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

New wave

The Bohemian is confused, really confused, confused with tons and tons of confusion. This is hard to reconcile; what is easily noticeable in this country is that even the best intentioned of men become corrupted by the temptation of wealth and power. We also notice that the visible leaders that are paraded before us are mere puppets whose strings are pulled by their masters.
Men and people in high places find no crime too great for them to commit, no deception too base for them to practice, no disguise too difficult for them to assume. It is their studied aim to rescue wealth and power: these people who had impressed ignorant and fanatical minds with the idea that no wrong was committed by stealing and killing, but come to think of it, valuable people are those who value other people.
Consciously or unconsciously, whether we admit it or not, there is a concentrated barrage of propaganda from the news media to convince people to worship and glorify their leaders and to turn a deaf ear to the truth. But, whose truth are we talking about?
One thing is clear; a nation cannot be built simply by glorifying its big shots. Take a look at the country today, especially areas considered as English speaking Regions; what do you see? Lawlessness, dissipation and corruption are sweeping in on the national triangle like an overwhelming tide.
There is envy, evil surmising, hypocrisy, estrangement, emulation, betrayal of sacred trusts. Even the Courts of Justice are reportedly not spared of corruption. Jurists are perverted, bribed; deluded. The current events look like a film packed with sharp dialogue, a seemingly appealing cast and a vivid cameo of the more sinister face of the country.
Nowadays in the Northwest, there is a cauldron of speculation with the continuous deterioration of security. The exchange of gunfire between the defence forces and the suspected secessionists of the self proclaimed Federal Republic of Ambazonia. The perpetual killing of soldiers and civil servants and threats; all spiced with a one-day a week ghost town operation, observed by a Region where petit traders and small enterprises bear the brunt of the chaos.
So, I, the Bohemian of Abakwa, born of the last day of the month by the shores of the Atlantic in the land of the proud people, this day declare; there is panic in the towns and villages. We have a 16-hour day now, and a six-day week. We are adopting new ways, for the gubernatorial curfew requires for men and people to be indoors by nine in the evening. When did it all begin, when shall it end?
Who is making gains out of the mayhem to the point of wanting this condition to be permanent? We know conflicts and diseases are good for business; and the black market thrives, attracting all sorts of people in times of war, not only black people. The everyday phenomena of humiliation, rejection, lies and betrayal, point to the citizenry that ours is a life built on a foundation of shifting sand. We have dreams and we struggle to attain them; then we realize there were mirages in the desert. The struggle is the fun. The dream is just the motivating force. Nothing more! That’s the new wave.

By Winston Lebga

Where is the news?

When the Bohemian was in college, there was this story about a journalist who got into the studio at news time and announced: “Here’s the news read by J.W…” The listeners waited and waited but there was dead air. Then, the newsman went on, “…but, where is the news read by J.W? He questioned while the searching his jacket and the swish was audible. The story goes that J.W. had been in his favourite watering hole where he prepared the news on two sheets of paper. He folded the sheets and tucked them in one of the pockets of his jacket. He rushed in to the studio at news time, certain that everything was in order and while on air, after announcing the news, he went for the wrong pocket. “I sey eh, where is the news read by J.W. nah?” He blurted out. When he finally found his scripts, he cried; “Ah Ha, here is the news read by J.W!”
The Bohemian can neither confirm nor refute whether this situation really happened but the story entertained many Bamenda denizens in the Bohemian’s school days. Today, this could be very possible, not because the newscaster might have been lost about the whereabouts of his or her scripts but simply because at times the news need not be made public according to the whims and caprices of both power brokers and those who wield power. So, nowadays, it is possible for an anchorman with the scripted bulletin in front of him to ask, “where is the news?” The reason being the scripts contain everything but the day’s news making matters.
Anyone who understands the tradecraft and practice of modern journalism, would as well understand that a country cannot be built simply by glorifying its big shots. Journalists are paid to stick their heads above the parapet and to say what they believe to be the truth. It is true the most important function of a journalist is indeed to tell stories: not in the sense of making up comfortable lies to keep people happy, but of providing an accurate digestible way to make sense of the confusion and apparent chaos of everyday life. Why must you kowtow to people of authority?
Take politicians for example. Party politicians, naturally enough see everything in terms of partisan politics. They cannot understand people like the Bohemian who may be interested in politics but don’t approach the subject from the point of view of any particular party commitment. Look at this example; CPDM officials think if the party is being challenged by journalists, it is because the journalists are instinctively pro-SDF. And when precisely, the same journalists challenge the SDF’s actions the officials think it is either because they are instinctively pro-CPDM or because they owe their allegiance to the ruling elite. It does not always occur to them that the journalists might be simply doing their job.
It is true that whatever journalists may say, they must make sure they do not annoy the one who pays them, for, if as a journalist you are not comfortable with the umbrella term for limiting press freedom; ‘editorial line’ , you resign. You can ask the Rolling Rock, who made people contemplate the difference between live and lies, one or both coming from studio four. Don’t ask me what I am talking about. Although some great minds have tagged the news media as the fourth estate, some little minds wield enough power to keep the watchdog chained to its cage. Who even thought of calling the news media society’s watchdog? Now, look at how people treat journalists even worse than what is known in the local parlance as a ngong dog.
So, I the Bohemian of Abakwa, born on the last day of the month, along the shores of the Atlantic, in the land of the proud people, this day declare: true journalists are natural members of what the BBC’s John Simpson calls the awkward squad, difficult, unpredictable, dangerous to be with in the sense that you can’t take them and their work for granted; impossible to buy off with money or honours. Journalists, it seems to me have a duty to resist being simply corralled into obedient silence. It isn’t good for journalism and it isn’t good for government. To keep quiet when things are not right is the reverse of patriotism: it is to cover up for those interests that stand to gain from silence. It is to be a partisan of inefficiency and stupidity and mindless cruelty. So brethren, where is the news?
By Winston Lebga

Scratch and sniff

Do you realize that it is those at the low end of the bureaucratic totem pole who tended to try to exercise their power most? They are the ones most likely to ask the question, do you know who I am? So, who really are you? Brethren if you are swimming with sharks and you start bleeding, then you have to get out of the water.
And so, President Biya’s mighty pen and much sought after signature produced their trademark effect on Thursday, April 12. The bulwark of the ruling party had been riding high in the country, without any fear of its not being given its landslide majority, with the opposition said to be weak and disorganized. New people have come to be chorusing praise-songs to Papa Paul and asking the populace, do you know who I am?
There are some things you cannot run away from, some things you do not ever forget and sometimes things get into a complex tangle. As Chinua Achebe puts it, “…and they will ask you-as my father did- if you thought that a sensible man would spit out the morsel that good fortune placed in his mouth.” The Bohemian sees people who are very active in politics at the grassroots, like this time-honoured chap, with a lot of spring and spirit in his voice. He is among the lot who are always grumbling because their services to the party have not been rewarded with the usual prize appointment to some public corporation or other position considered as juicy.
As AYI Kwei Armah, the Ghanaian author will say “…Government chop, me too, I chop- contrey broke!” The CPDM senatorial campaign team in the Northwest kept telling the members of the Electoral College, that they are the people who master the twists and turns of the corridors of power and would be able to successfully lobby for development projects. They made pronouncements arguing that they knew what doors to open as well as how to present the problems of the people where it matters most.
They shall be in the senate, in their overwhelming majority. This means the next five years could be full of development projects in the entire country. Talk about a vast construction site! The Bohemian has been thinking a lot these days, especially about what people are saying. The Bohemian walks in to this mean looking, ill-lighted, spit- and- sawdust type of pub; it is his favourite joint , a dispiriting sort of place, where the bartender always reminds the boozers to keep their voices down and rings the bell to tell those who are still tarrying to quaff their drinks and disappear for curfew time is drawing near.
So, the Bohemian gets into the cheap public bar where life was beer and fags, and settles by this granny. The ashtray on the table in front of him is revoltingly full of stubs and ash. A guy joins us, a very loud type, who appeared to be addressing the bar and even if he was addressing a rally, he would not need a public address system. The Buea old guards would remember Mandela of Malingo. So the loud-mouthed drunk, the type Zachary Nkwo referred to as a mountain of a man screamed in his stentorian voice, “… what is the use of the senate in this country – can someone provide me with a convincing explanation?’’
Old man River pleaded with the drunken mountainous zombie to lower his voice. “There is a concentrated barrage of propaganda from the news media to convince the people to see with the idea – NONSENSE!” He blurted out and then pointed at the Bohemian. “Those are the liars, the spivs who are churning out doctored statistics…” The Bohemian just sat like a man about to be presented before the firing squad. “I agree with you.” Old man River concurred. “…but can you shut up for a second?” He added.
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: after subjecting the issue to microscopic scrutiny, the Bohemian has an observation. Public men in responsible positions directing the destiny of the nation appear brutal, hypocritical and corrupt. In Africa, this is typical; the constitution is often treated as door mat on which politicians and army officers wipe their feet after wading in the muck. The message to our senators both the elected and the appointed, should remember to keep the big picture in mind. For once, think about Cameroon; carry out the much advertized patriotic acts, and this does not mean lionizing the president for that smells of eye service. To those who are going to the senate with greedy and selfishness aims, you might be just part of the scratch and sniff picture and that does not smell good.
By Winston Lebga