TRIPLE
AGENT, DOUBLE CROSS
“Triple Agent, Double Cross is a taut and
engrossing thriller… there is authenticity in the attitudes it takes, and
credibility in the characters, settings and situations it portrays…The
structure of the novel is clear and comprehensible, and it is constructed with
a strong sense of dramatic necessities such as timing and suspense, and the
need for constant action and interaction…the author keeps up the critical
tension that takes the reader through the book…The actual writing, the literary
style, is first class and entirely appropriate to the genre…the reader is
effortlessly transported from the opening pages, into the world of the novel,
and dare not leave until the very end. The writing is strong and fluent, and
therefore maximizes the potential brought to the book by an impressive,
cleverly constructed plot…This is a professional and an accomplished piece of
writing.”
—Angelina Anton
Editorial Director of Minerva Press
“A mind-stirring fiction that sticks long
after you have read it.”
—The Post
“A story no thriller fan can afford to put
away.”
—Michael Wette
TRIPLE AGENT,
DOUBLE CROSS
A
THRILLER
by
Janvier
Chouteu-Chando
TISI BOOKS
NEW YORK, RALEIGH, LONDON, AMSTERDAM
PUBLISHED
BY TISI BOOKS
www.tisibooks.com
Europe
dominated by Nazi Germany 1939-1945
Nazi Germany-controlled France: 1940-1944
Partition map of Africa (1884-1914)
Cameroon on a map of the world
Cameroon over time
- German Kamerun (1884-1911)
- German Kamerun (1911-1916)
- British Cameroons & French Cameroun: 1916-1960
- British Cameroons & La Republique du Cameroun (1960-1961)
- British Southern Cameroons & La Republique du Cameroun (1960-1961)
- Reunited/Independent Cameroon today.
Flourishing in the niche of the dreams of our hearts,
Blossoms the nourishing legacies of our souls.
Yet, our spirits are waned by the destructive
legacies.
We look up to an uncertain future through our pasts,
Knowing that the determining present is their
cognation.
If we had held hands instead of talking,
We would have scared them and not be in disarray.
If only we had acted together instead of accusing,
A heavy price would not have been paid without the
claim.
We should never forget that yesterday’s ghost still
haunts.
Only tomorrow’s glory and vindication is our
salvation.
The beast can cuddle, purr, entice and hibernate.
But do not be fooled my brothers.
It looks tamed by the sweet smell of blood and
carnage.
By trying to humanize the bastard, you unveiled its
monstrosity.
Christopher Nkwayep-Chando
The African Pearl
If you board a plane or ship plying any
of the international routes and ask to be taken to the heart of Africa, do not
be surprised to find yourself disembarking in Cameroon. It is a beautiful
country that is situated opposite the middle portion of Brazil, on the eastern
side of the Atlantic Ocean, and that appears
on maps like a heavily pregnant mother carrying a baby on her back. The
territory is bordered by seven countries of which Nigeria is the most prominent
neighbor.
Created by accident
and apportioned to Germany during the 1884 Berlin conference that carved up
Africa, Berlin treated German Kamerun as a treasured colony for thirty-two
years until Great Britain and France captured the land during the First World
War, partitioned it, and then went on to lord it over the people for four
decades. However, they too were challenged by Cameroonian nationalists who
campaigned for the divided territory’s reunification and self-rule. Today,
English and French are the country’s official languages, mirroring the
dominance of the two Indo-European languages in Africa.
They say the gods have a design even in
the most outrageous acts of mortals. If that is the case, then it also applies
to Cameroon. The country has defied so many odds in its history that the people
have come tend to pride themselves with the saying that “Impossible isn’t a
Cameroonian word.”
Renowned voices tend to
call Cameroon “Africa in miniature”, not only because of its fanciful shape and
turbulent history, but also because of the physical and human aspects of its
geography. It is the point in Africa where the East meets the West and where
the North meets the South. It is a country that features plains and mountains,
plateaus and valleys, rivers and seas, lakes and waterfalls and other landmarks
that mirror the rest of Africa. The south is dominated by equatorial and
tropical rainforests, the north is covered by Sahelian vegetation, and the
middle portion of the country is graced with high savannah of mixed grassland
and forest. In fact, all the different flora and fauna in Africa can be found
in this carelessly drawn triangle called Cameroon.
The curious eye is
apt to notice varying statures, facial types and shades of complexion as it
travels throughout Cameroon—a legacy of the territory’s history as the
crossroads of African migrations. Anthropological linguists hold that all of
Africa’s four major language groups converge in Cameroon.
The southern portion
of the country is the base from where Bantu speakers spread to southern and eastern
Africa. The furthest spread of Afro-Asiatic peoples is in the north of this
territory, featuring groups like the Semitic-speaking Arabs, Berber-speaking
Tuaregs, Chadic-speaking Hausas and Batas, and Fula or Fulfulde-speaking Fulanis
or Peuls. Nilo-Saharan speakers dominate the north of the country in their
furthest spread to the west of the continent. Also present in Cameroon are small
ethnicities of the fourth major subgroup (Niger-Congo A) that occupy the
southwestern border regions with Nigeria. Settled in the northwestern portion
of the country that looks like the pregnant part of mother Cameroon is the
fifth and unique indigenous group that you will find only in Cameroon. Called
semi-Bantu, Graffi or southern Bantoid, this group has characteristics of all
the four major language groups or sub-races in Africa. Legends and lore hold
that semi-Bantus are originally of Afro-Asiatic and Nilo-Saharan descent and
that they assimilated all the peoples they encountered in the course of their
migration. The Bamileké people are the dominant ethnicity in this group
It is true that Cameroon’s human and physical
wealth has been the source of its turbulent history, its pride and the
ingredients that give its people a unique flavor. The flavor has produced
colorful Cameroonian characters that the curious eye and mind is likely to
enjoy by hating or loving them, pitying or angrily denouncing them. These
characters provide insights into the human nature and the African continent
that is haunted by leaders with the evil disposition.
While other African
peoples have picked up arms and warred among themselves to have their country
split up, Cameroon is the only geo-political entity in the continent whose
inhabitants went to war to reunite its people separated by the legacy of
Anglo-French partition of the former German colony of Kamerun. It is the only
country where those who fought for its reunification and independence are yet
to assume political power, as they continue to languish from the defeat
suffered in the hands of the French overlords and the puppets they installed in
power. It is the land where you will find Africa’s biggest political deception
and sleaziest mafia. It is the country in Africa with the lowest number of
heads of state in its history, yet it is a country that is unlikely to engage
in internecine war to get rid of the suffocating system.
In the middle of the
twentieth century, a child was born in Cameroon who by the age of ten, proved
he could become anything he wanted to be. This child prodigy happened to be the
son of a soldier of the Free French Forces that fought across the African
desert and liberated France from Nazi Germany. The boy looked up to his
revolutionary father as the greatest source of inspiration in his life. But how
he ended up serving those who wrecked his world is the riddle the rest of the
story is going to unravel.
Hardly anyone noticed the grey-haired
figure with a chevron moustache and a slightly athletic gait as he sauntered
through the crowded burial ground. The man was dressed in a faded overcoat, old
pants and worn shoes, and the somber expression on his face made him to look
like a poor friend or relative at the funeral of a benevolent soul who would be
missed. However, his demeanor changed slightly when he stopped under an avocado
tree. He pursed his lips, and then dimmed his eyes as if grappling with a
painful memory. Had there been a deeply curious eye observing him, the person would
have noticed that the stranger looked a shade lighter on the back of his neck
than on his face, and that he appeared taller than most of the people gather
there. However, nobody discerned any of those things about this guardedly
mournful man waiting for the priest to bless the dead man.
Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur (To be in love and to be wise is
scarce granted even to a God), the priest articulated in Latin as his final
words in the solemn prayer dedicated to his dead friend.
A flicker of
oblivious brooding disturbed the expression on the stranger’s face. But the man
did not move any other part of his body as he closed his eyes as if suppressing
a tempest within him. He didn’t even hear the murmurs as the priest talked to
the men and family members around the coffin, and he scarcely paid attention to
the rattling sound of the sisal ropes on the coffin as the men started lowering
it into the grave until the outbreak of ululating and mourning cries jolted him
out of his silent grief.
The man opened his
eyes again and took a deep breath. With his head inclined and with his arms
folded, Gavin Nemafou Njike watched the coffin confined to mother earth in what
crossed his mind as Vincent Ndi’s journey to his ancestors.
Gavin did not wait
to witness the end of the solemn ceremony. Instead, he made his way through the
crowded burial ground to his car parked about half a mile away, hidden behind
the dense clumps of elephant grass obscuring the view to the valley below.
Not until he was
safely away in the shadows did he remove his wig, fake moustache and eyebrows,
and then wiped his face clean of the complexion jelly. He still could not shake
the dead man off his mind as he combed his hair, peeled off his overcoat,
removed his old shoes, and then put them in the trunk of his car.
The thoughtful expression on Gavin’s face
relaxed a little as he shut the trunk. Then he checked the time on his Rolex
watch to find that it was already 16:57 hours. He sighed, got into the car and
fixed his eyes on the rear mirror. Satisfied with the way he looked, he kicked
the engine alive and drove to the 17:00 hours rendezvous.
The three agents he had conferred with that
morning joined him hardly a minute after he got there. They too were at the
burial to gather some information for the service. Oddly enough, they looked
too relaxed for his liking.
“Get in quickly,”
Gavin ordered the men into the sedan.
“Huh!” muttered the
last agent to get in.
Gavin frowned as he
rubbed his brows and gritted his teeth, fighting off the conflicting thoughts
racing through his mind.
Emmanuel Ebako Mukete sitting in the back directly behind the
driver seat leaned forward with dimmed eyes. “Is there a problem, Chef?”
Gavin turned around and regarded his men,
shrugged and then nodded at Emmanuel.
“What’s going on?” Jean-Baptiste
Ondoa asked from the front seat.
Gavin clicked his
tongue. “Let’s brace ourselves for the tough times awaiting field agents like
us. Our service just killed an old lion, one that was about to die anyway. The
unfortunate thing is that by getting rid of the man, we unintentionally sowed
the seeds of his legacy.”
“What do you mean?” Jean-Baptiste
asked.
“We have let loose
lion cubs that are imbued with his ideas. They are roving free, everywhere. And
they are doing so with a sense of vengeance that nobody should ignore. Boys, we
have a tough fight awaiting us against Vincent Ndi’s disciples.”
“Did you just say a
fight?”
“Uh-huh!”
“What are you
talking about? We killed the movement at its fetal stage. We nipped it in the
bud. That man was crazy. Of what good is a democracy to us? We are okay the way
things are. I am glad he is gone for good,” Jean-Baptiste said, gesticulating
with raised eyebrows.
“You don’t get it!”
Gavin muttered in a disinterested manner.
“He is dead.
Moreover, dead people don’t talk. They don’t lead, and they don’t fight
either.”
“Come on, now! You
are a professional. Analyze things as a professional should.”
“I just did.”
“Look! We cannot
afford to let our hearts take control of our heads in moments like this. You
and I know that Vincent Ndi was not alone.”
“What is the point?”
“That man certainly
had others he could count on. I mean men with enough energy and craziness to
continue after him. He probably expected a quick end to his life.”
“Who wants to die?”
“The man had to have
known that he was a pioneer plowing a dangerous field. Yes, my brothers; his
ideas are still alive in men he molded.”
“You might be right
after all. Still, it doesn’t count,” Jean-Baptiste persisted with an
indifference that surprised Gavin.
“What do you mean?”
Gavin asked with dimmed eyes.
“Chef, he is dead. That is what matters.
Besides, he was never a great man,” Jean-Baptiste chuckled this time around.
“Of course he is
dead, but it is his ideas that are dangerous. We should have killed the ideas
first; we should have killed them instead.”
“Kill his ideas? Chef, I am having a hard time
understanding what you are talking about?”
“Ideas can be killed by simply
discrediting and humiliating them.”
“Chef, what is your point?”
“Events make great men and great names. That is a lesson from history.
That man could become a hero if his ideas prevail.”
“The fellow is
history. Besides, he didn’t accomplish anything worthwhile or remarkable,” Jean-Baptiste
chuckled again.
“History sustains
the legacies of heroes. The crowd out there thinks he is a martyr to emulate,
the sort of figure to follow.”
“It looks like you
are trying to say something here?”
“We need to start
learning some facts about his life, that’s all.”
“Why?”
Gavin leaned back in
his seat with a mild look of exasperation on his face. “That stiff fellow’s legacy
poses challenges for us all,” he said in a monotone.
“Why are we fencing?
There is no reason for this,” the subtle Maurice Nze Mezang interceded for the
first time, “We did our job by following the orders, that’s all.”
“Bien sûr!”
Emoted Jean-Baptiste.
“Everything is now
in the hands of the politicians,” Maurice interjected again, but with a sigh
this time around.
Gavin shut and
opened his eyes rapidly. “Who gave the orders?” he inquired, fixing his eyes on
Maurice.
“It was a triangular
affair,” Maurice replied in a strained voice, and then took a deep breath.
“So tell me! You were
involved, a boss and who else?”
“I was with them, Chef,” Jean-Baptiste said abruptly, a
haughty smile exposing his fang-like incisors.
Gavin closed his
heavy-lidded eyes in disappointment. A
clique with ethnocentric bearing, he thought. “I guess you know what you
have done?”
“We did our job, for
our interest,” Jean-Baptiste responded in a brusque manner.
“That was a good and
professional answer. Vincent Ndi was certainly a prized bull. But did we do
harm or a service to Cameroon?”
“All we rendered was a service, Chef!” Jean-Baptiste blurted, paused for
a moment, and then continued, “That man’s language was too confusing. The
reforms he had in mind threatened this country with disorder and division,
instead of building on the wonderful things we have accomplished.”
Gavin looked away
and stifled a smile. “That man's death marked the birth of an unfamiliar enigma
in this area. The enigma is his legacy. His death can do this nation a great
harm or a great good depending on how we manage it. Ah, boys, never forget that
we are the frontline soldiers whenever there is a mess to clean up.”
“Believe me, Chef! His death will do Cameroon a great
good. The man was a loner, or had just a few Anglophone friends behind him.
Graffi friends, actually! They are cowards, for all I know. Aren’t they all
from the Northwest Province?”
“You don’t know
them,” Gavin said in a lackluster manner.
“I am an expert on
the Northwest Province. In fact, I have worked here for five years. None of you
have a year of service in this province in your records,” Jean-Baptiste
boasted.
“What is your
opinion of Chef Gavin’s sense of
judgment, especially on this issue?” Emmanuel asked suddenly.
“He is good,” Jean-Baptiste
said, paused, and then added, “Only, he has misjudged things this time around.”
“What do you mean?”
Emmanuel queried again.
“He failed to see
that we have everything under control.”
“He is an Anglophone.
And he is Graffi too. I suppose you know that,” Emmanuel persisted.
“I disagree with
you. He is not from the Northwest Province, and neither is he from the Southwest
Province. True he is Bamileké. That makes him a francophone. Graffi, Graffi,
you said. Hmm! That is a complicated reference. Well, maybe he is Graffi after
all,” Jean-Baptiste emoted.
“Chef
is a breed from this area, no matter how you look at it. True he grew up in the
Southwest Province, but his parents came from Bawok, in Bali.”
“Are you kidding me?
He is Bamileké.”
“Yes, he is Bamileké.
I thought you knew that Bali-Bawok is a Bamileké enclave in the Northwest
Province.”
Jean-Baptiste grunted. “It still doesn’t change anything.”
“All I am trying to
say is that Chef Gavin isn’t
different from the prototype of a Graffi man. Besides, Chef Gavin understands the feelings of the people of this province
better than you and me,” said Emmanuel Ebako.
“What is your
point?” Jean-Baptiste spurted.
Emmanuel darted a
glance at Gavin and Maurice. Judging that they did not want to get involved, he
turned around again and faced Jean-Baptiste. “My point, my dear friend, is
simple. Chef Gavin is Graffi. It
makes no difference whether he is French-speaking or English-speaking when it
comes to the issues at stake. Apparently, you are failing to see that Vincent
Ndi’s murder is revamping a spirit that has been dormant or hibernating all
these years. The spirit I am talking about is the people’s voice.”
“Merde!” Jean-Baptiste hissed.
“There is no reason
to say damn it.”
“Merde!” Jean-Baptiste hissed again,
blinking rapidly.
“Whatever! I am
trying to make a simple point here. The fellow who ordered his death should
know that the mess they created with your compliance is now on our laps. And we
may not be willing to fight it out with our people.”
“You do not sound at
all like a loyal agent of the state,” Jean-Baptiste said, propping his cheek in
his left hand.
“Did I hear you
well?”
“Of course you did.”
“Whatever! I am a
patriot. Now, I will make my point very short and simple. Vincent Ndi’s
disposal isn’t going to serve the interest of the state. Why? Because the man
was an exemplary patriot. He was a fervent union-nationalist who was trying to
give birth to the Cameroonian dream that has been aborted so many times in our
history. The dream of a New Cameroon would have revamped this country that
those up there crippled. But you killed him,” Emmanuel finished in a resigned
tone.
“Merde!” hissed Jean-Baptiste.
“Whatever!”
“How come you are
calling him a patriot? I mean! He was a Biafran! He was an enemy in the house!
You glorify a man whose ultimate aim was to tear this nation apart? Can’t you
see? That man was trying to revive the dead notion of a separate state for
Anglophone Cameroonians,” Jean-Baptiste half-screamed.
“Liar! Yes, you are
lying,” Emmanuel shouted back, his eyes malevolent on Jean-Baptiste.
“Did I hear you
well?”
“Of course you did,
J.B!” Emmanuel retorted with an edge in his voice that surprised the other two
men, “I have known that man for decades. He was a good man. He was the
staunchest Kamerunist I ever came across. He was a true union-nationalist. What
do you think you have done? Yet, you are all blind. You didn’t see a thing
there. You claim everything has been won.”
“Another Biafran
right here in our midst! A true Anglo-fool! And an enemy in the house, I must
add. Ah! At the end of the day, you are all the same. I always knew it.
Anglophone Cameroonians should never be trusted,” Jean-Baptiste growled, turned
to Maurice, and then added in Beti, in their native Ewondo dialect, “You saw
the side he took against us, didn’t you? And he was even insulting our tribe,
our ethnic group, our people.”
“Please stop this
crap?” Maurice moaned, looking away.
“He called me an Anglo-fool, forgetting that
he is a Franco-frog, a beast of no nation,” Emmanuel teased.
“Chef, you heard him again. He just
called us frogs,” Jean-Baptiste complained to Gavin this time around.
Gavin sighed. “You just called him an Anglo-fool! You even went
further and tagged him with the terrible word Biafran, when he is not of Ibo
origin, when he is not even a Nigerian! You labeled him an enemy in the house,
when he considers himself a patriot. What must I say to that?”
“Is that all you have
to say about this?” Jean-Baptiste asked with a bewildered look on his face.
“Come on J.B. This
is childish. You know that none of the stereotypes the different Cameroonian
ethnicities have for one another are true. They are funny, that’s all. Our
people even have stereotypes about themselves,” Maurice said in a placating
voice.
“Listen,” Gavin
interjected with a note of exasperation in his voice, “I think you and Ebako
are crazy on this one. Can’t you see how fragile this country still is? Yet you
pick on each other identifying yourselves as an Anglophone and as a
Francophone. Guys, those concepts of identification make us victims of the
partition of our land by the French and the British.”
“We are
Cameroonians. That’s what is important. Foreign influences should strengthen us
and not push us apart,” Maurice chipped in with a chortle.
“J.B and Emmanuel
are still haunted by the master and slave concept—the master believing that it
is divine will to lord it over the slave, and the slave believing that the
master has been a lord for too long and must be debased. We can never find our mutually
compatible interests as a successful state when our people are still haunted by
such a divisive mindset,” Gavin said.
“Are we getting into
Friedrich Nietzsche now?” Maurice joked.
“Chef, you are right, in a way. They
think they are destined to be the masters forever,” Emmanuel said in a frenzy
that surprised Gavin.
“Please, shut up!”
Gavin snapped, fixing reproachful eyes on Emmanuel.
“Merde!” Maurice growled and rolled his
eyes this time around.
Silence reigned in
the car for close to a minute before Gavin spoke again. “Aren’t we smart enough
to know that this crap should stop? We have our duties to Cameroon and a job to
do.”
“It is okay, Chef. J.B and Emmanuel are always like
that,” Maurice declared with equanimity.
“Thanks for chipping
in,” Gavin rasped.
“You don’t expect to
rid their minds of prejudices with a whiff like that, do you? Believe me, they
need eternity to become open-minded and embrace your mindset on the way forward
for Cameroon.”
“I see! Their
uncalled-for mutual suspicions aggravate the animosity even further. Distrust
is at the heart of the malady plaguing the Cameroonian soul after so many
betrayals?”
Maurice smiled
encouragingly at Gavin. He understood Gavin’s irritation. They shared a lot in
common, having spent much of their youth in the English-speaking part of
Cameroon.
Maurice was born ten miles east of the
petroleum city of Limbe, the former Victoria. As the son of a public
administrator who recorded more than ten transfers to different parts of the
national territory, Maurice could boast of having had his fair share of
narrow-minded Cameroonians of the Anglophile and Francophile mindsets who felt
at ease subjugating their Cameroonian national identity as if the only things
that mattered were their ethnic groups, regions and the foreign languages they
communicated in. He even remembered telling Gavin that only advanced
Cameroonians with the ability to relate to the cultures and sensibilities of
their compatriots in both the English-speaking and the French-speaking parts of
the country were capable of making worthy contributions to save Cameroon from
becoming a failed state.
The tense silence
that followed Maurice’s words was interrupted by faint cries that became
distinguishable with every passing second. The men looked at one another
without uttering a word, and then turned their heads to the direction of the
approaching cries. Some men in traditional Northwest costumes, probably Vincent
Ndi’s associates, were chanting along with the mourners in their descent from
the burial ground.
“The hills are
angry,” Emmanuel said in a somber voice.
“And the leopard
went berserk!” Gavin remarked in Bamileké, in the Banganté dialect.
“What does that
mean?” Jean-Baptiste asked.
“And so ends the
story of the day,” Gavin drawled.
“You are right, Chef. It is all over,” Jean-Baptiste
chuckled and smiled provocatively at Emmanuel.
Gavin nodded and
smiled back at the excited young man. Then he bit his lip and fixed his eyes
again on the approaching mourners. They were chanting a war song this time
around. That was the moment he saw him—the agile man of dark complexion,
average height and a determined face. He could not forget that face.
“What’s the problem?” Jean-Baptiste asked,
jolting Gavin out of his thoughts.
“Let’s get our asses
out of here,” Gavin rasped.
15:13 Hours
January 01
Douala
Gavin was in a pensive mood that sunny
afternoon as he relaxed in the cane chair on the balcony of his third-floor
apartment in the bustling city of Douala. With the sun bright and intense overhead,
the tarred streets and pavements looked different that day as if making a
beautiful mirage of the New Year in a tantalizing manner. There was also the
familiar excitement in the air that the first day of January always appears to
carry. Even so, Gavin also sensed an unusual mood around. People enjoying the
day were going about their business with an uncomfortable determination that he
did not think was characteristic of the Cameroonian spirit.
A smile of amusement
spread across his face the moment he noticed a boozed up man staggering in the
street below. It changed into a slight reflective grin as it dawned on him that
he had seen only three men that day whose sobriety had definitely been
compromised by alcohol. Still, he did not want to qualify them as real
drunks—at least in the Cameroonian sense of the word where drunkenness involved
some hollering, zigzag movements or roadside slumber.
Not until around midday did it cross Gavin’s
mind that the children were the only ones enjoying themselves in the streets
and that their parents were indoors as if they had planned it that way. It made
him wonder whether the adults were trying to make a point. And in a way, they
were making it all right because it was evident everywhere that the global economic
crisis finally caught up with his Cameroonian compatriots, shredding the
blanket of felicity and vibrancy that always encapsulated Douala during the
years that the economy flourished. The mortifying effect of the downturn on
those whose festive spirit gave a distinctive flavor and glamour to the city
was too obvious this New Year for anyone to miss.
Nevertheless, he was
determined not to allow the subdued atmosphere to affect his mood. After all,
he prided himself as a nightjar, a remarkable product of nature that no one
could cage. He would make the best out of the day only after the cloak of
darkness engulfed the city.
At that point, he
wondered what he loved the most about the power of darkness. Perhaps it was the
alluring feeling of the night that could dull or stimulate the senses. Or
perhaps it was something else. Whatever the case, he was sure dancing and
singing in the streets were activities he especially loved watching every New
Year. And on top of that, there would be beer, wine, spirit and the women—all
at amazing prices that any of Casanova’s or Don Juan’s disciples would
appreciate.
“Life, life, life,”
Gavin mumbled and took another slug of his drink, “New year, new challenges.”
He had already made up his mind to follow
the same pattern. He would eat one of his favorite dishes in a good restaurant
in the Akwa business district—Hotel Le Nde or the Akwa Palace Hotel preferably,
and then wrap up the day in bed with a lustful Eve by his side.
His glass of drink
held firmly by his strong fingers, Gavin got up from the chair and leaned on
the rail. When he brought the glass to his lips again, his intention was to
have a mouthful, but he ended up taking a sip instead, and then went on to peer
at the sprawled city below, making no mental effort to stop his thoughts from
drifting again. He shook his head, sighed, took a massive gulp of the drink
this time around, and then closed his eyes. Still, the thoughts would not go
away—haunting memories of a past that connected him to Vincent Ndi Chi. He knew
the dead man and his lineage well, a genealogy few were aware of. But it wasn’t
long ago that he too made the connection placing Vincent Ndi as the sad product
of their common history of separation that took place almost a hundred years
ago in the southern portion of the Western Highlands populated by the Bamileké
people.
Tchatchoua, the ninth king of Banganté,
ruled this largest Bamileké realm with the astuteness of a great ruler, making
his name renowned in the entire Bamilekéland. He also won the high respect of
some of his royal counterparts from afar, even in the land of the Bamoun
people, considered at the time as the common rival of the Bamileké people.
Therefore, when the new German colonial masters arrived in the Western
Highlands and tried to exert their control there, Banganté presented itself as
the logical realm to court and win over in their policy of conciliation over
the fiercely independent peoples of the area. The new German colonial
administration rewarded King Tchatchoua by making Banganté the capital of the
combined Bamilekéland and Bamounland in 1885.
Legends hold that
Tchatchoua was an outstanding warrior, intelligent ruler and skilful hunter,
and that he had an endearing touch nurtured since his childhood that placed him
firmly in the hearts of his subjects. He was also a remarkable husband, father,
family man and friend, they said. In fact, he easily won the love and respect
of his harem made up of many inherited wives drawn from dozens of other Bamileké
realms.
So the fact that Tchatchoua married many more
wives did not diminish his strength as a reliable husband. In fact, his partial
fondness for the first wife of his choice almost went unnoticed. Njonang Nana,
as his favorite wife was called, bore him three children that they chose to
call Nemafou, Ketcha and Tenga.
Nemafou, the first
child of the beloved queen, grew up into a handsome young man remarkably
different from the other princes strutting King Tchatchoua’s royal court. His
nimble wits, subtle ways, physical prowess, mastery of the art of war and
peace, and his engaging nature with people brought him early into the midst of
the notables and the authorities of the royal court.
Those with a keen
eye around the royal palace noticed that the young prince began fencing with
his father even before he started spotting facial hair. However, he never
delighted in putting his father on the defensive over traditional values and
customs of the land that he considered retrogressive. The good-intentioned
prince just happened to be an empathic soul who believed in the joy and harmony
of the people.
They said Nemafou’s
deep sense of respect, good humor and noble intentions saved him all the time
from whatever concerns his words stirred with his father or with the members of
Banganté’s council of notables, known widely as the Kamveu.
The beloved prince even
carried his exceptionally gifted nature through boyhood and into early manhood,
making him the dream-love of lassies with romantic notions of life, even though
he feigned indifference about it. The truth is that Nemafou did not fancy
taking advantage of his father’s subjects. Unfortunately, his notion of the
morality of a prince made some people to start doubting his masculinity. The
nubile beauties in particular could not understand why the maverick prince and
outstanding hunter downplayed their overt and subtle advances, preferring
instead to spend the early hours of his nights indoors—chatting with his
mother, and reaffirming his love to his siblings and stepmothers.
It did not need an
extraordinary wit to figure out that Nemafou was a critical self-analyzer. True
he was conscious of his passions and agonized over the fact that he had little
control over his compassionate nature that sometimes led him to commit himself
in an irrational manner. That is why when he fell in love with a girl called
Ngenkep and they started having an affair, he kept it a secret from everyone.
His prudence landed him in trouble, his sympathizers would say afterwards.
Barely three weeks into their affair and just
two days after he left Banganté on an errand to his mother’s parents in another
Bamileké realm called Bangou; Ngenkep’s father betrothed her to his king. When
Nemafou returned a week after and learned about the developments, he kept his
sorrows to himself by telling no one about it.
Even as a child,
Nemafou had this natural inclination to cling to his game like a mongoose. He
lived up to that reputation barely nineteen days into Ngenkep’s stay in the
royal palace, when one of the notables caught him making love to the young
queen.
The story of the prince who would not let
go of his lover even after she married his father the king carried an extra
spice in its narration because Banganté was the most renowned Bamileké realm
and prided itself for being the upholder of age-old traditional Bamileké
values. So the scandal spread quickly around Banganté and beyond, to the
neighboring Bamileké realms and even afar, putting King Tchatchoua in a
position where he could not close his eyes to the fact that his favorite son
assaulted his rule and masculinity.
Thus, the Banganté
people braced themselves for a verdict from their supreme ruler, a punishment
that those versed with the culture, customs and traditions of the Bamileké
people could easily predict. Any man caught in an affair with the wife of a
king is subject to expulsion from the king’s realm. Nemafou’s case proved to be
no exception, even though he was the Banganté reign’s son and the prince widely
who was speculated before to become his successor a short while ago.
King Tchatchoua
expelled Nemafou from his jurisdiction, thereby severing the young prince’s
ties to the realm and his family. He even promised expulsion to any subject of
Banganté caught dealing with the exiled prince.
People wondered
afterwards why the promising pretender to the throne had to be so reckless for
the sake of a woman he was likely to inherit after the death of the aging king.
Nemafou accepted his
disgrace with calmness and rue, moved out of Banganté in 1898 and wandered
further north in the mountainous grasslands of German Kamerun until he reached
Akum. He settled in this small realm in the Ngembaland and started putting his
life together. Determined to be cautious this time around, he married without
delay and committed himself to building a new family.
Nemafou died eight
years after he left Banganté, leaving behind a distraught wife and a
three-month-old daughter called Klara Nana Nemafou. There are stories of how he
wondered aloud in a tearful manner whether his father would ever forgive him. The
disgraced prince is said to have requested several times while in his sickbed
that his descendant carry forth his plea for forgiveness to the Banganté royal
palace, and there are even stories of how he prayed for his mother and siblings
to lay their eyes on Klara Nana and embrace her into the family fold. However,
Nemafou died knowing that he would not fulfill his dream of seeing his mother
cuddle Klara Nana whom he had christened in her honor.
World War I came to
pass with Germany dispossessed of its colonies. The world did not seek the
opinion of the people of Kamerun when the victorious British and French powers
partitioned the German colony, thereby separating Nemafou’s child and widow
from Banganté even further. Akum and the rest of the northern portion of the
Western Highlands became a part of British Southern Cameroons. Meanwhile, the
southern half of the Western Highlands of which the greater portion of the Bamilekéland
is a part, fell under the control of the French, along with two thirds of the
conquered German Kamerun.
Blood ties among the
Bamileké people are so strong that outsiders to the Bamileké culture are
puzzled by the attachment the people give to their relations. Whether close or
distant, dead or alive, known or unknown, a relation is a relation. Tradition
obliges a person to look out for his or her blood relations, especially the
ones that are close. Therefore, it did not come as a surprise that the sibling
love between Nemafou and his younger sister Tenga never flickered out despite
the years of separation.
The people of the former German colony were
still coming to terms with the consequences of the partition of Kamerun by
Britain and France when the rebellious Tenga who had eloped to the south of
British Southern Cameroon with a Bamileké man from Bayangam, defied her
husband’s edict and went looking for her brother. Her arduous search brought
her to the point of despair until she finally found her way to Akum. There, she
met with the news of her brother’s fate and the presence of her niece Klara
Nana.
Tenga’s grief over her brother’s death was
memorable. She wailed inconsolably for days; she rolled several times on the
red earth as if she was oblivious of the fact that she had bones that could be
broken, if not fractured, sustaining cuts in the process that made her agonize
in pains for days.
However, the people of Akum would recall with
sweetness that she organized a memorial service for Nemafou’s soul, that she
spent much on drinks and food, and that she recounted her deceased brother’s
regal past in Banganté with flourish. However, Tenga regretted failing to see
Klara’s mother who had remarried and settled in Bamenda, leaving Klara in the
custody of her grandparents. That notwithstanding, the undaunted Tenga tried on
several occasions to persuade the young girl’s grandparents to allow her to
return home with Klara Nana. Her desire to be attached to her late brother’s
child reached a point where she took Klara Nana away with her without her
grandparent’s approval, only to succumb to her conscience at the bus station
hours after committing the did, and then take her niece back to her grandparents’
home. Still, she was hopeful. That was why she left Akum with a firm promise to
stay in touch and help Klara Nana know her roots.
Tenga’s children
would recount that she was somewhat despondent when she returned to her family,
and that she died hardly a year after she found her niece. But as fate would
have it, she departed to her ancestors only after imbuing her children with a
deep sense of commitment and attachment to their unseen cousin, despite the
fact that her husband disapproved of it.
However, not until ten years after Tenga’s
death did her enthusiastic first child called David Nemafou mount another
search for his cousin. Hectic though it was, he finally found Klara Nana in
Bamenda, now married to a prosperous Akum trader. Her marriage was blessed with
seven children. Vincent Ndi Chi was the second son, fourth child and adopted
son of his paternal grandfather.
Vincent Ndi’s
admirers credited him for being a boy genius during his school days in the
fifties and sixties. Even those in the circle of power in Cameroon whispered
around a number of times that Jacques Foccart, the mastermind of French
post-colonial policy in Africa, squirmed in his seat when he first learned that
John Ngu Foncha, the leader of the former British Southern Cameroons who
realized Cameroon’s reunification, made Vincent Chi his adviser. Jacques
Foccart was afraid that Vincent Ndi would convince the Anglophone leader to
side with the popular Union of the Populations of the Cameroons (UPC), a French
Camerounian political party that morphed into a partisan movement following its
ban by France in 1955, and that was still fighting the French army and the
puppet regime of Ahmadou Ahidjo that the French installed in the former French
Cameroun, the territory that now constituted the greater portion of the
reunited Cameroon.
As a matter of fact,
Jacques Foccart had no reason at the time to be fearful of Vincent Ndi. The
young man’s outlook on life made him an advocate of constitutional liberalism
and reform, hence an opponent of war. With a doctorate in economics at the age
of thirty-three, Vincent Ndi was a unique man of his time in the infant nation
of Cameroon. He taught in the University of Yaoundé in the late nineteen
sixties and early nineteen seventies; and he captured the hearts of his
students and friends due to the depth of his soul and the wideness of his
intelligence. In short, he was among the very few Cameroonian lecturers and
professors with the free spirit to put his thoughts into writing, thereby
winning recognition for his three outstanding novels and numerous political
essays on pan-Africanism, Cameroonian union-nationalism and the democratization
process in African. Still, that was not all about his creative mind and
analytical thinking. Vincent Ndi also wrote numerous plays and poetry that made
him a hero in the literary world.
People were
convinced that Vincent Ndi was a union-nationalist, that he was an advocate of
a New Cameroon with a strong central government—one that would work in
partnership with the provincial and regional governments on matters pertaining
to defense, foreign policy, transportation, education, national statistics,
monetary policy, and the settlement of ethnic disputes. They said he also saw
the necessity of a strong central government that would assist in applying and
upholding the central, regional and provincial laws.
Gavin also learned that Vincent Ndi sank into
a period of despondent brooding after the French-backed regime sealed all hopes
of a democratic and pluralistic Cameroon by imposing a monolithic system on the
entire reunited land. Still, he hung around until 1975, when he quit Cameroon,
following several assassination attempts on his life. However, unlike his
grandfather, he was never exiled.
Vincent Ndi returned
to Cameroon in 1983 and became a dedicated revolutionary in his fight for the
genuine liberation of his fatherland. He would not criticize and run away this
time. He would work with others for a change, create an opposition and ensure
the ascension to power of a patriotic and democratic government committed to
the original Cameroonian ideals. That was the vision the union-nationalist
shared with others when he returned to his fatherland and discovered that the
new oligarchic Pablo-Nero Essomba regime was just a continuation of the system
put in place by the French authorities before they handed French Cameroun its
conditional independence and before the territory's reunification with the
former British Southern Cameroons.
The government held
that Vincent Ndi began the democratic drive in Cameroon in the late nineteen
eighties, that he compiled the documents to form a political party, and that he
won over some supporters in the upper echelons of the system who covertly
facilitated his activities. Whatever the version, Vincent Ndi made a poor
judgment. He dwelled too much on the system’s weakness of acting only after
much steam has been let out. He delayed the registration and launch of the
political party until the end of the year.
Nobody expected the Pablo-Nero regime to
strike even before the lid was opened to let steam out. On December 20, Vincent
Ndi was found dead in his bedroom, the file of documents missing. The autopsy
that the family commissioned revealed something strange. A pellet the size of a
pinhead was found embedded in his right arm. This pellet was laced with a
deadly poison.
Gavin took another sip of his drink and
sighed. He had met his second cousin on three occasions only, all within the
past two months. Vincent Ndi went the extra mile to make him feel at ease in
their first meeting by taking him into his arms with genuine warmth. He spun
another surprise hardly an hour into the meeting by revealing his grief for the
country, and then went further by telling him about his plans to organize an
opposition to the system, even though he avoided mentioning any of the names
that were also involved in the project.
Vincent Ndi intrigued him during their third
and last encounter by appearing withdrawn. He nonetheless welcomed him into his
home with a smile, poured him a drink, and then moved from the opposite seat
and sat by his side on the sofa, doing so with a peculiar look on his face that
he found both engaging and disquieting.
“Tell me everything
about your job, your real job,” Vincent Ndi had told him pointedly in a low but
strangely commanding voice while looking him straight in the eye.
He remembered
stuttering when he began, but he went on to tell Vincent Ndi about himself, his
job, his reason for joining the secret service and his mission to Bamenda.
Strangely enough, he blurted out the weaknesses of the oppressive machinery
with relish and was even taken aback by the relief he felt.
Vincent Ndi appeared to have understood
everything because he flung his arms open in a gesture of unconditional
acceptance, embraced him, and then patted him soothingly on his back.
“Destiny put us on
opposite camps, but we have two things in common.”
“What are you
talking about?” he remembered asking in a quizzical manner.
“Come on Nemafou! I
don’t have to tell you that we have the bloods of King Tchatchoua and Queen
Njonang Nana in our veins. Should I add that we are both patriots and genuine
union-nationalists with strong ambitions for this country, perhaps as products
of history? That is why we should be together. So you fight from within, and I
will fight from outside. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”
He did not respond
right away, since he doubted the whole idea of taking a stand against the
system when the divisive history of the land had proven repeatedly that it was
difficult, if not foolhardy, to take upon oneself the colossal task of
galvanizing the traumatized and brainwashed citizens of Cameroon to confront
the system. He knew it was even more difficult familiarizing Cameroonians with
a national ideology that embodied the collective Cameroonian dream which addresses
the hopes, dreams and fears of the country’s different ethnic groups and
religions, as well as its yet to be harmonized Anglophone and Francophone
populations.
“Aren’t you asking
too much from me?” he had asked Vincent Ndi.
Gavin’s real
intention at the time was to stir a debate with his second cousin. However, he
realized his mistake right away because Vincent Ndi’s eyes changed suddenly
from a gentle gaze into an angry hue as if he just got possessed by an
unfathomable spirit. Even so, he remembered seeing something else in those
eyes. He saw a growing mist developing into tears.
“Who do you think
you are?” Vincent Ndi had roared.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think you
are different from me, or from all the others who have been damned for eternity
until each and every one of us come to terms with our pasts and exorcise all
the ghosts haunting this land? We are doomed, Gavin.”
“What do you mean?”
“We are doomed,
Nemafou. We are cast for eternal damnation until we confront all the
Cameroonian demons personified by this system. I was around in Switzerland at
the time,” Vincent Ndi had told him with a deep nod this time around and with
tears in his eyes.
“What are you
talking about?” he remembered asking because he knew the question sounded
stupid right after he posed it.
“I witnessed his
agonizing pain before he died. The French Secret Service wanted him to die in
Conakry where he was supposed to arrive two days after the meeting with the
person responsible for his poisoning.”
“Uncle Felix?”
“Yes! I am talking
about Dr. Felix Moumie!”
“Why?”
“It is simple. His enemies
wanted to put the blame of his death on the Guinean president. The plan was to
hold Sékou Touré responsible. However, God was on our side because William
Bechtel, his poisoner, gave him an overdose and he fell sick shortly after he
had the drink. I went to his hospital room in Geneva every day for one week.
Yes, Gavin! I was there when your Uncle Felix died. He was the best for this
land,” Vincent Ndi had muttered in an emotion-choked voice that made Gavin’s
lips to quiver.
“Uncle Felix
Moumié!” he had mumbled barely above a whisper.
“Yes, Nemafou. They
killed your Uncle Felix Moumié.”
“You were supposed
to be in England, studying.”
“I happened to be
visiting with a Swiss friend. Believe me, I witnessed his agony.”
“God!” he had gasped
with closed his eyes.
“They got your
brothers too, remember? They also got your mother, father and sister. Oh, and
your cousins, uncle and friends as well. Tell me! What are you doing? Closing
your eyes and living with the illusion that the leopard changed its spots?”
“No!” he had
quivered, and then nodded as if acknowledging something to himself.
“Do you know what
else they did before killing Felix Moumie? They killed the first UPC leader.
They killed Ruben Um Nyobé. As if killing him was not enough, they dragged his
corpse across Boumnyebel to serve as a warning to those who were supporting the
cause. They dehumanized his body as if he were a criminal. Yes, Nemafou! They
mutilated the dead body of Cameroon’s historic leader who championed the cause
of this land’s reunification and independence. Yes, Gavin, they dumped the
corpse in a pit so that people like you would be cowed from opposing De Gaulle,
Ahidjo and the mafia of a system that the French put in place in Cameroon and
the rest of Francophone Africa, a system that is haunting this nation today and
that is dragging all of us into abyss.”
Gavin remembered slumping into the sofa
and rubbing his brows, avoiding Vincent Ndi eyes all the while. He was not
afraid. It was just that his searching soul could not muster the strength to
confront his second cousin.
“I know,” he had
responded finally in a dejected manner.
“And where is Felix
Moumié today? Buried somewhere in Conakry and almost forgotten by people who
cherish him, people like you. Is he going to be there forever? Can this land
ever move forward without bringing home those who gave everything for its
freedom? Where is Abel Kingue? I am asking you now with tears in my eyes. Where
is he today? Is he resting quietly in his grave in Egypt? What about Ndeh
Ntumazah, Mongo Beti and all the others—hundreds of thousands of patriotic
souls still languishing in exile? Oh, I almost forgot. What happened to Ossende
Afana, the first Cameroonian with a doctorate degree in economics? He too had
dreams for this land, dreams we all shared. Tell me what they did to him. Perhaps
you want to know. They killed him, remember? They killed him in his humane
drive to see his fatherland become truly free, independent, progressive, prosperous
and liberal. What did they do to him afterwards? They decapitated his body,
right? I hope you haven’t forgotten that they buried his headless body
somewhere in the southern forest.”
He had nodded and
grunted, but said nothing in reply.
“Ah, don’t tell me
you have no idea of the fate his lifeless head suffered in the hands of this
mafia of a system.”
“Ahidjo ordered it
put on display in Yaoundé for all to see,” he had quivered with closed eyes,
tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Tell me, Gavin! What about Ernest
Ouandie, the last historic leader of the historic UPC party? He did a brave
thing by surrendering to our local security forces. Do you even remember him?”
He had nodded again,
but kept quiet this time around.
“He walked into a
police station and announced his presence to the bewildered officers whose
first reaction was to run away, leaving him alone in their station for hours.
There was a point to that. Ernest Ouandie surrendered because he wanted to
prove to the world that the UPC’s fight wasn’t against the Cameroonian people.
He wanted to prove that the UPC's principal reason for waging the partisan war of
liberation was to confront French deception in the land. Tell me Gavin; what
did he get in return?”
“They killed him by
firing squad in front of his people in Bafoussam.”
“And then they buried
the body in a nondescript grave so that people like you would delude yourself
that he never existed.”
“What are you doing
to me?”
“I am trying to
remind you that you are the great-grandson of the legendary King Tchatchoua,
that you are the son of the heroic Joseph Njike and that you are the godson of the
iconic Felix Moumié. You do not belong there with the mafia system.”
Gavin remembered chuckling for a moment, as he
nodded as if acknowledging his inner voice. When he raised his head again and
looked at Vincent Ndi straight in the eye, he had a cryptic smile on his face.
However, it was something about the softness of his facial expression that
illuminated his second cousin’s face in an instant.
“You want me to
change sides, but in a covert manner. That’s fine. I understand. I shall become
a double agent. I shall furnish you with the necessary information and help you
win by keeping you abreast of the moves being planned against you and the
precautions you need to take.”
Vincent Ndi had
taken him into his arms right away in a suffocating embrace that was fierce and
warm, reproachful and forgiving. The two relatives had shuddered with emotions
as they placed their hands on each other’s shoulders, muttered vows, before
continuing their discussion at a deeper level.
At the door that night,
just before he stepped out, Vincent Ndi had held him on his shoulders for a
moment, patted him on the cheek, and then said in an emotion-choked voice. “I
knew you would comply. I knew you were not with them.”
He had nodded somberly and at that moment,
thought of his brother Bernard murdered three decades ago, wondering why his
second cousin stirred memories of him. “Tell me, Professor, did you know of my
involvement with them all along?”
“Yes, my brother,”
Vincent Ndi had told him with a smile, “Of course I did. Somebody would have
written an interesting epitaph about you already, had I not taken a firm stand
against it. You don’t need me to tell you that you have a stinking reputation,
do you? It is not your true bearing, for sure, but it is scary.”
“Huh!” he had
grunted, meant as a subtle urge for his second cousin to continue talking.
“Believe me Nemafou,
over the name of my grandfather Nemafou, who was your grandmother’s brother. To
be honest with you, your transfer to Bamenda unsettled some of our people to
the point where someone even called for your elimination. The leak was from
your people, you know.”
“Don’t you think I
ought to know who the others you are working with are? To keep me on the safe
side of things, you know!”
He remembered
Vincent Ndi shaking his head in refusal. “It is our game and you play it our
way. My comrades know you. Rest assured that they would contact you if the need
arises. Believe me, my brother! My friends will never raise a finger against
you without my approval. I told them you would cooperate. Now, do as I say for
our sake.”
That was the day he
accepted to become a double agent. He had done so for personal reasons too.
However, when he left for Banganté two days after the meeting, he left with a
piece of information to prove that he had gained Vincent Ndi’s trust. It
involved a living phantom called “The
Green”.
However, he was still savoring the quietness
of his ancestral land when information reached him reporting the death of
Vincent Ndi in Bamenda and ordering him back to the town for further
assignments. He had followed the orders and showed up as an old man at Vincent
Chi’s burial. He had done so with three other men. He had seen what Jean-Baptiste
Ondoa and Maurice Nze Mezang did not see. He had seen what Emmanuel Ebako saw
but did not discern. He had seen a man—an unimposing figure with a determined
face that was unusual around. There had to be a powerful link between the man
and the late Vincent Ndi.
Gavin emptied the glass of vodka with a
massive gulp, put it on the stool, and then leaned on the rails. He was
settling into his thoughts again when a car approaching their building in the
street below swayed dangerously. It was Emmanuel Ebako’s blue Toyota Corona.
Gripped by a sudden premonition of trouble
after the car pulled to an abrupt stop less than two yards away from the
elevated veranda of the ground floor of the apartment building, Gavin held his
breath as if prepping himself for something bad to happen. Then Emmanuel
scrambled out of the car, clutching his right shoulder, blood on his left hand
and the top right side of his shirt.
“Chef Gavin,
help me! Grand frère, Gavin, Grand frère, Gavin … Gavin! They are
killing me! They are coming! Help… help!” Emmanuel shouted hysterically,
collapsed to the ground, and then tried to get up again in a frantic manner.
“Ebako!” Gavin
shouted back, instinctively spurring himself out of the momentary paralysis
that had gripped him seconds ago.
He was about to run
downstairs to Emmanuel when a fast moving Peugeot 505 caught his attention as
it screeched almost to a halt behind Emmanuel Ebako’s car. It swerved to the
right, and at that moment, Gavin caught a glimpse of a figure in a dark leather
jacket, which was an unusual outfit for a city like Douala with its hot and
humid equatorial climate. The man was holding a rifle through the front
passenger window. Emmanuel was on his feet again, and must have understood the
man’s intentions because he leaped for cover behind the trimmed hedges, seconds
before the rifleman opened fire. Then the car sped away.
Emmanuel’s sheer
determination not to let go of his last breath surprised Gavin when he arrived
at the scene and found the dying agent lying on the pavement, soaked in his own
blood.
Gavin raised his
head under his left arm. “Who did this? Tell me Ebako, and I will get the
bastards,” he stuttered.
Emmanuel gasped with
trembling lips, and then spurted blood as he made an effort to say something,
his words hardly intelligible to the anxious Gavin.
Gavin closed and opened his eyes as he pushed back the cold
wave of anger sweeping over his body in his conscious effort to help his friend
battle death.
Emmanuel painstakingly gestured with his left
middle fingers for him to edge forward. Gavin did, bringing his ears closer to
his wounded friend’s quivering lips. In a voice barely above a whisper, he
urged and encouraged Emmanuel, promised and assured him, straining his ears all
the time for the dying man’s revelation.
“Our men chased me.
We saw them before in Yaoundé. ‘The Twins’,” Emmanuel slurred and gasped for
breath.
“Who are they? Tell
me,” Gavin barely stopped himself from shaking Emmanuel in a frantic manner.
“They spoke a Beti
dialect. They got me, Mon Chef… Vincent Ndi. Also beyond salvage, eh?”
Emmanuel mumbled.
“Give me names, Mon
Frère.”
“Owona! Be careful
big brother. Those bastards…should be killed. They are ruining this country;
they are creating hatred and confusion.”
“I shall get them, I
promise.”
“Big Bro, I am
dying.”
“No, you are not. I
am taking you to a good hospital, okay? Listen to me, Petit Frère. I
will make sure they patch you up real good. Then we shall hunt them down
together, and we shall celebrate afterwards as winners always do.”
“Take care of my
boy. Tell him I love him. Tell him…” Emmanuel gasped, coughing out blood.
“Hold it! Do not
move at all; do not speak even, okay! I am getting you out of here. We shall,
we shall…” Gavin stammered as Emmanuel pulled on his shirt.
In shocked
disbelief, Gavin watched life ebb out of the body of his friend and colleague.
He was still holding Emmanuel in his arms when a tap on his back brought him
back to the reality of his surroundings.
“Do something,” said
the sad-looking old man by his side who seemed to have suddenly appeared from
nowhere.
Gavin closed his
eyes and fought back the hot tears of despair threatening to trickle out. He
was still trying to come to terms with Emmanuel Ebako’s death when he heard
faint shouts, cries, murmurings, and sighs—sounds that stirred his senses as
the seconds swept the reality in front of him into his consciousness. He opened
his eyes again and looked around him to find a growing crowd. With surprisingly
steady hands, he laid the dead man’s head on the pavement, sighed, rose to his
feet, clenched his fist, and then gritted. Even as he crossed himself over the
body of his dead friend, he was oblivious of the divinity he was seeking
consolation or counsel from.
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