Where is the food?

By Winston Lebga

The Bohemian has been tagged a rambler par excellence by some well-meaning gentlemen who are proudly declaring in the market square that their time has come. They say the sign of their long awaited moment was given on Friday, January 4.

Well, the Bohemian proudly bears the tag of a man talking in a confused way, with the same air of confidence like those who affix the little toys on their breast pockets for the so-called meritorious services to the state.

Truth is, there are two people seemingly in charge of our dear Northwest Region. One incarnates the Republic of Cameroon, the other represents the insurgents. Life is unbearable. Gunshots can be heard every now and then. There are summary arrests and summary killings, vandalism spiced with threats carried out through tracts, phone calls and text messages.

People live in fear. There are all sorts of prohibitions. Even our national pass time, beer drinking has been affected. We hear a certain brewery is not allowed to supply drinks in this land of warring factions and tribal hatreds.

This is the tough month of January, with its ice cold mornings, scorching hot afternoons and freezing evenings, plus its seasonal diseases coupled with economic hardship. Many drinking spots and pubs have raised the price of beer by one hundred francs; some have increased theirs by up to two hundred francs. People in some quarters hide to drink beer from the “prohibited” brewery. They put the allowed ones on the table and place their choice drinks beneath.

It is a measure to stay out of trouble. They do not want to be surprised by a gun wielding tot, screaming; “na who di drink dat ting?”

The Bohemian repeats, there are people shouting like dementia cases that their time has come since the fourth day of this New Year. This dinner table is small, there are just a few plates and there is a multiple of hungry mouths, wondering what it takes to occupy the choice places at the table. Disgruntled ones have taken up guns and catapults seemingly following Bob Marley’s suggestion that total destruction is the only solution. Others in high places are chopping off huge chunks from the national cow. It is not the Ghanaian writer AYI Kwei Armah who said, you chop, me too I chop contrey broke? Well, brethren, I tell you it’s not easy to be a righteous man in Babylon.

So, I the Bohemian of Abakwa, born on the last day of the month, by the shores of the Atlantic in the land of the proud people, this day declare: let’s conquer all this pain with a little thing called love. I ask that we make love, not war. The Rolling Stone whom I consider a God, may the Almighty have mercy on me, said the Bohemian requested that we break bread, but did not ask that we eat. Now, the Bohemian is asking, where is the food?  Just wait until your cousin is also appointed to high office. Wait for your time to come.

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