I remembered Aunty Enanga Pa Takesh, a woman of fortitude. I remembered how Moki Peter and I invaded the farm grounds of our secondary school, in Bokwango, stealing haricot beans (that evening I had corn chaff). Peter is now the Head of Police and fighting against Boko Haram in the north and he reminds me of this incident every time we talk. He says he will sue me for the risk I put him through! The worst part is he didn’t even taste the food I cooked that was so good I ate all of it.

  Life for us was simple. Our parents had farms and farming was second nature to us. As children our favourite pastimes were sitting on car bonnets and sliding down the hillside. It’s amazing that no one died as it was a long fall to the bottom into namonge, a small stream that was fed by the mountain. Another pastime was stealing sugar cane and pineapples from Mola Mongambe’s farm. We used catapults to chase the ezruli zrulis (sun bird) and other small birds. The Njohs had a fence made up of hibiscus flowers, which attracted all kinds of birds that were drawn to sucking nectar. We followed the birds and tasted the sweet juice of hibiscus nectar.

  By the time I was in upper sixth form a mysterious ailment had struck the village and the men started dying one by one. There was not a week that went by without another man dying. Most of the deaths were blamed on witchcraft. I could see my mother making my favourite food, ekwang, her eyes red, filled with smoke, probably using mangrove roots my sister Elizabeth had brought from Tiko. Though seated, she was bending forward as she prepared the food. There is a lot of artistry that goes into making this dish. First you go to the farm and gather some cocoyams, and then you peel and grate them. Most women in the village have no fingernails because they lose them in the process of cooking this meal. It’s a painstakingly slow process.

  Once the coco yams are grated, she will arrange them in a soft portion of coco leaves that she gathered from the back of the house. She will then align into a pot in a circular pattern allowing a hole in the middle, then you add njanga (crayfish), bonga (dried fish), stuck fish (for posh people), a dash of palm oil and some Maggi cubes. Then she will spend an age making sure the food was cooking at the right pace, increasing and lowering the heat by adding or removing firewood. There will be continued tasting and adding of different ingredients; this process will continue for two to three hours until the food is cooked. Once cooked, if you so wish, you can pan fry some extra palm oil and pour it onto the cooked kwang. This is food for the gods I tell you. The best part of ekwang is what we call wekoka (left overs), which forms part of our breakfast.

  I remember once my eldest sister, Elizabeth—for some reason I had skived off from school—decided to give me a bit of home education. She was going to teach me some English idioms such as ‘The devil makes work for idle hands’. It was like she was forcing water out of a rock; the idiom did not make any sense to me. Instead of paying attention, my mind was somewhere else. She said, repeating herself, ‘The devil makes work for idle hands.’ I was getting bored and not paying any attention. I decided to take my brother’s bicycle for a ride, I had never ridden before and as soon as I jumped on the bicycle, I started shaking and could not balance or control myself. I went down the road shaking and eventually I bumped into Mbamba Limunga, knocking her over. Mbamba Limunga screamed and cursed saying I was the child of the devil, she slapped and kicked me with all the force she could muster. She left the bike where it landed and dragged me home, my sister had seen the incident as it unfolded and was pissing herself with laughter.

  When Mbamba reached the house, my sister gave me two slaps just to assure Mbamba Limunga that she didn’t condone my action. As soon as Mbamba left, after a series of verbal abuses, tirades and rants, my sister burst out laughing and said, ‘You see, I told you the devil makes work for idle hands.’ I can’t ride a bike to this day.

  *

  The embassy was packed, the imposing photograph of the President of Cameroon was still on on the wall, the picture was even more frightening as some disgruntled visitor had decided to paint over his eyes, making him blind. Metaphorical, I thought. Name after name was called. Time had stopped. I got into the embassy at 10.30 in the morning but I was only seen at 2.30 in the afternoon. Again, our conversation was all in French.

  Questions were fired at me, ‘What have you been doing in Russia? How long have you been in Russia? You said you were born in Cameroon, yes? What is your mother’s name? Where does your mother work? What is your father’s name? Where does your father work? Have you been tested for AIDS? Are you a student?’ and on and on. I was asked all kinds of questions before being told to wait again in reception.

  *

  I was in my favourite Apostolic Church in Small Soppo Buea. After A-levels in 1995 I joined the Apostolic church; most of the congregation was Ibiobio and Ibo Nigerians, apart from Pastor Jacob. Pastor Jacob was a wonderful preacher. When he preached the gospel you felt like God was talking directly to you. The church was always packed when Pastor Jacob was preaching, he would quote verses from the Bible as if he had written them himself and, like Froy in Sochi, Pastor Jacob enjoyed the book of Daniel, especially the parable of the fat and the skinny cows and the prophecies of Daniel on Nebuchadnezzar.

  I am not sure how he managed to find out I had tried kissing Enjema behind the church, but he chastised me for it. Imagine my surprise when Pastor Jacob was stripped from his pastoral duties after ‘the spirit’ revealed to one of the other pastors that Pastor Jacob had been having an affair with his wife and had got two members of the congregation pregnant. I took it to heart because I had a crush on one of the girls he impregnated. Pastor Jacob became an outcast. He was just an ordinary person who had memorised the Bible.

  One of the reasons I went to this church was because of the music; they played beautiful Nigerian songs that had been adapted for the church. In my dream I could hear one of my favourite songs playing, ‘Onye Chicca Jehovah’, which was accompanied by the most beautiful drum beats. In my dream, I had transformed myself into an Ibo Nigerian and was dancing in my sleep. When the music stopped, I walked up the road towards my mother’s house. I couldn’t recognise a single thing. I was standing outside the house, it was quiet, and I could hear crickets chirping. I am sure I heard an owl and a toad was staring at me as if saying, ‘You are in the wrong place.’ I quickly returned to the house as an owl is an ill omen.

  *

  I was called back into the office and was asked by a member of the embassy’s staff to hand over my passport. Ever since Stavropol, where I had slightly defaced my passport, I had the habit of carrying a laminated photocopy, which I handed to the staff. He looked at my picture then looked at me. He went through all the pages and asked if I had my birth certificate? I had not foreseen the outcome of his enquiries. After a few minutes of looking at my passport and looking back at me, he apologised and said that there was no way they could ascertain whether I was a Cameroonian. He proceeded to explain that a lot of Nigerians had obtained Cameroonian passpor
ts to come to Russia and that my French sounded more like a Nigerian who had been living in Kumba. He kept the photocopy of my passport and asked me to leave the embassy. I had been labelled a ‘Boy boy’—one of those young children brought into Cameroon by unscrupulous Nigerian businessmen, to work endlessly as child slaves. Not only was I rejected by my paternal kinsmen, the gods had conspired to ensure I was rejected by my own country. I felt suicidal. I had to activate my backup plan.

  During the first two nights of staying at Vincent’s house, he had showed us a collection of passports that he was selling, which he had obtained from the black market. He had Zimbabwean, South African, Togolese, Canadian and a few Cameroonian passports (the Cameroonian passport was the cheapest, retailing for only twenty dollars, the Zimbabwean and South African sold for five hundred dollars while the American and Canadian retailed for up to one thousand dollars).

  Vincent also told me about a voluntary repatriation programme run by the United Nations; he had given me the address and was convinced I would be a perfect candidate. The following day after breakfast, I made my way to a branch of the United Nations. Imagine my relief when I was told they did have a voluntary repatriation programme, but the only prerequisite was that one had to have been living in Russia for two years’ minimum. I pleaded with the officer, telling him I was in the position to buy my own ticket and all I wanted was help with an exit visa; I wanted to go back home. There was no way I could have stayed or survived another winter in Russia. I pleaded with the guy until he allowed me to fill in the paperwork. I think he liked the fact that I had put effort into learning the language.

  Once I had completed the questionnaire, I handed it over to the guy and sat comfortably on the huge sofa that occupied the reception area. The office smelled fresh and was well ventilated. The summer sun was hitting Moscow. When I had first arrived in Moscow, I never thought someone could wear a sleeveless top but today I took off my jacket and relaxed. There was a French flag, an American flag, an English flag and a Russian flag; they even had a Canadian flag but there was no Cameroonian flag. As I sank into the soft leather chair, my mind started drifting. How wonderful it would be to be born in one of those countries where you can just up and go, a country where your passport had the royal seal of approval. I smiled. I thought of Natalia, my first wife in Sochi, who was now somewhere in York; I thought of Anna; I thought of Lola and the wife of the nightclub owner I had a brief fling with before her husband found out. I knew I would never see them again.

  *

  A few weeks after Meki had been bitten by the snake he simply disappeared. At first, I just assumed he had gone to visit his mother, something he usually did. However, as the days passed, I became increasingly worried as Meki was nowhere to be found. I searched the neighbourhood, I visited Meki’s parents and Victor aka Mephistopheles told me one evening that maybe Meki had been eaten by the new Nigerian couple who had moved into the compound of the Mosimas next door to Aunty Ndinge. They looked at me suspiciously when I knocked on their door to ask if they’d seen my dog. Victor laughed when I told him how astonished Mr Obassi was when I asked if he’d seen my dog, and told me he was joking.

  One afternoon I heard a little scratch on my bedroom door, when I opened it Meki was standing there looking gaunt and extremely pale, his eyes red as if he had been crying. On closer inspection I realised he only had three legs and couldn’t stand up straight. He had wandered off on his own into the forest and his right hind leg had been caught in a snare. I felt so sorry for Meki, he must have barked my name into the trees, hoping they would carry his tears to me. Meki had no option but to stay with the snare until the wire cut through the rotten bone. I cried when I saw Meki who looked at me accusingly. I had abandoned him, I didn’t make any effort to look for him.

  When I woke up in the morning, Meki’s stiff body was against my door. The last thing Meki did, even close to death, was to protect me. I didn’t know what to do, I woke my mum up telling her Meki was dead.

  ‘What do you want to me to do?’ she said. ‘Go bury the dog.’ She tapped me gently on the shoulder before going back to sleep. I cried. I dragged Meki’s body to the back of the compound and dug a shallow grave and buried Meki. On top of his grave I planted some garden eggs. As Meki dissolved into the ground he fermented the soil and the fruit tree blossomed. I vowed never to have any more pets.

  *

  The sofa at the United Nations had sucked me into a perfect place. I had fallen into a deep slumber and was snoring loudly. When I woke up, the official sat on the other side of the sofa was laughing. He said I had been talking in my sleep and asked who Meki was and why I had been crying. He then told me I had qualified for the repatriation programme and that I should bring my passport to their office the next day; the United Nations was going to buy my ticket and arrange a pickup point. As if this was not enough, the United Nations was going to give me a two thousand dollars allowance for a business start-up in Cameroon. What a grand gesture I thought.

  That evening I told Vincent I was no longer interested in buying the Zimbabwean passport as I had qualified for a free repatriation. Alphonse tried talking me out of it but my mind was made up. Russia was not for me. I was not mentally prepared, I was not strong enough to be dealing with the weather and the skinheads—I wanted to go back home. I was not streetwise, not at all, this scam was not for me. Reluctantly Alphonse resigned himself to the fact that I was going back home.

  I stayed awake that night. I could even hear Vincent having intercourse with Maria, his girlfriend, in the other room because the walls were very thin. That morning I was the first to use the bathroom, and as I brushed my teeth, I looked at my reflection and smiled. I was going to kill the spiders that nested on the far corner of the sink, but when I reached to slap them with my shoe I realised they were mating and I could not bring myself to interrupt their orgasmic phantasmagoria.

  In the kitchen I made the Russian breakfast of two slices of brown bread, multiple slices of ham, two boiled eggs and tea. I wore my blue jeans, white Nike trainers, a Nike T-shirt, a Chicago Bulls baseball cap, collected my passport and left Verdinha for the offices of the United Nations. The sun had already risen over the horizon and as I got on the train, I remembered the last kind gesture I did for my mother when I had cleared a field and planted her around two hundred yam tubers. I wondered how the harvest was or if they were still there or if some food thieves had stolen them.

  I got to the United Nations premises so early their offices were not yet open. When they finally did, I noticed there was a new receptionist who greeted me politely and asked for my name. Mish, as he was called, spoke in English with an American accent. At this stage I still loved meeting and talking to Americans. Expecting him to say American, I politely asked where he was from. He said he was Russian but had studied English and medicine for three years in America. Our conversation fluctuated between Russian and English and I told him I had uncles in America, in Minnesota. He took my passport and retired to another room. He was there for what seemed like an age. When he came back, he looked gloomy, the smile had gone from his face, and avoided my gaze. He said, ‘Sorry Mr Charles, we are in no position to help you. Unfortunately the free repatriation programme has been stopped.’

  He went on to explain that the United Nations had to cancel the project after it had lost close to fifty thousand dollars. It turned out many Cameroonians and Nigerians had heard about this project and had contacted the United Nations for free repatriation, the UN had issued each of the people who wanted free repatriation with two thousand dollars, however, once they received the money, no one turned up at Sheremetyevo airport for repatriation. Countless empty flights returned to Cameroon. I pleaded with Mish, I said I would go and pack my belongings and would stay at the office till they were ready to repatriate me, that I did not want the two thousand dollars and wouldn’t mind if I was going to be put on an aeroplane in chains. I wanted to go home. I pleaded with him until his manager came out of his own office, then I pleade
d with him, however the decision had been made and the free repatriation had been stopped. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I was a ‘Boy boy’; manmade laws, borders and greed were conspiring against me, ensuring I was lost and abandoned forever in a country where I had no name, no face, no audience, where no one knew me. I was broken.

  In my reverie I was in Cameroon, only a thin thread helped me cling onto life. I felt abandoned by my ancestors; I hated my father’s family even more. No way was I going to spend another winter in Russia. It took me an age to get back to the Verdinha, where I placed my mat in the corner of the living room and fell into a deep sleep, with my eyes open.

  After a day of negotiation with Vincent, I bought the Zimbabwean passport for a reduced price of three hundred and fifty dollars. I had now spent a total of four hundred and fifty dollars, three hundred and fifty for my newly acquired passport and one hundred dollars for my rent. Vincent gave me a rundown of which countries I could travel to, using the Zimbabwean passport, which included Germany, Canada and the United Kingdom. I was a bit happier. I had secured a small investment, and I could now try and travel as far as Zimbabwe and then navigate my way to Cameroon.

  The poison that was building, the bile that was forming inside of me, was far more dangerous than that of a black mamba, for the inside of my mouth, gums, teeth, lips were now black in contrast to my brown skin. Outside I was full of smiles but a thunder raged inside of me. Even today, when I laugh, it is loud. I have now removed the garments of an outcast, but the laughter remains. I was heading to Zimbabwe and would struggle until I reached Cameroon, even if it meant becoming a guerrilla along the way. I had read about the Mau Mau and their night raids. I would then enter the village at night and, incognito, initiate my plan. Who would know? There was no CCTV; it would be blamed on witchcraft. We drank beer and ate salted fish, while all these ideas played out in my mind.