The Woes of a Bamenda woman in Amba Times

It is Saturday. They say we can go out today to buy food. Actually, since Thursday they said we could go out and buy food. Where does the food come from when it cannot be transported from the farms or from the other cities? When do we go to the farm? How do we even go to the farms or bring in the food? Some is getting spoiled in the farm as bullets prevent us from freely moving. 

I got up early. Telling myself to bathe early and shop early before any bruhaha starts. As I step out of my house, I also meet my neighbour who happens to have the same mission like me. She tells me her window is shattered and she will also get a glassperson to come repair it. A bullet flew from overside the other hill and got the window. Luckily, no one was near the window.

We talk as we walk to the road. The streets were bare. We wondered whether we were too early or too late. It seemed a deserted village. We said perhaps when we get to the main road, the tared road, as it is a Saturday, we will find more people. The streets were even barer. No bikes, not even a single one. On a normal Saturday, at the junction, several bikes would park there transporting women and men to different destinations. Taxis would be competing with bikes on passengers. But today, no bikes. On a dead silent junction not even the usual Saturday small vegetable market that used to be at Nchuobu is there. The Mankon women no longer bring yellow yam, njama njama, sweet potato, sweet yams, and this is the season. The firewood men were nowhere to be found. I missed the water leaf women and okongobong sellers. Bare, barren, silent, ghostly. The sound of fear, of death, overbore the desire to live, to survive, to prevail. People, afraid even of their own shadows, have retreated to their homes, which are not even safe. For even in their homes, they will be pulled out. Nothing marks an amba fighter from an honest, non-fighting citizen. Nowhere safe any longer. Not the bushes nor the homes. Life, living, existing, is a lottery. An identity is enough condemnation. After all, amba boys also have identity cards. So, every boy, man who does not have a decent, well paying job must be amba. The ramblings of my mind continue.

My neighbour and I continued walking towards council junction, hoping we will get a taxi or a private car, but then we are afraid even of private cars. A few darted taxis passed, all loaded to capacity. We even hoped for the council-funded buses, but we hear our zone is too dangerous and so they plough only Nkwen.

We continued walking, meeting a few women here and there, a few old men but hardly any young ones. We wondered again if it was a Saturday or a Monday. We found ourselves finally walking to food market.

Again, few women were in the market. It had not been cleaned and thus heaps of garbage everywhere. Food was expensive, but there were few sellers and buyers. I separated from my neighbour, did my shopping, and stood to take a taxi home, at least to as far as it can go. I got one actually. This time I was lucky. We drove through the hospital roundabout, Che street and Ntarinkon Market. The streets looked eerie, as if inhabited by ghosts. Perhaps the too many ghost towns have invited ghosts to inhabit the city. The too many lost souls are roving the streets seeking for solace or revenge. The remaining people of Bamenda have either escaped or been forced to hide in their homes. 

The taxi was full. It was going to end at Nchuobu. Everyone in it was silent. I believe each contemplating their lot and how to get home given there are no bikes to take one into the quarters. Just after Brigade Ter, before council junction, we heard a tara ta tad tad, tara ta tad tad, then a boom. The taxi driver got confused. The mama by my side said ‘no bi today na Saturday?!! Na weti dis again? I don tire di ting. Di ting di carry we go wusai? Weih. As she was crying the taxi driver increased speed. He seemed not to even know where he was heading to except to escape from the sound of the gun. At council junction, he swerved into a house and told us to get out of his taxi. He did not even ask for money again. The gunshots continued and we pushed into the house near where the taxi driver dropped us. Not even bothering to take our stuff from the boot of the car. We stayed in the house for some 30 minutes until silence returned. The sound of our heartbeats, my heartbeat, was louder than that of the guns. When we felt all was silent, we ventured out. The streets were even more deserted. Everyone rushing home. I had problem number 2. How do I carry my shopping home? I bundled everything and put on my head. Trudging I contemplated my crime. My woes. Whatever did I do wrong to be born, not only as a Bamenda but to chose to live in Mukwebu. Is my identity enough to make me a criminal? Can I enjoy the privileges of an honest citizen without having to dodge from bullets on a daily basis? 

━ Tales of war in #NWSW by Lillian Atanga