Chapter excerpt from "Souls Forgotten"

Yet Wabuah and his fellow diviner-healers are perplexed by the contradictions of the men and women of Kwang: “How can the same politicians, civil servants and intellectuals who consult them daily in private and at night for solutions to the challenges of modern city life, not want to acknowledge them and their expertise in broad daylight?” Many diviner-healers, shaking their heads in perplexion, have asked themselves this question, wondering how such a crop of dishonest elite can be trusted with the affairs of the land of Mimbo.

Survivors continue to live half a life as scientists, politicians, civil servants and intellectuals play games of hierarchy of cultures, civilisations and knowledge systems with their future, their very existence.

Suffering has not placed itself on hold as power elites debate themselves and their contradictions. At the temporary camps in Abeghabegh, Kakakum River, Pukafong and Hepalem, children have died of chronic diarrhoea, cough, fever, vomiting and infections. Some have been born with nervous and genetic disorders, some with lung and heart infections, while others have become epileptic and paralytic. Abortions, stillbirths and premature deliveries have increased, and certain children with good school performance prior to the disaster have degenerated remarkably.

Cases of madness and loss of memory amongst adult survivors have multiplied. Mr Tangh-e-keh is one of the latest victims. After waiting in vain for four years to be compensated for his cattle – his life essence –, he has taken to the streets of Kaizerbosch. From sunrise to sunset he roams about in nakedness, making strange noises and absurd accusations, defying attempts by his family to re domesticate him, and by the police to shackle him. Some have heard him accuse the government of recruiting mercenaries to dispossess harmless villagers. The mysterious Ravageur and Vanunu are his favourite scapegoats, for the story has spread, since it was first featured in the critical West Mimboland Post, that Ravageur and Vanunu had been agents testing nuclear and chemical weapons for foreign governments too powerful to name. Wabuah has tried in vain to bring Mr Tangh-e-keh back to normal, which is understandable, as Mr Tangh-e-keh’s madness is not caused by witches extracting his heart to be eaten at Msa. His madness has been induced by government’s failure to fulfil its own pledges of rehabilitation and compensation, thereby denying him reconnection with the soul of his existence.

Most cases of madness are among the Fulani who have lost their lifeways. Unable to bear the loss of their herds and families, most of the survivors have felt derooted, dispossessed. After a long time of waiting in vain for something to happen, for the rays of the sun to smile again, many of them are out of their minds. They can be seen wandering up and down the hills and mountains, chasing after and herding imaginary cattle. Day and night, under the sun and in the rain, they re-enact this same old ritual in honour of the herds, family, peace and life of relative quiet they once enjoyed. The cement of their lives is gone, the centre can no longer hold: “Isn’t it time we went back to our herds?”

Once in a while the man specially appointed by the District Officer to oversee life in the camps leaves Kaizerbosch with a lorry of assorted foodstuffs. His destinations are the temporary camps of Abeghabegh, Kakakum River, Pukafong and Hepalem, where the victims have their eyes on the road always looking in the direction of Kaizerbosch, full of expectations of survival. He distributes the food for which they are thankful, but there is seldom enough. That is not their major concern now. Before disaster struck they were self sufficient peasants, even exporting most of their harvest to the towns and cities, and paying various types of taxes to the government. No, their problem isn’t exactly food. It’s something quite different, something they’ve wanted to know from the overseer for the past four years.

Each time he visits, they want to know when this will all be over. “When shall we stop living in tents and go back home to start life again? Isn’t it time we went back to life as normal? When shall we say farewell to the farms imposed on us? We want to live like people once more. We want to reconnect with our land, our shrines and our ancestors. We want our souls back. So please tell us. When shall we be home again?”

When he tells them he doesn’t know either, that the answer lies somewhere well above him, they think he is mocking them.

“What do you mean ‘government’?” they would retort. “Aren’t you the government? Do you expect us to believe that? Please sir, try something else. All we want is to be able to farm again, to be able to feed ourselves so that you can stop wasting your money trying to get us food. All we want is to live a full life in tune with our values, which is not possible disconnected as we are from where our forefathers, parents, brothers, sisters, wives and husbands are buried. Or should we say rotting away? Please, please, understand us. We beg you.”

“If only they knew that I would readily help if I could,” the overseer laments, getting into the lorry, sorrow in his eyes. And as he drives away, he can hear them curse and call him witch. He cannot blame them, knowing what they’ve been through. “If only I could help,” he mutters, heaving a sigh of regret. “Life is larger than logic,” he tells himself, as if hit by the veracity of the statement for the first time.

Little wonder that a newly launched unauthorised political party promises to bring misery to a halt, to imprison all the architects of sorrows, and deliver all those confined to the margins of existence. Little wonder that this party has been warmly embraced by survivors determined to give the insensitive government of Mimboland a piece of their peasant mind.

Meanwhile in Nyamandem, Emmanuel and Patience have been married for four years. Their first son and daughter – a set of twins just as Mr Tangh-e-keh had wished when he permitted them to marry four years back – are called Mukong and Ngonsu respectively, after Emmanuel’s late parents. They both adore the mischievous little things, as Patience chooses to call them. They keep intending to move house, but Patience’s meagre salary cannot afford a bigger and better accommodation just yet. When Mukong and Ngonsu have grown bigger and ripe for school, Emmanuel hopes to find a job to supplement his wife’s efforts. Until then, they are both satisfied with his current role as stay-home father.

Officially, Emmanuel Kwanga Mukong is not a recognised victim of the Lake Abehema disaster, because he failed to register as one before the deadline set by the National Coordination Commission. He had been in Camp-Kupeh when the announcement was made and hadn’t felt like abandoning his wedding halfway through, to certify himself as a victim. He wasn’t alone in failing to meet the deadline. Others, mostly illiterate farmers and breeders, had simply not heard the announcement on radio. Radio was captured with difficulty even at the best of times in Kaizerbosch, and announcements were made in Muzungulandish and Tougalish, languages the farmers and breeders neither spoke nor understood.

Not being thus recognised, Emmanuel harbours no illusions concerning the funds in the famous Disaster Account created by the commission four years ago. Not that those duly registered would benefit from the funds in any case. It is rumoured that Mr Tchopbrokpot, ministre plénipotentiaire and director of The Disaster Fund, is contemplating retirement to a quiet life in Muzunguland, where he has bought a whole street in an upper-class residential area of the capital city, for himself and his childhood friend and kinsman, President Longstay. A recent song by a once renowned musician is rumoured to have been paid for by Tchopbrokpot. It hails his patriotism and selflessness in public service, and has taken Radio Mimboland International by storm. Mimbolanders are dancing to it with their feet, their hearts and their minds, as Tchopbrokpot laughs all the way to bank in hard currency.

This doesn’t worry Emmanuel as much as the fact that four years after the disaster no conclusion about its so-called ‘scientific’ causes has been reached. The deaths of more than two thousand people are now history, forgotten under duress even by those who should actively be praying to the ancestors through sacrifices to cleanse and admit them into their ranks. Few survivors have fully recovered from the impact of the disaster. The nature and origin of their tragedy has been deliberately made a mystery by the authorities, even as obvious culprits remain at large. For how much longer this mystery would continue to defy the collective wish of Mimbolanders to know the whole truth remains an unanswered question by scientists and a government who claim more than they can deliver.

In the meantime, Emmanuel has become active in the newly created popular political party, promising to bring an end to misery in the lives of ordinary Mimbolanders trapped in victimhood. The party leaders seem to enjoy his total confidence, especially as they are armed with the right slogans and rhetoric and have even rewarded his intellectual abilities by appointing him to the party’s think tank. Reason enough to hope, won’t you say?

Emmanuel isn’t so hopeful. Two days ago he dreamt again.

Patience came to his rescue when he woke up sweating in the heart of the night as if bitten by a poisonous snake.

He shared his dream with her. He dreamt about an election, a second and third.

“My party, popular though it was, lost all three.”

Patience could see he was perplexed.

“We had campaigned and campaigned, and had been reassured by people big and small, high and low, in villages and in towns. Each time the results were released, we couldn’t believe what we saw and heard. President Longstay was always the winner, even though he never went out to campaign. We couldn’t understand a thing. How could that be?” he asked, a worried look on his face.

Patience was quiet. He should finish his story before asking her for answers.

“How could President Longstay win an election when he never went out to campaign? When he wasn’t even popular in his own home village?”

Emmanuel told her of a rally at President Longstay’s home village. Their new party had organised the rally with the intention of using it as a red card, knowing that massive attendance would send shock waves through the ruling clan with a clear message: “Pack and go. Your time is up.”

The attendance was indeed massive, and the chairman of his party had spoken the language of ordinary people, a language of the right to dream. He had been hailed. A messiah had come, and hope had been born again. Never again shall a chief take Mimboland for a ride with greed as creed.

Even more, village musicians who had come from all over President Longstay’s home area had animated the rally. The villagers had turned out to share their plight with the chairman of the new party, by asking President Longstay, a son of the soil in absentia, some pertinent questions in music.

The first group of musicians, singing in the president’s native tongue mixed with Muzungulandish, lamented and called him a liar. He was like the person in folklore who had cried wolf time and again in vain, to the point that his people had lost faith only to fall prey to him as the real wolf. Men and women alike had given up their farms for the day, to share their disillusionment with a son of the soil who had promised without fulfilling, and who had used them to fight his sterile battles for selfish power. They stated their case in enchanting music, and left the scene, still heavy with the disappointment that had poisoned their blood and turned their music bitter.

The Chairman, dressed strangely in white calico gown, hat and gloves, and white shoes like a ghost at night, told them: “I’ve heard your plight. The resources are yours. The country is yours. The power should be yours. There is no reason to suffer with so much in abundance.”

Emmanuel continued recounting the dream while Patience listened patiently, “The Chairman, who was sitting on a kingly throne elevated by a specially constructed platform to welcome him, had, to my surprise, seated our little Mukong on his right lap, and little Ngonsu on his left. Like him, the twins were enjoying the music, and shaking their heads in sympathy with the villagers who had had enough of President Longstay. How our children came to be with him, I couldn’t say. And how they felt at ease with his white calico gown, even playing with it, when ordinarily they would be running to hide from a ghost, was beyond my comprehension.”

A second group took over, using the same musical instruments to play a different tune. The tarred roads, electrification and other development initiatives President Longstay had promised his own people upon assuming office decades ago were still to be delivered. “Papa Longstay, why have you abandoned your promise of hope? It is important that we live a decent life Papa Longstay. We need funds. We are suffering, and our crops sell poorly, but we work very hard. You’ve abandoned us, Papa Longstay, and we are not happy about it. ” In return for their support, the president had simply compounded their hardships with his callous indifference to their plight and the bleakness of the future of their children.

The Chairman, echoed by Mukong and Ngonsu, greeted them with hope: “I’ve heard your plight. The resources are yours. The country is yours. The power should be yours. There is no reason to suffer with so much in abundance.”

In a moving song, a third group comprising mostly young men and women, rejected the god-like status President Longstay had assumed based on false promises and the torture his insensitive regime had imposed even on them, his own supporters of the same ethnic origin. Their disappointment and frustrations were such that their music was no longer enveloped in metaphors. It would have pierced directly into the president’s heart, had he been present.

To them, the Chairman, still echoed by Mukong and Ngonsu, repeated his message: “I’ve heard your plight. The resources are yours. The country is yours. The power should be yours. There is no reason to suffer with so much in abundance.”

The fourth group was also direct and clear and without fear. Their song was critical of the economic crisis. It denounced surging social injustices and the slow pace of development, and condemned government inaction and complicity in the face of corruption and misappropriation. President Longstay was even compared unfavourably to his predecessor, President Habas, during whose leadership money was available, and peasants were at least sure to sell their crops, feed themselves and keep their children in school. In angry tempo, they invited the people to meet President Longstay with pertinent questions and demands. He should have foreseen the economic crises, and assumed his responsibility “to save them from death and not let them perish”. Schools are without teachers, hospitals without drugs, and harvests have ceased to fetch money, yet the president was insensitive to all this. He must be reminded that it is his duty to bring things back to normal, for “your team is working without output”, and many seem to have been born to watch a few enjoy the country’s resources. President Longstay, they concluded, through the excesses and indifference of his gang to their plight, was presiding over a sorcerer state that delighted in sucking the blood of innocent folks.

Applauding, the Chairman, echoed by Mukong and Ngonsu, told them: “I’ve heard your plight. The resources are yours. The country is yours. The power should be yours. There is no reason to suffer with so much in abundance.”

The fifth and final group was made up of elderly women, who came up to the Chairman and asked Ngonsu and Mukong to join them in their music, which they did. The women sang with dignity. They invited the other groups to join in, for theirs was a popular tune known throughout the region. In their song, they asked President Longstay to tell them where he had kept the money of the country for life to become so expensive. Their farm products sold poorly, but the price of meat, salt and other essential items had skyrocketed. Life in the village and in the city had become unbearably expensive, and President Longstay must say what he had done with the country’s money. It cannot be true, the women sang, that Longstay knew what was going on in his country and decided to sit quiet: “Longstay do you know where it hurts? Out here it hurts, out here things are bad. Do you have a heart, Longstay, to feel our hurt?”

Then the strangest thing happened. Mukong and Ngonsu, all of a sudden, became my late parents – Peaphweng Mukong and Mama Ngonsu. Singing along with the women, they shared with them the stories of Chief Ndze of Tchang, who for years had bamboo-holed the commonwealth, only to die and be kept in Msa until he had repented through a diviner-healer he sent back with word on where to look for the money he had stashed away in bamboos and pleads to his people to be forgiven. They also shared with the women the story of Ngain, the chief who had connived with the devil to bring death and untold suffering upon Abehema and beyond. Upon hearing the stories, the village women composed an instant song: “President Longstay. Or is it President Ndze? Or shall we say Ngain? Your sterile love of bamboo-holes has drained our resources and lifeblood. Your greed is suffocating us. You have forgotten your own. You have sold your soul to the devil to feast on the blood of your forgotten kinswomen. And the children – can’t you at least be good to children: our future, our hope?” At the mention of the word children, Peaphweng Mukong and Mama Ngonsu became little twins again and were returned to the Chairman.

Then, accompanied by Mukong and Ngonsu, the Chairman went down to the women and shook hands, saying: “I’ve heard your plight. The resources are yours. The country is yours. The power should be yours. There is no reason to suffer with so much in abundance. Together we must fight for the dignity that was once the pride of Mimboland.”

Then with one voice, all the villagers who had assembled at President Longstay’s home village to welcome their new hope gave the Chairman their vote of confidence: “He is not a listening president, he is not informed, and he does not care even for those who have sacrificed so his unproductive reign may keep power. We do not know him any more. Go ahead and chart out a new course for us and for people where you come from.”

“We danced and celebrated, thinking the election results a foregone conclusion,” Emmanuel shook his head, still unable to make head or tail of the dream. “We were mistaken.”

Patience became more attentive.

“When President Longstay was told about the rally, how successful it had been, he is reported to have said: ‘Ils ne savent pas à qui ils ont affaire.’ In an interview with Radio Mimboland International he went on: ‘Vandals cannot build the country, thieves and those who burn down banks are incapable of building the country, those who destroy roads are uninformed of what it takes to build the country. We want a country that is strong, rich and united, and there are no two people in Mimboland who can ensure that. So what change are they plotting?’ The radio interview was followed by a menacing declaration in a newspaper published by Tchopbrokpot of the Disaster Account, his best friend and right-hand man, and consumed exclusively by his ethnic kin: ‘Traîtres. Vous allez me sentir!’

“The interviews were followed by the first snap election, which we lost. The second and third elections, we lost as well. What does this mean, Patience? I’m lost for an explanation.” Emmanuel was desperate for reassurance from his wife.

“I can’t say fortunately it’s only a dream, since I know better,” Patience told him. “You mustn’t share your dream with anyone else. I don’t want you inflaming sensitivities in high places,” she cautioned.

“We can’t go on like this. Things must change in this country,” he protested.

“You must be patient. Why are you in such a hurry? Your party isn’t even legal yet.”

“You sound just like President Longstay in his victory speeches. He made the same promises he had made twenty years ago, and when confronted by a journalist, he said Mimbolanders must be patient for Rome was not built in a day: His exact words were: ‘Il faut attendre. Tu es pressé pour aller où?’ Am I to believe that you and President Longstay think alike?”

“Of course not, but we’ve lost too many people already, and I’m too young to be a widow. And my children aren’t going to start life as orphans.”

Emmanuel gave up on her. He would have to decipher the head and tail of his dream himself. It was out of the question to simply wait and see.

Two days later Emmanuel came back to her.

“I’ve decided to give up on the state,” he told Patience.

“What does that mean?”

“That it isn’t through problematic state structures that change shall see the light of day in Mimboland,” he explained.

Still Patience failed to understand what he was driving at.

“What I’m saying is that if we wait for the government to change our lives, we shall have to wait forever. There is no hope from that direction. That I gathered from my dream.”

“So what do you intend to do?” Patience asked, preparing Mukong and Ngonsu for church, for it was the morning of August 21, fourth anniversary of the Lake Abehema disaster. She and Emmanuel had offered a special mass for the victims of the disaster, and had to be in church in time to take the readings.

“I have decided to start an NGO to do for my dead and alive what the government and Tchopbrokpot have failed to do with its Disaster Account.”

Patience was interested. “Tell me more,” she said, combing Mukong’s hair.

“It is all planned out,” Emmanuel began. “It shall be called ‘Foundation for the Forgotten Victims of the Lake Abehema Disaster – FOVILAD’. It shall be totally owned and controlled by the victims themselves, with a steering committee and technical committees comprised of persons from their own ranks elected on a rotating basis for specified periods of time. FOVILAD shall have its headquarters in Kaizerbosch, and branches throughout Mimboland and wherever sons and daughters and well-wishers of the region are found in the world. FOVILAD’s principal role shall be to raise funds within and outside of Mimboland and shall directly manage the use of these funds in the interest of survivors of the Lake Abehema disaster seeking rehabilitation and a future of hope.”

“And what role shall you play in the management of FOVILAD?” asked Patience, passing Emmanuel a white shirt to wear for church.

“No managerial or executive role in particular,” he answered, not sure, as he hadn’t quite expected this question. “The idea is to initiate it, raise enough funds at the beginning, and allow the villagers themselves to run the show.”

“Excellent idea,” Patience congratulated her husband. “I see it working!” She meant it. Structured in this way, FOVILAD was unlikely to pass for the type of NGO that the late Professor Moses Mahogany had termed: ‘Nothing Going On’.

Emmanuel thanked Patience for her understanding and encouragement, and told her he would need to travel to Kaizerbosch to start work on the project immediately and intended to stay there until FOVILAD was up and running.

“Go for it, my husband,” said Patience, proudly. “This is a good initiative. I’m sure Peaphweng Mukong, Mama Ngonsu and all the forgotten souls of Abehema and beyond would be proud of their son and kinsman – Kwanga.”

Emmanuel embraced her, tears of appreciation in his eyes.

“Let’s hurry,” said Patience, pretending not to notice the tears. “We mustn’t be late for mass.” Then, pointing at the children, she said: “Look. Your parents are waiting for us.”

“May their souls rest in perfect peace,” said he, in between tears.

* Francis B. Nyamnjoh is Associate Professor and Head of Publications and Dissemination with the Council for the Development of Social Science Research in Africa (CODESRIA). Email: [email][email protected], Website: www.nyamnjoh.com

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***Please note that Pambazuka Editors erroneously indicated that this excerpt was going to appear in last week's issue. We apologize for the mistake.