BOHEMIAN DICTUMS Living in filth

By Winston LEBGA

   In Nelson Mandela’s ‘Long Walk to Freedom’, the South African statesman writes, ‘It is said that no one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails’. Have you ever been inside the buildings that pass for the penitentiary in this land of glory? Someone referred to them as human garbage cans. Places were criminals are dumped to rot within the confines of slimy walls and putrid smells. How can anyone come out of such a pit and be expected to integrate with the mainstream of society as well as to behave with punctiliousness? The Bohemian wishes he could talk only about those things that gladden his heart. When he thinks of the happenings he wonders what can gladden anyone’s heart these days with many people having difficulty remembering any sweet moments.

   We are yoked and shackled by bribery. So much has been said about bribery, so much has been written against it, even those who take it most, condemn it and in spite of all this condemnation the thing goes on with unabated fury. Bribery and its twin brother corruption. Maybe that is the reason the prisons remain monuments to the general state of putrefaction.  You stay in a room, eat in the room where there is a bucket for inmates to relieve themselves. The occupants of the dung pit get used to the filth to the point of finding the rot normal. That is why many find their way back to the place they have come to recognize as home, shortly after their release. Who really is in charge of building prisons and making sure the existing ones are capable of sending out reformed criminals? Some of those big people are now housemates to criminals and must be regretting why they did not do something about the dung pit prisons.

Those who are to do right by the people are the very ones who regularly talk the Christian lingo but seemingly, they have no experience of God. Why? Why? Why? Why is it that many people in our community seem not to be toilet-trained? It seems we are all preparing for the eventuality of being incarcerated in one of the country’s institutions of putrefaction also known as the penitentiary. Graduates from these centres of corrosion are everything but penitent. Ours is a society of prisoners. Some are more innocent than others. Some guilty ones are enjoying themselves as free men while continuing in the perpetration of heinous white collar crimes while many innocent ones are behind bars. The big fish eat up the smaller ones: that is the law of nature. The doctors of penology surely have better explanations.

  This matter about filth and people who seem not to have been toilet-trained is giving the Bohemian sleepless nights. When you go to any office, any house, any facility in this country, check the toilets. If they are sparkling clean, then you are in a place where you should be at ease with the environment and at peace with yourself. The Bohemian has observed with disgusted curiosity how some high offices in this land are so very low in toilet manners. Brethren, there are times in all our lives when it is difficult to be positive. “Na weti sef?” One gentleman questioned the Bohemian. “Man di worry about dis crisis, ya own na for di tok anyday about dotty toilet, you di stay for toilet?” This suit wearing dandy is one of those who cannot afford the luxury of flushing the toilet after he has emptied the contents of his bowels. At times he would stand on the toilet bowl and acrobatically dump his lump into the bowl, usually messing the water closet.

  The sad news is that men are not the only guilty ones. The Bohemian peeked through the window of the ladies room of one of the high offices, in the quest to understand the poor toilet manners of beautiful people. This pretty woman in a well-tailored designer gown popularly called kabbah, long enough to cover the knees, found herself in a difficult situation. It seems she was suffering from the worst case of diarrhoea. She rushed into the toilet, closed the door and stood just behind it. Surprisingly she had no knickers. She lifted her gown, bent forward with her backside targeting the toilet pot, and then a greenish putrid liquid gushed out of her anal pore amidst thunderous anal blasts. Of course, only a few lumps that came out of the gusher made it into the toilet bowl. Most of the rich greenery of the slime enveloped the pot, almost covering the entire toilet in a mess of green slime. We Africans have a saying, wrong doing is a hill; everyone climbs his own and decries that of another.

   After observing that many toilets in this land of promise are not meant for ladies and gentlemen but for the type of villains who have graduated from the criminal dung pit institution, I, the Bohemian of Abakwa, born on the last day of the month in the land of the proud people, by the shores of the Atlantic, this day declare: on every wall and door of the toilet should be written the following words which are written at the Shisong Cardiac Centre; ‘If you sprinkle while you twinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat. If your packet missed the target, use the brush and then you flush.’

Armoured car By

By Winston LEBGA

It is easy to spot these strange military vehicles crisscrossing the Northwest region. The Bohemian has noticed these vans employed for certain special conditions where typical vehicles will not be able to cope. They are designed in such a way that they provide the highest quality of security in order to ensure the safety of the people and valuables involved. The bohemian has heard that they can sustain not only direct fire from sophisticated rifles but also those weapons that fire armour piercing projections.

   It is in these military armoured vehicles that big shots travel to the various divisional headquarters of the Northwest shouting out the back-to-school mantra. From members of government to administrative top brass, they cry out with ululations that appear to be conversations or is it the other way round? Their tone of conversation swings between friendly hostility and playful contempt. So, how would the commoner hearken to the call without an armoured fighting vehicle to take him and his progeny to and from school, or should it be her and her child?  The back-to-school campaigners point to the commoners as those in whose hands the possibility of school resumption in the Northwest lies. This because according to the argument put forth, the people are harbouring suspected secessionist fighters and are not willing to provide the intelligence required to finish off the militants. By virtue of this argument, the people are the ones who do not want their kids back in the school campus for the new school year and the people are the ones putting the future of their progeny in jeopardy.

   It is the poor man’s child who will not be in school, it is the poor man who is in the line of fire and it is because of the poor man that some picked up arms in the name of a liberation struggle that has made many poor people even poorer and have become refugees, some politely called internally displaced persons. It is in the guise of defenders of the poor man and woman that fighting is going on. But the poor man has no gun and has never sat in an armoured car. His dream of his children becoming great people on account of their education is fast becoming a fleeting illusion to be pursued but never to be attained. The rich and powerful are fighting, but their kids are not in the Northwest or Southwest regions. It is the commoner’s kid who is expected to challenge the gun toting dunces and go to school, a mantra that stinks of political undertones and void of any strand of academia. The liberators are proving their point to those in charge, some say it is a toddling step in a misdirected approach. They are keeping matters dark, as someone would say, they believe would keep the adversary perplexed and uncomfortable. But, for how long?

  After contemplating the future of this land of our forefathers where people are fleeing the Northwest and Ambazonia godfathers have sounded the bugle for battle by insisting on a total lockdown, and have fired the first salvo to announce the new battle against mainstream education, I, the Bohemian of Abakwa born on the last day of the month in the land of the proud people, this day declare:

 The “grand katika” of this giant gambling house has to seriously consider putting an end to the mayhem and move from mere rhetoric about peace and dialogue to concrete acts that will help Cameroonians love themselves, live together and share the milk from the national cow equitably. If not, then we can settle and wait for this gunpowder keg to be ignited and for the veritable time bomb to tick down to its massive explosion. If that happens, poor people will not be alone in weeping over spilled blood and the armoured car might not be capable of doing the job. Well, self-styled revolutionaries turned political choirboys are beating the drums of self-indulgence at the expense of confused people whom they purport to be liberating from a confederacy of dunces who are running short of steam, running short of energy and are running on empty. And the poor people wish they too could be provided with an armoured car.

Zombies in suit

By Winston LEBGA

Africa’s biggest football showpiece event, the men’s Africa Cup of Nations 2019 has ended. For the first time twenty four countries were on the guest list of the ball with Egypt playing host. The   land of the Pharaohs (the only humans in the football jungle of Africa) was chosen to salvage an embarrassing situation following the initial hosts Cameroon’s inability to be ready, so to speak. The authorities in Cameroon and those of the Confederation of African Football who had been assuring and reassuring the fans that the thirty-second AFCON was coming to Cameroon had to inform the nation, the continent and the world that there was a shift in dates and venue.

    Cameroon has been chosen to host the event in 2021. Government declared that although the country had been relieved of its 2019 hosting rights, the stadia under construction will be completed as initially planned. For as long as the Bohemian can remember, works are permanently on the ninety per cent mark.

     The Indomitable Lions travelled to Egypt as defending champions, and arrived in the country in acrimonious circumstances. They had complaints regarding the payment of bonuses. Someone said they should know that they are playing for country and should stop narrowing everything down to how much they will get from the expedition. Are they not the ones sweating it out on the field of play? Why should they travel as slaves in the name of patriotism while the men in suit who are pulling the strings in the background fill their pockets and get their lovers, relatives and domestic servants to travel with the team under the government bill? And that is not all, these zombies in suit armed with half-baked ideas would bring in gangs of dim wits calling them professionals.

      Where is it written that only commoners are under the obligation to be patriotic in this republic? Who is above the principle of patriotism? Who are those who have captured the Indomitable Lions and are planning to barbecue the animals alive? What punishment awaits these sons of a gun? The senior men’s football team of Cameroon is in actuality an army of foreign mercenaries. If you are a Cameroon-based player or tactician, brethren it will be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for you to find a place in the national team. A third rate player in the sixth division in Europe or China is more likely to be selected than a first division player in the country’s so-called pro-league even if the man is at the peak of his foot-balling prowess. You can ask the right back, Eta Bawak, one of the bulwarks of Cotonsport’s defence or the centre forward, Mangolo, Dragon FC’s fire spitting marksman.

      So, after learning about the sacking of Clarence Seedorf and how men and people have unleashed a torrent of insults on him, 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: We’ve been blaming coaches ad nauseam to the point that the Bohemian thinks it is time to face the real problems affecting the national team and stop the sledgehammer tactics that leave the fans in more pain than previously. They knew that Seedorf’s credentials were not impressive enough for the Cameroonian job yet the arrival of the man with his compatriot Patrick Kluivert in Yaounde was celebrated with great pomp and ceremony. They hatched a plot to scam the fans, and they knew that whatever the outcome of the AFCON 2019, Seedorf’s case was going to be a cause celebre among football lovers. They knew about plans to recruit relatives, cats who thought themselves lions. They knew they would strike deals with player agents and Cameroon’s ballon d’or superstar and they knew that they were more concerned about lining their pockets than bringing the supreme accolade to a nation fervently desperate for continental glory.

     Even those who are in the mood of warlike jingoism, those in favour of the balkanization of the country were hopeful that Cameroon will bravely defend the trophy they won in Gabon. But, those know-it-alls could not allow for that to happen. They who were counting on a stroke of luck, as was the case two years ago. They, those ones, the tough people, the chosen ones, the zombies in suit…

Super divine power

By Winston LEBGA

After several years of being gypped by the ruling elite, the governed, this side of eternity where the Mungo meanders have begun seeing clearly that this is indeed a dystopian society. Take the young men and women for example, many keep dreaming dreams and the job market is not for the meek. So, those who are connected to power brokers who can pull the strings of some puppet in the corridors of power are the chosen ones.

They are the ones who get admission into what is considered the choice professional schools or get the available civil service jobs. But, how many care about professional ethics, and how many show compassion? They seem to have discovered the social media, and would flash their smart phones at any moment to capture a scene with only their uproarious party in mind.

Who cares whether they are taking a snapshot of a rape victim groaning in the throes of agony or videotaping a murder scene, a surgical intervention or an accident? Imagine nurses in a hospital filming a patient who happens to be a student who had allegedly been stabbed by a classmate and who later on passed away. Who recruited such nincompoops whose real qualification for the job is who they know and not what they know? And who can blame the worms for digesting the s**t?

       Remember, the Bohemian likes to hang around the gossipy unemployed bellicose and belligerent youth who are full of bogus dreams of becoming billionaires before 2035, so that they can spend their billions in an industrialized country called Cameroon. Dream! Dream! Dream! Over several drinks the gregarious Bohemian exchanged gossip and memories and wicked pleasantries to avoid being considered an interloper. One of the young women, popularly called ‘Bullet’ for her sharp tongue started talking about what she called the might of people power and the right to speak truth to power.

          ‘African peoples are no longer dormant, See?’

            ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’  D. O inquired. He dropped out of school in his final year of a degree programme in History saying there was no hope for him in dystopia. So, his peers fondly called him Uni D.O short for University dropout or simply D.O. To the group it was a term of endearment.

               ‘I’ll give you a few examples to buttress my point’

                 ‘I’m all ears’

                  ‘Well, many years ago the peoples would silently bear their pain as the leaders shamelessly flaunted ill-gotten wealth, turning the constitution into a doormat on which they could wipe off their messy stuff that got stuck to their rubber soles…’

                    ‘Yeah, Tunisia chased away Ben Ali.’ D.O agreed.

                     ‘Zimbabwe’s army caged Mugabe and now people power in Algeria has forced out Bouteflika who has been in a vegetative state for quite some time now…’ Bullet continued.

                        ‘That’s absolute rubbish, things are under control here, and the situation is improving.’ O.T interjected. They called him O. T because he is said to be regularly off topic whenever the bellicose crowd indulged their passion for quarrelling by embarking on heated discussions.

                     After listening to the rantings of the leaders of tomorrow about Algeria, Tunisia, Zimbabwe and about people power and speaking truth to power to the point of throwing punches, I the Bohemian of Abakwa born of the sea goddess and the sun god on the last day of the month, by the shores of the Atlantic in the land of the proud people this day declare: even in the tangled web of local politics, we must understand that when the people are in one accord, no rogue government no matter how ruthless can beat them to submission. It’s time for the rapacious ringleaders in suits and agbada to put the roses back in the cheeks of the fatherland. And lest I forget brethren, do not minimize the power of the people. And, seemingly intractable problems can be solved when someone else looks at them and for, here on earth, people power is in actuality the super divine power.

Where are we?

So, the new football season is beginning with the hitches characteristic of what some people will describe as bungling amateurism. Several questions come to mind when one observes the ongoing drama with stranger than fiction characters.

When the Bohemian discussed the football realities this side of Heaven with some well meaning people in the land considered by the multitude as the New Jerusalem, they wondered whether he was talking about a novel he had just read.

Is there anyone in this land of our forefathers who can explain why there is no calendar guiding match fixtures? No one knows what could happen any day anytime.

The Bohemian’s boozing buddy Okamotomakan Dibong would say “why don’t they simply announce that there is no championship, this season?”

Some say prayers will help, others say a particular political party could provide the magic wand; others still, prefer a security operative because of the discipline of the corps. The truth is, the great majority of us are required to live a life of constant systematic duplicity.

I tell you, your health is bound to be affected if you grovel before what you dislike and rejoice at what brings you nothing but misfortune. The people distrust their media; they feel abandoned by their clergy, frustrated by their politicians and have lost confidence in their security operatives. When you talk to the man on the street you hear declarations inspired by their severe bitterness. They say the top ranking and their associates are the real criminals, that they will be prisoners of their past inaction and present impotence, wrapped in safeguarding of their false public image, whereby the simple opportunity for the perfect crime arises.

So with all these in mind, I the Bohemian of Abakwa, born on the last day of the month in the land of the proud people, by the shores of the Atlantic, this day declare; it is time for all of us to read the writings on the wall and sit up, in the best interest of our fatherland, instead of pretending that the swashbuckling audacious youths are simply vandals and good for nothing delinquents. Look at those who pull the strings in the local football scene. I wonder, do they bray like an ass just to make a noise or they really are morons – where are we?

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.


The Bohemian has listened to experts about peace, conflict resolution, dialogue and the need for unity, integration and the recurring theme in many news reports; living together. Where are the people who have humungous certificates decorating the walls of their houses, certifying that they successfully completed higher courses in peace studies, conflict resolution and human resources? I tell you, you can castrate an elephant but how do you open the legs?

Well, many highly opinionated self-proclaimed experts have been bickering with each other on TV and radio shows about dialogue, discussing history and politics with what some describe as distorted facts. People are confused with tons and tons of confusion because of the notoriously verbose explanations. If you cannot explain it simply, you do not understand it well enough. Bob Marley said the truth is that everyone is going to hurt you: you just got to find the ones worth suffering for.

The Northwest region of Cameroon enjoys many nicknames, with this one being the favourite among the bohemian’s cousins, who have their placentas buried in places east of the Mungo bridge: the Region of the gentlemen.

Where are the gentlemen nowadays? Gun wielding masqueraders are running riot with laws that carry the warning of death to anyone who dares to defy these lawmakers and their kangaroo courts. Security operatives and their armour plated vehicles survey the area, on red alert, ready to pounce on any suspicious looking person.

Only two Sub-Divisions enjoy the semblance of what is generally understood to be normalcy in the Northwest, where there are gunshots, brutal killings and overbearing calls for ‘ghost town’ operations that have impoverished the populace. The Bohemian has heard that this volcano is yet to erupt. There is fear and panic stricken parents look upon their kids, especially the toddlers and wonder what future is reserved for the little people growing in this land of warring factions and tribal hatreds.

School authorities, administrators, instructors, pupils, parents and guardians are under siege with regards to the quest for education.  The New Year has come, carrying along the old fears as well as time honoured cries of caution and shouts of discomfort from the citizenry. Revolutionaries don the garb of oppression, those identified as oppressors adopt the language and diction of saints. The wolves and the sheep have different dance patterns but they are dancing to the same tune. The more you look at the sheep, the more you think you are looking at the wolves and vice versa.

So, after considering the issues, I, the Bohemian of Abakwa, born on the last day of the month, in the land of the proud people by the shores of the Atlantic, this day declare; we have been living together for as long as we have been together, the question is, and do we eat together?  We seem to remember our linguistic, cultural, tribal, political and religious differences when food is set on the table. We are men and people, not animals. When there is ‘food,’ why is it so difficult to share? I believe the New Year 2019, should usher in a new wave. Brethren, set the table and call out, let’s break bread.


Exotic dancers

You see a wench pass by on a busy street, and as she sashays down the lane, the men and boys with the instinct of hunting dogs will stare, with a snarl fantasizing about chunks of luscious flesh, packaged in a small delicate piece of cloth. Yeah! I am talking about the miniskirt, the short skirt or simply put the mini.
Some are so short that as clothing, it is a paradox that they reveal rather than conceal sacred body parts, but, is that not attractive in the manner of an exotic dancer? The miniskirt could at times be so tight that the wench has difficulties bending or stooping to pick up an item and will have to drift slowly down like a schoolgirl who is about to curtsy. Some bum sides are protruding like gigantic protuberances, everything bursting at the seams and it appears the whole thing would snowball into an avalanche of moist flesh.
Society says girls and women who dress in minis are calling for attention and attracting the prowling animals with a human face who take women without bothering about whether they are consenting partners or not and whether the victim is a baby, minor, adult or granny does not matter.
My friend Vicky says associating rape to short skirts is like considering that the dress code of a community determines the number of twisted minds that could be found there. Whatever men might say, except the miniskirt is wrapped is a pile of s**t, few if any are not aroused. Brethren, one can’t live against one’s reputation forever. Sooner or later, you become what other people think you are.
The Bohemian noticed only recently that June 6 is world miniskirt day. It was planned in 2015 by RACHID BEN OTHMAN and feminist activist NAJET BAYOUDH. Their call to Tunisian women to participate in a miniskirt rally on June 6 is seen as a sign of solidarity with oppressed women. They were moved to act, by stories about women being punished for not covering the entire body. In Algeria, a girl is said to have been sent out of the exam room for wearing a short skirt.
Men and people will call you names; prostitute, witch and what have you? But see them cough, delivering themselves of some sepulchral mucus just to get the attention of the passing mini.
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; whether a designer skirt or a cheap imitation one, a miniskirt is a mini-skirt. Those who wear it enjoy how much flesh they expose; a firm elegant thigh and voluptuous body. There are women who dismiss the point that miniskirts attract rapists saying their dress code cannot be blamed by acts carried out by a twisted mind. Is there any adult who has not played the exotic dancer, even as a solo performance, just once, at least? The miniskirt fascinates with the same appeal of a lap dance and it is a statement to the hypocrites; “if you are shy enough to conceal your well sculpted features, we are proud enough to let you see our Know what?” We are all thrilled by the type of performance that can only be given by exotic dancers. It is not difficult to become one – put on a miniskirt and you will become an exotic dancer, and it means you can dance even when there is no music.
By Winston Lebga

Do you smoke?

How time flies and how yesterday en vogue habits have become today’s nasty habits is. It was a symbol of intellectual stimulation but today, cigarettes are considered a poison with hundreds of toxic substances. This year, the world tobacco day event has been pegged on establishing a link between cigarette smoke and cardiovascular disease. Some people point to the warning on the packets; “Tobacco seriously damages your health and that of persons around you…”
Many are surprised that in spite of the much advertized warning many are picking up the habit. Smokers keep carrying on with the habit because they are addicted. Pictures of people whose health has deteriorated because of tobacco related products could do the trick but how many will resist the temptation?
Two years ago, the World Health Organization, WHO, talked about the need for Governments to subscribe to the plain packaging of tobacco products. The WHO holds that plain packaging reduces the appeal for smoking and believes it is a demand – reduction measure that reduces the attractiveness of tobacco products, it is intended to restrict the use of packaging as a form of advertising and promotion; limits misleading packaging and labeling and increases the effectiveness of health warnings.
But, give me a long break! Is it possible to prohibit the use of logos, colours, brand images or promotional information on packaging other than brand names, displayed and product names, displayed in a standard colour and font style? If yes, is there any guarantee that making the packet plain would frighten smokers and drive them away from tobacco which firmly grips those who use the products?
There is a whiff of hypocrisy in the global anti-tobacco campaign. Tobacco products, especially cigarettes, have been widely shown to be dangerous to the health, leading to millions of deaths worldwide – a threat to the workforce and the economy. What beats my imagination is the fact that the furthest any Government has gone towards prohibiting the so-called poison stick is to ban smoking in public. Now we hear that cardiovascular diseases account for several deaths worldwide and that smokers are more likely to be killed than their non-smoking mates. We also hear stuff like passive smokers could be more affected than their smoking companions.
The Bohemian wonders aloud, is someone trying to take the children of the planet for a ride? Cocaine has been banned, heroin possession is criminal, marijuana trafficking, possession and consumption is illegal. But wait a minute! Is tobacco or related products like cigarette prohibited in this land of promise and glory?
After considering the issues around this tobacco palaver, 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; something must be preventing our rubber stamp lawmakers from securing legislation to ban cigarettes. Isn’t it true that cigarette manufacturing and sales companies are billion dollar enterprises that oil the economic machinery, and employ hundreds of millions of people who could be on the streets if Governments consider legislation to outlaw their job and products?
Cigarette smoke kills – that is true, but a disorganized healthcare system which has little or no infrastructure, equipment and expertise, plus poverty and ignorance kill at supersonic speed with genocidal consequences. Do you smoke? If you do brethren, then it is time to put the murderers out of business and surprise those who are simply preaching to play safe and not really because they are concerned about us dying. Tell me, do you smoke?
By Winston Lebga

Palm oil drinkers

We cannot stop noticing that ours is a country of born politicians whose speeches cackle with a dry biting wit; but although they may be impeccable on theory, they are nothing to write home about on practicalities. The political scene is replete with slogan daubers and armchair nationalists, many of whom are guilty of endless furtiveness and mind-numbing drabness.
As someone would say, lunatics are in charge and the wise have fallen from favour in the eyes of the king. People are desperately in need of a better life, so they look on to the politicians to figure out ways of moving out of this maze of hair-raising circumstances. But, what do they get? Slogans! The propaganda machine has been churning out high sounding, sometimes confusing slogans: “light at the end of the tunnel”, “Big debate”, “Achievement point”, “Great Ambition”, “Vast construction site”, “Emerging Economy by the year 2035”
These are slogans, probably born out of good intentions, but the smart people, though they may appear to be docile have noticed that so very much has been said, but so very little has been done.
Men and people have taken up arms, though many are said to be primitive weapons, and are charging against the state and striking at their fellow countrymen. What is going on? We really are in the native land of the hypocrite, where it is natural to tell lies. Every man is struggling to get across his lie with the hope that all will agree that this lie is in actuality the truth. We tell lies through smiling fangs, if not in the social media networks or print or broadcast media. Whose lie is more convincing now, yours or mine?
Corruption is rife, injustice, the order of the day; here, the legalized bullying of the small man by the rich and powerful is common place. In such a country, the honest man is guilty; yet, if we change our mental altitude, we can change our lives.
So, I, the Bohemian of Abakwa born on the last day of the month in the land of the proud people by the shores of the Atlantic this day question; how can a multitude be pushed into believing that lake Awing had exploded and then they go about boozing palm oil, believing that it could act as an antidote? Who started such a rumour in the wee hours of Saturday, May 19, 2018?
Those who did not have palm oil knocked at the doors of neighbours even the ones with whom no love was lost. Babies, toddlers, teenagers, adults, senior citizens, dogs, cats, and probably goats were given the free vaccine against Lake Site gas explosions; palm oil. The Bohemian has heard that victims of gas explosions die from suffocation, so palm oil cannot be used as first aid in such a situation. Well, when I analyze the stench, it makes some sense. We are all palm oil drinkers in this grand pit toilet, so why blame the maggots for digesting the s**t? Let’s drink palm oil; it is said to soothe our pain.
By Winston Lebga